Operation: Stealth Is a Myth

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:

• Dave: Climbed the wall like a caffeinated spider monkey.

• Zaph and I: Found a tunnel under the second wall.

• 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:

• Zantara – deceased (dramatically)

• Water Merchant – poisoned mid-speech

• Multiple guards, zombies, and Dave’s stealth credibility

Loot:

• Ixian decoder ring

• Two neck tattoos

• One shiny knife

Lessons Learned:

• Never let Dave do stealth.

• Never trust holograms.

• Zombies are canon now.

• “Early night” is a lie.

Command Recommendation:

Next session: caffeine rations mandatory, stealth optional, sarcasm inevitable. 

The Nothing Really Interesting Happened After-Action Report

 

🎵 This week’s anthem: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” (sung off-key in the key of Dave). 🎵

---

        "Here's a little song I wrote for Myles
        You might want to sing it note for note
        Don't worry
        Be happy

Zaph' inspired remix:

“In every life we have some trouble
But when you fail to grapple (Zaph) you make it double
Don’t worry
Be happy, don’t worry, be happy now.”

Craig added his verse, which was less lyrical and more tragic:

“Ain’t got no place to lay your head
Craig forgot to build a bed
Don’t worry
Be happy.”

Dave, naturally, brought the gravitas of a Bene Gesserit karaoke night:

“The Landsraad say your rent is late
He may send the Sardaukar to kick in your gate
But don’t worry
Be happy, look at me, I’m happy.”

        "Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style
        Ain't got no Thopter to make you smile
        But don't worry
        Be happy 

And me? I sat there wondering why every one of our “theme songs” doubles as my personal obituary.

---

The Errand-Running of the Four Horsemen

• We tidied up chores for our Atreides overlords, which is just Dune-speak for “fetch quests with extra sand.”

• Paid our taxes (Dave insisted it builds “reputation.” I suspect it just builds bureaucracy).

• Zaph forgot how grapples work, channeling his inner John Cleese — all long limbs, mounting fury, and the distinct sense he was about to start shouting at the wall for insubordination..

• Craig struck out into the deep desert and proudly announced his new base. Features include: no bed, no water, and no toilet. A true desert Airbnb.

• Dave went full peacock, scouring ruins for “shiny fabrics” so he could reskin himself into House Atreides’ answer to Milan Fashion Week.

• And finally, we also unlocked the great and mighty Stilltent Achievement™.

  Now, the lore implies this should be a rugged, life-or-death test of endurance — trekking into the deep desert, setting up camp under the cruel Arrakeen stars, moisture reclaimers hissing while you pray the worms don’t sniff you out.

  Naturally, we pitched ours ten metres from base, right at the bottom of the ramp leading to the vehicle bay. True pioneers. Shackleton who?

  The ritual went like this:

  • Dave went in, came out, passed the sacred stilltent to Craig.

  • Craig went in, came out, passed it to me.

  • I went in, came out, passed it to Zaph.

  • Zaph went in, came out, achievement unlocked for all.

  And thus, the proud lineage of hardy desert survivalists was complete — without ever straying out of range of the base Wi-Fi..

---

If last week was flaming death, demon possession, and exploding plasma rifles, this week was… sand housekeeping. A lull. A calm. A nothing really interesting happened sort of session. Which, given our usual track record, should terrify everyone.

Because if nothing happened, that means the universe is winding up something big.

Probably involving a worm.

Or Craig.

Or both.

Death, Death, and a Dictionary of Swears

 

The Many Deaths of Myles

It began, as most tragedies do, with Craig issuing a warning.

“Don’t get too close to the giant sandworm corpse,” he said, “or you’ll die.”

This from the man who once jumped headfirst into a canyon because it “looked like a shortcut.” Naturally, we ignored the irony but obeyed the advice. Nobody wanted to be remembered as the guy who died sniffing a radioactive worm husk.

So, we crept beneath its ribcage, shuffled onto the causeway, and engaged in the usual warm-up routine: exchanging bullets, blades, and creative insults with heavies, stabby lads, and your bog-standard shooty grunts. All perfectly ordinary, until we reached The Chamber.

The Chamber of Solo Death

A boss room. But not just any boss room. A solo boss room. One at a time. No buddy system. No Zaph lurking in a corner ready to snipe her kneecaps. No Dave shouting lore at her until she surrenders. No Craig testing whether she had a weak spot in her spleen by repeatedly poking it with a halberd.

Zaph went first. He emerged victorious, sweaty and smug.

“Had to use a sword,” he announced. “Gun didn’t work.”

This was ominous news, because if there is one thing in the known universe Myles cannot do, it is wield a sword. He can map a dungeon, catalogue reagents alphabetically, and survive three decades of Craig’s tactical advice, but put a blade in his hand and he’s basically a butter-knife enthusiast at a gun show.

Dave went in next. Guns blazing, boss collapsing.

“Pfft. Guns work fine,” he declared.

And then it was my turn.

The First Death (The Classic)

I did what any self-respecting Mentat officer would do: deploy decoy, deploy turret, fire disruptor.

The bosswoman looked at the decoy, shrugged, and came straight at me anyway.

Knocked prone.

Couldn’t get up.

Dead.

Respawned back at the ship.

Through the gauntlet again.

Enemies had respawned too.

Died again en route.

This, dear reader, is what scholars refer to as foreshadowing.

The Second Death (The Pointless)

After being escorted by my so-called comrades (who mostly came along to watch the spectacle), I carefully re-read the respawn options and discovered—

Oh.

I could have respawned in the chamber all along.

So I did.

And died again.

No lessons learned, except that profanity really does echo magnificently inside a steel-lined bunker.

The Third Attempt (The Swearing of Distinction)

By this point I was less Mentat officer and more obscenity-generating automaton. If there were academic honours in swearing, I’d have been given a robe, a mortarboard, and tenure.

Decoy down.

Turret down.

Disruptor clip emptied.

Reload—oh no, I’m about to—

…and then, inexplicably, she just dropped dead.

Turret fire?

Cardiac arrest?

Pity?

We’ll never know. But the boss died, and therefore, technically, I won.

Epilogue: Déjà Vu, All Over Again

Standing over her fallen body, gasping and confused, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

We’ve been here before.

The endless dying. The swearing. The improbable final victory.

Like spice visions, but without the enlightenment.

Mission accomplished—if you stretch the definition of “accomplished” to include “eventually blundering through it while screaming like a medieval sailor.”

When the Bad Moon Rises, Pack a Thopter (and a Spare Dave)

Bad Moon Rising in Arakas

Dave watched in despair as his brand-new, freshly painted, snazzy light machine gun — a gift from Craig, no less — slid down the gullet of a Sand Worm. The worm didn’t even chew. It just swallowed his pride, his dignity, and all his worldly possessions in one undignified gulp.

But, as all tragedies must, this one had a prologue.

---

The Brute 2: A Short-Lived Legacy

Earlier that evening, Dave had just finished applying a fresh red coat of paint to The Brute 2. The Brute 1, of course, had already been swallowed by a worm (worms being the universe’s preferred method of recycling Dave’s hardware). The guys logged in for our weekly Dune adventure, and Dave proudly rolled out his freshly lacquered tank-on-wings, still smelling of new paint and overconfidence.

Zaph flew back from Arakeen just in time to pick up a distress call. Dave, of course, also heard it, and before anyone could talk about coordination or planning, we were all crammed into scout thopters on our way to investigate.

We found survivors at the wreck. They wanted help — specifically from Dave and Zaph. For reasons lost to history (and basic hygiene standards), they wanted nothing to do with Craig or myself. Solidarity being our strongest suit, we left them to die in the desert and headed off to Arakeen for the usual: Atreides gossip, poisoning a bloke, casual treachery.

---

Dave Passes the Morality Test (Alone)

In Arakeen, Zaph, Craig, and I cheerfully handed over poisoned wine, waving the poor fool off with a hearty “Bottoms up!” Dave, however, refused. Turns out, it was a test. Dave passed. The rest of us — self-styled “merry murderers” — failed miserably and are now forever paused on that quest.

Undeterred, we hit the new job board: acted as bouncers, eliminated a blackmailer, and ensured that a very snooty wedding went ahead without hitch or corpse.

The Atreides spymaster then handed us a new task: track down the traitor poisoning the spice. Off we went into a new basin, Craig only dying twice — which frankly counts as restraint. We found an audio recording, lots of bodies, and eventually the traitor himself. Mortally wounded, he managed to gasp out that another poisoned shipment awaited on a crashed ship in the deep desert.

---

Hazmat Chic

Back to Arakeen via Uber Thopter. Then, on the spymaster’s request, another Uber to base so we could whip up radiation suits and iodine pills for our trek into the high-rad zone.

At the crossroads, we disembarked and hiked south. Everyone popped their pills like good little mentats. Craig rushed ahead, promptly died, and was left smouldering in the sand like an object lesson.

Inside the wreck, we found the poisoned spice. But as we prepared to leave, a sandstorm pinned us down, huddled inside the metal carcass, debating which would kill us first: radiation, worms, or boredom.

---

Dave, Fashion Icon

Back in Arakeen, Dave flatly refused to be seen in public wearing his chunky, unstylish hazmat suit. So he ran around in his underwear instead. Naturally, this was the exact moment the Atreides spymaster introduced us to Duke Leto.

So yes, Dave made his royal debut in his invisible finest. If the Duke noticed, he was too polite to mention it. (Or perhaps he simply assumed it was some obscure Bene Gesserit ritual.)

The reward? Dave got to buy a mountain of base decorations and a matching Atreides paint job for our thopters. Nothing says loyalty like tasteful drapes.

---

Dinner With the Glutton

Next stop: a dinner date with the Glutton. His food needed poisoning. We took The Beast out to the basin, dropped Dave off, and discovered — surprise! — this was another solo instance.

The rest of us immediately buggered off with The Beast to help Zaph with another quest, while Dave went full Iron Chef Assassin. He poisoned the butcher’s table, got into a running gunfight with the Glutton, and actually survived. Triumphantly, he staggered outside… only to discover his “friends” had nicked the ride.

---

Dave Walks Home (Straight Into Doom)

“No problem,” Dave thought. “I’ll just unpack my scout thopter.”

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to pack it.

The base was close enough, though. Practically walking distance. Just one stretch of sand between two quicksand pits. What could go wrong?

Halfway across, worm sign. Dave dashed. Worm sign turned red. He ran. Cooldown on dash ticking down. He heard the breach. The ground split. The sky fell silent.

Cooldown hit zero. He dashed. Straight down the worm’s throat.

---

Epilogue: All Swallowed Up

Which brings us back to where we began: Dave watching his beloved light machine gun — a gift from Craig, no less — vanish forever into the digestive tract of a sandworm. Along with his backpack, weapons, armour, gear, and the shiny new melee weapon he’d just looted off the Glutton.

It was, in the grand history of our group’s misadventures, a perfectly Dave way to end the night.

---

🎬 CREDITS — BAD MOON RISING IN ARAKAS 🎬

Starring

• Dave … As Himself: Worm Hors d’Oeuvre Extraordinaire

  (“Fashionably Late, Fashionably Underwear”)

• Zaph … The Reluctant Uber Driver

  (“Shoots straight, leaves friends stranded”)

• Myles … Mentat of Maps & Messes

  (“Still trying to run this group like an actual operation”)

• Craig … The Chaos Engine

  (“Died twice, learned nothing, stole the ride”)

---

Special Appearances By:

• The Brute 2 … as Soon-to-Be Worm Chow

• The Glutton … as Dinner Guest Who Didn’t Survive Dessert

• The Sandworm … as Best Supporting Digestive System

---

Costume Design

Dave’s Underpants (sponsored by Atreides Housewares™)

Props Department

Craig’s Generously Gifted Light Machine Gun (now unavailable)

Transportation

The Beast (leaving without you since 2025)

---

Tagline:

“When the Bad Moon Rises, No One is Safe — Especially Dave.”

1.7 Million Millilitres and Still Thirsty

 

Dave, brandishing his shiny new light machine gun like Moses descending Mount Sinai with a Gatling attachment, declared:

“Don’t go near the water!!”

The rest of us, parched and sand-crusted, did the only sensible thing—begged like supplicants at a mirage.

Myles (that’d be me, forever cast as Responsible Uncle in this desert daycare): “But we are thirsty, please let us drink.”

Dave, glaring as though I’d suggested baptizing in his sacred coolant tank: “Supplies are low—we are down to 1.7 million ml’s of water, we can’t spare any.”

For reference, that’s 1,700 litres. Apparently, when supplies dip below the “local swimming pool” threshold, Dave initiates rationing protocols.

Craig, ever the diplomat, offered: “What if we promised to help you do some harvesting?”

Dave relented—but with the usual mafia-esque caveat: no brushing teeth, or into the juicer you go.

---

The Great Slaver Purée

Zaph had the night off (lucky sod), so the rest of us hit every unexplored slaver outpost east and north. We even poked into the Rift. By the time we returned, Dave was whistling merrily while installing extra coolers to store the liquified essence of roughly one hundred slavers. Fremen might call them Deathstills, but we—being plain-spoken colonials—call them “juicers.”

There is something profoundly unsettling about watching Dave beam with pride while feeding “plump slaver bodies” into the machines like fruit at a summer market.

---

Enter Craig, Stage Left, Sandworm Bait

Lest history forget, it has been almost 25 years since the Gold Dragon Incident, and Craig apparently felt the group had grown complacent. His solution? Attempting to lure a sandworm into flattening our base.

Craig planted a thumper, fully intending to give Shai-Hulud our home address. But Dave—ever the opportunist prankster—charged across the dunes, flipped on his Holtzman field right behind Craig, and bolted for my thopter. The worm sign went wild.

Craig scrambled into the rocks just in time to watch a gargantuan worm erupt from the sands and devour his thumper whole.

“Curses, foiled again,” muttered Craig, like Wile E. Coyote realizing the ACME rocket wasn’t OSHA-compliant.

---

Assault Thopter Mutiny

Undeterred, Craig decided to cheer himself up by rocketing our base into rubble. Except… Dave had quietly revoked his Assault Thopter privileges. Cue Craig, frantically turning keys and muttering spells to no avail:

“Hey Dave, why am I locked out of the Assault Thopter’s controls?”

Dave, with all the gravity of a judge handing down a life sentence, walked over to Juicer #3 and scrawled Craig’s name on its side.

---

And Then, The Song

Because why wouldn’t this night end in a musical number? Dave, channeling equal parts Sesame Street and Saw, broke into song while ceremonially juicing another corpse:

Don’t go near my water
To do it any wrong
To be cool with the water
Is the message of this song
Let’s all help the water
Do what we can and ought to
Let’s start juicing today

The juicer hummed, the tanks dripped, and somewhere in the distance, Shai-Hulud sighed in despair at our group’s continued survival.

Addendum: The Great Peak Fiasco

As if sandworm baiting and juicer karaoke weren’t enough, Dave also decided Myles needed a character-building exercise. His idea of “character-building”?

“Climb the highest peak north of our base. There’s loot up there.”

Simple words, devastating consequences.

With some creative aeronautics, Dave wedged the Assault Thopter onto a precarious ledge 800 meters up. From there, I had to grapple the rest of the way to the summit, dangling like a nervous spider in the Arrakeen breeze. Somewhere between prayer and profanity, I finally hauled myself up.

Craig, observing from below, later described it thus:

“With Myles it was like a Titanic situation. Except instead of yelling ‘I’m on top of the world,’ it was more ‘Oh shit, oh shit, argh—I’m falling off the top of the world!’ The only bad thing was that he didn’t.”

(Thanks, Craig. Always rooting for me.)

To everyone’s disappointment, I did not plummet to my doom, but instead successfully used my grapple hook—after only two months of fumbling practice. Craig insists my next life skill should be “learning how to use a sword.” Baby steps.

---

A Sunburnt Summit

Naturally, we chose to scale the peak at the worst possible time: midday. The desert sun blazed down, water rations evaporated faster than Craig’s good intentions, and I could practically hear our storage tanks sobbing in sympathy.

By the time Dave swung the Thopter around for pickup, the engines were wheezing and the fuel gauge looked like a countdown timer. He casually mentioned:

“Hope you brought extra fuel. We might need some to get back.”

Translation: he’d burned through every last reserve to prove a point about verticality.

So there we were—sunburnt, parched, clinging to loot, and relying on a chopper that was only marginally more functional than Craig’s Assault Thopter license.

A typical fiasco, really.

The Worm Song Massacre: A Dune Ballad in Underwear

On most planets, worms are small, soil-friendly creatures that recycle life’s leftovers into nutrients. On Dune, they are colossal death tubes that swallow spaceships whole and redecorate the desert in flaming chaos.

Children across the galaxy are currently bopping along to a catchy tune about worms joyfully pooping fertilizer. Meanwhile, we four idiots are learning the Dune remix:

This is my life as a worm. And you know wherever I squirm,
I eat dead things, help them decompose.
My poop is fertilizer that helps the plants grow.
I dig what I do in my life as a worm.
Poop, Poop, Poop Poop, Poop, Poop, Poo

But we digress; all will be explained shortly.

---

Dave the Architect, Myles the Whinger, and the Murder-Hobo’s Basement

If you remember from last week, Myles had requested a few layout changes to the base – “can everything be on the same level and grouped together?” Dave obliged by spending the week remodelling like a demented space-IKEA architect. The floor of the main hangar was raised, the walls higher, and all manufacturing machinery moved inside. Dave’s hangar was expanded to accommodate The Beast. When the neighbours finally removed their shack, we annexed the land with imperial enthusiasm and built a second entrance to the garage.

Raising the main hangar floor created a cavernous space below, which Dave immediately converted into two million millilitres of water storage, a spice and chemical refinery (double airlocked, naturally), a mezzanine for eight blood refineries (Craig the resident murder-hobo applauded), and room for two ore refineries. Truly a murder-bungalow’s dream basement.

---

Cannons in the Basin

We woke to our base rattling from thunderous cannon fire, flaming shells streaking overhead. The Hagga Basin had been interdicted overnight: ground-to-space defence cannons everywhere. Fifty of them. Ships were being blown out of the sky. Thopters suddenly looked like bad life insurance investments.

At Anvil trading post we found a CHOAM rep fuming that his trade ships were being shot down and looted. He hired us to fix it: kill 25 Kirrab thugs, destroy cannons, recover 10 trade goods. Payment: cosmetic weapon skins, so everyone would know how much of a bad-ass we were.

There is a sucker born every day—or in this case, four of them. We prepped our shiny new assault thopter (with rocket pods!) and set off.

---

Dave’s 30% Success Plan™

First cannon, textbook. Land on spire, kill thugs, loot chest, slap explosives, run. Dave recovers 1 cargo. Myles’s chest? Empty. The math was ugly: 10 cargo each, four of us, 40 needed. Cannon count rising.

Cue Dave’s bright idea—a signal to run for the hills. “The CHOAM rep said cargo comes from crashed ships too. I see one down there! We just fly down, Zaph keeps the chopper running, rest of us cut in and grab the loot.”

Given Dave’s plans usually had a 30% survival rating and some vague logic, we agreed. Big mistake.

We had barely started cutting when worm sign went berserk. A worm erupted under us, swallowing the crashed ship, Myles, and Craig in one gulp. Zaph banked the thopter away. Dave ran for rocks, but the worm followed. Sandstorm blinded Zaph; Dave sprinted again before being swallowed whole.

---

Heroes in Underwear

On Dune the worm song goes:

This is my life as a worm, making mercenaries sneak and hide in fear.
Eating space ships is my jam,
Pooping spice is the plan,
Turning you into spice poop,
If you are lucky you get a tooth.

Luckily heroes are indigestible, so the worm spat us out. In our underwear. All gear lost. Craig’s 100,000-solari auction sword gone forever. A worm tooth was our consolation prize.

We hurried back to base to hose off slime, rearm, and try again. Dave, determined, packed a bike for worm evasion. Result? Eaten again. Underwear again.

Craig claimed this was worse than his infamous Gold Dragon incident from 20 years ago. Dave disagreed: this worm fiasco was pre-agreed, Craig’s dragon disaster had been inflicted without warning.

---

Cargo, Cannons, and Worm Poop

At last, one crashed ship was close enough to rocks that worms avoided. Salvage success: 4 cargo. Go us. The rest of the quota we filled by gutting Kirrab mercs and blowing up cannons. This event sucked worm poop.

Some late research (Google) revealed worms can be distracted with thumpers. Shame the CHOAM merchant forgot that detail. Thumpers unlock in the AQL quest line—something we’d skipped in favour of endless base building, exploring, and Craig’s murder-hobboing.

---

The Freeman Trials (or: Puzzle Hell)

So we pursued the Freeman quest line. Learned to make thumpers and sand tents. Final quest: enter an abandoned Seitch. Problem? Only one person on the server can do it at a time. Devs, why?? Dave drew the short straw.

Puzzle one: N, P, S, B, R, T, H. (You had to be there.) Puzzle two: learning symbols on walls. Tests: Bind, Dune, Grass. Planting, shelter, downwind. Burrowing animals, aerate, sand. Luckily Ari, a cute Atreides archaeologist, translated everything—our walking encyclopedia for dummies.

Final test: spin circles to align inner, middle, outer. Then slash your wrists so blood flows through a channel to open the door. Inside: forbidden computers, a vault, an encrypted disk that Ari confiscates “for later.”

Exit: via worm’s butt. Drop to desert floor. Ambush! Ari shoots and distracts half the enemies, runs off. Dave, pinned in a corner, gets cut down twice. He jumps levels, waits for stamina to recharge, but it never does. Rage quit. Bug report filed. Bug report bugged. Chef’s kiss.

Next day Dave redoes it, survives. Later we all clear it too.

---

Dave the Water Hoarder

Reward: sarcophagi. No more field blood-draining—we could haul bodies back to base and process them like proper eco-friendly murder-hobos.

Myles, repairing The Beast, discovered 10 bodies in its storage. “Why, Dave?”
“Oh, forgot to move them downstairs to the freezer.”

Turns out Dave’s been stockpiling. Forty-two bodies so far. He mutters: “The desert is an endless wonderland of water potential. 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and how many bodies you need to stash before they call you a serial killer.”

---

Closing Moral

On Dune, worms don’t make soil. They make chaos, trauma, and nudist runs back to base. Dave doesn’t just build bases—he builds basements full of corpses. Craig can’t wash away the gold dragon. Zaph, the only adult, keeps the thopter running.

But at least we’ve got a worm tooth souvenir (Oh, and about that...).

The Sandfly Attraction Principle (Or: Why They Only Stab Me)

Sandflies Think Myles is Pogie Bait

Last Friday night’s “mission” (read: massacre) was supposed to be straightforward: scout the Sandflies’ base, swat some bugs, and bask in our tactical brilliance. Instead, we demonstrated the kind of coordination usually reserved for penguins on roller skates.

Dave, in his most commanding “trust me, I know what I’m doing” tone, declared:

“Land out the front, we will assault through the main entrance.”

Myles landed nearby.

Zaph went solo through a side entrance and died.

Craig… landed at a side entrance and immediately ran away.

Yes, reader, the plan lasted a whole three seconds. A new record.

---

Enter the Beast

In the debrief, Dave decided the problem wasn’t us (ha!) but our lack of synchronized arrival. The solution: build a four-person assault thopter.

Cue research montage.

Materials required: Duraluminium (which nobody can pronounce, so we renamed it “Dura-num-nums”).
Recipe: 1 aluminium ingot + 500 ml water + 4 Jasmium crystals = 1 Dura-num-num.
Assault thopter cost: 450 Dura-num-nums.
Translation: “enough grinding to make an MMO developer blush.”

To feed this beast, we built CCF-Outpost-Alumni near aluminium deposits, complete with smelters, blood purifiers, sand-water extractor, buggy ramp, landing pad, storage, and probably a gift shop. Meanwhile, back at home base, Dave casually installed windtraps the size of small skyscrapers—each demanding 240 more Dura-num-nums. Then he built water tanks that also needed Dura-num-nums. It was like watching a snake eat its own tail, only thirstier.

Craig was unleashed as the designated murder-hobbo, draining the blood of every scavenger he could find to keep our water economy afloat. The man has single-handedly put Red Cross out of business.

Mining Jasmium, however, required venturing into the radiation zone. Enter: iodine pills, rad suits, and Dave forgetting to wear them. His glowing corpse was later recovered by a buggy that can mine radioactive rocks but cannot drive itself out of the zone without Dave.

After many deaths, upgrades, and one awkward “buggy abandoned in a glowing puddle” incident, Dave finally brought home the motherlode. And lo! From the forges of madness emerged The Beast—a four-person assault thopter with a personality issue.

She was:

• Too wide for the hangar doors.

• Too heavy for the roof.

• Too thirsty (three medium batteries per fill).

• Too mocked by the other thopters (“no rockets, just storage”).

Dave insisted: “She’s not big, she’s just space-challenged.”

---

Pogie Bait Myles

On her maiden voyage, The Beast carried all four of us in glorious formation. We infiltrated a Sandflies camp by following a convenient trail of corpses (not ours, shockingly), hunted their leader in an Imperial test station, and Myles discovered his true calling:

Pogie Bait.

Every shielded Sandfly ignored the others and sprinted straight at him like moths to a very stab-able flame. The first twenty deaths were hilarious. The next twenty were just administrative.

After skewering the Red Scorpion and redecorating the desert in arterial crimson, we reported back to our Atreides handler. She promptly sent us back because we’d forgotten to pick up some notes. Naturally.

---

Adventures in Arakeen

Flush with victory, we flew The Beast eastward… only to discover the game doesn’t let you take passengers into the world map. So, four proud warriors trudged back to base and re-did the whole trip solo in our scout thopters.

In Arakeen, we banked, shopped, drank, and conducted Very Important Diplomatic Talks™ (read: pub crawl). Then home again.

---

The Great Cactus Scan

Next mission: scan under a giant cactus. We burned half our fuel just reaching the thing, only to discover scanning must be done on foot. And we forgot the scanner.

Craig nobly volunteered to fetch one, returned, and—after dropping thirty kilos of useless junk on the ground—handed it over. The scanner finally beeped, the quest log advanced, and we were off again chasing “information” and “ambushes,” aka filler content.

---

After Action Notes — from “Mr. Pogie Bait”

1. Upgrade your gear. Standard sword (6 damage) ≠ sufficient.

2. Why isn’t the entire base on the same level? Seriously. Whose idea was five hangars?

3. Stop calling The Beast big. She’s sensitive.

---

Next week’s prediction: Dave will “accidentally” remodel the base again, Craig will get lost in a hole, Zaph will sigh audibly at us all, and Myles will die repeatedly while being used as premium-grade bug bait.

The Sandflies couldn’t design it better themselves.

Dune: Awakening – Spice Dreams and Hallucinations for Beginners

 

Dune: Awakening – Spice Dreams and Hallucinations for Beginners

There are moments in gaming where you stop, take a breath, and think, “Ah, yes… this is where the sensible decision would be to turn back.”

Naturally, we did not.

Instead, we stumbled headlong into the sort of scene that makes you question whether you’re still playing a survival MMO or have accidentally joined a cult with a particularly aggressive lighting budget.

---

The Spice Must Flow (Up Your Nose)

It began with one of us (identity withheld to protect the guilty) deciding the quickest way to “level up” was to inhale an unregulated, desert-harvested hallucinogen served on a ceremonial dinner plate. The moment was reverent—solemn, even—as gloved hands slid the dish forward and our brave test subject leaned in to take the full, uncut aroma of pure melange.

Somewhere between the first cautious sniff and the enthusiastic lungful, reality started to… shift.

---

Side Effects May Include

Next thing we knew, we were getting what I’m going to call spice visions—although the Bene Gesserit PR department probably has a more marketable name for it, like “Prescient Cognitive Patterning” or “Special Seeing™.”

The world went purple. Not just a tasteful accent-lighting purple, but the sort of all-encompassing magenta haze you get when someone leaves a nightclub fog machine on for three days. The crowd—an endless assembly of silent figures—watched as our newly enlightened comrade clutched their head like an interstellar migraine commercial, glowing with ominous violet energy.

Above, chunks of rock and debris hung suspended in the air, because gravity had apparently decided to take a personal day.

---

Observations from the Peanut Gallery

Zaph, ever the tactician, muttered over comms, “So… this is what happens when you don’t read the dosage instructions.”
Craig asked if spice visions came with an achievement badge.
Dave wondered aloud whether the crowd was real, holograms, or just there to judge us for our fashion choices.

I was busy making mental notes for this blog entry while also keeping an eye on the “knife icon of dubious intent” glowing in the HUD. Because nothing says “safe hallucination” like giving the dreamer a dagger.

---

Arena of Stabby Regret

Then came the real fun. The vision shifted, and suddenly we were in an arena—no guns, no long-range tactics, no glorious explosions. Just knives.
And here’s the thing: none of us are knife fighters. We are, to put it politely, a gun-wielding people. If you hand us something with a trigger, we’ll work it out. Hand us a blade, and we’ll mostly just wave it threateningly while trying not to cut ourselves.

The result? A symphony of swearing.
Myles and Craig led the chorus, loudly condemning the developers, the game controls, and the very concept of melee combat. “Why knives? WHY?!” became the rallying cry of the moment.

Still, despite our collective inability to stab with any degree of elegance, we somehow survived the Rite of Passage Trial. Possibly through skill. More likely through sheer button-mashing panic and mutual stubbornness.

---

Moral of the Story

The spice does indeed flow, and when it does, it will pour straight into your synapses, rewire your understanding of reality, and leave you glowing like a Vegas fountain show.

Did it grant godlike foresight? Well… sort of.
If by foresight you mean “knowing exactly how many seconds it will take for Craig to try stabbing something in the vision just to see what happens.”

And if the knife fight taught us anything, it’s this: sometimes survival isn’t about grace or technique—it’s about swearing loud enough to scare the enemy into making a mistake.

Dune: The Awakening – Interlude: The Architect

 

The Architect – Theme Song

One day, you’re high on the mountain peak
So high that the ground feels antique
Then the wind at your back brings ember and ash
And your whole proud house comes down in a crash

Was it planned at all, or just paint on a wall?
Any choices you wish you could reset?
I can’t comprehend—were there blueprints or plans?
And may I speak to the architect?

After the last “renovation adventure” (known locally as That Time Dave Accidentally Bulldozed Reality), Dave decided to do things differently. Responsibly. Sensibly. With permission.

“Hey Myles,” he called across the base. “Now that we’re part of House Atreides, don’t you think our home should reflect that? Maybe… some green on the walls?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out, go crazy,” Myles replied, not looking up from under the hood of his Thopter. It was the kind of distracted approval you give a toddler with crayons, not realizing those crayons are industrial paint sprayers and the toddler has a credit line.

⸻

Phase One: Inspiration

Dave took this as divine sanction. He leapt into his Thopter and headed for Helius Gate, near the Pinnacle Trading Post. The Atreides outpost there was a cathedral of green-panelled glory—rounded entrances, bay windows, intricate webs of glass, basalt, and smug architectural superiority.

And then came the deal of the century: every plan, every blueprint, all for a mere $80k. That was 25% of the group’s funds, but Dave’s internal calculator immediately filed it under “bargain” and slapped the cash down.

⸻

Phase Two: Materials

Back at base, Dave tallied the plastone: 9,000 units. Good, but not Atreides good. He needed more. The buggy was fueled, the mines were stripped, the refinery roared to life. Days later, another 12,000 plastone joined the pile. The desert sighed in resignation.

⸻

Phase Three: The Madness Takes Hold

He started with the main hangar:

• South wall: ripped down, replaced with green Atreides panels.

• Two exterior walls: replaced with Atreides bay windows.

• Interior wall: mesh-panel walls, more bay windows.

• Door: upgraded to a Pentashield.

• Roof: new green Atreides roofing.

Then his own hangar: entire north wall became a bay window, new floors, all walls replaced.

Main house? All roofing replaced Atreides-style. Safety rails upgraded.

From there, Dave entered a fugue state:

• Pyramid of Power: upgraded.

• Traveller’s Outbuilding: added.

• Bastion: rebuilt from the ground up.

• Ramps: smoother, wider.

• External vertical walls: replaced with vertical-windowed Atreides walls.

• Crafting room: raised roof.

• Water refining area: expanded and hermetically sealed.

• Switchback: rebuilt entirely in Atreides style.

⸻

Phase Four: The Reckoning

Myles finally crawled out from under his Thopter and looked around. “Some green paint,” he muttered, surveying the hangar that now looked like Frank Lloyd Wright had binge-watched Dune and gone feral.

“Dave, report to the hangar. ASAP.”

Dave arrived at a sprint, expecting maybe a collapsed roof—difficult, given it was a forcefield.

“I approved some green paint,” Myles said slowly. “Please explain what the hell is going on here?”

Dave flipped open his notebook. “You told me to knock myself out and go crazy. Ta-da.” He gestured broadly at the emerald-tinted imperial splendour.

“So it’s just this hangar then?” Myles asked hopefully.

“All the hangars,” Dave confirmed, “plus—”

“Stop right there. How much of the original building remains?”

Dave thought for a moment. “The foundations… well, most of the foundations. Oh, and the floor. Well, most of the floor.”

Myles closed his eyes. Somewhere, faintly, the theme song played again.

Dune the Awakening – Climb Every Mesa (and Crash Every Thopter)

🎵 Climb every mesa, ford every quicksand… 🎵

  Climb every mesa, scour high and low, 
  Follow every byway, chase where winds may blow. 
  Climb every mesa, ford every quicksand, skim over every drumsand, 
  Follow each spice eruption till you find your team’s grand stand. 
  A role that will take all the nerve you can spare, 
  Every day of your life, in a rift, gasping for air.  

By the time we were done, the only thing we hadn’t forded was Craig’s patience, and even that was wearing dangerously thin.

Between sessions, Dave channelled his inner Frank Lloyd Wright—if Wright had been fuelled entirely by caffeine and bad ideas—and unveiled his Mighty Pyramid of Power. All generators? Inside it. Fabricators? Moved to “a more convenient spot,” which is Dave-speak for “somewhere you’ll trip over them on your way to bed.” Two extra hangars appeared for his and Craig’s thopters, which prompted Myles to ask the obvious:
“Who authorised this?”
Dave, without missing a beat: “It’s implied in your request for more mighty hanger space.”
And thus, Dave found his official team role: Den Mother & Part-Time Architect Dude.

Myles locked his own thopter, borrowed Zaph’s, and left Zaph stuck at base—thus discovering his role: Thopter Repair Dude. Craig’s thopter-building escapades? Redacted, mostly out of kindness.

Following the song lyrics, we flew north to “climb” mighty mesas—by which I mean we landed on top, looted the chests, and fled. Aluminium mining resumed until Myles fell off a mesa, leaving his thopter stranded like an abandoned shopping trolley on a freeway overpass.

We practised gliding our thopters for speed and fuel efficiency. Most of us improved. Craig perfected the art of dune-crashing and hitching rides on Myles’s thopter… until Myles learned the ejection manoeuvre.

Westward we went, where we found the Pallas, sliced through doors, and ran Atreides faction quests. House Atreides got our loyalty (because the Harkonnen “shaved head and smell like regret” aesthetic is a hard pass). Then north again to ruin a slaver outpost—water tanks sabotaged, fuel depot torched, crane wrecked—before they emptied a full can of whoop-arse on Craig. We killed their boss, but not before Craig cemented his team role as: Crash Test Dummy & Target Dummy.

Back at base, we built Zaph a mighty sniper rifle, because of course Sniper is always Zaph’s role. Then came rebel-hunting and blood extraction in a massive rift base. Craig—lacking a working anti-grav belt—jumped down the stairwell and added Vampire to his résumé.

Naturally, Dune wouldn’t be Dune without a few 10,000-year-old imperial testing stations. We ran a couple, unlocked our inner Sword-Masters, and were heading home when Dave’s squirrel instincts kicked in.
“OOOH SHINY—purple sand!” he yelled, cutting power and barrel-rolling into a death spiral. It was almost enough to challenge Craig’s crash test title.

Myles—apparently colour-blind to purple—could only see spice sand while hovering and scanning. Dave demonstrated spice collection and worm evasion. Craig tried to distract the worm with interpretive dance while Zaph harvested. Close calls were had. Photos exist. And since there’s an achievement for collecting 2,000 spice, this nonsense will be repeated.

Till next week—remember: climb every mesa, ford every quicksand… and if you can’t fly it, crash it spectacularly.

Dune: The Awakening – Dave and the Agave of Madness

 

They say the desert reveals who you really are. For Dave, it revealed a man willing to cross half a planet on a dodgy bike, risking worms, warlords, and warranty voids—for mood lighting.

It began, innocently enough, with a minor garage upgrade. Dave, standing atop our recently refurbished base, admired his architectural triumph: “You can now fit two buggies.” Naturally, this revelation led to the spontaneous crafting of a second buggy to confirm said claim. It fit. Barely. The trikes were promptly evicted to make room, and a second storey was hastily slapped onto the garage like a badly written sequel. Dave’s bedroom was sacrificed for a new ramp. Safety barriers were added, mainly to stop Craig driving into the power generators—again.

But the pièce de résistance? Lighting. Specifically, those glowing CHOAM ceiling panels everyone else seemed to have. Our place looked like a bunker-themed cave rave hosted by a mole. Dave’s IKEA manual, tragically, had nothing on “desert chic.” So he did the unthinkable: he asked for directions.

“A trader west of the barrier sells the plans,” said a suspiciously chill drifter.

Dave nodded, sprinted to his bike, and packed supplies like a man going on a milk run: water, fuel, and a bit of Solaris cash. Myles, performing his sacred Mentat duty of maintenance, warned, “I haven’t serviced that bike yet.”

Dave dismissed him. “It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

🚨Desert Odyssey, Chapter One: Worm, Meet Dave

He passed Thor’s Hammer, zipped past the spaceship wreck, and hit the borderlands at full throttle—at which point the planet’s ecosystem attempted to murder him. A sandworm the size of optimism in a Zaph strategy meeting rose from the dunes. Dave screamed, swerved, and barely reached rocky safety.

He detoured north, skirted cliffs, and days later stumbled into the fabled trading post, panting, sunburnt, and bug-eyed. He bought the CHOAM lighting instructions and, broke but victorious, caught a thopter ride home.

Then he read the instructions.

“Requires: Salvaged metal – check.
Agave seeds – 5 per light.”

Dave blinked. “Wait—seeds?”

The guide helpfully noted: Agave grows near cacti.

Cacti? We’d never seen a cactus. Just bones, rocks, and Craig’s abandoned quest markers. Dave returned to the Anvil, bribed a trader with spice beer, and was told, “Go west. Far west.”

🚨Desert Odyssey, Chapter Two: Agave or Bust

Dave prepped again. “Just collecting flowers!” he called as he left.

“Get plant fibre!” shouted Zaph.

“Get evil black rocks!” added Craig.

“Let me service your bike!” begged Myles.

“No time!” Dave roared, vanishing in a cloud of overconfidence and unserviced treads.

He flew to the Pinnacle post, leapt on his barely-functional bike (now blinking red like it was having a heart attack), and tore westward. He picked up fibre. He mined black rocks. He explored cactus-filled valleys teeming with scavengers and glow panels mocking him from other players’ bases. He looted. He climbed. He grapple-jumped and faceplanted. He waited through entire moon cycles hoping agave would bloom.

Nothing.

Finally, in a cactus grove surrounded by corpses and broken dreams, he found it: one agave plant. Five seeds. One light.

“ARE YOU @#%&ING KIDDING ME!?” echoed across the sands.

🚨Desert Odyssey, Final Chapter: The Return of the Lightbearer

Dust-choked and sun-fried, Dave eventually staggered into the Crossroads outpost, pack overflowing with goods and bitterness. He didn’t even wait for pleasantries—just slapped Solaris into the pilot’s hand. “Fly. Anvil. Now.”

Back at base, Friday night arrived.

We gathered to admire his labours.

Myles: “The entrance is too narrow. I can’t get the buggy through.”
Craig: “Where’s the bike park?”
Zaph: “Where’s my supersuit? Where’s anything? Why are the crafting stations gone?”
Dave: sobbing in the buggy storage bay

Salvation came in the form of ornithopter licenses. Zaph trained Myles in an adrenaline-fueled certification run over Haga Rift—Zaph weaving through crevasses like a Fremen pod-racing ace. Myles invoked the God-Emperor and banned Zaph from stunt-flying forever.

We returned to our warlike duties:

• Slaver extermination (10 required, we overachieved).

• Strategic sniping (Zaph), head ducking (Slavers), and terrain-crawling (Dave).

• Looting every chest en route to help our friends (also Dave).

• Zaph getting bored and flying off solo to get murdered (Zaph).

In the final showdown, we split our approach: Dave on foot, Zaph sniping from the south, Craig and Myles pulling a dramatic rooftop landing that alerted every single enemy in the base. Dave got pinned. Zaph couldn’t see him. It all went sideways until Dave finally shot his captor and squirrel-looted his way into the fight.

Zaph died. Dave ran back. Craig was possibly redecorating. Myles was swearing.

Somehow, we won. We handed in missions. Raided labs. Explored caves. Lied to a stoned Harkonnen. Made progress toward becoming Swordmasters of Atreides.

Next week, we journey westward—toward the wreck of the Pallas.

Probably via cactus.

Probably looking for lights.

Probably driven by Dave.

---

Agave count: 20. Number of functioning lights: 4.

Number of times Dave was told to service his bike: infinite.

Dune: The “What Is Dave Doing Now?” Episode

 

Dune: The “What Is Dave Doing Now?” Episode

A cautionary tale of open doors, opportunistic scavenging, and ignoring storm warnings like a true professional.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when Myles, against his better judgment, logged into Dune to “just check on the base.” What he expected: minor landscaping. What he found: The patio had collapsed into a retirement home for half-broken chairs, the BBQ area looked like it had hosted a small war, and the bridge had more holes than Zaph’s alibi for not attending planning meetings.

Sighing, Myles did one last sweep before logging off—until he noticed something troubling. Dave was online.

“Dave… what are you doing?” he messaged, already bracing for impact.

“Thank the God-Emperor of Dune that you are here!” Dave replied, which is never a good sign. “I was just off mining aluminium—what with the 50% tariff from Trumpenstein, you can’t just leave it lying around—and I found this base with an open door, so naturally I wandered in…”

“Get. To. The. Point.” said Myles, invoking the ancient Rite of Interruption.

“No power, all crates open, lots of stuff. I claimed the buggy. It’s fully loaded. So much stuff. GET HERE ASAP,” came the fevered response.

Myles, now concerned this was either a trap or a rerun of the infamous Goat Cheese Incident from Enshrouded, sprinted to the Anvil to catch a ride to the Pinnacle. Dave, ever the multitasker, had also summoned Zaph. “There’s an Ornithopter up for grabs,” Dave added. No further persuasion required. Zaph was in.

Zaph logged in, skipped every safety protocol known to man, and flew the thopter to the base, promptly loading it to maximum capacity. Just as he was about to leave, Craig logged in—sensing loot disturbance in the Force—and was furious he hadn’t been invited to the party.

Dave, determined to secure their claim before some desert bureaucrat noticed, sprinted to Arrakein to pay taxes. Myles, now driving the buggy like he was being chased by a sandworm, navigated back home under Dave’s helpful advice like, “Don’t go left. Or right. Maybe… just keep going straight?”

Craig, naturally, climbed on top of the ornithopter and rode it back clinging between the wings like a knock-off desert Batman. No seatbelt. No plan. Just Craig.

Back at base, everyone unpacked their stolen bounty into shiny new storage containers, rearranged like a particularly aggressive episode of Dune Decorators. Myles and Zaph logged off. They had seen enough.

But Dave and Craig? Oh no. They went back.

Like true hoarders with no concept of limits, they did a second trip to retrieve the most precious of all resources: industrial lubricant. Once there, Dave got That Look. The one that says: “I’ve had an idea.”

“We can’t leave all this machinery lying around!” he declared, and before Craig could ask what machinery, Dave was already disassembling the entire enemy base like a caffeine-addled IKEA employee. Crates, refiners, crafting stations—nothing was safe. They loaded their haul into the buggy, their backpacks, and Craig’s trike, which he parked creatively on a collapsed roof beam.

They wiped the place down, scrubbed for DNA, and unclaimed the territory. Let the desert cover their tracks.

Then began what Dave called “inventory optimisation” and everyone else called “an unholy weekend of menu navigation.” Bigger crates. Colour-coded boxes. Silicone blocks and welding torches. A flight deck was added for the thopter. A power room. Extra cisterns. His bedroom? Gone. Merged with Craig’s. His reason? “It’s more efficient this way.” Craig’s personal chest was relocated to an undisclosed location, which Craig insists he’ll remember. He won’t.

Garage upgrades followed. Bikes now park on a raised platform. The buggy has a workshop bay. There’s a new ramp. Honestly, it’s probably Council-approved.

And then, Dave took to the skies.

He repaired the ornithopter, topped off the tank, and headed south to a suspiciously Thor-shaped plateau. “I wonder if you can land on that?” he pondered aloud.

You can. He did.

There was even a wrecked ornithopter at the top (presumably one of Craig’s earlier experiments in vertical flight). Dave, naturally, whipped out his salvage tool. But then: doom.

A sandstorm alert. Not the friendly kind that gives you a countdown and a gentle warning. No, this was Death Imminent, You Idiot level.

Dave panicked. Tried to stow the thopter. Remembered he already had a bike stored. Cue existential dread.

He jumped in and flew blind through the storm, radar dead, vision gone, the wings turning from healthy yellow to sad red. Myles was going to murder him.

Somehow, the storm passed without total annihilation. Dave limped home, duct-taped the wings back on, and resolved to lie. “It always had 80% health,” he rehearsed.

But alas, dear reader… he forgot to erase the black box flight logs.

Then again, maybe Myles won’t check. Maybe Craig will remember to pack ammunition. Maybe Zaph will teach Craig how to fly.

Maybe.

But this is Dune. Anything is possible.
(Or should that be - This is Dave, Anything is possible!)

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sandstorm

The ruined base - thats what 70% of ours will look like in a couple of days

Dune: The Dave Accidentally Downsized Our Base Episode

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sandstorm

Let it be known across the burning wastes of Arrakis: the great base of House Hot-Mess was no match for one man, one click, and one tragically unlabelled foundation block.

It began, as these misfortunes often do, with Myles pondering the after-action report that hadn't materialized. Suspicious. Either Dave was still busy alphabetizing his reagent collection or Craig had once again triggered the “dump entire inventory in a heap” macro. Perhaps both.

In a show of what passes for diplomacy in our group, Myles gently prodded Dave for said report. What he got was something more akin to a confession:

“It’s not my fault,” Dave wailed. “You said the base was too big. And the taxes! So I solved that problem…”

The tone was… unwell.

“What have you done, Dave?” Myles asked, which is quickly becoming our group’s most used phrase after “Where’s Craig?” and “Don’t touch that.”

Dave, trying to be reassuring (and failing like a Mentat in a conga line), insisted,

“It’s okay. I can fix this. I just need to spend $60,000 Solaris.”

“STOP,” Zaph barked, alarmed. “You will not incur any additional expenses for this temporary base.”

Dave whimpered, clutching a blueprint like it was a teddy bear.

“But… the bridge… the switchback… the testing tower…”

“Dave,” Myles asked again, more urgently now, “what did you do?”

“Just some minor improvements. Adjusted the ramp angle, widened the forcefield… had to delete a couple of blocks to make it work. Just… one click too many and the base—it’s gone!!”

Yes, dear reader. Gone. Disappeared. Vanished into the digital ether like a Craig-planned stealth mission.

“How is that even possible?” Myles demanded, channeling the kind of calm normally reserved for hostage negotiations and IKEA instruction manuals.

Zaph’s sniper nest? Gone.
Craig’s bike? Missing.
Dave’s dignity? Under severe duress.

“It’s fine,” Dave sniffled. “Only 70% of the base is exposed now. It’ll be destroyed by sandstorms soon. But the important stuff—the main building, storage, beds, power, refineries—that’s safe.”

Pause.

“Dave,” Myles said flatly. “Which 70% is gone?”

“The bridge, the cliffside switchback, the testing tower…”

“So… the 30% that’s safe?”

“Yes! Mostly! Except Craig’s sniper nest. The HOA filed a complaint. Apparently he was shooting their kids. Had to go.”

“This is worse than the infamous Gold Dragon incident,” Craig growled.

Dave, seizing his moment like a Bene Gesserit citing obscure bylaws, replied:

“As per my construction contract, I cannot be held liable. Limited liability, no reparation, not worse than the Gold Dragon incident, courts in Texas only, and if you don’t like the rules—move your stuff out.”

“Whatever,” Craig muttered, furiously Googling Texas extradition treaties.

At this point, Myles took a deep breath, the kind you take before diffusing a bomb or explaining cryptocurrency to your parents. “What actually happened?”

Dave explained that building tools in this game are very powerful. You can construct a monolith or destroy it with a single click. There is, fortunately, a handy warning system if you try to delete your sub-fief console. Unfortunately, that doesn’t trigger if you click the foundation beneath the console.

“No warning,” Dave said solemnly. “Just… gone. Land area reduced from 11,500 to 2,800 sqm. I reported it as a bug. I’m sure the devs will get back to us quickly.”

[Cue audience laughter.]

After that small... landscaping event, the evening continued in its usual style: lightly armed chaos.

We visited a “market” that had nothing for sale and was therefore promptly liberated of all its inhabitants and assets. We passed on the savings to our contractor, who gave us a hit job. (As one does.)

We then ransacked three scavenger bases, executed a local leader, and rode off into the sunset like sand-blasted murder hobos.

Eventually, we reached Western Vermillius Gap and did some casual sightseeing: imperial testing stations, spaceship wrecks, caves with eldritch echoes, the usual.

Myles asked a simple crafting question: “How do we make Cobalt Paste?”

Dave, ever confident, declared:

“Easy. Just a 15-minute jaunt to the rift for Erithyium crystals. I know a shortcut.”

Spoiler: He did not. We rode across the rift like a bunch of desert-hardened toddlers trying to find grandma’s house with a potato map. Two mining complexes later, two hours older and slightly more cynical, we returned and finally refined the Cobalt paste.

Zaph logged off, possibly to scream into a pillow.

Dave then convinced Craig and Myles to take “a quick bike ride” to The Pinnacle trading post. The goal? Pick up a disruptor schematic and some aluminium ore.

We returned victorious, only for Craig to immediately convert all our aluminium into a hat.

Because of course he did.

---

Closing Thought:
What began as a structural adjustment ended as a mass eviction, a missing sniper nest, and a fabulous new aluminium hat. Next week, we consider the philosophical implications of sandworm insurance.