“. . . and despite their heroism, they were unable to break through,” Gaelvry told the pan-ludic assembly. Quircy Rau thanked her, and all the pigeon chasers by extension, for the invaluable information before opening up the subject to discussion.
Afterschool Hunters representative Shinnosuke Watanabe asked to speak first, as it sounded like ghost business to him. “Strap the ghosts to yourselves and go right in. Always works.”
Regent, the ominous representative of Modern Incidence Record, scoffed at his colleague's simple mind. “These pigeons are clearly manifestations of the portion of the collective unconscious which deals with freedom from responsibility. To harness their power, I suggest we capture them and strap them to a vehicle, which ought to allow us to explore the universal human dreamspace that birthed them.”
“Birds like that are servants of some god without question,” Radiant Illusion Country's Amit the Sage said. “General Yi once penetrated the realm of the gods with this scheme. He shot a hundred falcons. He plucked them. The boat he dressed in their plumage sailed through the sky unlike other boats into regions they could not.”
“It seems like there's a lot of disagreement out there, but I have an idea.” Quircy Rau said while unwrapping the new gavel she had bought for herself from Dungeon Express Re:Development on her way to the meeting. “We capture a bunch of pigeons. Where? The best place has to be Climax Net!”
“Why's that?” Listeria Adan asked.
“Because of the net.”
Model Zero, relying on his high-tier privileges, broke into the conversation. “Quircy Rau. Climax Net is a basketball game.”
“Pigeons don't like basketball? If that's what you're trying to sell me, I'm not buying. I spent too much on this gavel anyway.” With that, she pounded the table to end debate on that, and then pounded it again to open a discussion regarding the Climax Net trap.
Baskets! Bleachers! Boards of wood for flooring purposes! Climax Net kept the three Bs covered like three players on the opposing team. As for the other two, well, no defense was perfect, except for the one contrived there to confound those rascally pigeons. Under the innocuous bleachers hid squads of elite bird catchers, holding the anti-ghost nets from Afterschool Hunters that marked them as elite. Non-elites held regular nets. They waited with their eyes on the bait, the plates of drugged bird feed surrounded by wires which, when tripped, would activate a bunch of Convergence/Divergence gas spewers filled with dangerous chemicals a panel of unreliable corporate scientists guaranteed would have no effect beyond incapacitating cute little animals. Those scientists inspired confidence by joining the bleacher crew themselves, albeit wearing hazmat suits. “As a fashion statement,” they told Lasva after a short conference.
The assembly promised the natives it would repair any damage done to the gym roof, though the representatives crossed their fingers behind their backs. No one had to know Eten would handle the repairs while the assembly passed resolution after resolution about how great a job it considered itself to be doing. Thus assured, the locals agreed to hold a pretend pan-ludic basketball tournament in their home.
Stolen story; please report.
“Is it wise to write 'pretend' on posters, rather than dissimulating as far as our intentions?”
“The spacing works out better judging by the initial print run,” Skaya told Turpin, who accepted the explanation. Every member of Construction by then cared more about spacing, straight lines, and ease of production than achieving whatever outcome the higher-ups wanted. Whoever the higher-ups were. They kept changing. Pan-ludic assembly indeed.
The “population density equals pigeon attack” model used by the planners saw its vindication yet again. The bleacher squads heard such a clamor outside they might have thought somebody had won the finals after a full day of basketballing they missed by falling asleep, if sleeping were something they had to do. Bombs tore holes in the solid ceiling, much like later characters ruin the initial intended gameplay with their explosive new skills and abilities that require paragraphs to describe, and pigeons dived through the gaps like players taking advantage of the latest powercreep.
The sight of piles of food then distracted them, also like players. Bird after bird succumbed to the lure of pecking before keeling over on the hard gym floor, a place unfriendly to sleepers but incapable of turning them away. Part one of the capture plan worked well enough that the ambushers could collect as many pigeons as they wanted without jumping out and throwing nets while gas sprayed everywhere, but they did it anyway.
“Great job, everybody! Give yourselves a big hand and line up over by Zims if you want to put in a request to be issued your own pigeon once we're done with them.” Everyone ignored that except Gaelvry, who walked over to the desk Zimley Boe was setting down.
“Hold on a minute. We're setting things up. Hold on. No shoving.” Zimley sat down and arranged stacks of papers. “Just a moment. Be patient. We have a lot of requests to process today.” Gaelvry looked behind her, saw no one else, and shrugged.
Meanwhile, Quircy Rau briefed the host on its next endeavor. “The birds are being tied as we speak to a Consolation and a Solidarity. How? Tiny little ropes. You can buy anything these days, can't you? Of course Rachel Donovan and Lennart are the captains. By 'of course' I mean that when I asked about it, Model Zero looked at me like I was stupid. He was too polite to say anything, but I don't need everything spelled out. Now listen up, because I've got a list, and I'm going to pick who goes in the transports from it. Ahem. Alvin Renzis. This had better not be alphabetized by first name. Gen Suruda. Phew!” As she read off names, the indicated warriors exited the gym to board their assigned transport. The crowd diminished in size, which made it easier to see a blonde archer hopping back and forth, raising her hand, mouthing “Pick me,” and generally ruining the solemnity of the occasion.
“FairyDragon. Clyse. Alchemist Yururu. That's it! Congratulations, or condolences, whatever your heart wants the most.”
“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” A Rare screamed with all the power her two-star soul could confer. Nobody noticed.
“Next we need to pick who goes on the transports. Your job is to make sure none of the pigeons get any ideas. Try not to fall off. I have a nice seat waiting for me, so I'll let Higgins take over. Catch!” Quircy Rau tossed the clipboard in the air and sauntered off, leaving Higgins of Fort Fondue to catch the list and resume the briefing. He instead let it drop before picking it up.
“That's a trick to get you used to doing what she says, and I won't fall for it. Now then. Gabriel. Michael. Power. Throne. Principality. Sindze U. Radalo.”
“Eeeeeeeee!”
“Wait, no, Belphoebe. I confuse those for some reason. Where was I? Belphoebe. Leelit. Sindze U. Radalo.”
Sindze waited for another retraction that never came. The complete roster was announced, Higgins told them to get to their positions, and that was that. She hustled out of the gym, saluted Rachel Donovan's commanding tam o'shanter, and scrambled up the swaying ladder that took her to the top of the Consolation-class transport, a bulky vessel which resembled a row of cardboard boxes connected by strings of Christmas lights, all full of ornaments the owner always thought about throwing away without ever getting to it.