None of Seamus’ crew gave her more than a glance and a nod. They were intensely focused on their laptops… — Neal Stephenson
None of Seamus’ crew gave her more than a glance and a nod. They were intensely focused on their laptops: some sort of pitched battle.
“Fuckers are trying to flank us on the left!”
“Disengaging from the Witch King and pivoting to get your back.”
…Fierce clicking and typing, punctuated by roaring, anguished laughter, as (Olivia guessed) each man’s character died in the game world.
Planted around the dining area were plastic dolls: troll- or elf-like fantasy characters…Marked on the underside of each was the logo of Corporation 9592.
So that answered the question she’d been afraid to ask, for fear of seeming like the stupidest person in the whole world: Are you playing T’Rain?
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“I’m sorry I touched your doll,” Olivia said. “I had no idea how important Thorakks was to you.”
Silence, as none of the men knew how to cope with her tactical use of the word “doll.”
“Wow, how do you rate having a doll made of your personal character?”
“It’s called an action figure.”
“I notice you’re not referring to him as ‘the little fucker’ anymore,” said Corvallis.
“Okay, okay, he stopped being a little fucker when he raised an army of twelve hundred high-level characters and deployed them in battle array around his projected route of advance,” Richard admitted. “I have to admit I was wondering why he was taking so long to move away from that cave. I didn’t reckon that he was going to set the whole thing up like Sherman’s march to the sea.”
“Did you notice his leapfrogging cavalry screens?”
“Yes, I fucking noticed them.”
He had found an image of one of the big Western-style business hotels along the waterfront: one of those places where it was possible to be a white person without attracting one’s own personal Stonehenge of cataleptic, openmouthed gapers.
