Masseter reports:
A solitary tear appeared in my eye whilst scanning down my list of assignments, as I read the name of my good friend Zoeb Jiwaji. "A true friend stabs you in the front" said Oscar Wilde, and who am I to disagree? Knowing that I, as a friend, could easily gain entrance to what under any other circumstance would be an impenetrable fortress, I headed off to Zoeb's house, the dark night made darker by my evil intentions. As I heard the bells toll ten o'clock, I knew that Zoeb's time was coming to an end and gathered my thoughts before knocking on the door.
I was struck by his youthful innocence as my old companion welcomed me in. However, the carefree smile quickly fell away as his eyes strayed down to my rubber band gun. He dived for his sword but was too late, his wounds gushing blood, and as he lay gasping for breath he uttered his final words: "Et tu, Brutas?"
The Masseter bites.
The leper messiah reports:
Ahhh.... my first kill of game.
Deciding that 'the early assassin gets the kill', I planed to get up very early on Saturday morning to go and plant a bomb on the door of target number one: Rob Macintosh. However, due to technical issues... I awoke late and was behind my devious schedual. Further delays were endured whilst tring to find the damn place. (Trinity is rather large after all) When I finally came to place my cunning, ingeniously designed bomb, my target was awake and moving around in his room. Realising I would make too much noise to avoid detection, I decided to retreat to a distance and wait for him to emerge....
Finally his door opened. I ducked out of sight and when I looked again he was gone. Cautiously trying his door handle, I found his room unlocked! (O Joy) I was in the process of applying contact poison to his door handle ON THE INSIDE when I heard him returning. When he opened the door he was greeted with a nice big smile; from my gun. Two shots to the head later, and Rob's room is redecorated a fetching combination of blood red and brain matter grey.
I quietly slipped out, closing the door behind me.
The Shadow reports:
After lectures finished I returned to my room and made myself some lunch before sitting down to work. However, I quickly realised that there was no way I could concentrate with so many living assassins running around Cambridge, endangering the lives of ordinary innocent people. So I once again took it upon myself to decrease the criminal population.
Snatching up the Version 1 bomb I had hastily prepared last night, I headed for the den of evil known only as Sidney "Sainsbury's".
Last night I had persuaded the porters, using my mind-control skills, to reveal to me the secret code that would get me admission to my target's staircase. It was not a difficult matter for one as skilled as I in the manipulation of people. After I had got the code I went and scouted out The CHILD with the Snozcumbers for tea's room. However, I met one of their neighbours when my psychic powers weren't fully prepared, so I think my excuse might have left them slightly suspicious.
Anyway, I returned this afternoon, carrying a bomb of basic, but cunning design: a 2l bottle of 15p lemonade with a very obvious detonator (for when the hapless target opened their door), and a well-hidden detonator underneath designed to trigger the bomb if it was lifted up after the first trigger had been defused. However, I once again met the same neighbour and my suspicions were confirmed when they looked at me oddly and said that my target was out. No matter, I left the bomb anyway and melted away into the shadows.
The CHILD with the Snozcumbers for tea reports:
Once upon a time, The CHILD with the Snozcumbers for tea was in it's friend's room doing work like a good little child. Then in came a second friend to the room and he did pinch it's keys, knowing that the childs room brimeth with chocolate cake. He did run away but the child did not follow for the child had to collect its small brother from the P'lodge. The clock strucketh twice upon the bell. Then did the child hurry back to its abode, for it did sense the loss of chocolate confectionary from afar! But LO! The child did behold carnage in the corridor! And what carnage!!!! The child's two greedy (but innocent) civilian friends had expired on the wooden floorboards! It did seem that they had opened the door and perished in the blast that ensued. But the child, being the crafty child that it is, used some long piece of string to check that the bomb was fully detonated. From a distance of 5 metres, and behind a brick wall (bomb blast radius 4.2m) the child did pull the string and the final trigger of the two did bang. It was a hollow victory for its comrades were dead. Crowds were drawn from all floors of the building and we did take pictures and then we all ate chocolate bakery products and did heartily quaff the lemonade from the bomb. Thankyou shadow. The shadow casteth much darkness over the CHILDs felicitations. Woe is the child.
The Umpire reports:
After the tragic deaths of the innocent neighbours of The CHILD with the Snozcumbers for tea, the police forensic team were on the scene immediately, and after carefully removing the explosives, and declaring them safe, submitted this photo. The coroner has recorded a verdict of accidental death.
The Shadow reports:
My conscience wouldn't let me return though. After all, defusing a bomb is a relatively simple skill, so there was every chance that Zadok The Priest was still alive. So I headed for Jesus College and my next victim - Ian Blaney. It turned out that I had just missed him - he had left about a minute previously to get some fancy dress. His neighbour, a very polite bloke, let me into his room to wait. It was again easy to convince him that I was a friend from Ian's old school who wanted to talk to him about the History Society. The neighbour made me some coffee and even offered me some of his fry-up (which looked very good, actually). I thought that that would be a bit too cheeky though, so I declined and chatted to him for a while. When Ian still hadn't returned and the neighbour had to leave for football, I decided to wait around just 20 minutes longer, just in case. I had actually given up and was leaving the college when I saw someone carrying what looked like a medieval costume in a plastic bag. I followed him from a distance and when I saw him disappear into Ian's staircase I knew it had to be him. I followed him to his room and calmed his fears with my psychic powers, before shooting him through the heart with my RPG. After a chat with his spirit, I headed off.
The Shadow reports:
My conscience at rest, I decided that I would stop by my other target's room (Ed Green of Christ's) on the way back to college. As luck would have it, he was in. He came to the door and pointed two fingers at me. I nearly laughed, but controlled myself and spun him another story about how I must have got the wrong room, and I was trying to return some lecture notes. He bought it and lowered his fingers (I'm not even sure if fingers are a legal weapon anyway), so I promptly shot him and left.
I am pleased to report that the criminal population of Cambridge is now significantly lower, and you can all rest a bit easier in your beds, unless you are an assassin, that is......
The Shadow will strike again!
Rand al'Thor reports:
I was a little lucky in my target assignment, drawing somebody who lives next door to a room I was going to for a completely unrelated card game. So, when we knocked on his door to borrow a chair, I took the opportunity to kill him. Time of death approx. 3.25pm
The Dragon strikes again!
Zeussoid reports:
I was killed at 3:35pm by a vicious elastic band.
Having someone who knows you as an assassin is a bad thing.
Rand al'Thor reports:
Just now I heard a knock on my door. Quickly looking through the spyhole I saw that I did not have a clue who he was, so he was almost certainly an assassin out to get me. So after telling him this, I saw that he had his arms folded. I quickly opened the door a little, shooting him as soon as I could and letting the door go immediately. He was fast, but not fast enough: his answering shot, probably squeezed off just as my shot ripped through his torso, hit me in my left arm that I had used to open the door. Ouch! Regardless, I hit him and he missed me, so that's fine by me. And he ran off so fast I didn't even have time to return his ammo to him. Oh well, it's a hard life...
The Jaguar reports:
I awoke, somewhat late, fully invigorated by my nights rest my state of alert was heightened when, opening my door something was amiss. The shower door, normally flung wide open was open a mere crack. I drew my pistol and approached cautiously, the hairs on the back of my neck rising in anticipation... Had paranoia got the better of me? No, for as I came close the door opened, four shots I fired into the gloom of the shower, my would be assassin returned fire, but his shots flew wide, while mine found their target. His chest riddled with bullets, The Man with the Golden Gnu had felt the Jaguars Claws!
The Man with the Golden Gnu reports:
Memo to self: Use more cover
Susan 'Sauron' Bayly reports:
I was busy deviously planning assassinations with 'Stryder', enjoying the prospect of a week spent massacring in the morning, attacking in the afternoon, and eviscerating in the evening, when we were startled from our murderous reverie by my trilling doorbell. We harked to the window, and espied a shifty character below. My mind wracked and twisted by suspicion (sound familiar, Smeadle?), I was in no doubt as to which shady fellowship HE belonged.
There was no defence against my aerial peanut grenades, and he was splattered across the pavement in a peanutbuttery mess. Chunky or smooth, Monsieur The Shadow?
The Shadow reports:
It is a sad day for the safety of the denizens of Cambridge.
The Shadow finished his lunch and realised he had half an hour to kill. Working wasn't particularly appealing, so he decided to try and assassinate some people.
Finding two of his targets out, I pressed on to my third. Noting that I had 13 minutes left, I thought that would be fine, as the target lived close to my destination. I rang the doorbell and an upstairs window opened. A friend of the target stuck her head out and asked my business. I replied, giving some excuse. This should have given me some warning but, being the fool I am, I ignored my intuition.
About 5 seconds later the top floor window opened and my target and an accomplice each threw a grenade out. The first one missed but the second hit me on the shoulder, but bounced off and exploded on the floor.
I was instantly shifted into another plane of existence. Observation of my remains through the thick veil that is the barrier between dimensions led me to conclude that these grenades were extremely hastily constructed out of low grade nitro-glycerine (Wotsits(R)) and a thin paper shell.
This report comes to you via the talented skills of Professor Henry Oax, the eminent researcher into séances and the paran.... wait, there's more...
The Shadow's final words: If I rise from the dead as a police officer I will hunt you down and kill you to avenge my death... mwahahahaha...
The Umpire reports:
In fact, grenades count the same as for normal weapons - a direct torso hit or splash is required for death.
The Shadow suffered a nasty wound, but managed to drag himself to safety, and has now recovered enough to menace the city of Cambridge once again.
-- Matt & Mike
Mat Cauthon reports:
As soon as I discovered my first target was in my college, I felt a sense of great responsibility, for I was perfectly placed to rid Cambridge of this dread individual. Shaking with foreboding I waited in his path, gunpowder device in hand.
I feared all was lost as time went by, but my ta'veren luck had not forsaken me and at last I felt the silver around my neck grow cold. He turned to look at me, and I recognised his face from his image. Before he had time to react I shot him with shaking hands.
The Shadow grows weaker in Trinity. Time of death 4.55pm.
Rosemary Warner reports:
ASSASSINATION
You may well find this happening to one of your Companions during your Tour, usually at the very beginning or about halfway through when he/she is getting too cocky for their own good.
A Shadowy Figure (OMT) will be seen lurking (OMT) around your camp one night, clearly up to no good (OMT), then the next morning you will awake to find your erstwhile Companion dead in an oozing puddle of blood (OMT), with optional spattered brains and gore (OMT).
The next day, a report of the death will appear, which will all too often read like the following:
I saw a suspicious looking person sitting on my table in Hall and I thought he might be my target. I followed him out and my Esteemed Accomplice (OMT)watched to see which pigeonhole he checked. It was the right one, so I drew my Trusty Weapon (OMT) and fired- one clean shot to the head. My victim collapsed to the floor leaving a trickle of blood> (OMT) down the wall.
Just hope you don't come to the same unpleasant end.
Apologies to Diana Wynne Jones
Jayemie reports:
I'd like to report a stunning battle that caused the entire college to
gasp in amazment of daring do's by Assassins and created envy by the
uninitiated as they watched RBG cap gun's knives and weaponary too
advanced to be described here, used in deadly Combat.
I would love to tell of the long range shootout with RBG across caius
courtyards followed by dashing in at closer range when out ammo was low to
fight with standard range guns, shootouts on staircases
followed by the scenes of close combat where we moved in a
desperate race against each other to push the killing blow,
and in the final victory by the more mastered Assassin in the Green Room
Unfortuantly I can't as none of this happened (but it's a report I'd like
to right (sic).
What really happened was that Rosemary Warner saw me check my pigeon hole (a disgraceful lack of paranoia after opening my
door via my dressing gown cord etc.) followed me (I presume) through to
where a society meeting, was going to be held.
Naturally I was so rapidly enthralled with the dicussion about the ideal
and most convinient place for the table that it took me three minutes to
realise why a strange person had entered the room and said bang,
(everyone else caught on
before me), and no weaponary (which I did have close to hand) could save me from such awful neglect of SA.
Fortuantly they showed me the weapon afterwards because the kill was so
smooth I hadn't seen it.
Now I am coming to terms with my untimely demise, my Assassin is welcome
to tea etc... anytime to make up for my complete lack of respectful
conduct.
I would say the world has been made safe from a deadly Assassin (but it
hasn't)
Colin Custard, Vassal of Death reports:
Ah! Ah! But Woe Is Me! Colin the Custard, the Custard the Colin of Colin, Vassal of Death, which is not very heavily related to Life but may have been a great-aunt at some stage, am dead.
Gone are the ingenious plans to take out my targets with baskets of rotting fruit. Gone is the plot I had to use a huge, enormous, gigantic, gargantuan, sisyphean, leviathan legume (well, not a legume, a leek) to take out my victims. Gone is the plot to raid Oxfam for the entire works of His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada and to use them as musical bombs. (please note: should I become one of the police, the probability of me using these methods is less than zero. police should be clinical rather than spend hours devising elaborate slaughter calendars based around the rantings of a monk with a saggy throat sitting on the side of a mountain and singing in Sanskrit.)
Colin Custard, who was not me but a fictional anti-matter extrapolation of me, had many personalities. He will now recount how he died.
1. COLIN 'CHARVER' CUSTARD
Aye I was in the bar like and this tiny bloke came up to me like and he said 'are you niall?' and like i ****in fell for it the oldest ****in trick in the ****in book innit like *****"^£^(£&*^"&*^% (the rest of this message has been banned by the BBFC. For further details buy it as a pirate version from the local market, in video form, only it won't be a video, it'll be a brick, because that's what pirate videos are meant to be - poor quality. unless you have a VHS player with a special Brick Adaptor)
2. COLIN 'KEATS' CUSTARD
Fain I did wander me to the merry bar I did drinketh of Red Bull and I did wander far I wandered all of 13 feet, to the quiz machine I losteth all my coinages, and so I turnedeth green in a fit of indiscretion, the conversation turned to assassins, and three shady fellows learned of my name, which though it do distinctive be should ne'er have been giv'n to a greazy clot like me. Mr Black, the damnedest cur, didst collar me forthwith Asked me who I was and if I hadsteth kin or kith I didst my name unfold, wherefore he drew his pistol and blew my reeking duodenum all the way to Bristol. (er, that last bit wasn't really Keats. But the rest of it wasn't either. Tish P'shaw, Tracy Shaw.)
3. COLIN 'NEFARIOUS' CUSTARD
AAAAAAH! But I am a concept assassin! I've worked out a way to kill people by dying, wherefore I transform into antimatter and corrupt the very fibre of their beings by subverting the nature of the world, with which I am in contact, my feet being as they are on the ground! You didn't understand that? Fools!!! It's a conceptual thing!! Anyone fancy borrowing my Yes album collection? Wakeman! WAAAAAAAKEMAN!!!!
ok, so I was stupid enough to get shot. Period.
4. COLIN 'LATIN' CUSTARD
Custardus animo aegrotate vulnerato idcirco hodie mortuus est cum Nox quidam se interfecisset, quod nomine rogato stultissime Nocti dixit 'Vero, ego Custardus sum'. Nox paulatim gaudebat; dein, latrone proxissime atque perito gladium strinxit seque quoque interfecit. VALE.
5. COLIN 'DIFFIDENT' CUSTARD
Now you've realised my Latin's reeeeeeel rubbishy, I think I'll go. Avast ye, mortals. Considerably less mortal than I am, anyway. Bye.
Mr Black reports:
At approximately 22:00h we got to Girton. Wondered around. Eventually found the rooms of both my target and my friend's target. Both empty. Went to the JCR, asked around. No luck. Went to the bar. I buy a beer, this is thirsty work. Random guy points out my target. I put down beer walk across and shoot him, twice.
Animal reports:
Woman! Woman! Woman! Woman!
Mr Black go bye bye!
Woman! Woman! Woman! Woman!
Mr Black reports:
Return to beer. I keep my gun handy but not in direct view, between me and the bar. The group of people my target was with come across to the bar. I prepare to protect my beer. My mate was on one side of me with two loaded guns. As I engaged my target in conversation another guy steps between me and my mate. I assumed he would cover me if this guy drew a weapon. He didn't. I got stabbed in the neck. Hummmmmmmm!!!! Good beer though.
Crazy Bob reports:
A little research goes a long way, and this was certainly true in my first target's case. After finding information showing that my target had a lecture this morning I knew it was an ideal opportunity to remove him from this world. Getting up in the dead of morning, I walked to Clare College and begun the search for the staircase of my victim. After being directed by the kind and helpful staff there, I made my way up to his room. As I cautiously approached his door I noticed the handle turn, and silently hiding myself up against the opposite wall I waited for it to open. I remained there, motionless, whilst nothing appeared at the door - had my attempts at stealth been thwarted? Fortunately not, for waiting a few seconds more I was greeted by a bleary eyed Adam Mark Griggs Biltcliffe who I promptly shot. The first shot impacted in his right shoulder and the second straight into his chest, the sheer impact throwing him to the floor. I watched his body lie twitching for a few seconds, then returned back into shadows from which I came.
Blessed Is He Who reports:
I was only trying to be helpful!
Woken up by my alarm at 7. Decided I couldn't be bothered to go and bomb my first target, set the alarm for 8 and went back to sleep.
At about 7.50 I heard my bedder coming down the corridor. I know from past experience that she gets annoyed when she opens the door and finds string all over the floor leading from the doorhandle to the other side of the room, so I decide to put my bin outside so she needn't disturb me. I open the door with the string, but - for what I think must have been the first time since the game began - without a gun in the other hand. Put the bin outside, say hi to the bedder who's just coming round the corner - and then an assassin jumps out and shoots me. I think he only hit me in the arm, but he realised this faster than I did and put another round through my chest. How disappointing.
The Unexperienced Fresher reports:
I, The Unexperienced Fresher, am new to this 'assassins' game, but the nice man said I must make an attempt by Friday, So I thought I'd have a look at the list of 'targets'.
But alas, all these people, and no way to find them. But wait, that third target, one Ed Nokes, don't I recognise his name?
Ah yes - he wrote an email last year:
"Dear mr umpire, i am an unexperienced first year who would like to play in this assassins game, it sounds like fun. i have a cap gun and some minute toxic sea urchins with a high coefficient of restitution which might be handy to throw. i hope im not too late to play."
Oh, wonderful. He's all new at this game too. I'll go and kill him.
Now, how to do it? Well, the Font Of All Wisdom (by some legendary psycopath, apparently, but all the best books are.) says:
"More people are killed by knives than by anything else."
So that's a good start. Now, what to do with knives?
"Knives are the basic weapon many players start out with and most players use them to some extent during their career. "
Wonderful. But where?
"In a crowd a quick stab in the back is probably the most subtle assassination."
Hmmm... Okay.
Now, this A giant hluffy famster from the router eaches sof pace does mathematics, so I guess I'd better get a map, and find the CMS. Ah, there it is, next to the college called 'Churchill'. So off I walk.
Many hours later, I arrive, to see mathematicians:
"Mathematics: it is not entirely clear why many prominent players are mathmos. >From Michaelmas 1999 to Easter 2002 six out of nine winners were doing mathematics."
Eep. Surrounded. Every one of them wearing long black coats with suspicious bulges, and looking shifty.
Quickly, I enter the cafeteria, and there, sitting in the corner, I see The Moustache.
I sidle up to him subtly, and engage him in conversation. Thinking frantically, I choose the 'Spanish Inquisition' as a subject.
Luckily, this is his specialist subject, and he is soon chatting away. He does seem a little out of sorts, but I guess the Mathematics does that to you.
After he is put at ease, I stand to leave, slip forward, and knife him in the chest.
I saunter off, leaving his slumbering form for the cleaners, safe in the knowledge that simple instructions exist for such a seemingly complex game.
Maybe next time, I'll get an un-unexperienced target...
Acquiesce reports:
"Oh cruel fate, why do you mock me?"
How could it expected that a mere pigeon hole could contain greater dangers than that of a pigeon and a hole combined? For it was there that I met my match against a superior adversary, in the shape of Death Count. The aforementioned assassin has obviously gained control of the University postal services in order to propagate his reign of terror. Among the abundance of items inside my pigeon hole, for I am a popular person, was a letter, cunningly sent by the "Tuition Fees Office". Expecting a large cheque, I instead found death at the hands of the nutmeg swarming all over the enclosed letter. The porters were called, but it was too late - instantaneous death had resulted. I write this posthumously from my desk in Heaven, until the day that I can once again tread the earth in search of Death Count, for revenge will be mine!
James Osborn reports:
*sniff* I'm sorry, I know I'm a bad person, and that what I did was very wrong, but I couldn't help it, I had to kill her, it's in my blood. She was a good friend *sniff* and I gunned her down in cold blood. Never even gave her a chance. *sniff* I hope her soul can forgive me, and that her friends and family can too. I feel really bad about felix, I hope he doesn't take it too badly. *sniff* I promise I'll never do it again, I'll try and be good from now on, but I have the feeling that it may happen again. I may just end it now. No, I can't that'd be weak, but this burden will weigh heavily on me. Maybe the guilt can be covered in a tide of blood. It seems to be my only hope. *breaks down and weeps*
Susan 'Sauron' Bayly reports:
Death at the hands of a housemate. Davina would NOT be impressed.
And to add insult to assassination, I go to my shallow grave with no left arm or leg. Sawn off while paralysed. Does that man have no HUMANITY??
Mark my words Stryder - end here this does not. Our house shall know no peace till vengeance hath scoured this place clean.
Stryder reports:
The old adage recommends that the shrewd Assassin keep their friends close and their enemies even closer. How ironic then that my house mate and good friend Susan 'Sauron' Bayly should find themself feeling my cold steel.
The second it came to my knowledge that betrayal had been cruelly forced upon me, I was overcome with a battery of emotions. All our memories together coursed through my confused and guilt-ridden mind. Our carefree scheming and plotting over our collective enemies' demise was still fresh in my mind. In one fell swoop, our warm friendship had been taken away. All that remained was anger, resentment and denial. Finally, I took control of my trembling senses, and I saw what must be done.
Almost devoid of thought, I drove myself upstairs to assemble the necessary weapons. It would be so easy. Like a machine, I knocked and entered my former friend's room. Woodenly crossing the floor, I paused to appreciate the wall hangings, the carefully watered plants for the last time. I don't suppose corpses are much good for a place's Feng Shui. Barely even bothering to look up from his desk, I approached and raised my club high above my head. As I brought it down smashing through his shoulder, Ali's face was a picture of bitter disbelief. He slumped over in his chair, motionless. I lifted his head, and met him eye-to-eye, so that he might better recognise his one-time ally, and saw tears, whether of forgiveness or hatred I will never know. Moving deftly about limp body, I hacked at each limb in turn with a blunt bread knife seized in the moment from our kitchen. Within minutes, Ali was reduced to a wimpering torso, babbling pathetically, and pleading for mercy. Crazed by now with blood-lust, I hesitated not as I drove the knife finally through his throat, and with a sharp twist, silenced his inane gurgling.
Perhaps what is most disturbing in all this distasteful business is not the murder of an innocent, or even the deceit of a friend, but the complete lack of remorse I feel. Once initiated into the cold realms of assassination, you can expect no mercy from Stryder.
The Umpire reports:
Having checked with the assailant, I am assured that the "bread knife" was in fact a cardboard knife, and so Stryder is not wanted for this kill.
Ric Brackenbury reports:
I decided to wait outside Horatio's door in the hope that he would come back from hall, the lovely Clare porters having let me see his matriculation photo. As I was waiting at the top of the staircase, I saw rubber bands flying around limply in the middle of the staircase, and I realised someone was firing (badly) at me. I inched down the staircase, and a helpful neighbour pointed out that he was just below me. I carefully leaned over and shot at him; I thought it hit, but he did not, so we continued. He retreated to the first floor, I was standing on the second floor. I couldn't see him anywhere, he was standing to the side or in the kitchen. He didn't come up the stairs, he didn't come out to where I could have seen him below. We couldn't force a conclusion, so we decided to annul the whole thing. I offered not to return within 48 hours, he said I was welcome to try. What a gentleman. Problem is, in this game the gentlemen tend to die quickly......
Rampant Plagiarism reports:
Good evening. Here is the News for parrots. No parrots were involved in an accident on the M1 today, when a lorry carrying high octane fuel was involved in a collision with a bollard, not a parrot. A spokesman for parrots said he was glad no parrots were involved. The minister of Technology today met three Russian leaders to discuss a £4 million airliner deal. None of then went in the cage, or swung on the trapeze, or ate any of the nice millet seed, yum yum. That's the end of the news. Now our programs for parrots continue with part three of 'A Tale of Two Cities', specially adapted for parrots by Rogue Angel - no, I'm sorry, I can't bring you that, we are just getting word that Stuart Fraser was brutally stabbed this morning by an unnamed plagiaristic assassin. No parrots were involved.
Rogue Angel reports:
Grave misjudgement.
The Master said "He who looks for something cannot possibly watch everything"
Experience says: "He who does not watch everything whilst playing Assassins gets stabbed through the heart when leaving lectures"
And so it proved. I was scanning the crowds leaving lectures for a friend, not for enemies. I found both.
Sheridan reports:
"It was the dawn of the third age of assassinkind, ten terms after the Emma/Cauis war. The Babylon Project was a dream given form. Its goal, to prevent another war by creating a place where humans and compscis could work out their differences "peacefully". It's a port of call - home away from home for diplomats, hustlers, entrepreneurs, and wanderers. Humans and mathmos wrapped in two million, five hundred thousand tons of toxic cam water, all alone in the night. It can be a dangerous place, but it's our last best hope for peace. This is the story of the last of the Babylon stations. The year is 2258. The name of the place is Cam-y-lon 5." - Commander Sinclair
"My father always told me: 'The best way to understand someone is to fight him, make him angry. That's when you see the real person.'" - Sinclair to Ivanova
"The real person is only blood and guts. Thats what you see." - me.
It was 1330 and I decided to pay a little diplomatic visit to the quaters of my targets. While finding the location of one in Green sector I asked the porters if they could point me in the right direction. Getting used to a station this size is going to take a while. However just then the porter said "There she is!" Seconds later it was "Alice?" she said "huh?" as my PGP charged. The end was swift. The porters were much amused. I think they me be in trouble later.
The CHILD with the Snozcumbers for tea reports:
"How the child's felicitations hath endeth forever" by the CHILD with the snozcumbers for tea
Once upon a time, in a land not far from a popular superstore, a small child returned from its supervision. It was merry child, despite its circumstances... which were that it was slightly chilly outdoors and the child was about to pay its college bill. It is a dangerous thing to pay ones college bill in broad daylight. The child will not do it again. Anyway, as the child was walking towards the dread spot and lamenting the temperture of its poor little toes, what should it hear, but the voice of its dearest porter. The child doesnt like that porter so much right now, even knowing it wasnt the porters fault. Its just that its a very helpful porter. A little too helpful, the child thinks. The child heard the porter exclaim "There she is!"... foolishly the child turned round. The child didnt even have time to reach amoungst its belongings for the squeaky-knife-of-doom, before it felt the bullet passing through its small head. It was a sad moment in the chilly courtyard. On reflection, the child should never have admitted its true name. T'was a foolish thing to do. It should have given a different name... it is quite possible that the child may have had an identical twin called Bernard. Luckily the college office was understanding about the blood on the cheque. The child talked to his assassin for quite awhile, but alarmingly it doubts that "I was shot" will be accepted as a valid excuse for its lack of question papers handed in today. Ah woe is the child... wa wa waaaaaaaaaaaaah
And they all lived happily ever after... or not.
Bald Rabit reports:
I was reclining in the library, as is my wont, when a sudden burst of boredom swept over me like a catabatic wind descending from the highlands. "What am I doing here?" I cried, "reading this tedious bloody book." I sprang from the chair and was struck with A THOUGHT. "Eureka! I'll go and find someone to kill." The name of my target was obvious, so I went into action.
Entering computer-game-level college was easy, as was finding the target's room, but there on in things became tense. My knees were trembling, my face was sweating and I could feel my heart beating faster. I prepared my weapons and went in for the kill. A jabbing right hook to the door started the encounter.
"Who is it, and what do you want?" came the sickly sounding voice from the other side of the door.
Damn.
The very two questions I wasn't prepared for.
Damn.
"Erm, I'm from the Christian Union."
Damn.
The absolute last person anyone would open their door to. Even less likely to work than 'I'm here to kill you.' I retired round the corner to wait it out. At this point began a period of conflict in my brain. My stomach wanted dinner, my mind wanted blood. The struggle was intense, but in the end I gave in after about ten seconds of waiting and nipped off home for some nosh. Note to self - think of convincing reason for knocking on someone's door next time.
5 o'clock folly reports:
Certain evil guerrillas, tried to force entry to one of our bases today. Unable to walk in as they planned they were challenged by the sentries and, looking suspicious, were not allowed to pass. Claiming to be Priests or Chaplains was unconvincing and they fled after a few minutes. It is doubted if any died as know shots were fired.
Body Count:
Us: None.
Enemy: Unknown but presumably high.
Jenny Chase reports:
Seeing the game's only PhD on my target list, and a Caian to boot, what was I to do but spare the Game the embarrassment of another incompetent?
Hence I braved Caius central (long gone are the days when this was a good idea for such as me) to find the few days when Hall food was likely to be edible. Hence I lurked down the road from his house, slightly cautious about my suspicious mien but partly reassured by the incredible number of people wandering past in balaclavas in the quarter-hour I waited. That area has an impressively high Suspicious People quotient for somewhere so pleasantly situated.
After several staring at people who *could* have been him, I was severely discouraged, particularly since there were no lights on in the house. Hence it took me several stares to recognise him, coat drawn up to his nose. Gah.
Anyway, he didn't try to defend himself, and I shot him. Contentment.
Emporer Muulex XV reports:
My devilishly cunning plan has been foiled, and the earth is safe from invasion. Curses!
For some time now I have been importing my army of alien shock troops in preparation for enslaving your world and mining the sweet, sweet honey within. Having watched many documentaries detailing the defeats of previous would-be conquerors it was decided that a full assault from our superior technology would end in disaster, possibly involving a small child. The elite shock troops were therefore dehydrated and disguised as mushy pea fritters. Instant carnage - just add water.
On my way to Caius hall where the bulk of my army awaited, I was shot! I died.
British intelligence must have discovered the plot and sent one of their top agents after me. Without me to revive them, my people were probably eaten by hungry Caians. Or not, since mushy pea fritters are disgusting.
Saruman reports:
Having been refused entry into the victim's house by a complacent housemate, Saruman was forced to wait in a dark alleyway until one of the housemates foolishly ran out leaving the door open. It was only a matter of time before Saruman had made his way into the house and crept into the victim's open and lit room . Saruman then proceeded to lie in wait for the victim, but unbeknownst to him, he had been spotted from outside, and the victim rushed up the stairs brandishing a scythe. In a fit of frenzy, Saruman slammed the door, and and with latex gloves smeared contact poison over the inside door handle and light switch while simultaneously trying to calm and cajole the victim. Flinging open the window offered no solution, the fall would have wounded Saruman greatly. There was no way out.
He opened the room door and made his way into the narrow passage. his exit was 90% obstructed by the toilet door and the victim was frantically darting a scythe in and out of his face. Confounded by the impasse, Saruman retreated once again into the victim's room searching frantically for materials to fabricate a makeshift grenade. But to no avail. Cosh and knife in hand, Saruman threw himself back into the fray only to have his lower arm gashed open rendering his sword arm useless. Calling on his ingenuity, Saruman was quick to punish and bludgeoned the victim's arm, shortly followed by the torso. Yet as the cosh made contact with the torso, Saruman's remaining arm was severed off. Victim paralysed, Saruman severely maimed was forced to grope around on the floor in a last bid for victory and pick up the knife which he had dropped, using his teeth. The victim's eyes alight with terror, Saruman advanced awkwardly and in pain, and slit the victim's throat wide open. Alright!
summit stoopid reports:
"A Plague on both your houses, for they have made worms meat of me."
Oh they were cunning, they needed to be! I've been suspicious all week....they've been acting strangely, but the scaremongers had been playing on my nervous disposition....i didn't know who to trust anymore. I carried my sickle everywhere, not the most inconspicuous weapon i realise, but highly effective! But to no avail....not even my trusty sickle could not save me from the vile treacherous fiends who so cruelly slaughtered me tonight. I had been alerted that they had been spotted in the vicinity, and was cautious as i approached, in fact i had to employ a bodyguard to walk me home such was my trepidation of the fate that lay in store. By chance i happened to glance up towards my window, and stood aghast as my would-be-attacker plainly stared back into my eyes! it was none other than my dear and trusted friend, my former neighbour, and drinking partner in crime. Then came the dawning realisation that he wasn't alone. Attack seemed futile....they out-numbered me and had already infiltrated my supposed impenetrable fortress (Damn those blasted bins!). But it was home territory and it was an advantage i intended to use! A sudden Macaulay Culkin style urge to defend my home overcame me and I ran in all guns blazing...well at least as far the kitchen. I needed time to develop a strategy. My trusty sidekick (and gallant bodyguard) Cait, however, provided a welcome distraction. I raced upstairs and swung open the bathroom door to create a barricade which also trapped them in my bedroom. A gruelling 20 minute duel ensued. Blinding flashes of silver as the sickle swung wildly through the air. THe duo knew they were trapped. They had nowehere to go. They retreated into my bunker, to plan their next attack, wherein my arm, previously coshed into disuse completely rehealed...and then some!! THere was talk of surrender, but i wasn't keen....i knew I had them surrounded. They should have been mine *regretful sigh* In a sudden resurgence of determination, my assassin came out wielding a cosh and waving it around violently. However i managed to slash his left arm with my blade. This only made him more determined and in a gutsy move tried to break through the barricade. I was caught off guard, but still managed to make one more swipe, this time incapacitating his right arm. Simultaneously however he was able to clearly direct his cosh at my chest, rendering me unconscious. Saruman quickly spotted the knife on the floor. It had fallen in the hastiness of the last attack. His arms completely useless, he was forced to use his teeth to pick up the blade. As hegrappled with the knife, the room slowly came back into focus. But alas, it was too late, with one mighty twist of her head, saruman managed to drive the dagger right through my throat. As i spluttered and gasped for breath, I watched the accomplice sidle into view and congratulate the victor. They hugged. Smiled. Turned their backs and left. Cait stood over me, thunderstruck by the battle she had just witnessed. I saw the pride and respect in her face though. I had died fighting. I was a hero. Darkness descended.
The Umpire reports:
It should be noted that, had Roisin Mulvaney not died as a result of this encounter, they would have been made wanted for sending 4 evil pink, or possibly fuschia, emails to the Umpires.
-- Matt & Mike
Minister of Moonwalking reports:
Feeling disappointed because my primary target was not home i walked with my accomplice to Caius. A very alert and suspicious Rosemary Warner waited behind the door only letting out a piece of paper and a pencil. Furiously we covered the paper in poison ink and pushed it back in expecting a scream of some sort. No reply. Well the pencil was a nice souvernir! She made a poor attempt too to shoot me out of her window with her super soaker! But hey, girls and weapon, they don't mix!
Rosemary Warner reports:
Knocking on a player's door and trying to get let in might work, but last term's umpire is maybe not the ideal choice for this...
When asked who it was, he said "[suspected real name of assassin]"
"Who?"
"[suspected real name of assassin]"
I know someone of that name, but it didn't sound like his voice.
"You're an assassin, aren't you?
"What's an assassin?"
I am not fooled. Everyone has heard of assassins. I tell him that if he has a genuine message, he can write it on this piece of paper with this pencil that I push under the door. He does so. It says "POISONED INK. HA HA HA HA HA. THE BLACK SPOT!!!!!"
I entirely fail to see how ink from a pencil I had lent him was poisoned. I also fail to see why he was expecting a scream- not all women scream when non-threatening letters are pushed under their doors. Minister of Moonwalking seems to need some lessons on the behaviour of the not-so-fair fairer sex.
He gives up and leaves when the letter fails to have its desired effect. I wait until he's gone, then aim my supersoaker out of a handy nearby window. He appears, and I fire. Unfortunately the nozzle turns out to be jammed, and the spray goes everywhere. He escaped with minor flesh wounds.
Maybe girls don't mix with weapons, but from that evidence boys don't seem to mix with subtlety, inventiveness, competence...
Red Cat reports:
At 7:55 the Red Cat stealthily crept up to Robinson College, to the Auditorium , where, she was fairly sure her prey would be. Upon her arrival, she saw that her victim was already inside and talking with friends. A plot was then hatched to lure the target out side the room with a decoy. The Red Cat casually sauntered into the Auditorium lounge and asked if her target was there because a message had just come through to the Porters for her and she had to go and get it now. Unsuspecting, she got up and went outside, only to receive the message that she was no longer in the game. . . .
Horatio reports:
I was returning my room key to the porter, ready to end a hard day safe, in the thought that no one would come for me at this hour. I handed the keys to the porter, and glanced to my pigeon-hole noticing aa rather important and highly somber looking envelope addressed to me. My guards were down. Against my better judgment I grabbed the letter, and scanned the address. It was from the tuition fees office, my financial paranoia took over for a minute... what if my tuition fees status had been revoked? what if I would have to pay quintuple or even sextuple what I now pay? I had to find out.
I didn't wait till I got to my room. I didn't even wait till I got out of the porters lodge. I should have. Safety in the form of many rubber gloves awaited me in my room. It could protect me from poisons, and nefarious schemes.
I should have noticed the myriad suspicious elements: I should have seen the terse and uninformative return address; I should have seen that my full name was used (which is uncharacteristic for official letters addressed to me); so much was suspicious. Why would I receive a letter like this at this time. I had only been in the porter's lodge a couple of hours earlier.
I peeled open the letter, what assaulted me, other than the glaringly poor grammar, was the faint sensation of powder. My killer was courteous enough to inform me that traces of this barely noticeable poison can kill instantly and painlessly. Such was not the case. The pain surged through my body as I entered the door to my staircase. I managed to crawl upstairs, and now I use my waning strength to type out this letter.
Farewell
Dreamer of Electric Sheep reports:
Today was a good day, not too much work, a supervision for which everything had been completed. Ah and I do love the smell of, hang on... grand cumin? In the morning? Yes a lovely letter from the university of cambridge (they are trying to kill me too eh?) arrived in my mailbox, and using trusty gloves I opened to find the aforementioned delightful grand cumin. Really, it was very useful in my neighbour's lunch (after applying the correct anti-toxin of course). Courtesy of 'Animal', I think he should note that university letters are very suspicious, especially when they *stink* and shaking them sounds like a packet of sugar. Word on the street (someone I met) also informs of a plot against me by that evil of all evils, Jenny Chase.
5 o'clock folly reports:
Not giving up after their rebuff the enemy forces under the command of the unconvincing priest attempted to poison our gallant troops today. Due to suspiciously poor typewrighting the danger was quickly isolated and dealt with by troops wearing N.B.C. kit. It appears that no civilians were affected but that aside the might of our intelligence will swing into tracking down the evil terrorist who perpetrated this attempted out rage on our gallant men.
Body Count:
Us: None.
Enemy: Unknown but presumably high.
The Shadow reports:
I left hospital this afternoon, after recovering from my terrible wound. I still have a slight limp in my step, and the doctors have told me that this will probably stay with me for the rest of my life. Hopefully, the pains where some of the shrapnel was buried too deeply to be removed will fade away with time.
On the way home, I checked the stash where I had left my weapons during my stay in hospital. They were in reasonably good condition, if slightly bloodstained. With my own blood, unfortunately. Looking at my trusty Magnum, I vowed that revenge would be swift on the heels of the person who gave me these terrible wounds. Before going out though, I checked the back issues of the New York Times and saw that, in a twisted killing, my target had been murdered and dismembered, and his housemate had gone missing at the same time. I smiled. To be killed in such a way by a friend was a much worse fate than I had planned for him, but he deserved it none the less.
Now I had a dilemma: I had psyched myself up for killing someone, but my target of choice was already dead. I checked the telegram I had received while I was in hospital. It mentioned that Crazy Bob was rumoured to be an assassin, and gave details of his usual haunts. I cycled out to the site to deal with him. Alas, when I knocked on his door, he asked who it was. Off the top of my head I said, "John" (hoping that he had a friend by that name). It seems he doesn't though, because he said, "You can wait outside!".
So I did. I set a bomb on his door, expecting that he would detonate it safely and I could kill him when he finally emerged. I hid in the shower room for an hour before I heard the bomb explode. I rushed round to the door but didn't reach it in time. So I waited again, certain that he would come out soon.
45 minutes later, I accidentally made a small noise in the shower room as a neighbour was passing. She checked around, choosing every other room but mine. I observed her all this time in the reflection off the shower but decided not to shoot her as she didn't seem to be carrying a weapon. When she got to the room I was hiding in, I held my breath. She discovered me and shouted in surprise. Quickly, she shot at me, with a weapon I had not seen. She missed, though, and stopped panicking when I said I wasn't her assassin. On further discussion, she said she'd seen Crazy Bob outside the building - apparently he has two doors leading into his room, with different doors on different staircases!
Giving up in despair at my bad luck, I left the building. My spirits were downcast by my failure to kill Crazy Bob but there was a positive aspect to this affair. I had managed to gain entry to his house and lurk inside for nearly two hours before being discovered by any of the numerous guests to his neighbours rooms. Now, who's next on the list......?
Crazy Bob reports:
Sitting in my room, I heard a knock at my door. Upon asking who it was I received the answer "John". Not only do I only know one John, but he lives in Warwick and therefore was unlikely to be knocking at my door at this time in the evening. Not unreasonably, I informed him he could wait. It turns out he was extremely persistent, but fortunately a couple of my friends were kind enough to do a little reconnasaince for me and observed him skulking in the bathroom (MSN Messenger is a useful tool). Choosing my moment carefully, I took cover in my bomb shelter and opened my door from afar, the walls around me vibrating as a violent explosion ensued. All my limbs intact, I let go of the string and what was left of my door slammed shut, barring him from entry once more. He waited a while longer, and finally, I heard him give up and leave. All that wasted time and effort. *sigh* It only made the drink I was having down the pub within the next five minutes all the sweeter.
aka reports:
Having found out about CowboyNeal's lecture timetable I waited in the staircase outside his lecture theater. For 5minutes.... 10minutes.... 15minutes.... until a very late CowboyNeal comes running up the stairs. I draw my gun, shoot - and miss. Grrr. Shoot again - miss. By now he's realized that he's getting shot at, and legs it into the next corridor - which happened to be a dead end. Two more shots until he's finally dead. Better get practising with these guns for next time :-/
Ric Brackenbury reports:
Choices. Why do we have to make so many? Am I going to go to my lectures? What toothpaste am I going to use? Decisions: You cross the road here or there, wait for the lollipop lady or not, you stop, you go, you turn around. Consquences: eternity rests on today's outcomes, you win, you lose, either way you play the game. You play to win? Of course you do. But how do you choose the road to success? When to play hard and when to play easy? When to push and when to rest? I'm seeing my choices, there's three staring me in the face, and they don't look good, you know what I'm saying? They'll take the hit before long but for now I'm taking a side road, I'm seeing the bigger picture, I'm taking a reality check. Because success isn't as narrow as you think it is; it's a wide playing field, and there are various ways to cross it. A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting. Do you know what I'm saying? Do you know what I mean?
You're with the man, he's down on his luck, you gotta do something, it's just not right. I say "What's the problem?" he says "I've got a guy who's gotta go, but I can't see the way." So I go with the flow and plan, plan, plan. The choices come flooding back; the location, the method, the timing, the witnesses. How can any person control so much uncertainty? But the team is strong, you're lining up, you're keeping it simple, you're getting it right. You gotta wait, of course, things that are really worth getting never come easy. Good things come to those who wait? No way, if you ask me good things come to those who are ready always. Waiting is too passive, too out of reality, too disconnected. You prepare. You play it through again and again in your mind. You gotta persevere some more, but it's gonna be worth it, for when the job's in sight it's all about keeping it cool, playing the game, winning your chances, you don't get it right the first time, the job gets harder. But if at first you don't succeed, change strategy and try again. The second attempt almost hits the target, but the job's so hard. Resistance is expected; you always get it when things linger. It's a psychological oppression, the longer you leave it the harder it gets. Believe me, I know. I've been there many times. The third try, it hits the nail on the head, the round peg is forced into the square hole. If you ask me, success is relative. The more success you have, the more relatives you'll find you have.
A man called Martin reports:
EPISODE 1: Angels With Dirty Underwear
*BANG BANG thud thud rattle* "Damn that noise! Who is it?" *SMASH* "Ah bollocks!" As I rolled out of my unkempt bed all the crockery fell off the shelf, the caravan swaying from side to side. "Let me in, Martin!" came the harsh London-educated accent from the other side of the door. It was him. "Ah **** off!" I reached for the bottle again - it was empty. "DAMN YOU!" I yelled, throwing it at the window but instead knocking over Eric the Goldfish's tank and leaving the little flapping sliver of gold struggling for water on the gin-soaked carpet. Then he cut the lock out of the rusting doorframe with his penknife and stepped in. He was still wearing the same clothes as when I last saw him all those years ago - grey trousers, polished black shoes, long grey overcoat, and a grey trilby hat over his prematurely white hair. The frameless glasses he had worn ever since he joined were still there, perched sneeringly on the end of his long pointed nose, hiding the cold winter chill of his grey eyes behind frosted varifocals. He looked like he wanted to spit on me. "Whaddyou want you bastard?" I slurred as a small alcohol-infused dribble of saliva ran down the side of my chin. He looked at me with an air of wry amusement, like a torturer about to whip his victim in places he had never been whipped before. "We want you Martin - one last job..." No - not again, surely? "Kill Kropotkin!!" he uttered slowly with a tone of stainless steel first thing on a windy March afternoon. "DAAAAAMN YOOOOOOOU!!!!" I had sworn never to swear in anger again, but still they held me by an unsnappable thread. I had to obey. Agh my head hurt so much - was it them or was it the gin? I couldn't tell. All I knew was I had to kill Kropotkin, my deadly arch-nemesis for more than a lifetime. "He is in the country, and knows you are looking for him. Be careful Martin - we know that you are good enough to get the job done." And with that he was gone.
Four hours later I was finally drunk enough to move, and tumbled out of the caravan. Walking away, I barely felt the heat on my back as my home for the last seven years exploded and showered goldfish debris and empty gin bottles into the field. So that was the game Kropotkin was going to play, eh? Well I knew how to get at him all right. Even before I knew it I had made it to the place where I could find the man who could tell me what I needed to know. The door was locked, so I left a note letting him know just how I felt. "DAAAAAAMN YOOOOOU!! KROPOTKIN MUST DIIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!"
Crazy Bob reports:
Deciding I would brave the arctic snowfields of Cambridge, I left the comfort of my lair and began the hunt for my target. Sadly, his staircase was locked and the snow a little too forceful, and so I left to return on another (warmer) day. Decked out in hat, gloves, and requisite sunglasses I slowly made my way through the blizzard until I came upon sanctuary in terms of the porters lodge of my college. Taking advantage of the apparent lack of people around I checked my pigeon hole, only to find no less than four suspicious envelopes awaiting me. Picking them up carefully and placing them into my bag unopened, I returned to my journey home. Once home I opened them with scissors, only to find all but the least suspicious one were in fact harmless. The remaining letter was stamped by Cambridge University, though quite why they would sent something to me through the *post* remains a mystery. A fine powdery substance fell safely into the bin, along with a note proclaiming the name of my would be assailant - Animal. Once more I survive to kill another day...
Animal reports:
Pigeon hole filled at 8.30 having scared woman off. Now Animal must eat and sleep and chase women and pester Kermit t frog.
The Doctor reports:
At 7.40pm this evening when retiring to my room, cafetiere of delicious Javan coffee in one hand and coffee mugs in the other, I found two people standing outside my room. I didn_t recognise them. The conversation proceeded thus: _Are you Dan Edgcumbe?_ _Yes_ BANG! I had been shot in the chest with a pellet gun. Those who do, do; those who can_t, join the police force I suppose.
The Shadow reports:
Noticing that I had an evening free, I decided that a further reduction in the criminal population of Cambridge was necessary. Scanning the list of my targets, I found that I actually know Edward Allcutt by sight. Or rather knew, since he is now dead... But I get ahead of myself - the deed happened as follows:
I went to Trinity Hall cautiously and well wrapped up - it had, after all, only just stopped snowing! The porters were very helpful, as always, and told me the location of the target's room and the best way to get there. On arriving, I heard loud classical music playing from behind the door. I thought: what perfect cover to set a bomb, and after planting that I could try and snipe him out through his letter-box.
I retired to a dark corner of his corridor to prepare the bomb, when all of a sudden, the door next to me opened. It turns out that there is another staircase leading up to Ed's room. Anyway, on seeing me, Ed promptly ran away, trying to pull a gun out of his pocket. I got to my gun first and shot him with my RBG.
Then, just to make sure he was dead, I set Cerberus, my fluffy killer three-headed dog of doom, on his dying body, just to make sure that his last moments were spent in as much pain as possible. The Shadow strikes once again!
The moral: always have a gun out and cocked when approaching your room.
Bald Rabit reports:
Last night, at about 11:00 Doctor Jim stabbed me in the back at a university society weekly meet in dedicated headquarters, obviously out of bounds. I explained the rules to him and the dagger bounced off. But I know who he is now.
Bald Rabit
The Umpire reports:
This is correct. Inside official society meetings (although not pubs) you are out of bounds..... Doctor Jim needs to watch out now though!
Jon Jowett reports:
I checked my pigeonhole before going to lectures, as I was unusually early for a Saturday morning. As I approached the pigeonhole a smile lit up on my face. There was a CD in there. Looking very suspicious. After prodding it several times with my RPG I satisfied myself that it was not set to detonate on being moved. So I took it out of my pigeonhole and subjected it to closer examination.
On the front was a handwritten note in blue crayon saying "Here's that CD you wanted (see email)". Highly suspicious, since I had checked my email before leaving. And I don't usually request CDs from people. I put the CD in my pocket for later defusion and went to lectures. However, the lecturer was extremely boring so I spiced up the lecture with the thrill of defusing the bomb during the lecture itself. Needless to say, I was successful. I opened the CD case, very slightly and very carefully, and took a look inside. And what did I see: a cap detonator! It was then a simple matter to use a ruler to hold the cap detonator down whilst opening the case, and then remove the cap. Made the lecture much more interesting, thank you one snowy cute kitty.
Arthur Ludorum reports:
Well it can't go as badly as the last 'attempt', whereby I woke up on the appointed morning to find that some dastardly villan had presumtuously murdered my target. One hastily thought-up revision to my plan, and I was ready.
Cunningly sneeking up to a near-empty pidgeon-hole, i placed the dangerous yet noisy parcel with care...next time perhaps my poison should rattle less.
Your Friendly Neighbourhood Democratic Anarchist reports:
____ ____
____ | | | | ____
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | _
| | | | | | | | / \
| | | | | | | | / \
| | | | | | | | / /
| | | | | | | | / /
| \/ /
| The gloves protected me /
| From the poison /
| Better luck /
| Next time /
|______________________/
|_____________________|
The leper messiah reports:
I had a late start to lectures today, and the snow put me in a festive mood; so I decided to go and kill someone. I went to my target's door. He didn't appear to be in. So I left him a note on his door, and poisoned it. (You never know, it might work.)
Rampant Plagiarism reports:
The wonderful thing about Tiggers Is that Tiggers are wonderful things Their bodies are made out of Tigers And their tails are made out of Springs.
Someone sent me a lame BPL today. You could see the glitter trapped in the sellotape Stryder had used to seal the envelope. (thinks) Hmmmm... No, I think I'll be opening that with gloves on.
Enjoy your competence, Stryder, and watch your back...
Your Friendly Neighbourhood Democratic Anarchist reports:
_____________________________________________
|\
/|
| \__________________________________________/ |
|
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| To Animal
|
| This is a bad poison letter
|
| Please open without gloves on |
|
|
|_____________________________________________|
Animal reports:
Just to let you know that I have just opened a poisoned letter. I did so with a pair of pliers and my ruler. I have a witness, pc His Divine Grace AC Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. So I live to fight another day. The poison used was confetti and it looked like it had been sent through the royal mail but I don_t suppose this matters as it wasn_t powder.
Sheridan reports:
After sneaking into the Sidney Sussex piegon hole room I depositted a small but deadly pakage. However I was then trapped in there for five minutes due to not being able to figure out how to get the door to open. doh.
The Frumious Bandersnatch reports:
I'm dead. Not in the mood to write a proper report. No, I'm not sulking.
5 o'clock folly reports:
After abandoning operations yesterday due to the weather our men went in to action to day with conditions still treacherous. They arrived in the area it was believed the enemy held and had to make their way among raging torrents to arrive at the attack point. Finding no enemy troops and informed by a passing civilian that they had withdrawn our troops tried to fall back but due to the effects on the terrain of the weather were soon hopelessly lost. When they found the path back the column’s rear was shot at by Local Force with AKs, SKSs and cross bows!! Before fire support could be called in and the heavy weapons set up half the men were down and the enemy had dispersed. Aerial attack hammered the area while the survivors retired. Wounded were relieved to be unlikely to participate in an assault on the swamps in the Delta.
Body Count:
Us: 12.
Enemy: Unknown but presumably high.
Pacifist reports:
I got up from my desk to make a cup of tea in the kitchen, and heard a number of doorbells in the house ring, except mine. Suspicious, I went to get my trusty luminous knife and bright red gun, and as i emerged from my room I saw her approach up the stairs. She looked too sensible and calm to be an assassin, and in a moment of doubt i retreated into my room. There was no sound, so i contacted Stryder and asked him to come over and check the coast was clear for me to get my tea. He knocked, and as I opened the door and let him in, I saw her waiting in the stairs. Her shot just missed, I shot back but also missed. She laughed mischievously, did this woman have no fear!? I chased her down the stairs waving my knife in the air, but she was too quick. By the time Stryder and I had reached the ground floor she was gone. I stepped towards the front door, opened it and peered left and right. I turned back to see to my horror that she had never left the building at all! Stryder had not seen her and looked in bemusement at my frightened face. That was look was his last, as she finished him off heartlessly with a point blank shot in his head. 'No!' I cried, and fired back, trying to keep aim through the tears. I missed, and realised i was locked out of my room and had no bullets left, so fled outside into the snow. I hid round the corner, knife in hand, and a police car drove slowly by. Full of despair, I glanced down and realised that I was not without ammunition at all! Picking up a handful of snow I ran back inside, catching her off guard, but missing completely. She ran into the groundfloor kitchen, and after getting more snow I ran up to the door and prized it open with my bare hands. She laughed mercilessly once more, 'you're already dead.' I looked to my hands, the poison from the handle was already taking effect, i fell in a crumpled heap to the floor.
The Umpire reports:
It is to be noted that whilst Stryder was not Medusa's target, they were summoned to deal with Medusa, and so became a valid target. More news as it becomes available through official sources.
An English Bowman reports:
Karma, a small word, but with big implications.
I killed Jen. Karma, I die.
I killed Jen. Karma, I am killed with a snowball.
I killed Jen. Karma, I knew my killer.
I killed Jen. Karma, I trusted him.
Revenge, a small word, but oft used.
I killed Jen. Revenge, I must die.
I killed Jen. Revenge, He killed me with a snowball.
I killed Jen. Revenge, I knew my killer.
I killed Jen. Revenge, He knew I trusted him.
Karma, revenge.
Revenge, karma.
I kill, I was killed.
I was killed, and he will be killed.
Karma, revenge.
The scales will be balanced. An accounting will be made.
I killed Jen. Karma decrees I must die.
I killed Jen. Revenge decrees I must die.
Revenge twists Karma, pollutes it, defiles it.
Karma begets Revenge, it implores balance.
What is done is returned to you, thrice increased.
Karma, Revenge.
I die, Karma.
He dies. Revenge.
Thus does the cycle go. Balance will be achieved.
Esmerelda and the bouncing baby reports:
Icicle cold.. i awake early to see the sky soaking pink. A time for decisions.. i decide to get out of bed. A bomb awaits at my bedside table.. I remember that i put it together last night. It slips casually into my bag, alongside the calculus and crisp packets. I kiss my didgeredoo farewell, the air is crisp and the land crunches beneath my feet, the stone steps to my quarries room echo finality. I climb to the top and realise the door is wrongly aligned, a quick rethink creates a blue-peter-esque solution. Rumbelling voices in the deep prompt me to hide in the kitchen but they turn off at the junction below. I arm the device and float away into the blistering white dawn.. easier than expected.. incompetence thwarted momentarily. I plan to move again soon..
Medusa reports:
I came back from the bingo and found a 4l-full-fat-milk-bottle-bomb by the door of my flat. This annoyed me because I've told that milkman lad many times: SKIMMED milk. How can anyone actually drink that full-fat viscous goo? Anyway, I hurled my walking stick at it from the other side of the road, and let Whiskers, my cat lap up the mess.
Fidel Castro reports:
I went with a fellow student at about 7:30 to visit the house in which we are to reside next year so that he have a more informed opinion of the rooms available. A second objective of mine, however, was to take the life of one of the current residents. Alas, he was not part of the group of people who were actually in the building and I was informed he had in fact left the city.
The Umpire reports:
Peter Bailey asked to be removed from the game, due to an incident involving a fake bomb, and his bedders. Please be careful when building bombs - although the one in question was a good example of a well built and labelled bomb!
The Umpire reports:
Police paperwork filed this morning suggests that The Man with the Golden Gnu was not, in fact, the one who killed joker. The kill has been attributed to Special Agent "Dangerous".
Special Agent "Dangerous" reports:
Let it be known that the "war on terror" has started. Intelligence reports suggested that there were numerous terrorist sleeper cells within Cambridge, posing a real threat to security in the region. Summoning allies, I sought to rid Cambridge of its axis of evil from Churchill to Downing, starting with St John's. We found joker's residence with the door wide open and stormed the room. The first shot appears to have come from myself, quickly followed by The Man with the Golden Gnu and another accomplice. Afterwards we attempted to search for weapons of mass destruction in the rooms of other incompetents, but failed to gain access.
Witless reports:
The snow covering this fair City posed a danger in several ways. I was particulaty annoyed that there were no papers. I almost fell over twice. I was most wary of the killing capacity of snowballs. Invited on several occassions to throw them about on Jesus Green, I knew if I did there would be a pesky assassin there. I also knew my inco deadline was approaching. I suspected hers was too.
Snow, in the end, played no part in her downfall. I spent some time near nine pm waiting for her name to pop up on the inco list. When it did, I went out to seek my target. Just as I was leaving, a large crowd appeared on their way to a friend's room. freak was among them. I dived into a doorway, waited for her to pass, snuck up behind and shot her once in the back. We then proceeded to drink for the remainder of the evening. Witless
Hubert Arctures of Trilonia Prime reports:
At Churchill, more precisely block 52, that of the incompetent Paul, I tried my target's door and found that it was open and the room was empty. With hindsight maybe I should have waited in his room until he came back and then shot him. As it turned out, I didn't. I hung around suspiciously for a bit, then heard someone coming out of a room. I duly did my best to look as if I'd just got there, and asked him if Paul was anywhere around. I think I aroused his suspicions, because he claimed not to know of any Pauls, which made me suspicious that he was in fact Paul. As did his subsequent confession that he might be Paul. This was just the evidence I needed; I quickly drew my gun and shot him twice in the chest.
Annoyingly, he said that he too had been already assassinated, this time by poisoned letter.
Matthew Garrett reports:
I would like to report an attempt on my knee by the ground and its devious companion, ice. While innocently walking along Silver Street, ice removed my footing and gave the ground the opportunity to hit my knee quite hard. Thankfully I was able to stumble away swearing and retrieve my phone, but it could have been a lot worse. Will nobody stop this evil pair?
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