Oz

It wasn't perfect, by any means. Throwing ones fragile body into a sea of boars and hoping a few would pop. But, in a weird twist of fate, it seemed to actually be working. His health was ticking down much faster than before, having reached the yellow this time much earlier than in previous instances, but that was almost a good thing. He was uncomfortable with the concept of his ever impending mortality in the predicament within which he found himself, but his HP draining faster also meant that he was thinning the her faster, too. He'd found his groove. Clumsily throwing himself at boars

Finally, he started getting a little more creative with it. Perhaps a foolish idea, but he wondered if he could glean a few more kills by throwing himself into the boars rather than just waiting for them to approach him. He may not have had the chops to cut them down with a weapon, but throwing his body into something was something he figured anyone could do. After all, these things must have been blind, as they were missing more often than they were hitting. So, he gave it a shot. In a clumsy motion, he lurched forward and tossed his body toward two boars which had approached. In a vivid

There was something special about a scrape with death. Something that brought a new emotion to the surface. Pure, unadulterated adrenaline. It wasn't for him, but he was starting to understand the appeal. Was this the dragon all those crazy Frontliners were chasing? Was it what drove them to be able to reach the feats they had? Oz could hardly stomach it. His innards did flip flops over themselves, and he was literally vibrating with excitement. It was too much. This was why he'd never considered himself cut out for combat. He just had to keep playing the same game with these assholes. Ta

That had been way too close. There was no excuse for it. Why the fuck had he fumbled with the damn lid for so long? If there was any emotion he felt now, it was anger with himself for having almost been the cause for his own demise. This anger, however, was short lived, as another emotion quickly took hold. Relief. Euphoria. He was alive, and his lungs could still draw breath. He could still see, hear, smell, taste, feel. His faculties were intact. He was alive. His eyes finally removed themselves from his health bar and he surveyed the remaining crowd. By now, he must have whittled them

He fumbled clumsily to uncork the vessel, seeing a board charging at him out of his peripherals. He could hear the stamp of their hooves approaching, feel the eyes of a predator staring down their prey while going in for the kill. He knew that if that boar hit him, this was it. He was done for. And for some fucking reason, he could not manage to get the cork free from the glass. Finally his slender digits managed to find purchase on the cork, and the thing flew from the vessel with wild abandon, and he immediately down the concoction just as the boar closed the distance between them to near ze

He wasn't even paying attention to the mobs anymore. He was certain he hadn't so much as glanced at them in the past several minutes. His eyes flickered between his finger hovering over the button to summon the potion, and his health bar. He made no attempt to avoid them, no attempt to flee. His feet remained rooted to the ground, literally quaking in his boots, as he waited for the opportune moment to pop his consumable. A moment too soon, possible death. A moment too late, definitive death. There was no wiggle room. No room for error. His eyes continued to flicker back and forth as he felt t

Two HP now. His finger was shaking as though he had Parkinson's. Never before had he felt such a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The boars that encircled him appeared to be gradually thinning in number, but it was difficult to tell for certain. His HUD was now obfuscated by red, an indicator that along with the breedling of the low HP chime let him know that he was so, totally and utterly, FUCKED. Just a little longer. He had to make it efficient. He had to make it efficient. If he used it too early, what would he do if it was down to him and the last boar, and he only had 1 HP remaining?

Down to three HP now. Had he not noticed being at only one earlier, he'd have said this was the lowest he'd ever gone. Still, he hesitated to click the button. Something told him that if he didn't wait until the genuine last moment possible, he wouldn't live to regret it. He needed to squeeze every last drop of value out of his health bar if we wanted to make it out alive. Or so he hoped. Countless of the boars had been extinguished by now, their deaths progressively fueling a loot panel which had by now begun adding values faster than his eyes could follow. Now that he was paying it any

And now, down to red. Oz's finger hovered nervously over the button to summon the potion, trembling in fear, doing everything in his power not to click it too early and soil his chances of making it out of this alive. This wasn't the sort of situation he'd found himself in before, ever. He'd come close a few times, but he'd always managed a way to squirm his way out of the truly uncomfortable situations. But this? This was agonizing in a way that he couldn't put into words. The fact that his life, legitimately, hung on by a mere thread, and that he could quantify this in the form of HP values,

Was this some sort of niche mechanic that Kayaba had programmed into the game? Oz had played games in the past which pitted the Player against the occasional unwinnable situation, a sheer stroke of bad luck which would occasionally put them in a situation that most nobody could come back from. Was this just one such occasion? The sort of spawn that only occurred one in a million, and he'd just been the lucky winner? Had anyone else, in the history of Aincrad, even been assaulted by an entire goddamn horde of pigs without seeking them out? Asking such questions was a useless and fruitless

Nobody was coming to save him. Nobody was coming to help. Why? He'd heard stories of people dying to boars, sure, but he'd also heard more stories of do-goody asshole swooping in to save the day and have their hero moment. Where was his hero? Even if there was someone, would they even help him? It wasn't like Oz had made a particularly good name for himself. He was known in here much like he'd been known on the outside. An overconfident little douchebag with no real chops to back up his game. One who would manipulate and con the people around him to make a quick buck. It was part of

"Alright, you fucking assholes," he grumbled between hits, "Do your fucking worst. I'm ready. I'm ready to get out of this, or die trying. COME ON! BRING IT ON!" And bring it on, they certainly did. There was no remorse in these boars. No relent, no give. They were coming for him. They knew they had him, and could whittle him down with time. They just didn't know that he had potions in store to get himself from point A to point B with more gas left in the tank. Still, he couldn't imagine what he'd done to bring this on himself. Was it something he'd done previously? Was it something

All there was to do now was grit and bear it, hope to whatever gods may or may not have existed within this wretched prison that there was a light at the end of it all. A way out, or perhaps some smidgen of hope that he could outlast the onslaught. Amid the boars striking him, he managed to bring up his battle-ready inventory once more. It seemed that he still had two of those potions left, but after that, he was shit out of luck. If he was careful with them, and timed everything perfectly, maybe he could thin their numbers enough to plot a route of escape. The chances were slim, but not zero.

By the time he finally managed to scramble to his feet, he found himself surrounded again. This time, by the dozens of boars that still remained. He looked out into the crowd in abject horror, counting the pairs of beady red eyes as they all closed in and prepared to eat him alive. He was sure that the fear was evident, as the boars now seemed more emboldened in their approach than before. With the manner in which they surrounded and drew circles around him with their movements, Oz could tell that he was now well and truly trapped. This would be his last stand. Like so many before him, who had

As pathetic as it was, he could feel the tears welling in his eyes. He'd been so confident and smarmy only a moment before, but that was before the enemy had revealed its hand. There was just so many of them, he didn't know if he could honestly make it through the crowd. Even with the precautions he'd taken to ensure his own safety, he hadn't accounted for the sheer totality of their numbers. Who could have? It all honestly felt like a fever dream. He prayed that, any moment now, he'd wake up and find himself slunk over the chair in his office, burnt out cigarette in hand. But such relie

As he beat for his hasty escape, he couldn't help but look behind him over his shoulder. "HOLY MOTHER OF SWINE!" What he'd found, had not at all been what he'd hoped he'd see. As the remaining boars made haste in their pursuit of the verdant-clad hooligan, the others that still lie in wait made finally revealed themselves to join in the chase. And it was a lot of them. Dozens. More boars than Oz had ever seen in one place, ever, whether fictional or non. How in the hell had he managed to attract every damn boar on the first floor!? With haste, he selected one of the healing poti

It was only as the boar indicated that it did, indeed, want a piece of him, that Oz realized the situation he was in. A cursory glance over to his health bar revealed that it had been shredded down to a measly three hit points. To make matter worse, even more boars had joined the fray, and Oz now found himself encircled once more. Trapped, with no clear line of escape. It appeared that the war of attrition tactics the boars were playing out had indeed managed to make their mark and, for the first time since the skirmish began, Oz found himself feeling a bit nervous. If they all attacked simult

"Oh, look, another one. Hi! Welcome to the soiree! Over there you'll find refreshments, and right here," he said, gesturing toward himself, "you'll find the main course. Now I want everyone to take turns, okay? Make sure we're leaving enough for everybody else. I don't want anyone here getting all huffy because they feel like they didn't get a fair shake at the entree. If we could form a nice, orderly, single file line, I'm sure you could all get your licks in over the course of only a few seconds! What do you say?" Clearly, they weren't amused. Almost as though following his suggestion,

"Alright, guysss, I get it. You're doing a thing here. Intimidation circle, oooooh. I'm quivering in my chaps. But seriously, I have got places to be. I'm sure you do, too. Whatever it is that... pixelating simulation pigs do. You are pigs, right? Boars are pigs? Like not identical obviously, but in the same evolutionary line. You know what, nevermind, I don't really care. The point is, I'm bored, so if we could all just get this over with sooner rather than later, that'd be swell. I don't really care if it comes in the form of you guys killing yourselves on my thorns, or just fucking off enti

There it was. Finally, their numbers were beginning to wane. Oz was certain he'd killed at least ten of them by now. Oh, wait, no, it couldn't have been ten yet. That one there said 'Boar 9,' while the other two read 'Boar 10' and 'Boar 11,' respectively. So he'd encountered over ten boars by now, but just hadn't slain that many yet. He could live with that. He hadn't even wanted to fight them, anyways. The three remaining boars continued to encircle him, huffing gruffly and stamping their feet into the soft soil, threatening feint attacks before retreating back into their circular stride

"Alright, guys, this is honestly starting to get a little weird. What's up with the hate boner?" Another two boards lunged forward, depleting his health bar even further. One exploded into a ball of pixels, while the other grunted and readied itself for its next strike. The rest of the pack circled easily, each waiting for what they perceived as the optimal moment to strike. Not that Oz was even going anywhere, or doing anything. How could he, surrounded as he was? Though, it was starting to irk him a bit, the inconsistency with which his thorns activated. There had to be some sort of exp

The loot panel continued to tally up as the boars threw their lives into depleting his health bar in frenetic fashion, each combusting as swiftly as the one before it. Varying quantities of col, materials, and other goodies continued to flow into a panel which detailed everything which was entering his inventory with each mob slain. What he really wanted to know, was why there were so many heavy armors and throwing knives wrapped up in these things. Even trinkets? Were they just eating shopkeepers or what? Where were they even hiding these things? All questions he would surely find himsel

Whatever the case may have been, Oz could definitely say that it had felt personal. Almost as though brought upon by some deep-seated grudge. Something, that perhaps ran even deeper than his own meddling and shenanigans. Perhaps, something that had to do with someone else, with whom Oz had become an unknowing spiritual successor. Someone that may have done something as demented as, oh, I don't know, kill the boars' version of Jesus and then take its progeny to be his own slave for the foreseeable future. Something like that. But no, that would just be silly. Who the fuck could, or even wo

"Yeah. Get it now? You hit me, I stay standing, and you die. It's really that simple. So how about we call it a day, pack it in, and go our own separate ways." And then more boars appeared. And then, even more. "H-hey, that's not really necessary. How many of you really want to die? I-I mean, far be it from me to tell you all what to do, it just seems a little silly." And then, even more boars. "Oh shit." Oh shit, indeed. If the mobs could think for themselves, Oz would have sworn that they'd all banded together to put him out of his misery once and for all. Tired of b

"See, this is why I always bring consumables out." Through a series of completely unforeseen events, the writer of Oz could not have possibly braced themself for, Oz now found himself hopelessly surrounded by a pack of rabid boars. Four of them had sprung from the woodwork on his lackadaisical trek home, and surrounded him like a pack of wild animals. Er, well, perhaps it was true that there were in fact wild animals, but that was besides the point. It was still rather rude. In a flash, three struck out at him. He made no attempt to avoid their attacks. The damage seeped into his hea