Talk:Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure

Thots

Algy and George take out the gunships

Outer perimeter fails

The Farm

The Moor’s Gate opened out onto The Meadow and, beyond it, the Bretton Woods.

The Meadow was a wide flat, low-lying mud plain which briskly turned to swamp when the rains came, so generations had constructed narrow plank walkways to go about their business. The “boards” ran from the gate all the way to the woods, and down to The Farm between them. The itinerant gypsies who maintained the Farm thus became known as the “on-boarders”.

A cross-eyed, black-toothed peasant limped along the boards with a pail of slops, tossing chicken bones are mouldy porridge in through the slats. Ramsay Punchface looked up at the filthy onboarder as he hobbled and gingerly approached.

The onboarder stopped and regarded him. “What the fuck do you want? Do you want some chicky, ah?”

Until the onboarder roared at his own joke, Ramsay couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“Well, spit it out.”

Ramsay held out his tote bag.

“What the hell is this?” The onboarder snatched the bag and up-ended it, dumping a handful of a small, rabbitlike carcasses into the dust. He grunted, and turned each over carefully with his boot. “Littl’uns, aren’t they?”

“They’re segregated cells. J ... J ... Jersey.”

The onboarder grunted again. “They look a bit feeble.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Quasi. What do you make of these?”

A hunchbacked old man, naked but for a dirty loincloth, scurried out of the farm. Despite his apparent age he had bright eyes, though gripped a monocle in one, and moved nimbly, with some nervous energy. “What is it? What is it? What is it? HEY?”

“Jersey Cells. Any good to us?”

The old man grabbed they rabbity things, sniffed them — an action from which he derived no small pleasure — inspected the fur closely through the monocle, looked in its ears, in its mouth and tossed the first one in the smallest pen. “It’s small but it will do. This one — nah, Qatari: won’t net.” He tossed the second one away.

He picked up the third, looked in its ear, and suddenly, violently threw it down, kicked out at it and scurried into the dark recess from where he had originally come.

“JESUS! Take it away! Get rid of it! QUICKLY!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Just get rid of it before internal audit gets here!”

Ramsay gingerly picked up the frightened little thing. It was barely bigger than a hamster and hand beautiful, soft, golden fur that shone auburn in the sunlight. It seemed so harmless. So pure. It trembled in the palm of his hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay little one,” Ramsay soothed.

“Look just throw that disgusting thing as far away from here as you can.”

“All right, all right — but what about my — for the other two?”

The inspector was screeching and shaking the cage, screaming “GET RID OF IT! GO! GO! GO!”

Ramsay put his hands on his hips. “Well, I’m not leaving here without my commission.”

“Get rid! GET RID GET RID!!!” howled the inspector

“Strike a light!” The onboarder fished in his pocket and tossed a couple of quarters towards Ramsay, into the dust.

“Half a stinking credit??!” Ramsay looked distraught and fished them out.

“Think yourself lucky kid. And let this be a lesson to you. Know run along with you and take that nasty little thing with you, before Quasi here has a goddamn aneurysm.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Panamanian variant. Just take it away okay?”

Ramsay’s eyes widened, he retched and bolted for the Wood.

The onboarder looked at the two scrawny mammals in the cage, and let out a deep, existential sigh. “Lean times, indeed,” he muttered, and tossed a bone into the cage, where the little espievies fell upon it.

The inspector had calmed down by now, and just chuckled darkly.

Random thots

Bretton Woods: a dark forest beyond the mythical settlement of Lissingdown, where combat sales units would hunt espievies and other prey which they would domesticate and farm for commissions

Sales details ride in with captured espievies and toss them into a holding pen.

Evaluates and sorts them, tossing out the runts. A junior sales squire gripes about his treatment. The office manager tosses him a couple of credits and tells him to scram. "Too small". "Won't net". "No track record taste awful."

There's a commotion in the fields as a hunting party comes back in. It is Charlemagne, the celebrated sales guru, leading his retinue, leading in an elephant-sized beast by a velvet rope.

Sidemutter: "He got it from the forbidden fields. There are none of these in our territory. They don't exist."

Capture the docs team leader who is too weak to resist the onslaught

Coo people trying to break in in and tame master agreements.

Capture small ones

So the lawyers treat them as as pets, and horse whisperer them etc comma believing this is the only way to to control the danger they present and harness their power. The Theo coming like the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang force the agreements into a framework controlled by Romanians reading instruction manuals.

Bigger ones bust out of their glcages destroying everything

Apocalyptic scenes where tiny little cages ISDA s, all confined in small rectangular pens like battery hens suddenly all explode at once overwhelming the management systems.

Giant monsters called Goks housed in luxuriant pens, where teams rub their skins with champagne and Keep them supple and milking them of commissions. Good are free to come and go. There are several Gok pens around the city. To encourage the gearbox to go into them they need to be b-complex fully invisible 2 to city residence other than those charged with managing the pen itself.

Feed smaller stick with Vega and they grow larger

Conan the barbarian riff with isda jocks captured and tethered to the mill in a mountain training camp where they train school leavers in the ninja arts. School leavers keep running away. Escaping for a better life

Lissingdown is the elven home on earth. The settlement is an offshore centre.