Bob had survived eleven previous Viking Vengeance events. He remembered none of the lessons from any of them.
"DIFFICULTY LEVEL SIXTEEN," he announced, bursting into RIP's war-planning chat like a man delivering urgent news about a fire he himself had started, again, for the twelfth time. "I've seen sixteens before. I am basically a sixteen at this point."
Ryze, who as far as anyone could tell had never once in his life said something that wasn't either a command or a correction, did not look up. "Bob. This is a garrison-ratio planning session. You say this every time. Sit down."
"I AM the garrison," Bob said, sitting down on an actual garrison unit, as he had also done the previous eleven times.
Ryze closed his eyes the way a man does when he is recalculating his entire life plan for the twelfth time and arriving at the same answer.
The alliance's actual business — figuring out how many infantry and cavalry needed to be stationed at HQ to survive the assault — had been going reasonably well before Bob arrived. HostileTakeOver had already posted a working number. Then ĐWÖZ pointed out it was too low, invoking the sacred memory of a previous event where the number had been considerably bigger.
Bob inserted himself into every single revision, exactly as tradition demanded.
"I propose," Bob said, standing on a supply crate, "that we garrison with exactly one goat. Same as last time. And the time before that."
"We are not doing that. We have never done that," said ĐWÖZ, who spoke almost exclusively in ratios and percentages.
"Fine. Two goats. A NEW proposal."
"Bob."
"A LARGE goat."
By the fourth revision, HostileTakeOver — the sharp, no-nonsense leader universally regarded as the only reason any of this was staying organized — had developed a very specific facial expression reserved only for Bob. It had a name by now. Everyone just called it "the Bob face."
Apexx mentioned, entirely reasonably, that certain event buffs needed to be activated before registering, or they wouldn't count for the whole event. This was useful, correct, competent advice, delivered with the mild condescension of someone who has explained this to Bob eleven times previously and has made peace with the fact that it will not stick a twelfth.
Bob heard "before registering" and interpreted it as a personal challenge, exactly as he had the previous eleven times.
"I REGISTERED BEFORE I EVEN KNEW WHAT THE EVENT WAS," he announced. "I am the most prepared person here. As always."
"That's not preparation, Bob, that's a coincidence. Also you said this last time," Apexx said, without looking up.
"A LUCKY coincidence. A TRADITION of lucky coincidence."
He then attempted to explain buff mechanics to the chat at large, despite everyone present having already correctly activated every buff in question hours earlier. Bob's explanation involved a diagram, a raccoon metaphor, and — new this cycle — the phrase "trust the process, which is me, I am the process, I have always been the process."
Deep into the event, lol_gmz finally cracked one million personal points for the very first time — a real, hard-earned milestone, greeted with genuine excitement from the whole chat.
Bob arrived four minutes later.
"I FELT THAT MILESTONE HAPPEN," he said. "From across the kingdom. I think it's because of my energy. My energy has caused several milestones now, historically."
"It's not because of your energy, Bob," said lol_gmz, still riding the high of the achievement and unwilling to let Bob dampen it.
"It's ALSO because of my energy."
Bob attempted to organize a parade in celebration, as he had for the previous milestone, and the one before that. There was no parade, as there had not been the previous times either. There was, briefly, a goat wearing a small ribbon — the same goat, the same ribbon, somewhat worse for wear after eleven prior ceremonies.
At some point, Ryze mentioned offhand that an unfamiliar name had turned up in a rival kingdom during some casual scouting chatter, and nobody quite knew who they were or cared to.
Bob seized on this like a bloodhound, as he had seized on eleven previous unremarkable facts before it.
"WHO," Bob said, "is this person. WHO. ARE. THEY."
Nobody knew. This was, to everyone except Bob, a boring and unremarkable fact, same as always.
Bob opened what he called "an investigation" and what everyone else called "several increasingly deranged messages, please stop, this happens every event." He speculated the stranger was a spy, a rival war god, a disgruntled ex-member, and — briefly, at 2am, without explanation — "possibly my father, again, still unresolved from last time."
By the end of it, Bob had accused Apexx of "definitely being in on it," despite Apexx having said maybe four words the entire event and all of them about buff timing.
"I've done nothing," Apexx said.
"That's exactly what someone who's done something would say. Consistent with your past behavior."
By the time Viking Vengeance ended, the alliance had hit its targets, climbed its rankings, celebrated its milestones, and generally performed about as well as a well-run alliance performs when its actual leadership knows what it's doing — for the twelfth time running.
ĐWÖZ thanked HostileTakeOver publicly for a clean, well-managed event. HostileTakeOver, gracious as ever, thanked everyone back.
Bob, still holding the same tired ribboned goat, took a deep bow.
"You're welcome," he said.
Nobody had thanked him. Nobody ever did.
"You're WELCOME," he said again, louder, in case the first one hadn't landed.
It had not landed. It never does. It hasn't landed eleven times running, and Bob remains, against all evidence, undeterred.