As the group of shady-looking reprobates stands upon the hilltop, they gradually become aware of strange sounds emanating from below. Peering over the edge they are barely able to make out something moving below... something woolly...
Jos and Ben look round to find Hamish gone. A second later they turn back to find themselves overrun by a wild blood-lusting flock of mad Ouzi-toting Sheep-on-Steroids!
"Gee!" thinks Hamish to himself as he runs, already several miles away from the carnage and still going strong. "And I thought John was such a nice guy too! (Even though I did have to write this stupid Netgame entry for him.)"
Hamish hopes that John doesn't notice the couple of bars clipped from the end of one of his songs and come after him too. Just in case, he re-engineers an old physics model to give himself negative gravity and is carried safely off the ground and beyond the reach of the enemy guns. Burst of anti-aircraft fire explode around, though later this is found to be pieces of shrapnel manufactured from chunks of old QT MIDI code - so apparently it's useful for something after all. Making a mental note that he really shouldn't criticise musicians on a subject that he knows nothing about, he decides cowardice is the better part of valour and hauls out of there pretty damn quick.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Hamish stood cowering in the shadows, trying to catch his breath. He had just escaped from the creeps who were throwing sharpened CD-ROMs and video discs around the place. One of them had recently whistled nearby, decapitating the Smitemaster with a clean snick. Hamish considered himself extremely fortunate to have escaped with only a few superficial cuts and bruises when he heard a "Clink-Clink" - the tell-tale sound of two empty magazines hitting the ground, followed by the clunk-chunk of fresh magazines being loaded into the unseen weapons. He turned around slowly, only to see a large figure in black opening a guitar case. While this was happening, Hamish heard a little voice in his head telling him to run away. Fast. So he did. Meanwhile, the figure in black said calmly "Don't run."
For some reason, the little voice in Hamish's head didn't believe this, and urged him to run, run very fast. He ran, his tasteful tartan kilt billowing behind him. He heard a loud whoosh and saw a SPNKR streaming towards him at high speed. He dived out of the way, even managing to land on both feet. Nothing happened when the SPNKR shell hit the wall nearby, as if it was a dud. Congratulating himself on yet more good fortune, he heard a click just before the shell belatedly exploded. The resulting blast wave blew his kilt up, prompting two lost old ladies who were going to the post office, to remark:
"So it's true what they say about Scotsmen and their kilts then?"
"Afraid it looks like that dearie."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere on the Map;
Zwwwwwwwapp! "Auuuuugh!" "Oh man... this ain't fair!," David muttered under his breath... "I'm surrounded by Netgame pros...
"I can't help it that in my neck of the woods, there aren't enough Mac people... It's not my fault that no one at the small mid-American newspaper where I work will take me on in a friendly little lunchtime bloodbath. I don't get enough practice..." Zwwwwwwwwing! "Ouch! ...at this sort of gameplay! No puzzles, no storyline... just sheer carnage. Interesting concept!"
From the darkness someone was popping off fusion bolts with alarming accuracy. Z,X,Z,X,Z,X... Serpentine! "My co-workers think I'm anti-social, just because I'd rather immerse myself in a well constructed Marathon solo-scenario (or create my own) than hang out with them on break and talk about Work... or listen to Judy rave on about her demented twin sister or her dog's diarhea... sheesh!
"Well, there was Pete, the temporary guy. My only true netgame foe... unfortunately Pete couldn't design an ad to save his soul. He didn't last long... like I won't last long here if I don't..." Zwwwwwwwwack! "...watch it!
"I'm just a minor cog in the Trojan machine and I don't really Know any of these people, with the exception of our kilted leader. And I'm sure they're all keeping him Quite Busy. Maybe they won't even notice..." VrrrrrrroooooBOOOMMM! "...me! Damn, those grenades smart. This is kinda fun tho..." BOOOMMM!! "...May as well enjoy it..."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Neon light dappled the office. In a brief movement the screens all blinked to life and Ed sat back in relief. As things wind down and the noises of explosions and hover-taxis grind to an almost inaudible murmur, he rests and contemplates the future; Lafferty's or Laing's? He never could make up his mind, til it was too late...
--------------------------------------------------------------
BAM! the missible hit so close to where Hamish was standing he had time to read the small print on the side. something like "do not operate under the influence of an extravision powerup". Hamish turned around real quick, and faced the guy he knew would could sooner or later. the guy he knew would make him regret getting involved into this. the guy...
"hey wait," he said. "who the devil are you?"
stepping out of the shadows, a modified rocket launcher in one hand ("it isn't difficult - just ask the Evil group", he would later comment) and a copy of CodeWarrior in the other, Charles took a long, hard look at Hamish and said: "i don't know, it seems i ended up here after all. figured i might as well try to have fun."
the two looked at each other for a long time. they were studying each other's moves, and trying to discern what could lead to a...
"i'm bored", said Charles. "let's just end this. you and me. a classic pistol fight. alright?"
he took out a plastic case marked "Infinity beta - do not distribute (this means you, Tuncer)" and opened it, revealing the latest in crappy firearms technology - two brand new old Marathon-style pistols. then he realized that he could have just grabbed one from one of those bob carcasses lying around the playfield. (he would later confess that he believed that Hamish would "turn Aliens off".)
Hamish stepped closer and grabbed the pistol Charles presented him. he immediately started to back away, slowly, never losing sight of his enemy, gripping the pistol in his hand with an iron fist. when they were at a reasonable distance from one another (not too far, the engine did not allow it), they help positions, looking into each other's eyes, waiting for the opponent to make the first move, the first mistake.
it was Hamish who lifted his hand faster. unfortunately, the barrel of his pistol was gone. turning his head, he had just enough time to see a tiny guy with the words "Memory manager" stapled on his back, running off with his barrel, before receiving Charles' death blow.
"you must lock the Handle, you fool."
then Charles turned around, hearing a faint engine noise. however when he realized what was coming toward him at a fantastic speed, it was too late - the vehicle ran over him like so much assimilated bob waste.
the driver turned his head around and shouted, to nobody in particular:
"sorry, bus error."
--------------------------------------------------------------
Michael stared at Charle's flattened figure in terror. He was looking over the short battle between Charles and Hamish behind a set of boxes marked "Windows 95 Beta" with a bunch of red X's painted ontop of the "dows" and replaced with "bloze".
He approached Hamish from behind, with he still holding the "new" old style Marathon pistol.
"Okay, now what the hell are you doing here?" Michael demanded.
"Uh, I don't know. Our little friend Charles here wanted to shoot my brains out, guess that driver liked to crash Charles more than I did. But trust me, I've been run over with a lot of those 'bus errors' while making these maps."
"Well, uh, who's left alive here? Other than us?" Michael asked.
Just then, holding a SPNKR-18 Rocket Launcher on his shoulder, David smiled appreciatively at the pair. "I'm afraid that you guys tooling on us has taken a toll on my brain." he spoke in bad alliteration.
"I'm afraid that was going to happen," Michael murmured as he pulled out his Flamethrower, charging at the Kindergarten level-playing player.
"Hey, wait for me!" Hamish called as he threw the piece of junk pistol out of the way and pulled out his RSE Shotgun from his kilt. Who knew what he can hide in there?
It was going to be one long game...
--------------------------------------------------------------
A shadowed figure, perched in the upper fronds of a palm tree (Charles would question how a piece of E:MR scenery made its way into Trojan), cackled down at the group. As its head leans into the light, it is possible to make out a red and purple jester's cap perched atop.
"i've been reading what all you schlumps have written, and you all need a good english course... you dangle your prepositions, split your infinitives, and splice with your commas! and the spelling... we won't even discuss the spelling... hee hee... but i suppose it doesn't matter, really... but you, hamish! you! did you know i made a bbedit macro to replace '. And' with ', and'?!? that's basic english grammar! hee hee... geez... one hundred eleven kilobytes of text, and all of it i slogged through, fixing your spelling, your grammar, your usage, your everything! heh... you should be glad i wasn't grading it! hee hee..."
After a quick glance around, Hamish raises the largest ordinance for which he can find ammo, takes aim carefully, and is vastly dissappointed to see the figure fold out, leaving it's derisive laugh behind...
--------------------------------------------------------------
"That's it" Hamish exclaimed after slapping the blank screen. "What is this phorte?" Just for fun Hamish slaps the computer again out of some sick vendetta for all the trouble it has given him over the years of playing marathon. He pressed down the redundant apple-option and that funny arrow key almost to hear the little mechanical ping sound the mac makes when it starts up. "When I get back into that game," Hamish cursed," I'm going to..." His rambling were suddenly cut off when he noticed that the little "happy face" computer icon was not present upon start-up. "What the," he mumble as in it's place a red marathon icon appeared.
"Every thing here seems fine," Hamish states after inspecting the computer hastily, "I wonder what that could have been? Wait, I know now!" Hamish quickly opens up his marathon folder that if it would be possible, marathon "extras" and "add-ons" would be flowing out of like a leaky facet and there is where he saw the silver Aaron marathon folder. "What is this he thought?" with a trembling hand, Hamish opens the folder and there inside is the biblical Trojan 2. So holy is it that until this time it has never been mentioned without a pain in one's gut! <>, but here it is worry free! "Amazing," he exclaims again just to hear himself speak. He finds the main application and begins to "click" it open, but not before saying a little marathon prayer:
"Oh holy marathon, to cures you would be blasphemy. To hate you would be criminal, and to love you would probably be illegal in most states except for south carolina. Marathon, may you give me strength and all the cool new weapons so that I may smite my new enemies. Hail marry and all that crap to marathon and the trojan crew! Amen."
Finally the moment of truth is upon him, the chance to see the new trojan sequel. He decides that now is the best time to restart marathon. With two vicious clicks of the mouse he bares witness to...
--------------------------------------------------------------
To Be Continued........
