Talk:Where Legal Eagles Dare: An Opco Boone Adventure

“Aieeeeeeeeee!”

The driver disappeared head-first out of the cabin. As his boots disappeared, Boone pulled himself into the cockpit, honked the foghorn and hauled the wheel hard right. The great rig began to slowly bear around towards the Operations HQ, slewing sand out over the upturned COO gunship as the centripetal forces kicked in.

A dirt-bike dropped in through the curtain of sand, over the gunship’s lazily spinning wheels, and landed on its rear wheel by the cabin. Algernon whooped. “Let’s blow this joint, Boonester.”

Boone snarled into his wristcom, “We’re not home yet, Algy”.

Algernon gunned the Kawasaki.

The detonation timer on the dash ticked down. The KPI explosives were primed. 5:45 and counting. Boone wrestled with the wheel. The rig groaned and screamed under the massive Gs as it re-vectored agonisingly to the north. Come on, you brute, come on .... The rig leveled up. The Gs eased off. Five clicks yonder, Boone could see Operations outpost in the crosshairs, shimmering in the hot desert air.

Boone stomped on the metal. The monstrous diesel turbines screamed. The rig picked up pace.

The timer clicked past 5 minutes. 4:59.

So … little … time …

A bloodied fist grabbed the running board. Operations Officer Kurzweil hung on for his life: at first, it was all he could do just to keep his hold and stop himself being swept under the semi’s monstrous wheels as they thundered against the dirt inches away from his ear. He clenched his buttocks as the brutal dirt roadway grated and pummeled him all over.

But slowly, he hauled himself back into the game. He executed a daring switch-grip, squirrel-jumped onto the grille, dragged himself up and established a firm boothold on the chassis. Like a limpet, he clambered up and edged around the towards cabin door.

The timer clicked past 4:30.

Boone pressed down on the metal.

Kurzweil traversed along the running board, keeping his head below the window.

Boone’s comlink crackled. “Heads up Boone: you got company,”

“Way to go, Georgie!”

The other dirtbike swung into view off a low ridge, explloding through scrubland. Georgie pulled wheelie.

“Yo, Boone!” eyes right!

But it was too late. With a single fluid motion Kurzweil vaulted up, leant in the through the window, baffed Boone across the jaw, and grabbed the wheel.

“NOT … ON … MY… WATCH … BOONE”

Boone spat a string of blood onto the wheel. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Kurzweil came again, but this time Boone was braced for him. An elbow to the cheek knocked Kurzweil back, cracking his head against the stanchion. Boone clamped him, but the Operations man kept swinging. He clamped Boone by the throat. His grip was like a vice.

The rig veered and fishtailed.

the counter ticked through 4 minutes.

As his air-flow constricted Boone felt himself going light-headed. He tried to reach for the wristcom to call for his wingman, but Kurzweil’s reach was too long. Kurzweil baffed him again for good measure, and somehow hooked a boot on the latch. The door swung open, with Kurzweil on it. He yanked Boone with him.

Boone, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He was going blue. Kurzweil doubled down on the clamp. Boone swung at him, but Kurzweil’s reach was too great. He found nothing but air. The door swung back. Kurzweil booted Boone in the face. Boone lost grip on the wheel Kurzweil pushed it round.

The rig fishtailed

the counter ticked through 4 minutes

Boone could only pray that Algernon would glom on to the situation.

snap out of the fantasies of the playing fields of Rugby which filled his empty head far too often, and notice the grim fight to the death occurring mere inches in front of the cargo hold.

Captain Algernon Farquahar did hear. Putting his head through the British Army blanket that hung down between the seats and the hold, an improvised shield at best, he reversed the Webley in his grip. The old Webley that had belonged to his father during the First War.

Coldly, he struck Kurzweil across the side of the head.

“Got him, Boonie – but are we too late?”

Boone looked at the countdown timer. 3:41. The sweep hand mocked him with its relentless spin.

“You know what we need to do,” he said.

Algie nodded.

The big rig accelerated.

Boone and Algie looked at each other.

“I’m not sure I will see Rugby again, old man.”

“And I’m not sure I will ever kiss my girl again … but I will be dam**d if those KPIs are going to wreck HQ.”

Thots

Hello! it’s Kaylene Trangle! — New Zealand contrecta

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 often enough that the itinerants who for generations had maintained it had created narrow plank walkways around the miles of rows of cages that made up The Farm. These “boards” ran from the Gate all the way to the Woods, and along every row and aisle of The Farm where they raised and cultivated clients. Such a feature were they of the propagation and cultivation of client relationships that were the principle business of The Farm the itinerant travellers who walked them in the service of milk production were called the “on-boarders”.

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

A slight ginger lad stepped carefully along the board that ran from the Gate to the Farm until he caught the boarder’s attention and then stopped. The boarder stopped her round, too, eyeing him carefully. She held his stare for an a beat too long, weighing him up, as if undecided between amusement, irritation or malevolence. At length, she settled on amusement. She said, “Whatta fucka you wanna? Wanna-you some chicky, ah?”

She fished a chicken bone from her bucket and tossed it at the boys’s feet. He couldn’t tell if she was being serious until she roared at the joke.

Just as he began stammered out an oily yuck to move the vibe along, she stopped. “Well, amigo, whatta you gotta?”

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

The onboarder snatched the bag and up-ended it, dumping a handful of a small, rabbit-like animals into the dust. Their legs were loosely bound and they wriggled and whimpered. She grunted, and turned each over carefully with her boot. “Littl’uns, innit?”

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

The onboarder grunted again. “Feeble.” She looked over her shoulder. “Hey, Quasi. Whatta do you makea these?”

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

“Heh. Lil runty fellas.” The boarder poked the animals with his foot. “Any good?”

“Any good? Any good? It’s all good. Any good is all good is every good boy deserves football —” The old man snatched up 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 fleas, or dirt, or 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. “Heh. It’ll do,” he said, “but it’s not exactly going to make the quarter. It’s a bit scrawny.” He scratched his chin. “Call it a three. Yes; a low priority three.” He tossed the first one in the smallest pen.

“A three?” Ramsay quailed. "But Jersey Oiks are a key business priority!”

“That they are, so they are, so I gather, soldier blue, but there are no oikeys here. That’s an SGPS, my young lad. Sociedade Gestora de Participações Sociais, to give him his full regalia, if you please, and he hails from —” he snatched up the beast again and began riffling through its fur “ — Porto? Lisbon, I wonder — oh! Madeira! Of course it is, my dear, Madeira, my dear. Similar to Oikey Oikses, they are, but — oh! — just not the same. It’s their milk, see? The yield is poor and it’s a bit thin, and sour, but it will nourish you juniors all right.”

Ramsay sighed and motioned at the other two espiecies. “What about the others, 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, chased it under a fence. “Bosun! Bosun!” he screeched, at the dog.

He picked up the third, gingerly, turned it over in his hands and looked doubtfully in its ear.

Suddenly, violently, he threw it down, kicked out at it and scurried into the dark recess from where he had originally come. The boarder squawked in anguish and grabbed a spade and hid behind these nearest cage. Bosun leapt at it, but the man swiftly yanked on the dog’s chain to pull him out of reach.

“Get away, Bosun! Get out of it! JESUS! What do you think you're playing at, bringing that nasty little blighter in here? Take it away! Get rid of it! QUICKLY!”

Ramsay flapped his arms. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Just get rid of it before anyone sees you with it!”

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.