Paws jsu

I just did my second prestige, and for some reason my population isn't growing. I even did a soft reset and evolved a different species, but I'm still having the same issue. Any idea how I might be able to fix this?
Here's my save if it helps:
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=

Story for FREE (You can download it here: http://mako-books.com/) Author: Mahanenko Vasiliy / Dmitrieva Evgeniya
Chip’s First Days. Part 2
​
***
The jungle welcomed the ‘Dinosaur Hunters’ (such was the dramatic name that Chip bestowed on his squad) with stultifying, humid heat, the smell of vegetation and rot and the myriad voices of its inhabitants.
“Yabba Dabba Doo!” yelled Groot and earned a resounding smack on the head from Dragonfly.
“Shut your mouth!” she hissed. “The last thing we need is to get ambushed because of your hollering.”
“Why who needs us?” Groot objected.
“Plenty of people,” Spin interjected.
His buddy and he were the same age as the cadets and were also freshmen, only in a civilian university. They were studying to be programmers.
“Any old herbivore would be happy to have you as a snack, you radish,” he went on.
Dragonfly giggled as Groot wheezed angrily.
“As for us—there’re plenty here who’d like a meat snack,” Spin concluded phlegmatically, picking a white flower and handing it to Dragonfly. The girl looked embarrassed for a second but accepted the present anyway.
The awkward flirting amused Chip, evoking nostalgia and a slight envy—nostalgia for his own youth and envy because these kids still had everything ahead of them: such as the euphoria of first soaring in the skies and feeling and loving their gentle and mighty machines beneath them. Chip remembered how the CO of his academy, a grizzled veteran who had entered the service back when helicopters still used rotors and wings to fly, paced in front of the wing of cadets and spoke:
“If you don’t love your machine, if you don’t feel her like your own selves, if you don’t feel any hit she takes like a blow against your own hides—then you’ll never make true pilots, brothers. And if you honor and care for her, then you’ll receive loyalty in return. And then, no matter the fire you draw, you won’t be piloting but dancing, holding fast to the sky with every blade. That’s how it is, oh brothers…”
“Colonel Sir!” Dragonfly’s voice yanked Chip from his reverie.
Chip smiled slightly. The tradition of dropping the ‘lieutenant’ part when addressing a ‘lieutenant colonel’ in a not entirely formal situation, or when kissing ass, was already well-known to these green kids.
“Who’s Lili Marleen anyway?” Dragonfly went on. “You were just singing…”
“Ah,” Chip realized that there was no avoiding another excursion into history. “That’s an old soldier’s song from the First World War. That is, from 1914. A certain Hans Leip joined the Reichswehr—that was what the German sector’s army was called back then. He was a teacher by profession, but that didn’t keep him from dating two girls at the same time, one of whom was named Lili and the other Marleen. So he composed a song for both of them. In his recollections, he was standing at his post not long before being sent to the front. He survived the war and the song survived with him. It only really became popular during the Second World War. Unsurprisingly, the Germans were the first to sing it. After that, to the immense surprise of all the generals, the soldiers of the other armies started singing it too: Everyone loved it. And, as you see, it survived to our day…”
Jingle, who was on point, held up a paw, calling for silence. Then he pointed down at his feet where an enormous footprint with three toes was printed into the earth.
“I think we’ve found ‘em,” Groot stated the obvious. And received another smack on the head from Dragonfly.
***
“Now I know what a horse with a birdbrain looks like,” Smoky whispered, observing the female ceratosaurus who was busy guarding her nest.
She kept checking the temperature, dipping her head into the pile of withered leaves that concealed the eggs she had laid and chasing away small, feathered dinosaurs that looked like hybrids of Komodo dragons with chickens that kept creeping up to it. The feathered dinosaurs were working in a flock of six or seven: While two or three distracted the mother, the rest of them rushed at the nest and rummaged among the leaves, trying to find the eggs while avoiding the ceratosaurus’s teeth. So far, they had only managed the latter: As soon as the cautious female heard a noise behind her back, she immediately stopped pursuing the others and routed the thieves squealing from her nest.
“Damn. It’s too bad Sasha and Hamster aren’t here,” sighed Chip, watching this drama.
“Who’s that?” Shepard asked.
“Two of my buddies. Amateur zoologists. It’s too bad they’re out about town. A friend of ours is getting married and they’re helping her out. Otherwise they’d be sure to tell us what’s up with these chickensaurae and the best way to grill them. They look like velociraptors…Or their cousins. Damn, wish I knew…”
“Colonel, sir, how do you know all this anyway? I mean about the Boers, Kipling…Lili Marleen…” asked Jingle crawling over. “I want to know that much too…”
“Well start reading and studying,” Chip replied. “It’s not like I knew all this when I was born either. Everything comes with time and stubborn work. It’s not like you simply want something and get it, buddy. Even diarrhea doesn’t happen just like that. As for knowledge…If you want to shoot for the stars, you have to go through the thorns, not around them. That one isn’t mine, by the way. A very smart person said that a long time ago.”
Jingle sighed. It really seemed like he wanted things to happen just like that and immediately.
“Okay…” Chip apprised the situation one more time.
The squad was lying prone in the bushes and even Groot was keeping his mouth shut insofar as his nature permitted it. And this struck Chip as very suspicious. His entire experience with this squad simply screamed at him that something wasn’t right here. People like this jabbermouth with an appetite for adventure simply couldn’t lie prone and avoid doing anything.
And Chip guessed right on the mark: As he and the rest of the squad looked on, Groot stood up to his full height and began walking to the ceratosaurus’s nest.
“Wait, you idiot!” Dragonfly hissed.
But Groot, paying no attention to her hissing, plodded onward to meet the ceratosaurus’s toothy maw. The female, seeing this green thing approaching her from the forest, lowered her head and squinted suspiciously. Groot fearlessly walked right up to the dinosaur, threw up his arms and announced:
“I! Am! Groot!”
“You are a moron!” sounded a voice from the bushes behind him.
The ceratosaurus immediately popped up her head but spying no threat, went back to studying the uninvited guest. The guest was subjected to scrupulous sniffing, deemed uninteresting from any point of view the ceratosaurus held to and thereupon pushed away from the nest with a snort.
Smiling ecstatically, Groot turned around 180 degrees and plodded back. Right in the direction of another piping hot smack on the head from Dragonfly that made the biota’s witless head ring loud throughout the forest.
“What was that all about, cadet?” Chip asked sternly, once the blow’s echo ceased wandering among the trees.
“Well…” Groot glanced askance at Dragonfly and stepped further away, just in case. “I’m like grass…”
He waited calmly for his buddies to finish their scalding remarks on this point and went on:
“And that two-legged lizard is a predator, I believe. So I decided to take a looksee whether she’d attack me or not. She didn’t. And that means I could be useful.”
“Could be,” Chip agreed. “But if you pull something like this again, I’ll feed you to that horned fellow right there!” He pointed at the triceratops peacefully grazing at the other edge of the forest clearing.
“I did not travel a difficult and thorny path from spermatozoa to lieutenant colonel just to watch you improvise when we’re out in the field,” Chip went on. “I’d happily split your tree hollow open, you foliose papua, so that a squirrel could move in—the only thing that’s keeping me from it is Zarathustra. All right, you nitwit, go on. Pappy Chip needs to think.”
Groot sidled away from danger, concealing himself behind Jingle and Shepard, while Chip really did prop up his chin and began to think. And so: The nest was almost in the center of the clearing, watched over by a mother whom no one wanted to tangle with. Besides her, there were the feathered velociraptors milling around the clearing—and these were also worth accounting for: They wouldn’t dare attack the entire squad, but anyone apart would certainly get chewed up. And finally there was the triceratops, peacefully munching grass and not giving one fart for all the hubbub around the nest.
On the other hand, the biota did not seem to draw aggro from the ceratosaurus. And only because this vegetable organism was not among the gastronomic preferences of the predatory lizard. Even as a side. And yet again: This would only be the case up until the moment he tried to steal a precious egg from the nest. At that point, Groot would immediately pass from the category of ‘harmless junk’ to ‘kill the bastard.’ Taking into account the biota’s stamina, the timeframe—between the theft’s detection and the juicy ‘crunch!’ signaling the end of the thief’s career (and life’s journey)—would be quite brief.
Okay…Chip took a branch and used it to sketch a map of the clearing and the surrounding forest on the ground. The feathered looters fled to the other side of the clearing from where the squad was hiding in the bushes. It seemed their chicken brains could fathom what would happen if they met the pircs in open battle. They also didn’t risk approaching the ancient cow grazing to the left of Chip’s position. They were like Mesozaic street bums or something: strong in numbers but as soon as the scenario changed, they would break into a panicked herd. Accordingly, if you scared them and funneled them into the clearing, the ceratosaurus would react and chase after them. But finding the eggs in the leafage and placing them in the satchels would take some time. That was a minus. But…
Chip stared pensively at Groot. Groot grew nervous under the commander’s close stare and tried to hide himself behind Dragonfly—only to be mercilessly shoved back to his spot.
“Eh…Is something wrong, Colonel Sir?” the biota asked cautiously, having made certain that all paths of retreat were blocked to him.
“You’re about to atone for your foolishness with your blood,” Chip placed a paw on his shoulder. “Since that overgrown chicken doesn’t attack you, go over and stand by her nest to see where the eggs are located. That should save us some time. Got that?”
“Sir, yes, sir, Colonel Sir!” Groot stood up straight, excited at the mission he’d been assigned. He’d already begun to worry that the terrible lieutenant colonel would cook up some nastiness for him for purposes of edification. And yet now it looked like he was even praised him.
“What about us?” Smoky asked.
“We’re going to circle the clearing and see where those chickensaurae are milling.”
“What do we need them for?” Jingle wondered.
“Look,” Chip pointed at the velociraptors that launched another failed raid to steal an egg. “For the momma and that three-horned cow over there, the feathered dinosaurs are the main enemy. If we set that flock running into the clearing, they’ll have to dash directly. The female will obviously chase after them, figuring that those bastards are trying to purloin her progeny once again. While she’s chasing them, we’ll run like wild hogs for the nest where our brave comrade Groot will have scouted the lay of the land. And I do mean scouted and not ‘showed his initiative!’”
Groot nodded frenetically, indicating that he had understood everything correctly and that he wouldn’t dare stray from the instructions he’d received even a tiny little bit.
Just in case, Chip fixed him with a stern stare and went on:
“And so, Groot scouts the eggs and indicates their location when we arrive. After that he acts as a lookout to make sure that the momma-saur doesn’t consume us while we’re playing grave-robbers. Dragonfly and I will start loading our satchels—two eggs in each, remember? The first satchel is for Jingle, the second is Smoky, the third is Spin, the fourth Shepard, and the fifth Dragonfly. That’s ten. Once the eggs are in your satchel, you run as fast as you can to the forest and wait for the others at the edge. Once everyone’s assembled, we hustle back to base. Else, if something goes wrong, wait for my order. Everyone remember everything?”
“Sir, yes sir!” The squad echoed in unison.
Even the programmers were on the ball, demonstrating that the week they had spent under Chip’s leadership hadn’t been wasted.
“Then let’s get to it,” Chip ordered.
Groot immediately turned around and happily plodded off to the nest. A velociraptor went hurtling past him, running as fast as it could and utterly ignoring the biota, which only reaffirmed the cadet’s earlier words: The race of sentient plants was entirely uninteresting to the predators.
For her part, the ceratosaurus female paid absolutely no attention to the biota that took up position next to her nest. She merely glanced askance, noticed the harmless bundle of parsley and went on tending to her parental duties.
“Okay, situation looks nominal,” Chip stated with satisfaction. “Follow me at a jogging pace!” And the squad set off around the clearing in a line.
It was easy and pleasant to jog with the satchels empty. Right until the point that Shepard suddenly called out:
“Oh, look at them apples!”
“Don’t you dare…” Chip began but he was too late.
Shepard grabbed the bright orange fruit that really did resemble an apple and bit into it with an audible crunch. In the next instant, the pircs’ snouts were assaulted by an unbearable stench. A notification popped up announcing a debuff they had received, and the contents of Chip’s stomach hurled upward and onward with cosmic speed. His vision went blurry and the lieutenant colonel didn’t even remember grabbing Dragonfly and Jingle by their scruffs and running away. He crashed through the brush with nothing but the desire to breathe fresh air again in his mind.
When he came to, Chip was in the middle of the dense forest, with the ‘Burned Throat’ debuff. Everyone else, including that stupid Shepard, were beside him panting desperately. With that said, Shepard was unconscious and draped over Smoky’s shoulders, making pathetic whimpering sounds and weakly moving his paws. Unlike the others, he’d earned three debuffs at once, including nausea, a malus to his strength and disorientation for the next hour.
“You fool-of-a-saurus!” Chip turned on him after wiping his mouth. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to stick foreign objects in your mouth, eh? Here it is—definitive proof that man could not have evolved from ape because any dumb old macaque lives in the forest her whole life and knows not to just stick whatever in her mouth, but you, you dimwit, can’t figure out the same thing after eighteen years of your momma telling you not to!”
In reply Shepard could only hiccup and drool, looking pitifully at his enraged CO.
“We need a healer,” Smoky said.
“Our medic is out there in the clearing so forget it,” replied Chip. “We’ll drink some water and go on with the quest. We’ll leave Shepard here. Jingle take his satchel. Smoky, when we run for it, you grab it. I’ll catch up and take over after. Everyone got that?”
“Sir, yes sir,” the squad replied much more quietly this time.
Shepard could only hiccup and roll his eyes.
“Right…” Chip looked around. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going, Colonel Sir?” Spin asked.
“I’m going to go pick some of those apples,” Chip replied. “What if the momma-saurus attacks us when we least expect it. I’ll toss her a snack. It’s not nice to drop in empty-handed.”
Chip located the tree without any difficulty—it stank to high heaven after all. Holding his breath, he quickly picked two apples and stuck them in his pockets. Then he quickly hurried back.
The rest of the journey passed without incident. Shepard calmly hung out on Chip’s and Smoky’s shoulders, making no attempt to taste any of the local flora. And the others made no attempt to break discipline.
Groot seemed to understand the precariousness of his position and was maintaining discipline as well. Such was Chip’s conclusion, seeing the biota standing upright beside the nest. Groot stood ‘at ease’ and moved only his eyes.
“Is he always like that? Until he gets it in the neck, he won’t do anything?” Chip asked with curiosity.
“Always,” Dragonfly sighed.
“Well, if someone doesn’t snap his neck, he’ll make a decent pilot I suppose,” Chip hummed. “Now everyone be quiet. We need to find the chickensaurae…”
The ‘chickensaurae’ were located quickly enough. The feathered predators were sitting in a circle and clearly planning their next raid on the nest. These deliberations were quite involved, just like in a real parliament: with screams, spits, kicks and all the other accouterments of civilized discourse. This permitted the squad to creep up on them and surround them.
“I cast myself into the tempest, my head held proudly high!” hollered Chip as he burst into the clearing.
The others, dashed after him screaming their heads off. The velociraptor leader—as a leader should—was the first to react to this sudden threat and spread his wings menacingly.
“Liverpool! You never walk alone!” yelled Chip and kicked him as hard as he could.
The leader shot up into the air like a rocket and trailing feathers disappeared among the branches in the direction of the clearing. The squad watched him plunk in a clump right in front of the stunned ceratosaurus. And while she stared with amazement at the breakfast that heaven had so delivered right to her plate, the leader figured out bit by bit what was going on and where he was. Even through the bushes you could see the velociraptor’s eyes take on a distinct square shape, while his toothy jaw, which had not evolved to speak, mimed a quite distinct ‘Oh, crud.’
Subsequent events followed as quickly as an avalanche. The ceratosaurus female finally realized what kind of gift destiny had granted her and tried to consume her unexpected breakfast. But it was too late: The velociraptor leader had come to. The giant jaws snapped thin air, managing only to catch a tail feather or two as the thief fled with his eyes bulging and squealed something that somehow resembled ‘Oh god oh god oh god!’ sprinting as fast as he could for the dense undergrowth.
The rest of the flock meanwhile had taken their own view of the situation and now grasping the change in the party politics, stepped out to the clearing…and right into the path of the ceratosaurus who was simply stumped by the appearance of such a copious amount of snacks.
Bedlam took over the clearing. The velociraptors squealed pitifully and galloped for the brush like rabid cheerleaders in some horror comedy. The ceratosaurus stamped after them, snapping her teeth and drooling with hunger. And only Groot, who went on standing there like some toy soldier, and the phlegmatically-chewing triceratops remained as the solitary islands of tranquility in the ensuing ocean of insanity.
“Stop laughing! Follow me!” Chip ordered.
The squad rushed towards the nest in disciplined order. Only Smoky lagged behind because he had been helping Shepard get more comfortable in the shade.
“Finally!” Groot greeted them happily. “There…the eggs are there.” He picked up a branch and pointed it to the lower part of the nest. Then he dashed aside as he had been ordered and froze there, staring at the tail of the ceratosaurus vanishing among the trees.
They got to work: Taking the eggs from the nest and carefully placing them in specially-designed sections in the satchels. The filled satchels were picked up and carried to the brush and everything went just fine and without a single hitch until it was Chip’s turn.
The lieutenant colonel was fastening his satchel when Groot began to yell:
“Help me!”
The biota was running as fast as he could, twisting and turning away from the triceratops’ jaws.
“So that’s who’ll eat him,” said Dragonfly.
Chip no longer had the time to be surprised how the biota had managed to reach the other end of the clearing. Although, if you think about it, there was nothing surprising here at all: This was Groot after all.
“Into the forest!” Chip growled, heading to intercept the triceratops.
Noticing that backup was on its way, Groot changed course to rendezvous with the lieutenant colonel.
“Sorry!” he yelled, running past Chip. “I just wanted to pet him!”
“I’ll kill you!” the lieutenant colonel promised him and whipped the stink-apple from his pocket. Taking a moment to aim, he yelled: “Gasmasks on!” and tossed the fruit at the triceratops’ maw.
The apple traced a shapely arc and plopped down right on the tongue of the dinosaur, who had opened his mouth in anticipation of a fresh bit of biota salad. The triceratops mechanically snapped his jaw shut and stopped rooted with his horns in the ground. A green gas began to snake from his nostrils and tears seeped from his eyes, while the first of three debuffs appeared over his head. Roaring pitifully, the poor lizard took off through the trees.
“Okay. Where is that bastard..?” Chip looked around.
The bastard in question was busy rolling an egg out of the nest.
“Put it down, you moron!” barked Chip, running past.
Groot hesitated and the pirc grabbed him like a folder of documents and then grabbed the egg too.
At this point, there came the crash of a falling tree, drowned out by savage growling. The unsated ceratosaurus returned to the clearing.
“Goddamn it,” the pirc managed.
Seeing her plundered nest and something furry beside it with an egg in its paw and the harmless vegetable weirdo underarm, the ceratosaurus immediately put two and two together and launched after her revenge. The lieutenant colonel recalled the stink apple he still had, but there wasn’t any time to get it.
“I will kill you, Groot!” hollered Chip tearing for the trees. He yelled at his squad as he ran: “Everyone back to base! I’ll distract her!”
Much later, everyone recalled to much laughter how the white pirc tore through the clearing with the dangling biota underarm, the egg in his paws and an endless torrent of curses and oaths streaming from his mouth.
Rushing into the forest, Chip tossed Groot over his shoulder, stuck the egg in his hands and kept running as the ceratosaurus smashed against the trees behind him.
“You shall not pass!” yelled the unbridled biota, not suspecting that only the fear of breaking the rhythm of his pace kept the pirc from teaching him when to shut up. As if mocking his words, the ancient trunks that had impeded the enraged mother’s progress began to bend with menacing creaking.
The flock of velociraptors appeared right in the way of the runner.
“Fly, you fools!” Groot yelled at them.
Unlike him, the ancient lizards hadn’t read the English fantasy classic and hadn’t seen the movies either. In exchange they had a long memory and an excellent appetite.
Seeing his assailant on his own, the leader hissed, aggressively ruffling the remaining feathers on his neck.
“Toss him the egg!” Chip yelled.
“Why?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Toss him the egg, sir, yes sir!”
The leader didn’t have time to revel in the sudden gift that came flying his way. Groot tossed the improvised grenade straight into the velociraptor’s short paws and the leader automatically grabbed the unexpected gift, instantly becoming the center of attention for the entire flock. Which is what Chip wanted.
“Extra point!” he barked, punting the confused velociraptor as he ran. For the second time in five minutes, the poor lizard surged into the sky. And once again, not of his own volition.
Without releasing the egg from his claws, he hurtled right past the eyes of the ceratosaurus who had just finished stamping the trees under her feet.
The rest of the flock, recalling what took place following this same event only five minutes ago, didn’t bother waiting for the continuation and melted away into the forest.
The ceratosaurus watched the leader’s trajectory and immediately lost all interest towards Chip. Turning around, she crashed off after the flying egg.
“Liverpooool! Allez! Allez! Allez!” Chip screamed like a steam whistle, disappearing in the dense thicket.
“And the Jacksonville Jaguars are headed to the Superbowl!” squealed Groot from his shoulders.
The lieutenant colonel burst through the brush and all but crashed into his squad.
“What are you dicking around here for?” he yelled. “Move those legs! On the double! Groot—do me one last favor before I kill you—heal Shepard.”
“Sir, yes Lieutenant Colonel Sir!” the biota replied.
Meanwhile, Dragonfly began:
“By the old Moulmein Pagoda…”
“…lookin’ lazy at the sea,”[6] the others chimed in.
Having completed its mission, the squad headed back to the Lair in victory and triumph, while for his part, Chip realized the most important thing: He definitely wanted to see the Tree. If the other biota were as odd as Groot, there was no way he’d be bored even for a moment in this game.
[1] All pirc NPCs bear the names of animals. The abovementioned Nebulos is a Clouded Leopard. Latin name: Neofelis nebulosa.
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[2] A reference to Herman Melville’s novel Moby-Dick in which Ahab, the captain of the whaler Pequod, fanatically pursues a white sperm whale named Moby Dick.
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[3] Rudyard Kipling, “Boots.”
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[4] Rudyard Kipling, “‘Birds of Prey’ March.”
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[5] Rudyard Kipling, “Two Kopjes.”
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[6] Rudyard Kipling, “Mandalay.”

Story for FREE (You can download it here: http://mako-books.com/)Author: Mahanenko Vasiliy / Dmitrieva Evgeniya
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Chip’s First Days. Part 1
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“Attennn-Hutt!” A booming voice thundered over the drill ground, emanating from the throat of an enormous, furry and armor-clad beast that looked a bit like a leopard standing on its hind legs. ‘Anthropomorphic,’ the animators like to say. But this particular creature was very different from its animated kin: There was not the least bit of cuteness or kindness about him. To the contrary, every hair on the pirc’s hide (such was the name of this race of furry militarists) dripped condescension for all living things in general—and for the players scurrying harebrained before him in particular.
“Why does it always have to be a drill instructor from the North American sector?” a snow-white pirc muttered to himself. He made sure to mutter very quietly because he was well aware of the phenomenal sense of hearing that drill instructors possessed.
The white pirc was among the few players who, hearing the order, did not attempt to imitate the Brownian motion of particles and instead quietly assumed his position in rank with the demeanor of a person long-accustomed to military drills.
+10 Reputation with the Pircs of the Lair.
Few of the other players could boast such aptitude. Most were casting about to and fro, milling every which way and generally giving the formation the resemblance of an amoeba struggling with the decision of whether to divide itself or not.
Help arrived from an expected source: The booming pirc scrunched his nose in displeasure, waved his paw and handed proceedings over to his assistants, who were armed with sticks.
“Now this seems a bit more like Ancient Rome, brother,” someone whispered quietly behind the white pirc’s shoulder. Only fellow service members knew how to whisper like that, without opening their lips.
“I stand in solidarity with your conclusion, brother,” the white pirc replied just as somberly, turning his head just the slightest bit.
Meanwhile, the kicks and punches and blows from the sticks wielded by the pirc centurions brought a semblance of order to the unruly mass.
“All right…” began the bombastic pirc once he was satisfied with his colleagues’ efforts.
“Was it really necessary to beat us?” someone’s hurt voice objected and was immediately cut short by a blow from a stick. The silenced player’s painful yelp gave way to a further, disgruntled voice: “What’d you cut the turnip down for?”
“Quiet in formation!” roared the pirc who had struck the complaining player.
Like the bombastic pirc standing in the middle of the drill ground, this one was decked head to toe in black armor. The instructors wore helms that resembled those of Roman legionnaires, crowned with lateral crests.
The players’ costumes were quite a bit less flashy: All of them wore the same green uniforms consisting of drawstring shirts and slacks that were tucked into their boots. The players’ heads bore quaint hats that resembled the Tyrolean hats of William Tell’s fame, but with only one side of the brim folded.
“And so, you bunch of fumblers,” the senior drill instructor twitched an ear. “My name is Nebulos,[1] and I am the commander of your training century. You dawdlers have reached the moment when you are ready to be torn from your mammy’s tit and cast out into the great big wondrous world in the hopes that at least some of you will become worthy members of the great pirc breed. And yet, looking at your crooked feet, I have my doubts that any of you will be able to do so on your own! As a result, these esteemed centurions and I have accepted the arduous and thankless labor of turning you empty-headed flower-children into some semblance of pircs! Value our sacrifice, you maggots!”
Quest chain assigned: Initiation.
Description: Pirc society is severe, ruthless and impatient when it comes to weakness. To become a citizen of the Lair, each pirc must complete a ritual initiation. Quest type: Race-based. Reward for completion: Status of Lair citizen. Penalty for failing/refusing the quest: Character deletion.
An epidemic of sorrowful sighs erupted across the uneven ranks. The players had been seduced by the pirc race’s bonuses to Strength and Stamina and dreamed of becoming heroes playing this newly-introduced, hardcore race. Unfortunately, reality was not the fairy-tale they had expected.
“From this moment on,” the signifier went on getting into his groove, “you will do only whatever I or the fine gentlemen centurions order you to do. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes sir,” the snow-white pirc shouted in synch with another dozen players from among the hundred or so littering the drill ground. The rest tried to echo them after a brief hiccup but without success.
“What a revolting sight,” Nebulos grimaced. “Are these really the reinforcements? They’re standing all crooked as if they’d wet themselves on the way here…At least now I know what a shit sandwich looks like. Let’s continue our edifying lecture. Over the next week, you maggots will spend every waking moment preparing yourself to do the Trial.”
The pirc pronounced the word ‘Trial’ in a manner that made it clear to the worst misfit in the crowd that this was the Trial and it was the Trial with a capital ‘T.’
“The Trial will determine whether you bunch of momma’s boys are worthy of stepping out into the great big world and representing our great pirc people—or whether you’re better of sitting in the lairs away from the limelight and the certain dishonor you would bring upon our kin. If you ask me, the second option would be the best for everyone involved!”
The signifier fell silent and looked over the formation. No idiot risked speaking up this time around.
“Then again, it’s not all bad,” Nebulos added. “You’ll get some good training while you’re at it. Centurion, be so kind as to lead the roll call.”
A gray and black-striped pirc holding a tablet in his paw appeared beside Nebulos.
“When you hear your name, call out ‘Present’ and do so loud and clear!” the centurion announced. “Ahab Moby-Dickerson!”[2]
“Present!” A prudent voice called from the recruits.
“Who’s this mighty literati here?” the earlier voice asked from behind the white pirc’s back with surprise.
“I haven’t the slightest clue, brother,” the white pirc replied just as quietly.
“Barabas the Toxic!” the centurion went on. The white pirc relaxed a little and by well-worn habit fell into a state that resembled sleep, having first set his internal alarm to sound at the mention of his name. There was easily a hundred players here, which gave him at least a few minutes to doze. The thoughts flowed lazily in his mind, languidly completing their journeys in a flurry of multi-colored bubbles that preceded dreams.
“Spiteful Chip!”
“Present!” the white pirc barked, waking instantly.
“Reflexes worthy of someone who’s stood watch before,” the voice guffawed behind him. “No two ways about it—you’re a fellow grunt. It’s too bad we can’t have a seat here and have a small nip or two the way civilized people do when they want to have a chat…”
In the meantime, the centurion completed the roll call. Without looking up from his tablet, he yelled: “You’re about to be assigned to your maniples! The first maniple’s commander is Centurion Zerda!”
The centurion turned out to be a female pirc of a pleasant beige coloring. That said, the coloring was the only pleasant thing about her: In all other respects, this furry harpy was no different from her fellow centurions—just as spiteful and eager to crack her baton on a recruit’s brainless cranium.
“When you hear your name, step out of formation and come stand to the right of the centurion! I hope that everyone knows his left from his right?”
Chip was called third. Taking his place, he quickly glanced around himself and sighed: Judging by the way the others were spinning their heads and flapping their eyelids, there wasn’t a single service member among them. Although not all was yet lost—the selection was still ongoing and a further dozen were yet to join.
“Stubborn Groot!”
“I! Am! Groot!” roared a voice from the rear ranks and a…well…more than anything, this creature resembled a living illustration from a book about mythology, specifically the section dedicated to wood spirits. And this oddity was wearing green and white leaves and sprigs of grasses that seemed to sprout right from his torso. His hair was made of the same, while his skin resembled a ripe banana peel in color and texture.
“You. Are. A dimwit, you salad-head!” screamed the centurion. “On your stomach and give me fifty push-ups, you comedian! And out loud—count out loud you walking stack of compost!”
“Fifty push-ups right away, sir, centurion, sir!” Without wiping the smirk on his face, Groot threw himself onto the dirt and began to do push-ups, staring ahead and counting: “One! Two! Three…!”
“Recruit,” Chip thought lazily, examining the strange humanoid plant. “Either he’s still in basic or in his first year.”
“There goes our healer,” a voice behind him said happily.
“Are you crazy?” another voice replied. “What the hell do we need him for? He’s a biota, haven’t you read about them? They’re weak as all hell. The merest snot can beat the snot out of him. What’s he looking for here? They’re supposed to start on their Tree, to keep them away from us.”
Meanwhile, the biota’s earlier bravado was melting away in plain sight. And, judging by his astonished face, Groot himself hadn’t expected this turn of events.
“Twenty-two…” he groaned and collapsed into the dust. Nebulos approached him and prodded him with the toe of his boot.
“Medic! There’s some wilted lettuce here!”
In reply to the roar, a calico pirc stuck his face out of a small house with a three-leaf clover over the door and then emerged fully, dragging a bucket of water in his paw.
“What’re these dusty leaves doing here?” he asked the centurion, watering the slightly-twitching biota with a pleasantly-fragrant meadow dew. To everyone’s surprise, this barbaric form of medicine had the healthiest of effects on the sentient plant. Groot revived on the spot.
“He’s decided the pain in your neck ain’t acute enough,” barked the centurion. “Isn’t that so, soldier?” he barked, addressing the reanimated biota. The biota bounced up as if he had been tossed up by a spring and hollered:
“No sir, Centurion Sir! Groot has come to serve, Centurion Sir!”
Both pircs—the medic and the centurion—exchanged glances. Then the medic advised humanely, as a true lifesaver would:
“Stick him into the waste pit: Maybe the shit will fortify him and he’ll grow up a bit.” And without awaiting a response he returned to his lair.
“Atten-hut!” the centurion growled.
Groot stuck his chest out and stamping out each step, marched to the end of the file and got into formation.
“Mmm-yeah,” sighed the voice behind Chip. “And here I was hoping for a good healer…Who the hell needs this milksop? Are we supposed to hump him around so he doesn’t die on the way?”
“Yeah, bit of an unhealthy healer, that one,” punned the other voice and instantly yelped: “Ow! What’d I do?!”
“Not ‘what’d I do?!’ but ‘how may I improve, Centurion Sir?!’” the centurion roared back. “And you can improve by not running your mouth while in formation!”
“What the hell is this…” muttered another idiot and got it from the stick too. This time the jabbermouths had the sense to stay quiet.
“The next wise guy who opens his mouth without being called on, will get sump duty for a month!” the centurion promised. For whatever reason, everyone immediately believed him. Even those who didn’t know what a ‘sump’ was.
The platoon CO looked over his men and grunted sorrowfully.
“I’m supposed to make intelligent creatures out of this? Maybe it’d be better to toss them into the forest so they get eaten and turned to fertilizer?”
And he fell quiet seemingly considering this idea. Chip continued standing, keeping his silence, while someone couldn’t help but start up about their gaming rights and the international gamers’ charter. The platoon officer twitched an ear and the complainer fell silent in mid-word.
“Maniple—march! Left…left…left, right, left!”
The platoon—Chip just couldn’t get used to calling it a maniple—awkwardly waddled after its CO.
“Looks like we’re really in the army now, boys,” Groot remarked in a singsong.
“Today, you will be assigned to your squads,” the centurion announced, pacing among the cots.
To his relief, Chip noticed that there was no further historical terminology here like ‘dozen’ or ‘phalanx.’ The players were making themselves comfortable, listening to their officer attentively. Everyone had already realized that any further error would be punished to the full extent and that it would be better to listen to another five minutes of the CO’s chatter than blink, miss something important and suffer five blows of the stick at a later date.
“The squad commanders will be chosen among you,” the pirc went on. “You!” He poked his paw at a player who immediately tensed up. “And you three over there!” The centurion’s paw indicated the poor fellows he had chosen so that there could be no doubt.
“Eh…Yes…Centurion Sir..?” one of them muttered indecisively.
Grinning maliciously, the centurion beckoned all four to follow him over to the inventory box beside the wall.
“Your orders are to sweep the drill ground!” he roared, sticking shovels into the stunned players’ hands.
Seeing this, Chip almost burst out laughing. The prank was as old as the world. He first encountered it as a young milksop at his first boot camp.
But the players didn’t know this: With hanging jaws and shovels in their paws, they trudged after each other to the drill ground, already gauging the punishment they’d earn for failing to perform the latest order.
“Bunch of tin pots,” the centurion snorted in their wake.
“Ah! Same old deal here too…” someone sighed beside Chip.
Turning, he beheld three pircs and Groot, who had joined them. The only girl in their platoon sighed. Gray-colored and just as tall and furry as her companions, though a bit less massive, the female pirc bore the handle ‘Fleeting Dragonfly.’
“What same old deal?” Chip asked.
“It’s a prank,” Dragonfly explained, for utter clarity indicating the unfortunates shuffling at the edge of the drill ground. They looked hapless and stunned. Even if it was only virtual, the reality they had found themselves in was clearly different from what they had expected when they entered the game.
“It’s not too complicated,” Chip shrugged. “All you have to do is use the old noggin’ to think a bit, brother cadets.”
All four peered at him with bulging eyes, square with surprise.
“How do you know?” asked Orange Jingle.
Chip straightened out impatiently, clasped his hands behind his back and squinted.
“You—cadet,” He pronounced this word with its own special emphasis, “—are inattentive and poorly-raised. Addressing a senior officer directly without the slightest bit of deference…Mmm…yeah…I never thought I’d live to see the day. What’s your academy?”
“Federal Military Aviation Academy,” muttered Jingle, annoyed. “What of it?”
“What of it?!” Chip’s bellow even made the diggers out on the drill ground turn to look. Momentarily losing their composure, the cadets huddled in a gaggle. “That’s my academy! The one I graduated! And this is how they teach you there these days?” Chip seethed, pronouncing each word a syllable at a time. “The hell with you, you lampshade. And the hell with your DI. I’ll personally take over you and your class of thugs.” He brandished a paw menacingly at the ceiling.
“That’s where you went to school too?” Dragonfly squeaked. “Sir…”
“Lieutenant Colonel,” Chip hinted. “Of course. My former deputy was Dima Konkovich. He’s in charge over there now, isn’t he?”
“Dima?” Shepard’s eyes went as round as saucers.
It was clear that he just couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that someone could refer to the terrible and terrifying colonel his entire academy was petrified of not as Dmitry Konkovich, nor as ‘Colonel Sir, permission to speak, sir!’—but simply Dima. That was a knockout. Their entire cadets’ glory had been ruthlessly stamped and ground into dust by the realization that the guy before them spoke of the head of their academy as merely ‘Dima.’ What were first-year cadets for him? Pfff, not even as much as less than zero: more like, something at the very bounds of perception. A mote in the Lord’s eye.
“It’s just a game, they said,” Dragonfly sighed. “Thanks for the idea, Johnny.”
“What’d I do?” jangled Jingle, slouching. “You’re the ones who wanted to go have a look-see at the hardcore military race.”
“Forget it. There’s no point in shitting the boot,” Chip—who had lost his head for a moment—relented. “I can see that not everything’s a loss with you. The old colonel will make men of you yet. If you don’t piss him off.”
“Oh! And can you help us with our exams?” Dragonfly lit up.
“We’ll see how you behave first,” Chip tempered her excitement.
Meanwhile, having made sure that the four sweepers out on the drill ground couldn’t do a thing, the centurion ordered them into the mess. Now he turned to find further victims.
“Oh look at that!” he started, noticing the huddle of cadets. “Four more dumbbells, just like I needed. Come over here, you maggots, I’ve got a job for you.” He stuck the shovels he’d stripped from the earlier contestants into their paws.
“The objective remains the same—sweep the drill ground!”
Chip glanced at the cadets’ faces—downcast and distraught from the certain and imminent failure—and raised a paw.
“Sir, Centurion Sir. Permission to join these fellows for this assignment!”
The centurion perked up his ears and fixed the volunteer with a cold stare.
“All right then. Go right ahead,” he decided at last, giving Chip a shovel with such triumph on his mug that you could’ve thought that it was the legion standard or something.
New quest available: Cleaning duty.
“Sir, sweep the drill ground right away, sir!” Chip called out boisterously. Then he turned to the cadets looking up at him hopefully.
“What are you standing there for? Didn’t you hear the order? Do as I do!”
At this, Chip put the shovel back in its place, grabbed a broom standing in the same corner and dashed out to the drill ground followed by an approving look from the centurion.
“Wha..? Was than an option?” Jingle muttered.
“Of course,” Chip called over his shoulder. “This one’s as old as the world: Stick a crowbar or a shovel in the recruits’ hands and then order them to sweep the drill ground. The point is to see whether the soldier will notice that the order is to clean, while the random item is simply a distraction.”
The cadets fell silent, digesting what they had heard, and then burst into giddy laughter.
“God damn,” Groot giggled. “What a brutally simple solution. And we were wondering: What kind of sadism is this? Our DIs pull this kind of stuff all the time. And no one spilled one word, can you believe it? They’re staying mum like a bunch of partisans. Not one of those senior bitches mentioned thing one. One of ours, Nico the Sparrow, even went straight from the drill ground to complain to the commander. Well the CO gave him five demerits for being a dummy. And then the DI added five more on top of that. We thought that that was it—the sadists had us surrounded. And here we discover that this is what it was all about! It’s like an IQ test!”
“That’s right, boys,” Chip grinned, getting to work. “It’s odd that after seven months in the service you still haven’t figured this one out.”
The shamed cadets fell silent and began to help clean.
“Groot, how’d you manage to reach the Lair anyway?” Chip asked. “They’ve got nothing short of a division deployed out here, with all the bells and whistles, how did they let you through?”
“Our races are allies, Lieutenant Colonel Sir. Something about the local gods creating us at the same time—specimens of sentient flora and fauna. And we share a single location—the Hidden Forest. Only you—uh, are pircs and live in cities—while we, biota, live in a Tree.”
“What is that like some magic bean that sprouted a vine spacious enough to hold an entire race?” Chip wondered.
“An enormous Tree grows in the middle of the forest, about a click-and-a-half tall. You can’t see it for that mountain range over there,” he indicated the range separating them from the rest of the forest.
“The biota bud right on the Tree’s branches in giant bulbs. When I created my character and entered the game, I almost had an attack of claustrophobia. You’re standing there in the darkness in a cocoon…there’s no exit. It’s a good thing the petals began to unfold almost instantly because I’d already decided that I’d encountered some clipping bug.”
“And why’d you come over to these parts?” Chip asked with surprise.
“I simply started earlier. My buddies were running around with their old mains, while I got curious about the new content the corp had pushed out. I took a look and saw that it was cool. So I told my friends to come hang out with me. Although, these guys preferred to play as pircs. They’re like kitty-Spartans or something. Well so I checked it out and saw that these kitties are crap when it comes to magic, so I figured I’d play healer—a medic that is. No man left behind even if all you have is a mouthful of earth to chew on. So I came over here. We just took a guess with the time so we wouldn’t flounder around here too long and the guys wouldn’t have to wait for me.”
“And how did it go? It’s several days’ journey after all, isn’t it?”
“There’s a caravan of pircs that travels between the Tree and the Lair. You have to complete an entire quest chain to get into it, but they’re happy to take healers and the requirements are a bit simplified. I made it here in less than a week. Got my level up to five and raised my Intellect while I was at it.”
“Can’t say that I’ve noticed a heightened intellect about you, cadet,” Chip gibed. “Nor among the rest of your fellows. You’re not studying to be dingbats by any chance, are you?”
‘Dingbat’ was the cadet term for navigator.
“That’s unfair of you, Colonel Sir,” Groot objected. “We’re studying for the ‘bucket.’”
The bucket was jargon for the pilot’s seat.
“Then stop being such dummies and shaming my gray hairs. That’s it. Let’s work with these brooms. There’ll be time to wave our tongues around.”
Chip made a mental note to receive permission to go visit the mentioned Tree. The army was good and all but sometimes life could use an injection of new experiences.
Nebulos came out to the drill ground accompanied by the junior centurions. He nodded with satisfaction, seeing the recruits diligently cleaning and whispered something into his assistant’s ear.
And thus no one was a bit surprised when the white pirc was named the squad leader a short while later. The four recruits were put in his charge and there was almost a fight over the remaining two spots in the squad.
***
The maniples spent the rest of the time remaining before the Trial on solving various problems, which the centurions were revoltingly good at coming up with.
At long last, it was time for the forced march—the last assignment that would determine the readiness of the maniple to undergo the Trial.
“Your objective is to make it to the starting line with us,” Chip repeated his orders, leading his squad. Groot nodded silently, conserving his breath. He looked like quite the creature: The large helm, made for a pirc, covered his eyes, while the cuirass reached down to his knees and the satchel seemed like a monster that was trying to eat the poor biota alive. All of this shimmering glory took a massive toll on the weak vegetable’s stamina and thus Groot’s primary objective was to avoid collapsing before the forced march began.
“A mushroom on his way to battle,” Dragonfly giggled glibly, seeing her companion in his getup.
Groot scowled in reply but didn’t say anything and sipped from his flask. The quest limited the water rations to four gulps during the entire forced march, which made the entire affair all but impossible. Or at least that’s what the centurion thought.
The other two players in the squad—Smoky the Broom and Spin the Wheel—didn’t say anything either. Per Chip’s orders, they were saving their breaths.
Having led the squad to the starting line, the centurion handed Chip a map of the route they were to take and ordered:
“Sing as you march! On the double!”
“We’re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa!”[3] Chip began to holler.
“Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa,” the others echoed.
Groot kept his mouth shut as per instructions, though it was clear that the cadet’s hyperactive nature was rebelling against this with every fiber of its being.
“Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!”
“And there’s no discharge in the war!” the squad yelled as it disappeared around a bend. No sooner had the centurion vanished from sight than the buddies began to free Groot from his cargo. Dragonfly took the helm, Jingle the satchel, Shepard the cuirass, and finally Chip picked up Groot and sat him on his neck.
“Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different!”
The plain rhythm of the English poet’s immortal verses suited the marching cadence perfectly, setting the tempo and maintaining everyone’s breathing. The squad marched without rest, alternating running with a fast walking pace and periodically exchanging the extra weight—Groot’s equipment and Groot himself. At times they’d let Groot walk on his own but only until the moment when his stamina began to fall to critical levels.
Even in this game, they had to make sure to preserve their strength. At least the song was there to put them in a trance.
“Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers.”
“If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you!”
“Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!”
“There’s no discharge in the war!”
And finally, at long last, the finish line appeared in sight. Without letting him down to the ground, the squad began to replace the equipment on Groot as if they were squires fitting their knight in the dreamy Middle Ages. After that, Jingle and Shepard took the biota’s weight and began to fall behind the short column with him.
“March!” Chip hollered.
“The mud is cakin’ good about our trousies!”[4] the others echoed.
The squad broke into a canter without pausing its song. A hundred meters before the finish line, Jingle and Shepard accelerated.
“The large birds o’ prey—they will carry us away,” the voices chanted in unison.
At this signal, the squad broke ranks. Shepard and Jingle carried Groot into the corridor thus-formed, like he was a bowling ball.
“An’ you’ll never see your soldiers anymore!” the biota hollered triumphantly as he accelerated.
“What a dingbat. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut after all,” Chip sighed.
Groot was quickly approaching the finish line. His legs had turned into two semitransparent circles, like those of an animated roadrunner, and the helm had slipped back on his head and was bouncing on his nape, the satchel slumping to the ground and still the persistent biota refused to give up. Sipping from his flask as he went, he crossed the finish line like a bullet, ran another fifty meters or so and collapsed on the road helplessly.
“What a soldier,” Chip heard an important-looking pirc with a scarlet crest on his helm remark.
“Yes, it is quite unexpected, esteemed Tribune. Truly an excellent performance of duty,” agreed a centurion beside him, making a mark on his tablet.
The squad broke into victorious hollering, picked up Groot from the ground and began to toss him up into the air.
***
At last the day of the Trial had come. There was neither celebration nor revelry on account of this—not even the slightest parade. Signifier Nebulos simply called Chip’s squad to attention and pacing in front of the ranks began:
“In our society, everyone must be beneficial. Our glorious warriors defend the Forest’s periphery. Our fearless miners delve deep into the mountains. Our tireless farmers feed our people…We cannot allow ourselves the slightest waste of our resources. Even if this is your Trial. As a result, I’ll state your objective: This sector of jungle…” The signifier picked up a pointer from the table a made a circle over a part of the map that hung behind him, “…is inhabited by a large population of feral ceratosaurae. These are the creatures that our mighty cavalry uses as its mounts. You will locate the nests of these lizards and gather no fewer than ten eggs. Questions?”
“Sir, no sir!” the company yelled in unison.
“On the double then,” the signifier waved his paw.
The company broke out and assembled into a circle.
“Sounds too easy,” Spin shared his impressions.
“What’s so easy about it?” Shepard objected. “We have to locate these crocodiles and steal their eggs.”
“On the ground and give me fifty!” Chip ordered.
Shepard shut his mouth and dropped to the ground.
“What did Kipling have to say about it?” Chip asked him.
Shepard instantly began doing push-ups and reciting:
“You can never be sure of your kopje,
But of this be you blooming well sure,
A kopje is always a kopje,
And a Boojer is always a Boer!”[5]
Chip nodded approvingly and ordered:
“At ease!”
Shepard jumped to his feet while Dragonfly asked timidly:
“Permission to ask a question, Lieutenant Colonel Sir?”
“Go ahead,” Chip nodded seriously.
“What does a kopje have to do with a bore? Isn’t a bore a hole in the ground?”
Chip sighed.
“You cadets really are a bunch of…well, cadets. All right, let me elucidate. At the end of the nineteenth century—specifically in 1899—the Second Boer War erupted in South Africa. The Boers, my dear Dragonfly, were the descendants of Dutch and German colonists who had settled this region at the beginning of the 19th century. Which would have been just as well—if it hadn’t turned out that the lands they settled contained rich deposits of gold and diamonds. Naturally, the British couldn’t permit this land to remain in the possession of some farmers. Or so they thought. The British bungled the first war in style—the ‘farmers’ they so despised let the glorious British Army have it right in their collective kissers. Eighteen years later the British decided to have their revenge. The Boers understood that the British wouldn’t leave them alone just like that, so they didn’t waste time during the intervening years and bought up all the arms they could. So when the redcoats—that’s right, Jingle, back then the English strutted about in bright red uniforms with white belts and white cork helmets—so when the redcoats crossed the border again, the Boers met them not with a ragtag militia—by the way, that was when the word ‘commando’ first appeared, doing so among the Boers for whom it meant something like ‘platoon’—but with a professional and well-equipped army. On top of this, from the British perspective, the Boers fought dishonorably: Instead of stepping out to the field and dying heroically to the bullets and bayonets of a much larger foe, they preferred to set up ambushes and defend only on ground that benefitted them. Rudyard Kipling worked as a war correspondent during that war and personally witnessed how ridiculously the British Army conducted its campaign and what difficulties it encountered. That was when he wrote these verses, the point of it being that there could be a dirty trick anywhere. And even a kopje, a hill basically, could sometimes be no hill at all—whereas the enemy always remained the enemy.”
“And what about the Boers?” Dragonfly asked impatiently. “They won again, right?”
“No,” sighed Chip. “This time they didn’t make it. The British Army was larger and better equipped. They learned fast too. For instance, they swapped their red and white uniforms for khaki colored ones. They introduced the use of extended formation. They learned to move while prone and make effective use of machine guns. On top of this, the British Army had an enormous Empire and all its resources behind them. As for the Boers…they had nowhere to turn to. Their army was decimated in the battles and their militia was excellent for guerrilla tactics but not for direct encounters. Discipline suffered and the primitive means of communication back then did not allow them to coordinate the actions of units that were far apart. Whatever aid they received from Europe through smuggling was quickly consumed in the war. On top of it all, the British began to corral the civilian population into concentration camps—under the guise of protecting them from the guerrillas and savages—and as a result the Boers’ children began to die from hunger and disease. More than half of the youth aged 16 and younger died under British ‘protection,’ among them almost three quarters of children younger than 8. Even British society was outraged at this, which is quite telling in its own right. And yet—gold and diamonds are more important than the lives of others. After three years of war, after immense casualties on both sides, the Boers surrendered. This is all a simplified version that I’m telling you. In actual fact everything was quite a bit more complicated. If you ever visit Pretoria—which was the Boer capital back then—stop by the museum and examine the photos and documents from those years yourselves.”
A stunned silence descended on the cadets. Chip gave them time to digest what they had heard and then coughed and returned to the earlier topic:
“And so, I sense a trick in this assignment. You can call it my sixth sense acting up. Were everything so simple, no one would have called this entire affair a Trial with a capital T. Accordingly: We’ll move ahead in a square, like a Spanish tercio. Groot, you’re in the middle. And keep your eyes peeled. Everyone got that?”
“Sir, yes sir!” the squad yelled mawkishly.
“Excellent,” smiled Chip.
​
https://www.reddit.com/litrpg/comments/a2y8tl/chips_first_days_part_2_story_from_the_author_way/

Some of her favorite things:
​

• Sitting on top of cell phones so nobody could find them.
• At night, stealing your the pillow
• Resting on sweet cicely (never liked cat nip)
• She once caught a house mouse... her proudest moment, I think
• Going into the garden. She slowly become less afraid of the outside in her last years.
• Drinking water with her paw
• Staring at the white on black titles at the end of the movie
• Running to get the DVD when it came out of the player
• Playing with the laser dot in the laziest way possible--laser had to come to her.
• When someone played with her ears--she would just get so clam

Even under the warm sun and resting on her loved sweet cicely, she always remained crab-faced. Proof.
​

Bit of an unusual request here, folks. I run a Disney based Tabletop Game with some friends, the incomparable Disney Villains Victorious. In honor of Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons, I thought I would add a small Bill Cipher- based subplot to the game. I’ve written up some dialogue for him, which is from about 25% Dreamscaperers, 25% Sock Opera, and 50% my own writing. It’s that 50% I’m worried about, so I’m posting my notes here to see if anyone could give me some feedback. Can you see Bill saying this? Do you have any suggestions on how to make it better?
Since this is a conversation that will play out organically, I’ve divided this text by how I expect the player to respond, in bold. I tried to leave some room for improvisation. I’ve also added footnotes here and there to explain the context of the game and world, if you want it.
Intro
The full moon shines down upon you, and even through the branches it casts a pallid glow across the landscape. Your eyes are drawn to it as it begins to rotate, and you gaze upon what no man has yet seen- the dark side of the moon. It is a pupil. A single, long, irisless pupil whose gaze falls upon the forest with a blinding light.
“Ahahahaha!”
The stars seem to shift around the moon- they show an alien sky. Lines of yellow fire spring forth around the orb, hemming the twisted blackness into the shape of a triangle. From everywhere and nowhere, blocks of light seem to spring forth and surround the eye- when the pyramid is complete, the golden triangle pauses, then begins to shift its sight, until it settles on you.
“Well well, who would crazy enough to… oooh! Well hello there, who are you, mysterious stanger? Hahaha, just kidding, I know who you really are Strawman^1. Oh, wait, not used to this sort of thing, are you? You can talk now, go ahead, go ahead.”
The voice is manic, with a synthesized edge and a sardonic tone.
Who are you?
“Name’s Bill, nice ta meetcha.” The figure seems to stretch. “Ahh, it is good to be back! Now let’s see what’s been going on around here, hm?” Bill seems to flicker for a moment.² “Oh ho ho! So old Tilt-a-Whirl³ finally did it, huh? I must say, I’m impressed. Quite impressed indeed.” His visage seems to cloud for a moment.
How do you know me?
“Oh I know lots of things.” For a moment his voice seems to shift, becoming deep, slow, menacing. “Lots of things. For example, I know you’ve been traveling around with a party of misfits, including, hmm, a magic kitten, a Chav with a heart of gold, oh that’s brilliant!, a foxy- oh wait nevermind, heh heh, wrong frame, and a… Native American wearing a top hat?⁴ How ironic! Oh, and that reminds me-“
The air seems to snap, and a tall black top hat appears at the pyramid’s apex. “Ah, that’s better. Need to stay classy!”
Where are we?
“Oh, right now just an insignificant little patch of forest in the middle of what you humans call the Oregon Territory, in a spot even the Firebird⁵ leaves alone. It’s nothing special- right now. In a few hundred years though, oh hoo boy! Actually that’s a lie though, in reality you’re in your own mind hallucinating this! He-heh.”
At any point
“Oh, where are my manners! Need to give you a little something for knocking on my door! Here, howsabout a living monkey hand?”
A single, severed paw appears on the ground, and scuttles up your pant leg.
“Do you like it?”
What do you want?
“What do I want? Hey, you’re the one who’s come poking around my corner of the mindscape! Stumbled in here about as subtly as the Ducroix Brothers!⁶ Those three are hilarious! Selling themselves into slavery, hah, what a riot! But come to think of it, maybe there is something we can do for each other. Tell me, you look like the sorta guy who’s always looking for a new edge.”
(I expect to see mild interest at this point.)
“The world’s a big, scary, incomprehensible place, and it seems like it’s only gotten more fun since I was last around. You know more than a lot of people, but you don’t know what I know. That’s right pal, I’m offering to let you grasp the untold secrets of the universe with your CHUBBY LITTLE HUMAN FINGERS! We just need to make a deal.
“Oh, I don’t want much! I’ll just need you to cast a small summoning spell, nothing big, even a child could do it! See, what you’re doing right now is the psychic equivalent of knocking on my door, like an annoying traveling salesman! All I want you to do is open the door for me so I can come on out and discuss business. Can’t really conclude things properly until I meetcha face to face.”
(I expect some pushback here- Mr. Gold’s been tricked before.)⁷
“I’m not trying to fleece ya here Strawman! You’re not like the Ducroix, I can tell. You’re not a chesspiece, you’re a player. Or least you were.⁸ Doncha wanna be on top again? I can do a lot ta get ya there.
You sure? Real shame. You don’t have any reason at all to want my help? Sure you don’t have some… Friends you’d like out of the way?”
(I expect renewed interest here- Gold and Facillier have history.)⁹
“Aha, got your interest now, do I?” The triangle, somehow, seems to stretch himself.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret Strawman, I’m not too fond of the good Witch Doctor either. Me and his Friends don’t get along too great, and with the big man in charge down in New Orleans^9, I won’t be able to get anything done! This isn’t some one-and-done deal I’m offering here pal, this is a working relationship.
So whaddaya say, do we have a deal? I don’t offer this sort of thing every day buddy, but I like ya. I see big things for you, if you’re just willing to work with me here. Shake on it?”
Blue fire erupts from Bill’s outstretched hand, as the deal is, hopefully, sealed.
Outro
“Wonderful! Strawman, I think this is going to be the beginning of a bey-autiful partnership. By my standards of beauty, anyway. Until next time, I’ll be watching you! I’ll be watching youuuuuu!”
Footnotes
1 The character Bill is talking to is Mr. Gold, a clever, manipulative man who has strange powers and gets visions of faraway or future events. Bill hijacking one of those visions when it happens to stray too close to him is how this scenario comes to pass. He is secretly Rumpelstiltskin (close enough to Disney to be allowed as a Player Character, I felt).
2 The player will be given a chance to notice what flashes across Bill here, if they’re quick. They’ll see all sorts of important events and people that make the world what it is today, i.e. very unpleasant.
3 This is a nickname for Chernabog, the Big Bad of the setting responsible for mucking everything up. You never say his name. I originally had the nickname be ‘Churn-a-whirl’, but felt that was a bit too blatant.
4 That’s the Ragtag Bunch of Misfits that is our Player Characters. The foxy thing is a reference to a new player that will be joining soon, a fox barmaid.
5 The Firebird is an extremely powerful nature spirit from Fantasia 2000, symbolizing the death that comes before rebirth. Without its opposite number, the Sprite of Spring, its outbursts grow ever more violent, and the Charred Lands around its roost in Mt. St. Helens expand constantly.
6 Comic relief villains from the player’s latest adventure. They got the very raw end of a deal with some Friends from the Other Side. Bill is, as usual, ignoring what is actually funny about them to laugh at their pain.
7 Mr. Gold used to have a certain amount of prestige, before a group of powerful villains came together and took the artifacts which represented most of his power.
8 See above
9 Doctor Facillier (from The Princess and the Frog) was one of the villains that depowered Mr. Gold, and Gold knows how to hold a grudge. Other members were the Horned King from The Black Cauldron, Jafar from Aladdin, and Queen Grimhilde from Snow White.
10 With the success of his scheming, Facillier runs New Orleans and the lands around the Mississippi River, referred to variously as the Shadowlands or Black Louisiana.