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BraveLittleToaster
May 5, 2019
Bird.

It's time, he's had his chance. Trigger the Anti-Bez virus you've been cooking up in cyberspace and erase Jeffery and his company from existence, drat the consequences.

BraveLittleToaster fucked around with this message at 03:36 on Dec 24, 2023

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AJ_Impy
Jun 17, 2007

SWORD OF SMATTAS. CAN YOU NOT HEAR A WORLD CRY OUT FOR JUSTICE? WHEN WILL YOU DELIVER IT?
Yam Slacker
A four-legged mammal, with brown fur, in a snowy environment

Detonate the snowmobile via remote charge, leaving the owner singed and capturable.

LLSix
Jan 20, 2010

The real power behind countless overlords

Surely it can't be another rabbit

Save The Big Man's wife from the villianous Bezos.

Lux Anima
Apr 17, 2016


Dinosaur Gum
Badger

You are now (temporarily) as keen at tracking in the wilds as Lord Strider, King of Men and Elves alike. Badger any witnesses while tracking the delivery agent's footprints in the snow

Cloud Potato
Jan 9, 2011

"I'm... happy!"

Image is of four robins watching the Big Man's sleigh and his reindeer fly past the full moon. Slaan and AJ_Impy get honourable mentions, but BraveLittleToaster's in the driving seat. Final score: 18-6.
Trigger the Anti-Bez virus you've been cooking up in cyberspace action chosen.


"If he's still here, then..." You fall silent, thinking to yourself. Where would Bezos be? And then, just like that, a thought pops into your mind.

"I'll smoke him out!" you declare to the Big Man. "If he's truly here, then there's no-one at his level of access 'minding the shop', as it were, so I go in, cause as much damage to the Amazon servers as I can, and he'll have no choice but to stop me himself, revealing his position to us!" A huge grin spreads across your face.

"Are you sure he'll-" The Big Man's voice fades into the screeches of your 'Deck connecting you to the virtual realm. No time for subtlety, no need for finesse. Your code is a rocket launcher, punching giant holes into the amber lines and Brutalist shapes that are, for now, the Amazon servers. A click from your digitized fingers and a clump of vector graphics dissipate into nothingness, and you know that amazon dot co dot pl just went offline. Absolue chaos rings out as one by one countries are severed from the main mainframe, and in the midst of it all, the only sound is your laughter.

Laughter so loud that it covers the sound of footsteps. Something strikes the back of your neck, sending you sprawling. You spin around and look up at your attacker. Their avatar is just a flat panel, with cartoon legs and arms, one holding a cartoon baseball bat. On the panel is inscribed a glyph you haven't seen in years: the Cool S.

Somewhere, off in the far, far distance, a bell tolls.

It's time.

Jingle O'Clock.

Slaan
Mar 16, 2009



ASHERAH DEMANDS I FEAST, I VOTE FOR A FEAST OF FLESH
Wrapped present

Duck him up, buddy

Lux Anima
Apr 17, 2016


Dinosaur Gum
A cool S, AKA SANTA

Perform an "elven goodbye" to save Christmas in the sainted nick of time

AJ_Impy
Jun 17, 2007

SWORD OF SMATTAS. CAN YOU NOT HEAR A WORLD CRY OUT FOR JUSTICE? WHEN WILL YOU DELIVER IT?
Yam Slacker
Christmas Tree

Activate the Omega Protocol.

BraveLittleToaster
May 5, 2019
A home on Christmas Day.

Commence the kickass final showdown of fate.

Cloud Potato
Jan 9, 2011

"I'm... happy!"
No image.

"The plan was beautiful," the avatar declares. Looking closer, you can see the devil horns and tail added to the sigil. "Deepfake a call to your site, using Button's voice. Leave a message asking for ichor from you. Wait for you to realise we're the only ones with the stuff on the open market, we've bought the rest. How you gonna afford it? Fraud? Allow enough fraud for a freebie, but no further. Shut your pathetic excuse for a worm down as soon as the number changed colour myself. Deliver the parcel, of course, get our man on-site, all defenses lowered. Then, when you're busy painting reindeer or whatever you do, get to the sleigh. Let it fly, you can't stop Christmas after all, not even us. Find all the children on the planet, learn their location, as well as the route and shortcuts your boss takes. Sell the info to the highest bidder." The glyph suddenly changes to that of a crooked smile for a centi-beat. "Sheer elegance in its simplicity."

"What? The location of children? Why?" you ask.

The avatar shrugs. "What does the fletcher care for his arrow's mark? Governments, terrorists, other toymakers perhaps. And we can always use that info in-house."

At this, you scoff. "'In-house'? Really? Cruel Steve, hacker extraordinaire, a lapdog to a billionaire?"

A soft chuckle. "You either die on the streets, or live long enough to go corpo. Besides," the crooked smile flashes again, "is your billionaire that much different?"

"He's not a-" The reflexive denial dies in your throat. For all the years you've worked for him, there's still a lot you don't know about the Big Man. You change tack. "It's all for naught anyway. I found the tracker and removed it. You ain't learning poo poo."

The avatar holds up its arms in mock outrage. "Language, 'Jingleterry'! Though I must say, preferred your old name. No, we're going 'belt and braces' on this one. The tracker wasn't the only means we have."

"How?" you ask, desperation creeping into your voice. "I scanned for other trackers, there wasn't one anywhere."

The soft chuckle again. "No, nothing that foolish. Tech you can't detect!" The avatar leans in close to your face. "Mark. One. Eyeball."

You gasp at the realisation. "A stowaway!" A centi-beat passes. "That cardboard snowsuit! He must be in the sack! I gotta-"

TAP. Cruel Steve rests the barrel of his bat on the top of your head, and its cyber-energies hold you in place, unable to move. "Leaving so soon? But we've got lots of catching-up still to do. Remember the curling rink in Akureyri? Tell me, do you still sweep?"

Enough. You have to leave cyberspace, now. You try to nod, to disconnect, but the bat stops you.

"No more chat? And after all the damge you've done. So many servers destroyed. We''ll have to add ads to our streaming service now, to make up for all this."

You try to nod again. Still nothing.

"Your tech's eight years out of date, 'Jingleterry'. I can move faster than your neurons can fire. And if you won't chat anymore," Cruel Steve takes up a batter's position to your side, "We can haVE OUR OWN FUN!"

The bat's off your head! You n(the baseball bat hits you square in the face, sending you sprawling)od your head, an(another hit, across your stomach, the bile rises)d you disco-

Slaan
Mar 16, 2009



ASHERAH DEMANDS I FEAST, I VOTE FOR A FEAST OF FLESH
Jingleterry died as he lived. In ten minute chunks of horror

LLSix
Jan 20, 2010

The real power behind countless overlords

Thanks for running this.

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Cloud Potato
Jan 9, 2011

"I'm... happy!"
No image.

-nnect and the vomit heaves up your throat and the blood streams from somewhere and the pain suffocates your being and you collapse, and the blood continues to trickle and the vomit recurs and the one voice in your head that isn't screaming in agony is just saying belly down, that lying on your stomach is a good idea right now.

The vomit ceases. The blood slows. The pain, oh, that's here for a while.

Breaths. Jagged, gaspy breaths, but they all count. You turn your head a little, spot a bit of unstained kitchen floor. Linoleum, its design a parody of tiled wood, zigging and zagging here and there. You've walked across it thousands of times, cleaned it hundreds. Never really appreciated the beauty of it, until now. Solid linoleum friend. Always there for you. Could be a bit warmer, but then, we all have our faults.

Your brain offers you the word 'herringbone'. You accept, and successfully form the thought, and speak the words, "Thank you, herringbone linoleum floor friend."

The breaths continue. The blood has stopped. The pain slowly, slowly subsides.

Eventually, your left hand decides to go here and your right here and you push yourself onto your knees. A nearby chair helps you the rest of the way to standing. You stagger the few steps to the kitchen counter, where the paper towels are. You wipe the mess from your nose and mouth. You grab another, and tend to the puddle you'd made previously. Your brain offers you the word 'sweep'. Not exactly, brain, but keep trying. As you clean you feel something dragging behind you: your Rigger cyberdeck, power circuits completely fried, reduced to junk. You wrap up the wires and leave it on the kitchen counter. Used tissues to the bin. You sit down. Okay, time to process. You were fighting. You were fighting in cyberspace. Cruel Steve was there, wasn't he.

Your brain offers you the word 'stowaway'.

poo poo! How much time has passed? You look at the clock, frozen a few seconds after twelve, temporal dilation in effect. He must still be mid-flight. You stagger-run down corridors and up steps to the Workshop Complex's top floor, Flight Control. You open the door and see Mrs. C. sitting in her main chair, overseeing operations. She turns and looks at you. "Jingleterry? You look terrible, dear."

Winded after the quick burst of running/climbing, you can only gasp out the word "Where...?"

Mrs. C. consults the board. "Iceland, just leaving some city in the north. Whatever is going on?"

"...stowaway ... sack ... Bezos."

A deep frown crosses Mrs. C.'s face, and she hits the radio button. "Kris? Jingleterry's just stumbled in. Suspects a stowaway in the present sack. A Bezzoz, perhaps?"

The radio crackles. "A stowaway? Roger. Checking now."

You relax. The matter is our of your hands, at least for now. You try and keep your gasping as quiet as you can. Mrs. C. keeps her eyes on the board, the dot circling some suburbs.

The radio is silent. The illusion of time passes.

Your breathing returns to normal. Mrs. C. sips her tea. The dot is now stationary.

The radio remains silent.

You begin to say "Shou-" but Mrs. C. shakes her head at you. "Let him work, dear."

The radio remains- it crackles to life. "Blast! Found the blighter, dressed up like a box! Saw I was coming for him and ran out of the sack and clean off the sleigh. Pulled a parachute and got away."

Mrs. C. hits the radio button. "Roger that. Presents remain our priority. Akranes next. Out."

You raise your hands in protest. "We can't let him get away! The knowledge-"

Mrs. C. hits you with a fierce stare, one you've not seen before. "Stow it! We'll have a nice, long debrief about what went wrong tonight in a week or two. As for now, children will get their presents. You're relieved of duty, Jingleterry."

A look of sadness passes across her face.

"Sweet dreams, dearie."

-----

And that will do it for year 5! Thank you all for reading and guessing. I hope you have a great 2024, and we'll see what Jingleterry's employment status is next December! :yayclod:

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