You are working on your new computer, the one the salesman enthusiastically told you was "scriff-enabled", and it is indeed tearing fast.  Your enthusiasm keeps you gaming into a thunderstorm, and then Ker-pow!  A bolt of lightning lands on the house, and the lights flicker, your computer monitor dances with sparks, and before you can throw yourself away from it, an arc slams into you...

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Welcome to the verse...

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You wake up feeling relatively fine, but sweaty and hot.  You're laying on your back.  Sand is working its way into the neck of your shirt.  The sand is warm enough to be painful to the touch.

Playtester

"Ah, bollocks!" Robert exclaims in a thick London accent, quickly sitting up and patting at his neck, brushing the sand off. A bead of sweat plips off of his nose as he looks around, raising an eyebrow.

"O... kay."

You look up, and realize you are laying on a sand dune, surrounded by many more sand dunes.  The sky is bright blue and cloudless.  The sun is rising still, and the temperature must be around a hundred degreess, but it is a very dry heat.

Not even a vulture in the sky.

Playtester

"Wha?" He stands, breathing heavily, trying to adapt to the dry heat. He pulls off his hoody and slings it to the ground, taking a long look around before puffing and also pulling his t-shirt off. This was a big difference to the chilly weather outside back home. How in the world did he get here?

He stands, confused and slightly dazed before picking up his clothes and starting off in a random direction. Thank goodness his trainers were holding up. At least, he hoped they were.

You start walking, and within about half-an-hour you can tell you are getting sunburned (unless you have a good tan already, and it did not sound as if you did).

Continuing on, you find more, and more sand dunes.  It gets hotter too, with the sunlight being almost blinding as it lances off the dunes.  But you continue onward.  Its been hours, you're not sure how long.

And then, like a mirage you hear a voice behind you.

"Don't move. I know what you are, and believe me, I'd have no problem sending you on to the next world."  Its an English voice.  And then rising like ghosts out of the sand, about ten feet away, a pair of SpecWar soldiers stand with their automatic weapons aimed at you.

"You're surrounded. Don't make us vape you like the last idiot."  The officer behind you says.

Playtester

He froze as soon as the voice sounded out, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Squinting a little to see who it was, his eyes soon widened when the soldiers appeared from the sands, armed.

"Okay... okay. I'm unarmed. Are you lot with the mob?" He says, hands spread and raised to his shoulders. The 'mob' was the slang term for the M.O.D. used by british armed forces personell.

"Check him."  The officer orders, and another soldier comes forward and frisks you removing your multi-tool.

"Well, it is pleasant to be able to talk intelligibly with one of your sort.  Not like the hillbilly, or last month's crazy man.  To answer your question sir, we are on detached duty assigned to Claude's Corral for Homeless Versers.  We'd like to take you to meet him now."

He hands a bottle of water to you.

"Drink slowly. Wouldn't want to go and die on us or something, now would we."  Its some sort of joke, and the troop laughs.

Playtester

He took a drink of water before wiping the sweat from his brow with his hoody. He frowns when his multitool is taken, but has a mouthful of water, so can't swear without spraying it. Finally, he swallows and looks blankly at the officer.

"'Homeless Versers', 'fraid I don't know what you mean, mate." He says, dusting off his shoulders. "Detached duty? You with the army? Look, mate, I don't know what your on about, but somehow I've ended up here. Look."

He points to his right pocket and then slowly draws out his wallet. If any of the soldiers raise their weapons, he would freeze and let it be taken out for him. He shows his I.D.

"I'm with the Fleet Air Arm. Just get in touch with someone to get me out of here, would'ja?"

"Yes, we are British Army, at least most of us are. SAS mostly.  Michael over there is Delta, borrowed him from the Americans seeing as they want to help C out too."

He examines your id closely, and then looks you straight in the eyes.

"Sir, I have a story to tell you that would be better heard from my superiors. More convincing. They are in London. I have a helicopter a mile away, and then an American cargo plane waiting for us to take us ALL to London.  I have been ordered to take you to London.  Once there, you're more than welcome to explain your position to C, and if need be appeal up the chain of command.  Let me say that I think it will be fruitless, and that Fleet Air Command will agree that you have been reassigned to us, but feel free to dispute that, in London.

Now here, we are in the middle of the Sahara, so lets take a ride shall we?  I have fruit juice in the copter, and sitting here in the dessert waiting for you to climb this rise the last hour has been really hot.

I can offer you some proofs now, but you won't believe the story so I'd rather not.

Last,do I have your word as a British officer that you won't try to escape until we get to London?  Your parole, that is?  Otherwise, I'm going to have to handcuff you.  And neither of us wants to do that."

Playtester

"As long as your working for the good guys, I'm part of the team. You have my word. Now let's get out of this bloody desert." He said with a grin, taking his ID card back and slipping it into his wallet. Then paused.

"Hey, that effin' rise was steep. Aint easy yomping through sand in trainers, you know." He said with a chuckle, heading off with them.

"So your 'sass' lads, ey? Nice." He commented, trying to start up conversation.

They introduce themselves once they get into the helicopter.  Its a very quiet helicopter, and they have a good mike system.

"Yah, I'm sass, but I'm glad I got a chance to form this group, Reptile House.  Less red tape, and more action although Verser Retrieval Missions are teh worst.  Lucky we spend most of our time not training on regular missions.

So how'd you like your job in His Majesty's glorious service?"

PT

He blinked, then paused a moment. "His Majesty? I might have heard that wrong mate, surely you mean Her Majesty?"

His mind was reeling, even though on the outside he seemed pretty calm with it all. Showing up in the middle of the Sahara? This all felt like a dream still, and now this? Very unusual. He was starting to get uneasy about everything.

"Ah, its a verser thing.  No boyo, here its His Majesty Alastair Windsor.  A fine old fellow, used to even hunt the foxes until the doctors told him he was too old."

The helicopter carries you onward through the dessert while they talk among themselves about Manchester United's chances, and about star players whose names you've never heard.

"I hear some versers say that the near-misses are the worst."  The leader says.

Playtester