FLOUNDER PWND
Knightsoil tried not to let his concentration waver when the
quill in his hand began flashing pale red. The battery in his hapglove was
about to die, but he knew from experience he had at least ten more minutes
before its spatial performance would degrade. He stayed focused on the piece of
massive parchment suspended in front of him. Its mottled yellow surface was covered
in line after line of near-perfect calligraphic writing, and he was on the final
sentence.
His latest screed was a masterful assault on the piece of trash masquerading as “Game Patch 9.1126.3.” It was well-written—even better than his takedown of the prior update. If it wasn’t for these review opportunities, Knightsoil would have no reason to keep his game subscription current (this was, in fact, a point he brought up in his writing). Savage Swords had been the legit flow in vanilla. Then the devs decided hardcores were the enemy. This latest patch just proved it by nerfing the Hound Riders yet again. If they were gonna stick it to hardcores like himself, he was going to stick it to them.
His argument was well-reasoned and researched, but Knightsoil knew it was the presentation that would rack up sitetraf. Vrilth wannabes would mangle the execution and then fix it with an image program, but any de-diapered netive could detect that garbage with a simple analysis algorithm. His calligraphy was the real deal. He could probably even do it with an actual quill and ink.
“Done!”
He said it in meatspace, but his painstakingly created avatar—a comically obese nineteenth century British barrister—repeated it to his private homesite in an artificially modulated English accent. The post was complete (and in ultra-high-res to boot). Knightsoil waggled his hand and the quill shimmered out of existence. Another swooping hand gesture caused the massive parchment to fold once, then again and again until it had winked out of existence; his latest dispatch was now safe in his vrog queue.
Knightsoil flopped into a partially broken office chair in meatspace. In the vreal world, his avatar perched atop a stack of massive tomes and ledgers. His homesite was made up to look like a Victorian accountant’s office. It was tiny and narrow, lit by grimy windows letting in shafts of tepid light. He loved being able to see the beams of light in the air—volumetric lighting was a mark of distinction. In addition, the extremely narrow floor plan enabled him to cram in a bunch of high-resolution models of crumpled-up papers and ink-stained writing desks. The decor was rounded out by the unorganized stacks of books covering the floor; it pleased Knightsoil that the average posermeat’s machine would lock-up just trying to render the sheer number of polygons in his lair.
He started to gesture for the exit menu—unlike some, he thought it uncouth to remain online during a biobreak—when his world flickered. Knightsoil froze as his office twisted with nausea-inducing distortion. Several of the textures on nearby objects vanished to reveal crude test patterns as his machine struggled to adjust settings. He was being hacked!
To Knightsoil’s utter horror, an avatar began forcing its way into his triple-secured homesite. It rose up from the floor, a grotesque flat fish-thing with doubled-up eyes. A flounder, he realized, still dumbfounded by what was happening. It was a beautiful sculpt with triple-A texture work. Every scale shimmered with an individual highlight as if wet; something so perfectly crafted and random would either be owned by a bright twelve-year-old in a “wacky humor” phase ... or a nihilistic hacker from one of those sites like 4x4chan.
“Sup, bro?” The flounder said. Its voice synthesizer made the words gurgle. “You look shocked, son. Check it.” It flopped its head to indicate the ground.
Knightsoil followed the motion on instinct. The base of the avatar was distorted into a tiny tube emerging from a greasy splotch of red on an artist’s palette laying on the floor. It was the access icon for Knightsoil’s preferred image editing software. He RL gaped and his avatar did the same (the hanging jaw was probably a perfect fit for his Dickensian model). The flounder-thing laughed. It was a hideous noise that sounded like drowning.
“Piggybacked the cloud-update settings for your dynamic color schemes. Rode that wave right into your sanc, bro! Security patch’s been out for, like, weeks. Posermeat move, son.”
“What-” Knightsoil swallowed, struggling to regain a sense of composure. Dignity was all he had left after this embarrassment. “Who are you?”
“Just a fan, man.” The mirth filtered through despite the gurgling.
“No fan would invade my personal domain!”
“Aw, sorry, dudebro. Wasn’t spesif. I’m a fan of Savage Swords. Not your bitch-ass trolling. Say hi to RL, posermeat!” The flounder began to spin. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.
The volumetric lighting was the first thing to go. Then all the color was wrenched out of the room followed by the walls. The windows dissolved to reveal a 2D image of a London street scene with cobble-stone streets and hansom cabs that juddered into nothing an instant later.
His latest screed was a masterful assault on the piece of trash masquerading as “Game Patch 9.1126.3.” It was well-written—even better than his takedown of the prior update. If it wasn’t for these review opportunities, Knightsoil would have no reason to keep his game subscription current (this was, in fact, a point he brought up in his writing). Savage Swords had been the legit flow in vanilla. Then the devs decided hardcores were the enemy. This latest patch just proved it by nerfing the Hound Riders yet again. If they were gonna stick it to hardcores like himself, he was going to stick it to them.
His argument was well-reasoned and researched, but Knightsoil knew it was the presentation that would rack up sitetraf. Vrilth wannabes would mangle the execution and then fix it with an image program, but any de-diapered netive could detect that garbage with a simple analysis algorithm. His calligraphy was the real deal. He could probably even do it with an actual quill and ink.
“Done!”
He said it in meatspace, but his painstakingly created avatar—a comically obese nineteenth century British barrister—repeated it to his private homesite in an artificially modulated English accent. The post was complete (and in ultra-high-res to boot). Knightsoil waggled his hand and the quill shimmered out of existence. Another swooping hand gesture caused the massive parchment to fold once, then again and again until it had winked out of existence; his latest dispatch was now safe in his vrog queue.
Knightsoil flopped into a partially broken office chair in meatspace. In the vreal world, his avatar perched atop a stack of massive tomes and ledgers. His homesite was made up to look like a Victorian accountant’s office. It was tiny and narrow, lit by grimy windows letting in shafts of tepid light. He loved being able to see the beams of light in the air—volumetric lighting was a mark of distinction. In addition, the extremely narrow floor plan enabled him to cram in a bunch of high-resolution models of crumpled-up papers and ink-stained writing desks. The decor was rounded out by the unorganized stacks of books covering the floor; it pleased Knightsoil that the average posermeat’s machine would lock-up just trying to render the sheer number of polygons in his lair.
He started to gesture for the exit menu—unlike some, he thought it uncouth to remain online during a biobreak—when his world flickered. Knightsoil froze as his office twisted with nausea-inducing distortion. Several of the textures on nearby objects vanished to reveal crude test patterns as his machine struggled to adjust settings. He was being hacked!
To Knightsoil’s utter horror, an avatar began forcing its way into his triple-secured homesite. It rose up from the floor, a grotesque flat fish-thing with doubled-up eyes. A flounder, he realized, still dumbfounded by what was happening. It was a beautiful sculpt with triple-A texture work. Every scale shimmered with an individual highlight as if wet; something so perfectly crafted and random would either be owned by a bright twelve-year-old in a “wacky humor” phase ... or a nihilistic hacker from one of those sites like 4x4chan.
“Sup, bro?” The flounder said. Its voice synthesizer made the words gurgle. “You look shocked, son. Check it.” It flopped its head to indicate the ground.
Knightsoil followed the motion on instinct. The base of the avatar was distorted into a tiny tube emerging from a greasy splotch of red on an artist’s palette laying on the floor. It was the access icon for Knightsoil’s preferred image editing software. He RL gaped and his avatar did the same (the hanging jaw was probably a perfect fit for his Dickensian model). The flounder-thing laughed. It was a hideous noise that sounded like drowning.
“Piggybacked the cloud-update settings for your dynamic color schemes. Rode that wave right into your sanc, bro! Security patch’s been out for, like, weeks. Posermeat move, son.”
“What-” Knightsoil swallowed, struggling to regain a sense of composure. Dignity was all he had left after this embarrassment. “Who are you?”
“Just a fan, man.” The mirth filtered through despite the gurgling.
“No fan would invade my personal domain!”
“Aw, sorry, dudebro. Wasn’t spesif. I’m a fan of Savage Swords. Not your bitch-ass trolling. Say hi to RL, posermeat!” The flounder began to spin. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.
The volumetric lighting was the first thing to go. Then all the color was wrenched out of the room followed by the walls. The windows dissolved to reveal a 2D image of a London street scene with cobble-stone streets and hansom cabs that juddered into nothing an instant later.
“Wait, you-!” Knightsoil screamed before the world in front
of his eyes went black. His site had just been crashed. Hard.
He pulled off his goggles and looked around his tiny office and spartan furniture. The only illumination came from the scattered power lights of his equipment and hapgear. He found himself zeroing-in on the blinking red light of his computer tower. So that was fried too.
He pulled off his goggles and looked around his tiny office and spartan furniture. The only illumination came from the scattered power lights of his equipment and hapgear. He found himself zeroing-in on the blinking red light of his computer tower. So that was fried too.
“-fucking fish,” he said to no one.
THE END
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