On an undiscovered tropical beach, Ouro lies asleep, a Microsoft Surface Pro 6 resting on his chest. Unable to handle the searing heat due to global warming, the tablet/computer hybrid begins to smoke and spark. The smell of burning chest hair (and the pain) jolts Ouro awake.
"Gah!" he exclaims, sweeping the Surface away and patting down the small flames. He looks down. "Great, singed hair and a rectangular tan line. Some sabbatical this is."
Further exposition is interrupted by the sound of whirring helicopter blades in the distance. Ouro heaves himself to his feet and reaches for the assault rifle next to him. He knew his isolation wouldn't last. His reputation was too big, and his Bing search history was too accessible.
The helicopter lands on the beach, and a well-dressed figure jumps out. Peering down the scope of his rifle, Ouro's eyes widen. Retro?
Wearing a full three-piece suit and accompanied by two hulking bodyguards, the leader of GAFIA walks towards Ouro, his empty hands raised.
"Ouro, it's me! Put the non-registered firearm down."
"Prove it," Ouro shouts. "What's your favourite song?"
Retro smiles. "Wonderwall, of course."
Ouro lowers the gun. "How did you find me? I thought I covered all my tracks."
"Phone book."
"...Of course."
"Ouro, I wouldn't come unless it was absolutely-- is that a rectangular tan line on your chest?"
Ouro raises his gun menacingly. The bodyguards move their hands into their jacket pockets.
"...Anyway," Retro continues, "Things are bad. I assume you're keeping up to date?"
"I'm in the middle of nowhere," replies Ouro. "I don't have Internet, so I can't keep my Windows up-to-date."
"Well, to keep a long story short, we were at Swamped's vow renewal ceremony and things got out of hand. Someone abused an override, another used a modkill, and then there was a bagel gun, a tanner, and Gambit--"
"Why did you unnecessarily capitalize 'gambit'?"
"I didn't. The X-Man Gambit was there."
Ouro blinks. He had been away for far too long.
"But apparently it was too much for some. The players and mods are now fighting, and everyone's taking sides. To the mods, the players are too unruly and skirting the rules. To the players, the mods are too heavy-handed and not balancing correctly."
Ouro sighs. "Did they not read my dissertation 'On the Origin of Balance'?"
"No one did. 14,583 pages? Anyway, I thought a time out would solve things, but apparently some of them said 'You're not my dad, Retro' and started running their own Rogue games. Well we couldn't have that, and now we're setting up for a fight."
"Why did you capitalize-- never mind. Is it the kind of fight that takes place at an airport and where no one actually dies?"
"That's what I think. We're just looking for a place with no civilians around to resolve this peacefully--"
A loud explosion interrupts them as Retro's helicopter bursts into flame. Debris flies everywhere.
Retro turns in shock. "My baby!" he wails.
Ouro's mouth drops. Surely the players wouldn't be so ruthless as to--
A piece of debris hits him in the head, sending Ouro to the ground, dazed. His vision blurring, he can make out Retro pulling something from his jacket pocket.
"Oh I had my Switch with me. Crisis averted. But my controllers--"
One of his bodyguards picks up the debris that felled Ouro. "Sir, it's a Joy-Con."
"Yes!" Retro exclaims. After a pause, he tosses it away in disgust. "Of course it was the left one."
He walks over to Ouro. "Flying's out of the question so we'll have to take a... train. But cover up that atrocious tan line first."
Ouro groans. His vacation was over.