Talk:Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure

Thots

Algy and George take out the gunships

The Battletruck carried on, blamming left and right. A crump in the prolixity resevoir, it collapsed to one knee and emptied itself all over the forward Reg relations team.

“they’re going to a baffled for weeks!”

A sprint burst to the right which took out a discombobulation stack. The defences weren't holding.

The GC wailed: “I don’t understand! They’re not listening to our careful arguments! I don’t understand!”

Outer perimeter fails

You got to speak a language they understand.

The Farm

The oldest portal into, and out of, Lissingdown was the Moor’s Gate. It opened out onto a region beyond the city walls they called The Meadow and, beyond that, the dark forest of Bretton.

The Meadow was a wide flat, low-lying mud plain. It turned briskly to swamp whenever it rained, which wasn’t often, but was often enough that generations had maintained narrow plank walkways to get about The Farm. The “boards” ran from the gate all the way to the woods, and down to The Farm between them, where they raised and cultivated clients. The itinerant labourers who maintained the Farm were thus known always as the “onboarders”.

Just now, a cross-eyed, black-toothed, puck-faced peasant limped along the boards with a pail of slops. She tossed out chicken bones left and right and ladled mouldy porridge to grasping beasts who slobbered through the slats.

Ramsay Punchface looked up and gingerly approached the filthy onboarder. The onboarder stopped and regarded him for an uncomfortable period.

At length the wall-eyed crone said, “Watta fucka you wanna? Wanna-you some chicky, ah?”

The onboarder fished a chicken bone from her bucket and tossed it at Ramsay’s feet. Until she roared at her own joke, Ramsay couldn’t tell if she was serious. He stammerd out an oily yuck just to laugh along.

The onboarded chose that moment to stop. “Well, lad, spit it out.”

Ramsay held out his tote bag. “I caught these.”

The onboarder snatched the bag and up-ended it, dumping a handful of a small, rabbit-like carcasses into the dust. He grunted, and turned each over carefully with his boot. “Littl’uns, innit?”

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

The onboarder grunted again. “A bit feeble.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Quasi. Whatta do you makea these?”

A old hunch-back, naked but for a sack tunic and a dirty loincloth, scurried out of the farm on all fours. Despite his apparent age he had bright eyes, though he gripped a monocle in one, and he moved with a nimble, nervous energy. He regarded the onboarder and squawked. “What is it? What is it? What is it? HEY?”

“Heh. Lil runty fellas. Any good?”

The old man grabbed the rabbity thing, sniffed it, drawing its aroma deeply, an action from which he derived no small pleasure, inspected the animal’s fur closely through the monocle, taking it in his fingers, picking out imperfections. “Meh.” He peered into its ears, yanked open its mouth, inspected its teeth. Finally, he pulled, a stout wooden device from his tunic and held it up against the animal. “It’ll do,” he said, “but it’s a of little value.” He scratched his chin. “Call it a three. A low priority three.” He tossed the first one in the smallest pen.

“Three?” Ramsay quailed. "But Jersey Oiks are a key priority!”

“Maybe so, soldier, but that's not an Oik. That’s an esgiepieyes from Madeira. Superficially similar to Oiks, but their milk yield is poor and it’s a bit sour, but it will nourish you juniors all right.”

“But Hank w —”

“Oh, Hank wants it to happen, does he? Sure he does. And he wants to take me for a dine and dance at Gwendolines, too. Be grateful I don’t cut it up for fodder.”

Ramsay motioned at the other two espiecies. “What about the thers, then?”

The old man examined the first one briefly. “This one — nah, Qatari: won’t net.” He tossed it away. His dog, a mongrel bull terrier names Bosun, chased it under a fence.

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.

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.

The old man strode over and snatched the animal, which was still snuggling on Ramsay's palm, hiffed it powerfully, into the sky.

“Hey! What did you do that for?”

As the espiecie arced towards the ground it it exploded in a ball of fluff and guts.

“Jesus wept, lad!”

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

“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.