Operation: “Dave Sucks at Stealth”
(Filed under: Lessons We Will Absolutely Not Learn)
Mission Briefing:
We needed an early night. Instead, we got Dave.
Dave had scoured the contract board and triumphantly declared that tonight’s op was to investigate The Wreck of the Hephaestus — an ancient downed vessel rumored to contain loot, danger, and probably some form of radioactive regret.
We prepped accordingly: thopters fueled, healing kits stocked, ammo loaded. Unfortunately, all progress was immediately thwarted by Dave’s latest “base renovation project”, which had once again relocated everything. Picture a maze designed by an indecisive architect with commitment issues. We spent a good half-hour just finding the door.
Meanwhile, Craig had disassembled his thopter into what can only be described as a pile of shiny regret.
“I want the MK6 with the Rolls-Royce Merlin thrusters,” he said, eyes gleaming.
“No,” said Dave, ending the fantasy with all the warmth of a sandstorm.
“You never let me have any fun,” Craig sulked.
“Do the math,” Dave snapped. “A Mark 6 requires 700 titanium ingots. We have 233.”
“So… a Mark 5 then?” Craig countered hopefully.
“We have plenty of dura-num-nums,” Dave replied.
For the record, I (Myles) checked my thopter’s onboard system. Mark 4. Still the emotional equivalent of flying a cardboard box with dreams.
The Wreck of the Hephaestus
Craig tinkered while the rest of us took off to locate the wreck. Dune, in its infinite wisdom, decided to make this a solo navigation exercise. Because why would a co-op MMO let you play co-op?
We eventually converged on the wreck — a twisted metal carcass in the sand, oozing radiation and bad decisions. There we met a Noble Harkonnen searching for his promised wife. We exchanged snarky banter, offered vague assurances, and agreed to help search the ship for the distress signal.
That’s when things went from “minor inconvenience” to Hephaestus BBQ.
The mission—naturally—was another solo instance, where each of us had to slog through the same corridor crawl alone. The setup: a never-ending onslaught of melee maniacs pouring in like a clown car of rage. You’d barely get your footing before another wave materialized, stunning you, knocking you flat, and disarming your will to live.
There was no cover. No tactical option. No meaningful terrain. Just you, a rapidly depleting health bar, and the creeping suspicion that whoever designed this encounter has never experienced joy.
You’d shoot, get smacked, fall over, stand up, get smacked again, die, respawn, repeat. Over and over. It felt less like combat and more like a bureaucratic endurance test — a grim cycle where progress was measured not by skill, but by how many times you could faceplant before the game decided you’d suffered enough.
Eventually, by the mystical power of “clicking through the right number of deaths,” the game relented and allowed us to proceed. Victory, apparently, was not earned — merely endured.
We located the Ixian decoder, only to discover that the entire ship was a trap courtesy of Gurney Haelek. He delivered some evil monologue via garbled comms before triggering the fuel tanks.
We did what any brave, resourceful operatives would do — screamed and ran for our lives.
Secondary Objective: Wet Work
Having survived the “Hephaestus BBQ,” we flew to Harko Village to meet Elara Tuek, a local crime boss who hired us for something subtler: infiltrate a fortified compound near Arakeen, poison the water supply, and for once — don’t get caught.
Yes, this was a stealth mission.
Cue laughter.
The infiltration involved multiple solo runs through sniper-covered courtyards, rotating spotlights, and patrolling guards. Getting caught meant instant failure.
Dave, hero of the hour, failed. Twenty times.
To be fair, stealth is an abstract concept for Dave. His definition seems to be “move loudly and announce your intentions to the guards.”
We eventually found three possible entry routes:
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Dave: Climbed the wall like a caffeinated spider monkey.
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Zaph and I: Found a tunnel under the second wall.
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Craig: Probably got distracted by something shiny.
Inside, we crept (or sprinted, in Dave’s case) toward the central building, neutralized guards, and reached the water cistern. Mission success was within reach — until the Water Merchant himself walked in with his entourage.
He delivered a lengthy villain speech, explaining he understood our mission, that he too sought the Fremen, and that he only needed more time.
We nodded politely. He drank from the cistern.
He died mid-sentence. Whoops.
Turns out he had a glowing neck tattoo — our first clue that the tattooed conspiracy board was expanding.
The Jackal Job
We returned to Harko. Elara, unbothered by the whole “poisoned a man mid-conversation” situation, sent us after The Jackal in Arakeen.
Another solo instance. Because of course it was.
To find the Jackal, we had to answer three riddles to unlock code phrases, eventually leading to:
“I seek the worm.”
Nothing suspicious about that.
We tracked the Jackal to an alleyway. He began monologuing immediately — clearly a professional. Neck tattoo, check. Suspenseful pause, check. We killed him before he could reach the third act.
The Princess Leia Incident
With our stealth quotient completely obliterated, we regrouped at a pub to meet Ari and Zantara. Ari, it turned out, was the missing noblewoman promised to the Harkonnen noble, Fryd. Using the Ixian decoder, she unlocked a holographic message.
A woman appeared, robed in white, hair in buns.
“Help me, Obi-Wan. You’re my only hope.”
We, being mature professionals, immediately tossed that chip aside and inserted the correct one.
This time, some cloaked figure spoke about finding the Fremen, awakening the Sleeper, and something about old Carthag. Before we could take notes, Fryd and his goons entered the bar. We warned Ari, she escaped, and we promised Zantara we’d meet him in Carthag.
Descent into Madness (a.k.a. Carthag)
Another solo mission.
Zantara led us into the ruins of Old Carthag, descending through vents, sewage, and the sort of green sludge that screams “health hazard.”
And then came the zombies. Actual zombies. Because apparently, the Tleilaxu have cornered the market on undead biotech. Their résumé now includes clones, gholas, and walking dead.
We finally reached the control room, where the Bene Gesserit Mother Superior awaited. She launched into a speech about sleepers and prophecies until Zantara accused her of being a shapeshifter. She didn’t deny it. Instead, she changed faces like a demonic slideshow of everyone we’ve ever met.
Not creepy at all.
She revealed that we were a ghola, cloned from someone dead, though neglected to mention who. Then she activated what she called “Order 66.”
We stabbed Zantara. Repeatedly.
When the dust (and arterial spray) settled, the shapeshifter was dead, Zantara was dying, and we were deeply confused. With his last breath, Zantara begged us to awaken the sleeper. We looted his shiny knife, gained another glowing neck tattoo, and — because Dune loves drama — the lab began collapsing.
We ran, as is tradition.
Post-Mission Summary
Casualties:
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Zantara – deceased (dramatically)
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Water Merchant – poisoned mid-speech
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Multiple guards, zombies, and Dave’s stealth credibility
Loot:
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Ixian decoder ring
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Two neck tattoos
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One shiny knife
Lessons Learned:
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Never let Dave do stealth.
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Never trust holograms.
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Zombies are canon now.
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“Early night” is a lie.
Command Recommendation:
Next session: caffeine rations mandatory, stealth optional, sarcasm inevitable.
