Trolls

John touched the hilt of his sword nervously. There were too many people involved... too many variables. The barbarian tribes weren't following the discussion at all, if they even wanted to. The Hungarians were suspicious of everyone. John's own officers trusted him as a war leader, not a diplomat.

"Look." John gave his most sincere look to the barbarian envoy. "We can't just give you the lands east of the river. We have allies there. Allies who trust us to look after them."

The barbarian envoy crossed his arms and grunted. "Then you can pretend to fight us for it again." He laughed heartily.

The Hungarian jumped in. "But that's exactly why we're here... so we DON'T fight. Don't you get that?"

The barbarian took a step forward. "Don't you get I was joking, little man?"

John stepped forward with arms outstretched. "Everyone, please. Calm down. We're here to talk, not fight."

A skinny man from the Hungarian retinue stepped forward. "None of this is real."

John raised an eyebrow. "Who is this?"

"You all know this, right? You're just a bunch of zit covered kids connected to the dream vats." He draws his sword. Everyone takes a surprised step back and draws their weapons, including the main Hungarian diplomat.

"Bela, what in the devil's name are you talking about?"

"Control your minion, Zoltan!"

Bela makes a noise like an annoyed horse, jumps about and throws his sword to the ground. "This... is... not... real."

Zoltan, the Hungarian diplomat, stabs his own man in the low back. "Silence, scoundrel!"

There is a low rumble of arguing and then the scene fades, replaced with raucous laughter.

Bruce shoots out of the vat as if he had been stung by a thousand hornets.

"None of this is real!" His fellow fare employees taunt him.

Bruce shrugs. "Fucking dorks."