From alt.pub.dragons-inn Thu Aug 25 08:24:33 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7577 Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!src.dec.com!crl.dec.com!jac.zko.dec.com!leggy.zk3.dec.com!orb!not-for-mail From: hutch@ibeam.jf.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: Re: [CIA - JJ] Action! Date: 24 Aug 1994 02:10:45 -0000 Organization: Duchy of Wabesylvan Obspauk Lines: 155 Sender: news@Orb.Nashua.NH.US Message-ID: References: In-Reply-To: from "David Womack" at Aug 23, 94 08:03:55 pm X-Mailer: ELM [version 2.4 PL11] Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit > The next morning started out well > enough. Jones and the group > (Guldur, Foxmore, Gray, and Rathan) > get up at a reasonable hour, > enjoy a lavish breakfast and exit > the Dragons-Inn. Outside, a surly > crowd of men (about 45 in number) > watches as the group leaves. One > of the crowd is carrying a sign > which reads 'Brothers of the Disappeared'. > Jones grimaces as he sees them, and the > group proceeds toward a warehouse where > the first cache of equipment is located. > > Jones seems to be following a circuitous > route, but the 'Brothers of the Disappeared' > crowd continues to follow...and starts > calling out 'Murderers!' and > 'Where did you bury them'...as well as > less pleasant things. As a stone goes > past Jones' shoulder, he is heard to > mutter "Looks like the day is going to > start out really bad." > > Jones reaches into the pocket of his trench > coat, grasps an egg shaped object, and turns > while tossing it into the middle of the crowd; > as he finishes turning, he pulls the > submachine gun from under his coat, and > sprays the crowd with fully automatic weapon > fire ... brass casings fly everywhere! The > grenade explodes, spraying small bits of > white phosphorus into the 'Brothers'! Several > of the angry crowd lie dead, some are horribly burned, > and a few run away...but about 25 have drawn > swords and are advancing toward Jones and > the heroic defenders of Peace and Freedom! > The 25 have rage and hatred in their expressions.... > Jones extracts the empty magazine... > > # Now, admit it, isn't this better than a > # practice room? Uhyeah. Hope this is a dream. So far y'all have been kind of funny but this sort of shit brings instant retaliation -- Generica's not the helpless little medieval munchkin-fodder town that one might think. Killing "primitives" is going to get you dead fast. Rioting in the streets, especially by non-locals, isn't tolerated. For instance, and this is purely an imaginary scenario unless you insist on butchering people in Generica -- Twentyfive had drawn swords. There were two others, though, who had not. One, a young woman, looked up in horror from the body of her murdered brother, and looked steadily at Jones, Foxmore, Gray, and Guldur. The other was an oldish man, who had taken out some sort of foolish, primitive religious fetish, and was muttering and gesturing in their direction. The sword-wielders moved out into position around them, circling the group slowly rather than setting themselves up like tenpins for the outworlder invaders to kill. Jones noticed that Rathan had disappeared, and dimly he remembered not seeing the barbarian since before the gunfire. Then he noticed that, while some of the men in the armor were injured, a number of them showed no sign of damage, and that their swords and gear were giving off a faint blue glow. Radiation? Cherenkhov radiation? This could be bad. Then he heard the woman shriek an imprecation at him so foul that it didn't need to be translated. One of her eyes glowed an evil green, so Jones smiled grimly, taking careful aim at it with his pistol -- no need to waste a burst with the submachine gun. He was more than a little surprised when the pistol backfired, sending the bullet tearing into the flesh of his arm. But he didn't have time to consider the pain or to go into shock. Beside him, there was an "OOPS tak roll roll!" as the grenade in Foxmore's hand came loose from the pin and rolled up against Guldur's foot. Normally the grenade's slow fuse would have given them all time to escape, but the young woman's curse made it burn far too fast. Shrapnel tore through their bodies, and by some unlucky fluke or the action of a malevolent god exacting punishment it seemed to bypass their armor completely. The last thing that went through Jones' mind was his backside. The other two were equally fortunate. The old man walked up to where the four corpses lay, bloody and twisted. He cast a black powder from a pouch hung by his side, onto the bodies. It sank into the skin, threading through it like a fungus. Strange words fell from his lips and the corpses began to thrash, then heaved themselves up onto their feet, still dead, but forced into semblance of life. A warrior ran up, wearing the livery of the City Guard. "What happened?" he demanded. "These ones killed at least twenty people," the old man said, "Most of them innocent of any wrongdoing, other than being in the wrong place." "You'll have to file the report then." The old man nodded. "Yes, after the Healers arrive. Some of the fallen might be saved from death." The guard looked at the shambling corpses with distaste. "They're not from around here, are they. We were told about a group of foreign mercenaries, preparing to start trouble in the Inn. These might be the ones." The old man shook his head. "I know not, only that they had brought on a riot, and that they attacked the crowd with granati and those primitive wands of missiles. The fools, they seemed not to know the weakness of their own weapons. No defensive magics at all, nor did they have the protection of any god." "Well, bring them along to the Judge and we'll see whether they're worth reviving for proper punishment." The old man frowned. "Nay, their souls are forfeit in payment for the healing of the innocents they attacked." "That's for the Judge to decide." The guard set his jaw in a no-nonsense expression, and the old man let his shoulders drop in defeat. "Oh very well. The four of you, follow this guard, and obey his every command." Inside their raddled, shredded bodies, the minds of the erstwhile mercenaries shrieked impotently, forced to a mundane judgement by the zombie-master's magic. The one that had been Jones, though, was almost glad of it, because he saw the ghosts of the slain crowding around them, hungrily. If whatever it was that held them in their dead husks were to let them go, then the ghosts would surely take them away to something that would be worse than Hell.