Kriabal used the time available to warn us that our opponents may share the hellhounds magical resistance, rendering his spells less effective than usual. To this Grom suggested that a spear through the head might draw their attention. But his attempts to sweet-talk the NPC guards into doing just that were immediately shut down.

“Don’t presume to order us around, foreman,” spat the lead guard. “We’ll keep an eye on the boss. Deal with the half-breed human abominations yourself.”

“Bastard puppet,” grumbled Grom as the guards withdrew from our formation.

Glancing at a member of the mutated raid party I took a second to study his alleged weak point, the thick vein running down the side of his head and neck. The artery squirmed underneath the warrior’s abnormally pale skin with a stomach-churning ferocity, and that was when it occurred to me that it wasn’t really a vein, at all. It was the deeply burrowing tongue of the withered hellhound passenger, pumping the creatures poisonous code across from one infected avatar to another, in much the same way that a player might transfer their consciousness from their flesh to their chosen digital body. Holy crap! Was this monstrosity overwriting BulldogBrit? Could the mobs in Atone Online even do that? I clasped my ‘lucky’ necklace and resolved to sever the connection between man and beast, if only to help the poor bastard escape this enforced ‘union.’

The possessed fighters shambled to a halt mere meters from our front line, the closest positioned just beyond our leader’s reach.

“Cowaarrdsssssss,” hissed the lead monstrosity, leveling his sword accusingly at our nervous formation.

Name-calling? Seriously? So, even muscle-bound mutants aren’t afraid to resort to the favored tactic of schoolyard bullies everywhere, then? Good to know…

Despite his ominous presence, he was the shortest barbarian I’d encountered thus far, having more in common with a bodybuilding dwarf than the towering warriors who flanked him. The corrupted piece of code carried a weighty skull-embellished sword and his chiseled face was clean-shaven, further evidence that the man wearing this avatar was keen not to be mistaken for a member of the furry-faced axe-waving community, despite a stature that was well-suited to such alternative pursuits. One thing he couldn’t be mistaken for, however, was normal. His skin was a sickly white, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, and the veins that ran across his pumped-up pecs were raised and black as if it were ink, not blood, that ran in his muscular avatar’s veins. As with the others, a withered hellhound hung from his head like a morbid veil, and shards that resembled the beast’s bone armor protruded from his muscular right arm, their haphazard growth caring little for the condition of the flesh they had shredded in their bid for freedom. The creepy little bastard was within spitting distance of me... not that I would dare be so foolish as to attempt it. I clutched my dagger a little tighter, cursing the close proximity the weapon would demand. For all I knew, the hellhounds were a virus, and if that was the case, close-quarter combat was the last thing I needed.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be, then?” yelled an equally perplexed member of our war-party.

“We are hybrid,” replied the monstrosity with a smirk, it’s dead gaze fixed on our leader. “We gather precious code, and we have claimed your friends as salvage…” He hesitated for a moment, his smile broadening until it dominated his incredibly punchable face, then continued: “…just as we shall claim all of you.”

“The hell you will,” I spat, to murmurs of agreement from my allies.

The mutant muscle-dwarf simply glared at me, as if checking out this year’s must-have new avatar.

“Yes… you will do nicely.”

If the self-professed ‘hybrid’ was trying to intimidate me, well… it was pretty damn effective. The thought of becoming the latest addition to the creature’s growing range of warrior-wear was not an enticing one. One thing was clear, though: it was being careful to stay within the tentacled creature’s reach. Yep, the sneaky mob-player combo was still trying to lure us into a trap.

“Cowwwaaaarrrrddddddssssssss,” the bastard thing cried again, beating its borrowed chest with its fist. The other mobs nodded in silent agreement.

“Says the ugly fuck who won’t step forward and fight us,” bellowed Tiny, in what was probably the extent of his capacity for mind games.

More taunts were hurled between both sides, but it was little more than bravado and name-calling. Kriabal didn’t partake and continued to silently charge his staff with mana.

“H’orcs!” cried Grom, raising an arm and then directing it to the enemy. Start peltin’ those ugly fuckers wiv rocks, see if yeh can draw one of ‘em away. Everyone else stand ready, but only attack if I give the order.”

Much more compliant than the NPCs, the half-orcs dutifully began hefting projectiles at our enemy, their powerful bodies hurling the primitive missiles with considerable force. I was relieved to see the familiar face of Kraitos among the half-orc contingent, confirming that he wasn’t just a helpless zero. Yet.

At first, the hybrids disregarded the rock-throwing savages, as if the primitive attack was beneath their notice. But their indifference could not be sustained. All it took was one well-aimed rock to the spokesman’s head to awaken the mob within. Falling to one knee, the dwarf-sized barbarian shook off the blow then fixed his glare on the culprit (a tattooed half-orc by the name of BruiserBoy). With a face drenched in freshly bled crimson, the hybrid warrior let loose an inhuman screech so distorted that it sounded more like a glitch than the cry of man or beast. The mob’s pre-programmed fight instincts had finally surfaced. And with that, the monstrosity launched itself in the half-orc’s direction with the speed of a player, and not that of the shambling mob it had once feigned to be.

“H’orc’s! Fucking retreat,” bellowed Grom. “Draw the bastard as far from the pack as possible. I want that short-arse completely isolated.”

Driven by fear as much as orders, the half-orcs did their best to flee. But their cumbersome avatars had been built for power, not speed, and the gap was quickly closed. The furious hybrid threw itself into the mass of grey bodies, targeting the soul foolish enough to draw its ire. BruiserBoy instantly recoiled, his face now stricken with panic. He quickly called up his inventory and selected a wooden club, raising it to block the swing of the hybrid’s sword, but did so with barely a fraction of the speed possessed by his mutated, higher level opponent. With a flash of mana-charged weaponry, the hybrid buried his heavy blade deep into the half-orc’s shoulder. A blood-curdling cry rang out as the sword sliced first through thick grey skin, then flesh, finally cracking bone with disturbing brutality. The creature cackled in satisfaction as BruiserBoy fell away clutching his almost severed limb.

He sliced away three-quarters of the poor bastard’s HP, just like that. We’re fucking doomed.

“Hold steady, everyone,” demanded Grom, his orders betraying my instinct to rush to the stricken player’s aid.

The hybrid howled in pain as the powerful fists and clubs of the remaining four half-orcs began to pummel it from every conceivable direction. Sensing his opportunity to retreat, the soul who’d landed the ‘lucky’ throw attempted to crawl to safety. Strength in numbers looked to be winning the day, but their attacker had numbers of his own to call upon. The enraged hybrid let out yet another screech, this one a call for assistance. And with that, the remaining six monstrosities began to advance again, a nightmarish charge that the inhuman-class players were ill-equipped to meet. The four-on-one battle was about to become a seven-on-four massacre.

“Dammit!” cried Grom, “You dumb fucks were only supposed to draw in one of ‘em.”

I couldn’t stand by and watch from the sidelines any longer, not while Kraitos was in danger.

“Fuck this,” I cried, breaking ranks and rushing to add my strength to their own. But as suddenly as I’d propelled myself forward I was jolted back by a superior force, as a powerful grip took me by the arm and roughly threw me to the ground. It was my leader. And he looked pissed.

“Everyone hold yer positions,” he spat, shooting me a glare that was clearly meant as an unspoken ‘or else.’ “That’s an order. Kriabal will hit the other hybrid’s with ranged attacks to draw the ugly bastards to us.”

“I will?” balked the warlock with an unconcealed ‘I didn’t sign up for this elf-shit’ glare.

“You will.”

The remaining hybrids were almost on our allies. Kriabal sighed, spun his staff (purely for effect, I’d imagine) and unleashed his stored mana into the advancing horde, intercepting the enemy’s advance with a blast of raw concussive force. The attack had been building for a while, and despite their magical resistance, most were knocked from their feet. But one solitary fighter made it past the attempted intercept, slicing into the exposed back of Kraitos as the builder struggled to hold back BruiserBoy’s would-be executioner.

“Kriabal, get that other fuckers’ attention,” barked Grom, “the h’orc’s can’t possibly deal wiv two of ‘em at once.”

Kriabal swore under his breath and began taking rapid-fire shots at the mob in question.

“If you won’t let me join the brawl, at least let me get the injured to safety,” I demanded. “I have the strength and speed to do it.”

Grom considered this, then nodded. But to everyone’s surprise, not least my own, he demanded that I drag BruiserBoy deeper into the chamber, and then leave him there.

“Y-you’re using him as bait?” I balked. “That’s inhuman.”

Grom sneered down at me. “So’s he.”

“That’s only his fucking avatar you racist prick,” I spat back, thrusting an accusing finger into his chest. “He’s a level 1 combatant, his death will mean five years as a lowly zero.”

Grom sighed. “The enemy’s half player, half mob. And yeh know how mobs operate, yeah?”

I shrugged. I knew they seemed to have a thing for killing us, but I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“It’ll fixate on its attacker to the exclusion of all else until it’s finally ended him, or until somethin’ hits it harder. That pumped-up dwarf is determined to finish what it started, so we may as well use him to draw the bastard away before he bleeds to fuckin’ death. Now go!”

Kriabal had finally succeeded in drawing his stray target’s ire, but already the others were getting back to their feet. Using the distraction, I pushed my fleet-footed avatar into the fray, circling around the combatants and dragging the badly injured BruiserBoy away from the four-on-one brawl. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when I took him in my arms and lifted him to safety. Nor will I forget the sheer panic on his face when I apologetically left him out in the open to fulfil his new role as mob-bait. Having to ignore the half-orc’s pained cries for help sickened me to the core, but I rejoined the formation and shut out his wailing, trusting that Grom knew what the hell he was doing.

“H’orcs, the lure’s in place, step back and let that bastard isolate itself by goin’ after BruiserBoy. Only when it reaches him, swarm it and kick its fuckin’ head in.”

When it reaches him? You’ve just murdered him, you bastard! And you made me your damn accessory.

I gritted my teeth as an inevitable message ran through my head…

-[ User: BruiserBoy has died. Half-orcs remaining in your war-party: 4 ]-

The half-orc fell to the charging hybrid’s sword, his head neatly cleaved to match his sundered shoulder. As four battered half-orcs descended on the distracted creature, I silently prayed that Kraitos could handle himself, because there were now six enraged mobs advancing on us. Grom had not only isolated the lone hybrid... the bastard had also isolated our allies. The impending threat was of particular concern to the fighter who had enraged them: Kriabal.

“Oi, fearless leader. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got six ugly fucks closin’ in on me,” yelled the warlock. The concern in his voice was justified: he was doing his damnedest to hold back six advancing mobs with blasts of pure force. The scene reminded me of a zombie movie, one in which the lone fighter desperately struggles to fend off a horde of the undead with his shotgun, pushing them back with the force of the weapon, yet never actually flooring them. Each attack was slowing their advance, but not by much.

“Any chance of a fucking plan?”

“Quiet, I’m thinkin’” replied the foreman-turned-general, before addressing the other general present. “Tiny, you claim to lead that rabble, yeah?”

He pointed his sword to the gathering on my left. They were as diverse as one might expect of such a group: the aforementioned barbarian ‘SkullFucker’, two swordswomen, a disheveled looking gun mage with a hip-flask pressed to his lips (mental note, ask the wannabe cowboy where he got his liquor from) and even an elderly witch. All had chosen Tiny over the inexperienced Grom. I was beginning to see why.

“Tell ‘em to isolate the thing that wuz DungeonDestroyer-”

“We don’t take orders from tradesmen,” replied the tank with a petty snap.

“Mislaid yer spine?” shouted Kriabal over his shoulder. “Damn shame, that. I’ve heard it happens to players who drop too many levels. Tell me, have you thought of checkin’ in the same place as the puppets lost theirs?”

The tank scowled. “As I was sayin’, I don’t take orders… but I do wanna kill somethin’. Leave me BulldogBrit. I fancy me them bone axes of his.”

“Fine. Work away,” Grom replied, gesturing to the bone-wielding powerhouse. “But make sure yeh isolate him from the others. Divide and con-”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

An order was given, and the rabble’s combatants quickly followed. They were oddly regimented, but that was probably because they feared Tiny more than their actual opponent. There was a moments discussion, and with another coarsely bellowed order, they began to flank the advancing enemy.

Tiny’s strategy wasn’t a bad one, to be fair to him. The witch and the gun mage were up first, drawing their chosen target away from the pack with mana bullets and weakly cast spells. Once led away from the other mobs, the two swordswomen rushed to place themselves between the mob and the remaining hybrid’s, cutting off any chance of its retreat. Only then was Bulldog tackled to the ground by the rabble’s tank of a leader, drawing the hybrid’s full fury onto the one warrior among them who was actually capable of taking it. With that, they swarmed the barbarian-mob hybrid like a pack of frenzied piranha. What they lacked in strategy they more than made up for in enthusiasm, their cries joining the grunts of the half-orcs as they brawled with their opponent in the distance, and the crack of Kriabal’s staff as he unleashed blast after blast into the remaining five hybrid’s, determined to keep their focus on the bulk of our formation.

I cursed Grom under my breath, lamenting the fact that I still hadn’t been allocated a damn opponent. I was as scared as everyone else, sure, but my system was fired up with digital adrenaline and my bloodlust was begging for release. I’ve never been the type to stand back and let others fight my battles for me. Knowing that Tiny was doing just that was killing me. But knowing that Kraitos desperately needed my help was infuriating me even more so. I didn’t abandon friends, even newly made ones. (And yeah, I was feeling guilty about BruiserBoy.)

I was about to tell Grom where to shove his damn war-party when we finally received our instructions. The foreman split us into two groups of four and one of three. The apprentice was given strict instructions not to engage the enemy, merely healing whoever needed it from whatever meager distance his noobish powers would allow. My newly acquired luck must have been defective because lo and behold, I was placed in the smallest team of the three.

Wonderful.

“I’m sending yeh all confirmation of yer targets,” declared Grom. “As the strongest here, Kriabal an’ I will take a hybrid each. Everyone try to watch each other’s backs. Independents, wherever the hell yer hidin’, feel free to pitch in. Kriabal…?”

The warlock turned to meet the gaze of his temporary leader. He looked just about ready to collapse.

“…fall back and let the bastards come at us. On my mark, everyone charge yer opponent. The warlock’s been drawin’ their ire fer a good few minutes now, an’ we can’t afford to have them swarm the poor fuck the moment he drops his guard. Oh, an’ one last thing… watch out for DungeonDestroyer. I dunno what those damn hounds have pumped into him, but he’s a fuckin’ powerhouse compared to the others.”

The next instruction I received was a private message containing my allocated opponents’ stats. DungeonDestroyer. Because of course it was.