Pmog (Passively Multiplayer Online Game), or as it became known, The Nethernet, no longer exists. I don't know what happened as I had not been playing for a while (it was, after all, passive gaming). However, I did write a nice little short about an event in the beta release that left a few of us ever so slightly b0rked.
At some point, TPTB decided they need to delete everyone's stats, set everyone back to zero (or near enough) so that they could do an overhaul of the game mechanics. Few of us were actually upset by this as we knew and understood why it happened.
Still... it hurt...
The world is a painful place since the big reset. Time was stopped, was shook and reversed by the the powers on high. We were all reduced to mewling shoats again. Now time is measured not from the birth of a mythical saviour, but from the very moment of the dashing of all that we had built upon the rocks.
Post Reset, they call our time.
It did not hurt the young ones, the new ones, not at first anyway. "What harm has it done us?" they asked. "We have lost nothing. You're all just like us now, equality for everyone."
The older ones may have lost their status, the long lists of tools they had wreaked havoc on the world with, but they retained their skill, their knowledge. Now they want that status back... the world is their minefield, the shoat shall have no mercy for the shoat does not fight back. Even our homes, especially our homes, are not safe. Best not sleep without a full set of armour, best tread carefully as you cross your own threshold.
My home is not worth much. It's not covered in badges (though I have a few), it's not smothered in the images of a hundred Acquaintances, nor dripping in tags decrying my menacing habits. It's home enough though... and it is a safe haven no longer. No more can I find respite from the mine fields of Google and Tumblr. No more can I seek out friendly crates here without the fear of explosion.
I return to this place of fear after another busy day out grinding for DataPoints, golden armour glinting in the last rays of the sun. I tread carefully, tense at the thought of what I might trip over.
A mine goes off beneath my feet, the name of its layer exploding in bright yellow lights. I fall back into the wall, blinded and shaken. Another goes off, and another. I scramble to my feet, donning new armour. Again and again those squat and rusty discs erupt, rattling the walls of my little home. There's nothing for it now; seek out the mines and get rid of them.
I check my armour supplies quickly, fearful, just for a second, that I may be running low. I'm smarter than that though; I visit the Shoppe every night before returning home, for just such an emergency. My DP spent on armour and the spindly bane of all Destroyers; St Nicks.
I'm good to go, my walls may lose a few bricks, but the Bedouin's perfect plates will protect my bones (and my pockets).
It's a funny site, someone searching their home for mines. The best way to do it is just run in and out of the door. You'll get bounced about a lot, but at least your status as a Bedouin will grow. The thing is, as much as you might want to help someone out when you see them dashing back and forth, it will do no good; mines set in a person's home can only be set off by that person. All you can do is offer condolences and perhaps a crate of armour to see them through.
All the mines are gone. I sit against a wall, panting in the dust. Are my hands shaking or my eyes? What a mess; shrapnel and broken armour lying around like metallic snowflakes. Still, I lost no DP, my status has increased and I know who it was that laid every single one of those mines!
I check my pockets; five mines. It'll do them no damage, I know that. It will simply say; I'm watching and when I can, I'll take my revenge. It's still light out, they'll likely be out mining some other poor soul's home, or waging war with another of their high status. Why they can't all do that and leave us small fry alone is beyond me.
"Well," I sigh, dragging my aching limbs into action. "Best get on with it."
It doesn't take long to find their home; all the older ones, the stronger ones, live near each other. All the better for ganging up on the weak perhaps. Or maybe it just happens that way, I've not thought about it much. Whatever the case, their homes glint in the late sun, dancing with the finery of avatars, tags and badges galore!
The Hell Fire badge, with it's deceptive cold blue droplet, catches my eye. Why bother us with more mines if the goal has already been reached? Some people just like the 'chaos' though, the sound of mines exploding far off in the slums of Shoatsville.
I walk up casually, fondling a crate. No need to bother about me; I'm just a little Benefactor, here to drop off some goodies. Goodies in deed! My fears are assuaged; no one is home. No one at all is home.
My heart races as I step closer, poking my head inside the open doorway; no one's home may be locked, not even in this Post Reset world. Their Inventory is massive, hundreds of tools lying stacked in neat little piles along the far wall. If only I could steal a few... but the higher powers have removed that skill from us; we must earn our tools or be given them.
I had best hurry before they return.
I take the little incendiary from my pocket and drop it on the threshold. To my horror two needle thin arms reach over my shoulders and snatch the mine from the air, cracking it in two. The St. Nick skuttles off my back and falls to the ground, used and now useless. A name is scrawled across it's belly. The very same person that mined my home!
That's not fair! That can't be! I throw down another mine, and another pair of arms appears... another and another till I've used up my five mines. No more mines, DP spent on armour and the very same mechanical beasts that have robbed me of my small piece of revenge!
The world is a painful place since the big reset.
Barber Queue - Time was when I needed a hair cut, I'd go at noon on a weekday, when the barber's is typically empty. One of the perks of being unemployed. But these days ...