> Hunter
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>
> Win condition:
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> Find and touch all members of the opposing team before the time runs out.
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>
> Remaining time: 06:00:00
A six hour countdown had started ticking off in the top left corner of his vision. The girl. Bob turned to where she’d been standing. Dammit, he’d been too slow, she’d got the jump on him and was already sprinting out the other side of the room. Oh no you don’t. Bob started after her. I’ll show her, he muttered to himself through gritted teeth.
He made a valiant chase. A good show, a noteworthy effort. He must have followed for a whole fifteen minutes, well maybe only ten (the timer moved a bit slow), before he’d collapsed into a ball on the ground, clutching his chest against a killer stitch. A stitch of the type that brought down champions. If not for that cruel stroke of fate, why, he would have had her, had her without a doubt. I mean, it wasn’t his fault he had a desk job. Bob worked with his mind and his mouse. And how unlucky could you be. That girl could run. Weren’t the youths of today supposed to be imprisoned behind virtual screens, their muscles slowly atrophying away and their peripheral vision faded into darkness?
Bob circled slowly back to the market square. It took him a good deal longer than ten minutes. There he found his drawer of possessions with everything just as he’d left it. He took out an apple and bit down. These apples were about the only comfort left to him. Things really hadn’t been going his way. Bob cursed his luck. It was becoming quite the pastime.
He didn’t fancy his chances in this challenge, no sir, no sir, indeed. He called to mind his three opponents. First, unfolding his index finger, Sally the professional athlete: a twelve year old girl, who could outrun him and probably outthink him (given her assessment of that nightmare second challenge). Not to mention, at that age, she was probably rich in hide-and-seek experience. He’d have a hell of time just tracking her down, let alone laying hands on her.
Second, the middle finger came up, Black Lightning. The name basically said it all. A one-ton monster of black muscle and twisted horn, who, Bob had no doubt, would trample him down, skewer him alive, or just crush him into submission without the slightest hesitation. Bob’s very survival depended on staying as far away from that creature as he could. And at the same time, he was supposed to poke the god-damned thing.
And third, the ring finger popped up, pigeon 3-something-something-something. Now, some of you might not be aware, but pigeons can fly. Yes, yes, I know, it surprised me too. I, on the other hand, cannot. Yes, yes, I know, it surprised me too. Given the facts of the situation, it was hard to imagine how Bob was supposed to catch the bird, when the bird could just retreat smoothly up into the air.
And the universe, pardon “the system”, somehow expected him to achieve all of this in a mere six hours. When he was already dead on his feet, utterly spent both mentally and physically, and it was struggle just to stand up and keep going. What a laugh. Are these challenges even supposed to be fair? Bob you’ve stuck your foot in it there. Obviously the answer was no.
Bob wanted some good news. He still had those system notification from the second challenge. Might as well take a look. The grey message block expanded in front of him:
> Challenge Two Completed!
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> Congratulations.
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> Final Grade - E
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> Current pass percentage: 58%
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>
> Please continue to next challenge
An E again. This was turning out just like college. Weren’t there bonus points for completeness? He must have explored every path possible in that ten-by-ten room. Sure he’d probably been the slowest person to get out, but nowhere did it say that the challenge was time based.
Two Es in a row. He must have one of the lowest scores out of any the survivors. Was there any chance something bad happened to you if your final, aggregate grade was below a certain letter? Maybe you got stuck with some uniquely bad class. That sounded more than probable. That sounded just like the system we all know and love. Bob locked that thought up in the dark place at the back of his mind. And quickly distracted himself by pulling up the next message:
> Achievement Upgraded!
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>
> Lucky -> Cockroach
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> Description: Why won't you die?
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> Effect:
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> * Minor increase to luck.
> * Increased likelihood of facing life-threatening situations.
What? What was up with that effect? Weren’t those two statements directly contradictory? Bob considered life-threatening situations undesirable. He believed that was the common view. He’d call an increased likelihood of encountering them pretty unlucky.
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Cockroach. He reread the title. Now everything was out to kill a cockroach, wasn’t it, but the little buggers had a knack for surviving all the same. Lucky and unlucky at the same. He nodded with something like understanding. It didn’t make him feel any better though. Was he the only one who got the sense that the system was going out of its way to kill him? What did I ever do to deserve such recognition?
Ok Bob, thinking time. You’ve only got one advantage on this lot: cunning, cunning and desperation. You’ll need a plan Bob. And it’ll need to be a goodun. A Bob Brown special. But before that, you’ll need supplies, tools, ammunition, anything you can find that might give you half a chance in this rathole challenge. And that means you’ll have to go through this town with a fine-toothed comb.
So Bob, Bob the good soldier, dragged himself to his feet and started hunting through the abandoned houses looking for whatever he could find. The first good find was a plastic bag trapped under a stone. Up to this point he’d been lugging around the drawer from the side table. It made a nice change. He slung the newly filled bag from his shoulder and carried on a good deal more comfortably.
After an hour of poking about, he’d obtained: a coil of string, a handful of good-sized pebbles (never know when you might next need a stone), a rusty watering pot, a couple flints, a pair of reading glasses, some tinned food, one moldy-old trainer, a silver necklace, a plastic water bottle, a can of gasoline still half-full, a few wooden spoons and a bunch of old rags. It was practically all worthless, but he’d picked it all up just the same, because you never knew what might prove useful.
He arrived back at the marketplace and sat down to some hard thinking. The pigeon seemed the biggest stumbling block. The bull was all about a reckless disregard for one’s own safety and the girl he might be able to take by surprise or handicap in some way. But the bird… I mean, now that he thought about it, he’d never in all his twenty four years touched a wild bird in his life. The thing wasn’t done.
Now, if he’d found a crust of bread or something, he might have been able to lure the pigeon into some kind of ambush. He eyed the canned goods. Would a pigeon go for canned tuna? Probably not. Well maybe he could knock it out of the air with a stone. Let’s call that a backup plan. Bob had never had the best arm. Bringing down a moving target from distance stuck him as an optimistic prospect to say the least.
Happy thoughts Bob. Break the problem down. Start with something easy: the girl. She was probably hiding around here somewhere. It was just a matter of looking. "Come out, come out wherever you are." Or, wait, hang on, what if she kept walking in one direction for the whole six hours...
Bob let the implications of that thought sink in. "Oh my god..." Bob had already lost. He'd never be able to catch up to her. She was long gone. He'd lost. He'd lost the moment Sally tricked him into picking hunter. He just hadn’t know it yet. All this time, he’d been wandering around with hopes and dreams and plans and it was all for nothing. There's no way she hadn't thought of it. Little Miss Smartypants. It was the obvious strategy. Put as much distance between yourself and the hunter.
"Over," Bob repeated the word to himself. It made him angry. He was burning hot. It was all too unfair. He couldn't keep sitting here. He had to... He had to... Bob jumped up to his feet and went looking for someone or something to direct his anger against. Where was that damn pigeon when you needed him?
That damn pigeon was just where he’d left it. The audacious creature hadn’t moved an inch from that spot on the broken wall bordering the central marketplace. Unfortunately the wall was still a good three meters tall, well out of the reach of Bob and his short arms. It looked smugly down at Bob and hooted out a greeting. That bird had a personality.
Bob rubbed his hand together. The task was simple. All he had to was catapult a pebble into the chest of that self-satisfied winged-rat. It would fall ungracefully to the square ground, where he would promptly stomp on it. Easy as pie. He loaded up a missile, retracted his arm, took careful aim and let fire. The pigeon didn’t even blink. Pitiful, just pitiful. The stone didn’t even make it halfway up the wall. It fell silently down and landed with a plop on the ground. That there was the sound of failure.
Bob waved his hands, it couldn’t be helped, he’d made a beginner’s mistake. He had stood too far back. Why on earth had he tried to throw from the other side of the square. He edged closer with all the subtlety of a motorcycle caravan. But the modern pigeon is an urban creature. He’s grown fat on human indifference and boredom. And our pigeon didn’t leave his comfortable perch. No, if anything, Bob thought the bird was encouraging him. Have another go, lad, the bird’s contented hoot seemed to say. Well he was mighty close now, only a few yards away from the wall. A child couldn’t miss this shot. Famous last words.
He missed. The stone sailed in a gentle arc about a foot to the left of our pigeon, which lacked even the graciousness to fly off (how uncivilized!). The stone sailed past the pigeon, pitched and dropped down into the structure behind. “Ouch,” a girl’s voice broke out, followed by a gasp of fear and the patter of hurried footsteps.
Bob just laughed. He hoped that stone had hurt like a bitch. He’d thought about chasing for a moment, but he still felt like he’d only just got his breath back (over a hour had passed). He trusted she’d run a good long while before noticing that he hadn’t followed.
But what had she been doing so close to the central square? It didn’t make sense. There was only one reason she’d have chosen to hide in the village at all: she couldn’t leave. Sally couldn't leave the village. Bob repeated the words. So the system was fair and benevolent after all. Or rather, it was egalitarianly evil. It was out to get Bob, no mistake. But the hunted were players too. And that meant the system was out to get them just the same. They were all trapped in here together, like some happy, happy family.
Well this changes things. Bob rubbed his hands together. The beginnings of a plan were starting to form in Bob’s mind. He checked the counter. About four hours left. Yes, he’d have enough time he reckoned. But before that, he still had a few stones left and his arm was just warming up.
It took him three more attempts, but then he managed it, the perfect trajectory, a pebble exploded out of his cocked arm and homed in on the pigeon. This was a dead-center bullseye, he’d done it this time, the pigeon made a lazy dodge to the side, fluttering away a step. The stone never had a chance. And the bird settled comfortably back into his spot. It was like the bird was making a point of just how easily it had avoided the stone. Someone bring me a gun.
When no gun was surrendered to him, Bob did the only sensible thing. He set down his plastic bag and took hold of the wall. He dragged himself up, one handhold at a time, driven more by will and anger than physical ability. The pigeon waited. That was what kept him going more than anything. The knowledge that the pigeon didn’t think he’d make it. When a red hand appeared on the top of the wall, the pigeon quickly reassessed its position. The bird took to the air and glided away to somewhere a little quieter. Bob let himself slide down, coming to rest with his back against the wall. “I’ll show them all. I’ll show them all.”