Bob sprinted up the slope and to the foot of the system pylon. There Bob rested, hands on knees, catching his breath. What? He had been running uphill.
The pylon was an absolute eyesore. Sure it was a technological marvel that might have belonged to some alien civilization, pulsing blue panels and sculpted black metal, but it ruined the quiet grace of the grasslands.
And standing at ten stories tall, the pylon was a gargantuan signpost as to Bob's location. That is to say the location of Viscount Bob, Lord of Earth, enemy number one. Put him in the ground and earn yourself a sweet one million credits.
In other words, people would be heading in this direction. People with untoward intentions towards our innocent and defenseless Bob. The thing was magical wasn’t it? There had to be some option to move the pylon underground, shrink it to its previous size or even turn it invisible.
Bob pulled up his augmented reality menu. The smooth, now familiar overlay of Bob’s natural vision responded instantly. There, in the side menu, was his hard-won new tab, iconed with a cluster of little buildings surrounding a flag: “settlement.”
Bob clicked through and was greeted by a list with one item: “Earth Settlement 1.”
> Earth Settlement 1
>
>
> Owner: Viscount Bob
>
> Governor: Viscount Bob
>
>
> Settlement Level: 0
>
> * Population: 1
> * Buildings: 0
>
>
> Financial Position: Balanced
>
> * Revenue: 0
> * Expenses: 0
Talk about a glorious capital city. Bob had seen ghost-towns with more people and substantially more buildings. Bob, don’t get distracted, we’re on the clock here.
His inner urgings didn’t stop Bob from clicking aimlessly around. The high-level statistics functioned as gateway pages. Clicking on any of the row items brought him to a detailed breakdown of various factors and statistics, as well as any options or actions he was allowed to take.
Bob, focus. Ah yes, hordes of bounty hunters were right now noticing the dark tower and heading towards it with all haste. Unfortunately, Bob was faced with his most challenging foe yet: deep-nested settings panels.
Bob was a proud member of the internet age. He had a phone. That phone had settings. And Bob would gratefully suffer through any inconvenience if it let him avoid delving into a sub-menu, or god-forbid, a sub-sub-menu. But now the stakes were higher.
Bob tapped through and found himself immediately lost in an endless array of different settings. Preferred units, customized displays, notification settings, tax breakdown, immigration strategy, building permits. It was like he was managing a small city. Which he supposed he was.
He clicked wildly through, jumping at anything that seemed even potentially relevant, wading through dense and meaningless words only to flounder back up to the top-menu. It was a settings labyrinth, an evil, living maze.
Bob dashed around the rambling passageways of his UI: civil law - > zoning law - > land use types - > height restrictions - > setback requirements - > height restrictions... Wait a moment, there it was! A panel: “system pylon.” He couldn’t believe his eyes. Inside was the option he was searching for, system pylon visibility, currently toggled to on.
On the one hand, he was amazed that such a convenient option existed. On the other hand, it would have been truly appalling if every city in the interverse was required to have its skyline eternally scarred by the presence of a system pylon. One of the perks of being the 73,926th integrated planet was that his predecessors had had plenty of time to complain.
When Bob flicked the switch, the tower shimmered momentarily and then seemed to melt into the sky. It was a compelling illusion, very compelling, enough for George to rush head first into the very much still present tower and bounce back, barking and snarling at his invisible foe.
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Had Bob made it in time? He cocked an ear, listening for the footsteps of the greedy mob. Silence. So... maybe? Maybe no one had seen it. Maybe he was safe. Bob let himself lie down on the grassy slope. George continued to snarl and threaten his unseen attacker.
Bob stared up at the sky. A few white clouds slipped by, carried on a strong breeze, and warm sunlight spilled down, giving the grass a fresh, sunny brilliance. It was a beautiful day. Not a trace of that awful storm of last night. Bob pulled up the system's weather application to see if the weather would hold.
No, the weather would not hold. The system forecast gave the rosy prediction of rain every night for the foreseeable future. You could see fifteen days full ahead and each of them was marred by black rain clouds. Just my luck. Bob got the feeling that the system’s world terraform had somehow not accounted for natural weather patterns. This perpetual rain couldn't be normal. They were all in for an extreme and arbitrary form of climate change.
The predictions were footnoted with a little asterisk. Bob mentally focused on the symbol and a disclaimer popped up:
> Predictions are 100% accurate (barring sentient interference)
Bob missed the days when he could cheerily ignore predictions of rain and blindly trust that the weather man was just flipping a coin anyway. It took away some of life’s mystery to know with certainty what the day’s weather would hold. Especially when the predicted weather was bad.
"Bob, what the hell are you doing? Are you seriously checking the weather right now?"
"I can't build a plan for the day unless I know what the sky's doing, can I?"
"THE DEMONS ARE COMING! You need to act. You need to run. GO! NOW!"
"Five more minutes."
Bob was procrastinating and he knew it. It was easier to pretend nothing had happened. To imagine the two of them weren't in terrible danger. It was easier to lie there, looking up at the blue sky and widely misinterpreting cloud shapes. Of course Bob would go in the end. But what difference could five minutes make in the grand scheme of things? Five minutes?
Snap!
Yes, yes, of course, five minutes are the difference between life and death, and procrastination is the father of all sins. Bob reminded himself that he deserved everything that was coming to him.
Time to hear the music. The countdown to some grizzly and gruesome death. Bob took a deep breath. Steady now, old chap. Bob made to turn towards the sound.
He couldn't. He couldn't! He couldn't move his head at all. It was stuck. The ground had glued itself to his skin. Bob pulled. Bob stopped pulling, his eyes tearing up from the pain. His nice skin had decided it preferred the company of the soil to that of the back of his head.
He tried to move his feet. Stuck! His left arm. Stuck! His right knee where the cloak had folded back. Stuck, stuck, stuck! Every spot of skin that had been in contact with the ground was now fused in place. He was trapped in a game of Devil's Twister. And rule breaking was strongly frowned upon.
Oh no, oh no. Bob's heart had decided the situation demanded overdrive. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. His whole body tensed up. Electrical signals exploded across his nervous system. He felt himself twitch and shiver. He was panting. Fight or Flight? Fight or Flight?
Flight! Flight! I choose flight. Dealer chooses fight.
"George, George, where are you?"
The dog was barking and yelping, but Bob couldn't see what was happening. The dog was too far away from him. Had he been caught in the same attack? But the dog had been standing; most of his body should still be free. George could fight. Bob, though, Bob was in a bad spot.
"I tried to warn you. I did warn you. The demons are coming, I said. The demons are coming."
Bob could still move his right arm up to the elbow joint (he'd been pointing out funny cloud shapes in the sky). His fingers spidered across the grass. They landed on something hard and round. A stone. He was armed. He could fight. Beware Bob and the stone.
"The demons are coming."
Where? Where was the enemy? Bob rolled his eyes around in his head, scanning the surroundings with his peripheral vision. He couldn't see anything. The green grasses. The blue sky. He strained to listen. But there were no heavy footfalls, no triumphant laughter.
Where were they? "Show yourself scoundrel." Were they going after George first? Not George. Bob hazarded another sharp pull of his left arm. An agony of pain. This was a self-flaying. And the arm wasn't even free.
"George, you alright? George, what can you see?"
Ruff! Ruff!
That didn't mean anything to Bob. Never ask a dog for directions.
What could he do? What could Bob do? Trapped, stranded, helpless. And then Bob caught it, in the very corner of his eye, the faintest shimmer of movement.
There was a low rustle in the grasses. Bob strained to see, willing his eye further into the side of his head. There was the glint of something metallic and shiny, of something pointed and sinister.
It was coming closer.
Slowly. Deliberately. Patiently.
Bob watched. His whole being focused on that small square in his peripheral vision.
And then he recognized his enemy.
"What? But, but how..." Bob spluttered, the shock and terror overwhelming him.
"No, no... Surely not. Not you! Anyone but you. It can't be. Heaven's above. Mercy! Mercy!"