Fortnightly Writing Contest - ADVENTURE GAME (VOTING OPEN UNTIL OCT 18th)

Started by Mandle, Thu 14/09/2017 11:09:46

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lorenzo

I was thinking about joining the competition, but I write quite slowly in English, and I didn't have much time to write in the last few days. Also, I'm not sure if my story is any good.

Anyway, I would welcome an extension to the competition, though I don't know if I'll manage to finish my entry.

Plus, I want to see how Baron's riveting saga ends!

Mandle

Competition officially extended until October 5th!

(Oh... and trophies coming in early October)

Baron

Quote from: lorenzo on Wed 27/09/2017 08:41:32
I was thinking about joining the competition, but I write quite slowly in English, and I didn't have much time to write in the last few days. Also, I'm not sure if my story is any good.

Fear not, my good friend.  I write exceedingly slowly, and I'm definitely not sure if my story is any good. ;-D  Sometimes you just gotta take some artistic risks and put your work out there. ;)

Spoiler


You decide to retire to the spawning chamber with Mrs. Baron, but first that will require plugging her in.  So many wires, so many different adaptors.....  Darn thing doesn't.... *grunt* ...fit like it... *grrrr* ....like it used to.  There!

   You emerge sweaty and a little greasy from behind Mrs. Baron's universal serial port.  Her blood-red eyes begin to glow menacingly, indicating that she is booting her naughty girl software.  “You really know how to turn me on!” she rasps, shaking her chassis suggestively.  Then she stops, eyes blinking with thoughtful processing.  The hue changes to old-lady-lilac, indicating that she is switching to nag-mode.  You panic and try to reach for the kill-switch, but her crampons snap at your feeble effort.  Then she spits out icily: “Did you remember to put the garbage out?”

   Gah!  The hated garbage chore!  You should never have vaporized that hunch-backed henchman who used to do it for you....  But there's no sense dwelling on the past.  Not unless you're prepared to bring the temporal disruption ray back online.  That would take some serious tinkering and cursing, not to mention tampering with the town's electrical grid again to juice it up properly.  But it'd still be better than putting the garbage out.  Alternatively you could just sneak out in the Baronmobile, banking on Mrs. Baron's fed-up-and-do-it-myself algorithm to kick in and make her do the gargabe.  So many choices!

If you decide to bring the temporal disruption ray back online, turn to post 27.

If you decide to take the Baronmobile for a cruise, turn to post 13.

[close]


Ponch

[This space reserved for a FWC entry coming in a day or two]


His Stories

Outside the little window, it began to rain. It had rained every day since he had come to live here, or so it seemed. His bones ached from the damp. He sighed deeply, feeling his age. A choir of bullfrogs raised their monotonous chant somewhere behind the house. The sound did not bring a smile to his weathered, deeply lined face.

Wrinkled, bare feet shuffled wearily across the living room floor, worn smooth by many years of footsteps too numerous to count.

The music player was hidden inside the thick shelf of the mantle above the fireplace. A cunningly devised panel, blended perfectly into the swirls and grain of the wood, yielded to persistent fingers that knew just where to pry and push. The old man carefully set the panel aside and switched on the device. Music began to play. A woman, most likely dead by now, began to sing soulfully about hard times to come.

The old man smiled wistfully. The singer had been right. Hard times did come. The sunshine was gone. Only rain now, every day.

He needed a drink.

Behind the potted plants in the corner, another hidden panel concealed a mini-bar. He pulled the big, barely tended plant away with a grunt, nudging the leafy fronds aside with his foot where they spilled down onto the carpet in a thick, green spray. Groaning softly, he eased down onto one knee -- something that was getting harder to do with each passing season. With a well-practiced tug, the panel hiding the mini-bar popped loose. He opened the little door and cold, refrigerated air spilled out. He smiled for just a moment. Then he heard the compressor rattle into life behind the wall.

One of these days, he thought glumly, that thing's finally going to die. And getting a repairman I can trust to come all the way out here is going to cost me an arm and a leg.

He pulled the jug of cold ale out and reluctantly closed the door of the mini-bar, trapping the rest of the cold air inside, where it couldn't escape.

He took a deep breath, readying himself for the hardest part. Cursing a steady stream of the foulest profanity, he forced his knee to lever his body back up to a standing position.

Trudging stiff-legged through the small house, still cursing softly, he made his way into the kitchen. There, mixed in among the innocuous little bottles of seasonings on the spice rack over the sink, were the only secret treasures he didn't feel the need to hide away. They were hidden in plain sight. And why not? Who ever bothered to really examine someone's spice rack?

"Shit biscuits," he muttered with a smile, in better spirits now even though his knee was still aching. "Little motherfucking cunt waffles, where are you? You little dick pickles... Shove you up a half-priced whore's -- Ah ha! There you are!"

From the irregular rows of little glass bottles, he deftly plucked two: One filled with brown sugar, and another almost half-full of nutmeg.

He walked over to the sink, carrying the spices and the cold ale, droplets of condensed water already beginning to appear on the surface of the glass jug. He thought about using the microwave hidden in the floor at the foot of the bed, but decided to spare his protesting knee the abuse. Besides, he would need his knee later to get to the especially well-hidden stash of porn inside the walls of bathroom linen closet.

He smiled at the thought of all the self-abuse that lay ahead of him tonight.

"Friday night," he said to the empty house. "Daddy's gonna beat his meat like it owes him money."

He chuckled, pouring the ale into the old pot hanging just above the flames in the fireplace. He mixed in a generous amount of spices, stirring it with a wooden spoon. Once the aleberry came to a boil, he could get a nice buzz going. Once his inhibitions were down, he would be able to look at his very best porn without feeling guilty about it.

The aroma of spiced alcohol began to waft through the small house. The old man smiled. It had been a while since he had treated himself to such an extravagant night.

"Gonna sleep like a baby tonight," he mused to himself. "Probably be sore tomorrow, but that's what I get for buying the 'Big Daddy Buttplu-'"

He stopped mid-sentence, his smile suddenly brittle, frozen in place. Over the din of the frogs and the other animals outside, he could hear, very faintly, the distinctive sound that spelled the end of his special evening.

Engines.

"Fucksticks," he hissed, then more loudly, "Shitpiss!"

He scrambled through the house, as fast as his old legs would go, trying to get everything hidden again. The whine of the engines was getting louder. He threw the pot of simmering liquor out the open window. The hot rain of booze finally silenced the frogs.

"Cum guzzling ass sniffer!"

The mini-bar was hidden behind the plant again. He dashed over to the music player and shut it off.

"Stupid boy! Twatlapping cocksucker!"

He fumbled with the mantelpiece panel, trying to get it back into place without breaking it.

"Hillbilly turdburglar! Can't an old fart get his fucknutting rocks off in piece?"

The thought of his best porn going unused in the darkness of the linen closet made his old heart ache deeply, just like his balls. Outside, the engines idled loudly, dangerously close.

"Fucktard!" he grumbled as he dug through his junk drawer, trying to find something useless but shiny to distract the person who was going to walk through the front door any moment now.

"Flaming cockwad!!" he spat out as he shuffled to his spot in the middle of the living room. He stood, intentionally stooping a little, trying to look more wise and less horny, trying hard to think of something to tell the boy.

"Fuck off, you little cockwipe. Daddy's got things to do," he mumbled to himself, turning the widget he had pulled from the drawer of junk over and over in his hand, hidden behind his back.

He sighed, forcing himself to adopt the proper attitude.

"I'm worried," he said, practicing the words he would say. "There's a cloning facility on... No, no, no. Say it right you old goat. Say it right."

He cleared his throat and began again.

"Worried am I. A cloning facility there is, on the forest world of Narsa." He nodded to himself. "There it is. Daddy's still got it."

Outside he heard the boy's voice. "C'mon, Artoo. Let's find Yoda."

"You're gonna find my dick in your ass in a minute, you party pooping sonofabitch," the old man grumbled. He rolled his eyes in these last, precious minutes before his guest arrived. "Find my dick in your ass, you will. Party pooper, are you."

He felt the weight of the old power chip from a broken nav-unit in his palm. It was a pretty crappy quest item, he had to admit.

But it's not like this hick kid gave me much time to prepare tonight. The boy never does, really. This kid just shows up unannounced all the time, looking for me to give him something to do.

"Get a job you should, shitpickle. Be useful, youngling, instead of just sexy, why not?" Yoda muttered to himself just before Luke entered the house without knocking, as usual.

The boy let himself into the house, dripping water all over the floor. Tonight, it was very easy for Yoda to look grim and serious, and his loose robes hid the shape of his disappointed gherkin. Why did the boy have to be so damn sexy?

Only reason I let you drop by all the time, he thought to himself. An ass that won't quit, have you, hmmm? Yes. Powerful ass.

The boy looked at him expectantly, as always.

"Worried am I, Luke," Yoda began, spinning a new story.


(A bite-sized story for a bite-sized game. My game, of course, was the second greatest game in LucasArts' "Desktop Adventures" series: Yoda Stories.)



Mandle


Baron

Awesome! 8-)

Spoiler


   You decide to cower like a turtle in your sleek and powerful Baronmobile shell.  The gangstas swarm around outside, trying to bash your lights with sledgehammers and scuff your chrome work with steel wool, but all to no avail.  Inside your impenetrable mobile fortress you are a god-king of patience and old Archie comics.  You idly think of zapping them with your inverted voltage field, but decide that it is more degrading to let them exhaust themselves in their futile pursuits.
   
   You laugh maniacally at your brilliance, accidentally slamming your clenched fist onto the emergency auto-eject button.  You soar eagle-like into the air, and at the apex of your arc your parachute engages, bringing you floating slowly down into the midst of your reinvigorated enemies.  You have the taste of hubris in your mouth as you descend relentlessly down to meet your fate.  Hi fate!

You've been a real pantload!  The end.

[close]

JudasFm

I'm also going to split posts, because this latest installment pushed my first story post over the character limit. I'll stick a link to this post in the first one so it won't be too jarring and another link to part four for ease of reading.

Anyway, here's installment three! Only one more to go and my entry's complete! :D

Part 3: Afternoon/Early Evening

Spoiler

Alexander hadn't thought he would miss Manannan.

His life as the wizard's slave had been hard, cruel, often painful but one thing it had never been was boring. Alexander had often dreamed about what it would be like to sit back with nothing to do, nowhere to go, just himself and the freedom to relax.

Now he had it, he was climbing the walls. He could go out walking, and Daventry was beautiful enough for him to genuinely enjoy doing so, but the need to return by evening limited his range somewhat. He couldn't even watch the stars; there were too many candles and torches around the castle for him to really see them. Manannan's place may have been gloomy, but the night view from the top of the mountain had been breathtaking. Alexander often used to sneak outside until Manannan caught him one terrible night. Since then, he'd kept all stargazing to out of his window.

His window. His room. Occasionally he caught himself thinking it would be worth being back with Manannan just to have the privacy of his own room. Alexander wasn't sure why, but his room was the one place in the entire house that the wizard had never entered. The one place he'd been able to relax, as much as anyone in his position could.

Here, it was different. Servants were coming in and out, the queen breezing in to wake him for breakfast or etiquette or some more fitting sessions and everyone else treating his room as their own. Two weeks in, Alexander had resorted to putting a Do Not Disturb notice on the door, and half an hour later his room had been invaded by the royal physician, half a dozen assistants and his worried mother all demanding to know what was wrong, was he sick, was he injured, what was going on with him?

On the one hand, it was certainly nice to be able to walk around and take a stroll now and again without the possibility of being fried to ash for the privilege. On the other, he was going out of his mind. There was too much going on, too much surrounding him and too many things he had to do and remember and people to talk to and royal functions to attend where all of the above problems boiled together into one single nightmare. To someone who had had very little social interaction growing up, it was the equivalent of hell. There was another one tomorrow, with the ambassador of such-and-such, and right there Alexander decided he was going to skip it. He wasn't worried about being hungry â€" his caches would take care of that, and even if he couldn't get to one, he'd skipped a meal before. You didn't die from it.

He had good cause to remind himself of this on the return journey, as he took a little longer than usual and by the time he arrived at the castle, the shadows were starting to get long and he knew lunch must have been over long ago. He managed to sneak in without running into anyone who might have asked awkward questions and headed straight for his room.

For a wonder, it was empty when he got to it and Alexander paused to savor this. Usually there were servants coming and going or people coming in wanting to talk to him and pester him and demand his attention.

This time the servants had been and gone while Alexander had been out by the lake. They'd made his bed, or at least had a good attempt at it. Alexander had already learned that Graham wasn't so strict about perfection as Manannan had been and so with a sigh he stripped the sheets back and started to remake the bed to his own standards.

He'd got as far as the second layer of blankets before his bedroom door opened.

"You should call a servant to do that," Rosella said from behind him.

Alexander gave her an irritated look. "They've got enough to keep them busy. Why add to their workload when I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself?"

"We're royalty. We don't do housework."

"I've noticed. Your mother would faint if anyone suggested she wash a dish or sweep the floor. Well, I suppose the rank hath their privilege." Alexander pulled the counterpane tightly across. "Besides, the servants don't do a good enough job."

"Then tell the housekeeper and she'll see that they're punished."

Punished. The word was enough to make Alexander's body twitch with remembered pain, even as he knew that the punishment in question would probably be no more than a stern telling off. Certainly the court wizard would never hang them upside down for hours at a time, or force them to exercise until their body was screaming for release, unconsciousness, anything to end the suffering.

"That's not necessary." He passed a hand over the bedclothes, smoothing them until they lay on the mattress like velvet glass.

Two minutes later, Rosella sat on them. "You weren't at lunch."

"I know I wasn't." His stomach knew as well, but Alexander ignored it. He'd stashed away some bread and a hunk of mutton yesterday and he was looking forward to a good meal as soon as Rosella left him alone.

"Didn't you feel well?"

Why did everyone want to know everything about him? Was privacy really such a dirty word in this place?

"I'm fine, Rosella. I just went to the lake and lost track of time. I'm not really hungry, anyway."

His stomach disagreed with a loud rumble and Alexander placed a hand on it as though quieting a large dog.

"You weren't at breakfast either. When do you eat, Alexander?"

The answer to that was frequently. Alexander was used to furtive bites snatched here and there in between chores and no matter how much he tried to tell himself it was crazy, that no one here would care, he still thought of eating as something to be done in secret.

"We're all really worried about you, you know."

Alexander sighed. This wasn't Rosella talking, he knew that much. His sister was just as cautious about him as he was about her and the rest of the family, which made for a refreshing change and made her the only person in the whole castle who he could sort of relax around. She certainly wouldn't have come into his room to interrogate him of her own free will.

"Who put you up to this? Was it your mother?"

"Don't call her that. She's your mother as well. And she's really trying."

"My thoughts exactly," Alexander said dryly. "Did you come here for anything in particular? I'm not in the mood for small talk."

"I thought you might like this." Rosella held out an obsidian scarab. "It's a charm to protect against the undead."

Alexander stared at it with hungry eyes. Apart from the obvious magical nature, which drew him in like a bee to a honeypot, the item itself was a true work of art. He reached out, hesitated, then drew his hand back. His eyes, dark and narrow with suspicion, caught Rosella's gaze and held them.

"Why?"

"Because you're into magic things and I'm not."

"And?" The idea of an unconditional gift was beyond Alexander's world. The closest he could get to the idea was payment in advance for services about to be rendered. Fair enough, he had no issue with that, but he did wish people would stop dancing around the truth of the matter.

Rosella bit her lip. "And I want to talk to you. Really talk, not just have you wait for me to leave you alone, because I think you're the only person who can understand what I went through in Tamir."

"Unless you were captured and enslaved by an evil wizard in between being sneezed out of a whale and your assorted bouts of grave robbing, that's very unlikely."

Rosella tossed her hair back and fixed Alexander with a rather cool stare. "Do you want the scarab or not?"

Alexander returned her stare without blinking for several seconds, his face unreadable. Rosella shifted her weight, hoping none of her discomfort showed. Even though she'd been born two and a half hours before he had, at times like this she felt like Alexander was far older than she could ever hope to be.

One corner of Alexander's mouth quirked into a grim smile and he held out his hand. Rosella dropped the scarab into it and Alexander settled himself on the floor, back against the dresser, running a thumb over his prize.

"Go on."

Rosella picked at the counterpane with a perfect fingernail. "Is Manannan dead?"

Alexander blinked. Out of all the questions he'd been expecting Rosella to lead with, that wasn't even on the list.

"Maybe," he answered. "I suppose he might be picked off by an eagle or something if he goes outside." What would the wizard eat? For a moment Alexander entertained himself with the thought of Manannan being forced to lunch on insects and dead rodents. It wasn't an unpleasant image.

"But you didn't kill him?"

"No." Alexander turned the scarab over and examined the underside. There was something carved there, something in letters or sigils so tiny that he'd need a magnifying glass to make it out.

"Would you have? If you could?"

"Of course." How was it enchanted? Maybe Rosella had invented the obsidian scarab in her story. Or maybe this was a replica. No matter; he wasn't planning to put it to the test and the pure beauty of the carving made it a fair payment in his book.

"Wouldn't you have felt guilty? I mean, he was the closest thing to a father you had growing up."

"Not in the least." Alexander's voice was so neutral Rosella couldn't tell whether he was answering her question or her statement, or possibly both. "Why are you so interested in this?"

Rosella's mouth worked for a few moments but no sound came out. At last she blurted, "I killed Lolotte."

Alexander's head snapped up and Rosella could see he was finally giving her his undivided attention.

"Lolotte?" He stared at her for a few seconds. Rosella could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he said, half to himself, "So that's who..."

"You know her?"

"No, but I found a letter in Manannan's desk that was signed by someone called L. It didn't register when you first told your story."

Rosella stared at him. "You mean they knew each other?"

"Probably. I can't think Manannan would have had many other correspondents whose names began with L, and from what you said about her and what was in that letter, it seems like the same person."

"Did she ever come to the house? Or did Manannan go to see her?"

Alexander shrugged. "If she did, I never knew about it, and I can't think Manannan would have served her refreshments himself. He went out on journeys quite a lot though, maybe one of those was to pay her a visit. But when you told everyone your story, you said you...what was it? Enchanted her?"

"You didn't believe that, did you?"

Alexander shook his head. "No. Nor would anyone else who knows even half a thing about magic. If you enchanted her, where did you find the spell? How did you collect the ingredients while you were locked up? Lolotte's a fairy so she wouldn't need a magic wand, so what did you use to cast the spell? I knew there was more to the story than that."

Rosella tilted her head to one side. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I've had first-hand experience of just how aggravating it is to have people poking their noses into your affairs and trying to drag all your secrets and feelings out into the open for them to have a good look at!" Alexander took a deep breath, fought the damn emotions back under control and smoothed his face back into an expression of polite attention, all in under two seconds. "So you thought that since I possibly killed someone, I might be able to help with brotherly advice about how to cope with the guilt, is that it?"

"Yes. Or just, well, listen."

Alexander shrugged. "I don't see how my listening to you talk is going to help with your problems, but if that's what you want in exchange for the scarab, then fine. Talk away."

Now the time had come, Rosella didn't know where to begin. Alexander didn't help; he just sat there watching her like he watched everyone, with the same unblinking intensity that a hawk watches its prey.

"I had an arrow left. The love arrows I picked up, there was only one and I had it left over. I found my way up to her bedroom and she was asleep and so I, well, I used the arrow."

Alexander's look shifted to one of bafflement. "You wanted her to fall in love with you? Wasn't it bad enough having one person in that tower obsessed with you?"

"No! I didn't want that! I just...I thought if I could turn her good, she'd give the talisman back of her own free will. I wanted to show her that there was another way to be. That even though she'd locked me up, I was still going to behave in an honorable manner towards her."

"So you shot her in her sleep. I see."

"I didn't want to kill her. I really didn't know what would happen."

Alexander stared at her. "You fired an arrow into someone's heart at near point-blank range and you didn't know they would die? I'm curious; what exactly did you think they would do? Turn into a tea-cozy?"

"I am not a violent girl, Alexander!"

"You shot someone. That's quite violent." Alexander sighed. "Why did you really come? To get help with your feelings? Or because you wanted one person in this place to condone what you did so you can go back to feeling like you're a nice, kind person who never put a foot wrong? Ahâ€"" Rosella's head had flown upâ€" "I thought so."

"I had no choice."

"Of course you had a choice. Everyone has a choice. I could have chosen to stay with Manannan. I could have chosen not to untie you. I could have chosen to make a new life for myself in Llewdor and I'm starting to wishâ€"" Alexander broke off and bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, but it was too late to take the words back.

"That you had," Rosella finished very quietly.

Alexander looked away, his lips tight.

"I saw someone in the Cave of the Oracle. In these clothes." He jerked one hand down his body for emphasis. "He was the Crown Prince of Daventry, he had all the etiquette malarkey down pat and he could behave perfectly and make small talk but he wasn't me! The real me got choked and stifled under all this!"

"You should tell Father this."

Alexander snorted. "And get my head cut off for daring to defy the King of Daventry? No thank you."

There was no obvious change in Rosella's expression, but to Alexander's eyes it suddenly seemed full of pity.

"Father isn't Manannan, Alexander."

Alexander snorted. "No. I knew where I stood with Manannan." He hadn't liked where he'd been standing, and he certainly didn't regret his actions against the wizard, but there was no denying that his life as a slave had been wonderfully uncomplicated compared to this. "Was there anything else you wanted?"

There was no gracious way to ignore such a pointed dismissal and Rosella rose to her feet, leaving a rumpled counterpane behind her.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?"

Alexander didn't look at her. "Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. Of course. I can tell Father you're tired and decided to have an early night, but are you really alright going for the whole day with nothing to eat?"

Alexander thought of the mutton and bread he'd squirreled away and felt his stomach purr in anticipation. "I'm sure I'll survive. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Alright." Rosella stood there awkwardly and then, when Alexander didn't acknowledge her, walked over to the door. "Well...I suppose I'll see you in the morning then."

"Yeah. Maybe." Alexander waited until he heard the door click shut behind Rosella, turned to make sure she'd actually gone through it, then headed over to the chest at the foot of his bed where he kept the few things he'd brought from Llewdor. Unlatching the clasp, he flipped it open.

It was empty.

Well, not empty; it had been filled with clothes much like the outfit he was now wearing. Princely gear. Were his things underneath it? A servant dumping clothes all over his ingredients and spells was an inconvenience, but one he could live with easily enough.

Every single outfit was strewn around him on the floor before Alexander realized the truth: all his magic ingredients and spells he'd brought with him were gone.

Gone and destroyed. Or sold. He hoped it was the latter; someone might as well get some good out of his hard work. Thank god he'd had the sense to keep the wand on him, otherwise he'd have lost that too, but that was secondary. Uppermost in his mind was the thought of someone coming into his room when he was out and rummaging around through his things, poking their noses inâ€"Alexander yanked the raging emotions back under control and closed his eyes, imagining himself wrapped in ice until he was outwardly as calm as ever, although it was some time before he trusted himself to move. When he did, he picked up the clothes, folded them neatly and replaced them in the chest. No point making extra work for the servants. It wasn't their fault his things had been taken, or if it was, then Alexander was sure they'd only been obeying orders.

He picked up a chair, carried it over to his bedroom door and wedged it under the handle. It wouldn't keep people out for long, but it would give him some warning if anyone decided to come in.

That done, he went over to the closet and opened it. It had taken him a lot of patient maneuvering but at last he'd been able to pry up the bottom, providing him with a small hiding place. He knew the royals would be aware of his under-the-bed stash; that was nothing more than a decoy.

He lifted out a piece of bread that had been wrapped in oilcloth to keep it fresh and a slab of mutton that was as thick as the bread itself, put the mutton on the bread and proceeded to enjoy his daily meal. Luckily the cook didn't ask questions and, so long as Alexander kept his requests fairly simple, was happy to oblige.

Hunger satisfied, Alexander lay down on his bed and picked up the book he'd been reading from his nightstand, settling in for some good reading. The book in question â€" A Concise Description of Ruling Families in the Eastern Three â€" was one Valanice had insisted he read, all about the ruling families in the Eastern Three, that group of continents several days' sail from Daventry. Although Alexander hadn't been impressed by the plain cover or the fact that the book was some six inches thick and only readable if he lay on his stomach, it was very well written for such a dry subject, citing interviews with people who had met the families or worked for them, personal anecdotes and memoirs, making for a surprisingly good read.

He didn't know how long he lay there absorbed in tales of places like Aruatoll and Al-Muradhi, only that he was rudely interrupted by the sound of someone attempting to open his bedroom door.

"Alexander?" Graham's voice came from outside. "Open the door."

For a moment Alexander was tempted to ignore him, then he pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. It was getting a bit too dark to read easily and he'd have to light the lamp. He might as well open the door at the same time. Agree with everything Graham said and he'd be left alone again.

He pulled the door away and opened the door. Graham was standing outside but made no move to come in.

"Why didn't you come to dinner?" he asked.

The few hours of reading had calmed Alexander to the point where he didn't have to fight to keep his voice neutral as he replied, "I wasn't hungry, Your Majesty."

Graham winced as though the last two words were physically painful. "You weren't at breakfast or lunch either."

"I wasn't aware anyone particularly required my presence, Sire. Had I known, I would have remained here instead of going out."

Graham took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out slowly.

"Alexander, come with me. We need to talk."
[close]

Next part

Baron

Split posting really is the way to go.  It's liberating in an artistic, Jackson-Pollock-meets-Lost kinda way.  I recommend all entrants try it.:=

Spoiler


   You decide to relaunch your failed bid to activate the temporal disruption ray.  Last time you got so far as siring a super race of sonic death blob-fishes before chronotonic instabilities brought the whole paradox crashing down.  The melt-down convergence of realities would have surely destroyed your whole castle-lair-place if not for your quick-thinking use of your handy toilet plunger to send the fiery paradox slushing around the galactic plumbing down in the anti-matter spectrum.  Sure, it'd probably gurgle back up eventually to overflow your entire dimension with chronodoxical half-nonsense and various other meta-corporeal fluids, but by that time you figure you can recklessly set loose an even bigger, nastier paradox to kick its ass.

   You start fiddling with some of the more deadly phase inverters in your doodad drawer when you hear an ominous clunking sound coming from the spawning chamber above.  Uh oh!  It sounds like you might have accidentally rammed the wrong power adaptor into Mrs. Baron's universal serial port, thereby hyper-charging her.  You hate it when that happens!

   Past experience dictates that you have only moments before she bursts upon you in full erotic death-lust.  Last time she tried to surgically impregnate you with her eggs and suspend you upside down in the sprouting chamber as food for her writhing proto-spawn.  You only barely managed to escape by feigning a headache and escaping down the main bilge duct.  But by the sounds of it she's now juiced to the nines, so that trick might not work again.  Throwing caution to the wind you activate the temporal disruption ray and hope for the best!

Turn to post 18.

[close]

Sinitrena

An Experiment in Consciousness



When I wake up, it is still dark around me. I feel confused, not knowing where I am, though I should be used to it by now. How often was it? A hundred times? A thousand? I don‘t know. I only care to be angry. And I keep quiet all the same. I can‘t change it. I can‘t do anything.

As a matter of fact, I can‘t move. I‘ve learned this a long time ago. It is not the total darkness that keeps me still. It is just the way it is. For now, I am nothing but a statue.

If I could feel the world around me, there would be nothing yet. No furniture, no nature, no people. I‘m standing on nothing. Not on empty air. Air would be something.

Why can‘t I move? Because it‘s not time yet. I know the presence of the interface more than I can see or even feel it. It is there, right there in front of my unseeing eyes, pressed against my very being, somehow even wrapped around my body that is still a mere thought.

When the light comes, it comes with all the features of my world, the background and the objects. Suddenly I notice the weight of my backpack and start to remember all the contents of my inventory.

I look around. My eyes are allowed to move. It was always like that; only eyes and mind really seem to belong to me. Otherwise I am a willing slave and my master has all the control.

Where am I? And when? These two are intertwined, of course. Some rooms I enter more than once in the course of the story but many are only used once. I never understood why my world had to be so empty.

I stand in a corridor. The door behind me is open, the one in front is closed. Locked, of course. I know this, my master probably does not. At least, I'm fairly sure he never remembers. To the left of me is a wall and to the right is the nothingness I fear more than anything else. Unlike the darkness that reaches me when my world springs to life, this nothingness is white. And that is the only way to describe it. It is white and bright and eternal and I want to run away from it. There, somewhere behind this light, is someone who controls every step I take, when and if I speak, though not the words. The words, the dialog was given to me by...

The eye is on the door and my head snaps around. The click runs through my whole body. It forces me to see, it forces me to remember, it forces me to speak.

“This is the door to the laboratory. There's probably an experiment going on right now.”

Probably, as if I don't know everything about it. After all, I've lived through this a thousand times.

Before I can think much more, the cursor changes to a hand and my feet force me forward. My hand touches the door, just brushing past it, because this is all the protest I can achieve.

“It seems the door is locked. That usually means an experiment is on progress.” I just said this!

The master forces me to look around some more. There is nothing here, of course. I could have told him that, but nobody ever asks me. Nobody cares if I want to be here. I'm supposed to save my daughter from an evil scientist, but I know that I won't succeed. I know that she dies and there's only revenge left for me. I know that I will open this stupid door just when the scientist presses the button and the chemicals explode. They both die and I am thrown back. The politician who ordered the experiment is still alive and I can take my revenge on him. Again and again.

The first time, I was devastated. I screamed, not just on the outside, as the game made me do, but on the inside. I couldn't think for weeks and months afterwards.

Now, there is nothing. I feel nothing. Maybe I am bored. That's all that is left to feel for the death of my daughter. It's not even emptiness and shock. Not even that. All that would tell me that I am, that I am real, that she was real, but the nothingness just reminds me that I'm nothing but pixels.

“The door is locked.” I told you already, you idiot.

I hadn't even noticed that he made me try the door again. It's been so long since I cared, that I did more than going through the motions.

If only I could break out of this routine, but I can't. I tried. I swear I tried.

“That doesn't work.” Why the fuck do you think that would work?

Putting a broom against a metal door â€" I've seen this before too. I think I've seen everything before. No stupid idea, no unusual combination of items could still surprise me.

And now he's looking around for a key and I repeat myself over and over again. I'm sure I said this all before, not just in other saves but in this as well. And yes, putting my daughter's photo against the microscope is certainly a bright idea. What do you hope to find, a secret code? It's a fucking photo I fucking took when she was two and playing in her sandbox, you brain-dead, head-amputated moron. Stop playing around with the only thing I'll have left of her once you get this stupid door open.

I hardly notice when he finally finds the right solution to the puzzle. I doubt he thought it through. He was just wildly clicking on everything. Maybe he was frustrated. I hope he was frustrated. Maybe he hates the game now. Maybe he'll turn it off and never play again. One can hope, right? Right. As if.

He hides me behind the door when the assistant leaves the room. So maybe he did think it through. Whatever. The sooner we get this over with, the better. And luckily, it is now time for the cut-scene. In the past, I hated it. It was the death of my daughter and I have even less agency than at other times.

“An experiment in consciousness!” the scientist cries â€" I always thought he was overly dramatic and stereotypical â€" and spreads his arms wide.

I stand there, frozen in shock, or so I am supposed to. In truth, I just stand there, because someone decided I should not move during this scene. Why would a mother run up to her kidnapped child or to the frail old man who kidnapped her? That's a stupid notion. No, I mother just stands there and waits while the evil scientist monologues and strolls over to the button that will change her life forever.

And not in the way people think. As I said, I've long stopped caring about my daughter's death.

“I create life. I create knowledge. I create a mind where there is none. I give awareness to those who are not, who think not...”

At first I thought these were just the usual ramblings of a madman. As I said, he is very stereotypical with his white lab-coat, the Albert-Einstein-hair and the thick glasses sitting askew on his nose. But then I realized, that the first time I saw this scene was also the first time I started to think instead of just doing as I was told.

How?, I scream, but my words stay in my head. They always do. A mind alone is not enough. And I'm still missing a voice.

I want to cry but of course I can't. And so another chance to find an answer passes me by.

I hardly notice when the player brings up the save-load-GUI just seconds later. It's visible to me in a sort of hazy bar in front of the nothingness that is the fourth wall. I shudder as the game is saved.

I fall into unconsciousness as it is closed.

Baron

All these submissions make me think that I really should get started on continuing my introductory sentence.... (roll)

Spoiler


     Seething at your correspondent's ill-refined sense of hue and saturation, you quickly type out some block-cap words that a greater man than you might come to regret.  You are on the verge of pressing send when a small, fluttery sensation holds you back.  What is that?  Conscience?  You're pretty sure you had that excised back in '98 along with that nasty three pronged growth on your inner thigh....  No, wait.  Operation Fuzzy Pickle!  You'd almost forgotten that you need to keep in Ponch's good graces in case you need to activate him as a sleeper agent.  You wouldn't want all that low-res subliminal hypnosis to go to waste....

   Blast!  You decide you'll just have to swallow this one, like a bitter pill of cadmium and brussel sprout juice.  Maybe it would be for the best if you just took a break.  You could kick your shoes off and graft some implants down in the sprouting chamber, or maybe you could squeeze some more soylent blue out of one of the mimes you have harnessed to the back-up reactor for a bit of a midnight snack....

   Before you can decisively end a paragraph with a solid period your cavernous layer is rocked by an earth-shattering luminescence.  WTF?!?  It had better not be another planetary invasion by that god-like alien race of Sentient Plasma Hiccoughs....  Last time it took two solid days working the phase-vac and the squishemizer to get them bottled up.  Come to think of it, where did you leave those highly-radioactive, highly-unstable re-purposed soda bottles?  But this seems more like a temporal distortion anomaly than a pan-dimensional phase portal anyway.  Curious, you to investigate.

Turn to post 18.

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Mandle

Wow, Sinitrena, your story was amazing!

I really felt trapped in the role of the cEgo as she

Spoiler
played out again and again her tragic role. I really hoped she could smash through the white wall and take back control of her life. But it was not to be. I felt some shades of Groundhog Day as well, which is never a bad thing.
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AWESOME STORY!

Baron

Quote from: Ponch on Thu 28/09/2017 02:22:40
[This space reserved for a FWC entry coming in a day or two]

This was six days ago.  I'm worried that Ponch is too awesome to follow through on this one.  Maybe we should stage a Texan-style intervention with square dancing and Indian arm burns? (nod)

Spoiler


   You jump on your emergency ultra pogo-stick and bounce merrily to freedom, cackling maniacally as you do so.  Buwuhahahhahahaha!!  Now there is the smoggy glow of sunrise on the horizon, and the rays of a new dawn fill your brooding soul with hope for the future.  Mayhaps you were unable to bring the world to heel this wretched night, but your day will come.  One day you will be victorious in your quest to dominate a loosely affiliated retro-gaming society on the internet, and through them the entire human race!  Biding your time you bounce merrily along, bouncing and biding, biding and bouncing, into the happy brilliance of a new beginning.

You are awesome!  The end

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JudasFm

My entry is finally done! I was going to do another part with Graham and Valanice, but I ran out of time. Again, sorry but I had to split the post as it went over the character limit.

Part 4: Evening/Late Night

Spoiler

Alexander didn't budge. "Where are we going?"

Graham regarded his son for a few moments before answering quietly, "Not to the chopping block, if that's what you're frightened of. Or the gallows, or the stake, or to anywhere that could be considered remotely dangerous to you."

Still his son didn't move. "Does this place have a dungeon?"

Graham sighed. "Alexander, if I really wanted to throw you in the dungeon, I'd call the guards and have them do just that. Except I wouldn't, because I don't do that kind of thing. But if you really want to know then yes, there are two dungeons in this castle but no one can find the key for one of them and the other one is full of cheese. We don't solve problems that way in Daventry. To tell you the truth, a king from the Eastern Three sent me a matching pair of thumbscrews as a coronation gift and we use them for cracking nuts."

Alexander backed off half a step. "As in, the edible kind?"

"Yes. Come on." Graham turned and walked away, leaving Alexander to follow him as he led the way through the castle and up onto the ramparts.

Nobody else was there. Graham had made sure of that. If Alexander wouldn't speak to him in private, he certainly wouldn't want to do it in front of witnesses.

There was a click as Alexander shut the door behind him and stood in front of it, waiting.

Graham moved over to the edge, looking out on the countryside beneath him.

"It's a nice view from here."

Alexander didn't move away from the wall. "I'll take your word for it, Sire."

Did his own son really have such a low opinion of him? Graham would have been the first to admit things weren't going as well between them as he hoped, but did Alexander seriously believe that his father was displeased enough to kill him? That he would even consider such a thing? Or maybe he was reading too much into this. Maybe Alexander was simply afraid of heights.

The casual approach obviously wasn't working. Graham turned around to face his son, both of them illuminated by the torches flickering on the walls.

"How are you? And Alexander, if you say you're fine then I probably will throw you off the roof!"

Alexander shrugged. "Good, then."

Graham sighed. "You're not fine, you're not good and we both know it. Now why don't we start again: how are you?"

So it was to be that game, Alexander thought. Manannan had sometimes done something similar, where Alexander had faced severe punishment if he didn't tell the wizard what he was expecting to hear.

"Why don't you tell me? You've obviously picked out the answer for yourself, you don't need me to give it to you."

Graham looked at his son for a long, long time. At last he said, "Alright, I will. You're jumping at shadows, you clearly don't trust anyone in this castle and your one thought seems to be to get as far away from us as you can for as long as you can. Am I wrong?"

Alexander didn't reply.

"Alexander, I want you to do something for me. I'm going to ask you a question and when I do, I don't want you to think about the answer. I don't want you to worry about how I might react. I want you to say the first thing that comes into your head." Seeing Alexander shift away slightly, Graham added, "You won't be punished for doing so, whatever you might say. Alright?"

Alexander stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Good. What do you want to do?"

"I want to leave Daventry!"

Graham closed his eyes slowly, leaning against the wall for support. The truth really did hurt, even when you were expecting it.

"I see," he said very quietly.

He opened his eyes to see Alexander looking rather shell-shocked. He supposed it was the first time his son had ever succeeded in voicing a wish or opinion of his own.

"Youâ€"" Alexander coughed, cleared his throat and tried again. "You should get back inside, Your Majesty. It's late and you have a meeting with that ambassador tomorrow."

"Damn the ambassador! Alexander, if you tell me how you feel â€" really tell me â€" maybe we can work on a solution together."

"I don't think you have any interest in how I feel, Sire."

Graham swallowed back his knee-jerk protest with an enormous effort, instead striving for a calm tone as he asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Since I came back, I've lost my clothes, my magic items; even my damn name! Everything I had that you could take from me, you took! Everywhere I turn, it's the same damn thing: do this, don't do that, we control your movements, your clothes, your name, everything you're allowed to have or not have must be cleared with us first!" Alexander struggled to stop the words spilling from his lips, failed and finally let them flow out of him unhindered. If he was going to be punished for insolence, he might as well deserve it. "I'm no freer here than I was in Llewdor. Train Alexander up, make him say what we want, act like we want, wear what we want and live the life we want. I'll say this much for Manannan; he may have considered me no more than a slave to serve his ends, but at least he was honest about it! All these years, you've had some mental image of what kind of man I'd grow into, and you and your wife are put out because the real thing is different. You can dress it up in any kind of fancy words and excuses you like, but that's what it boils down to." Alexander shook his head. "Manannan was right. The last thing he said to me before I left was you'll never be a prince. You've been a pauper too long. The moment I came back it was all parades in my honor, stick my face on a coin, formal dinners, etiquette lessons, get ready to take over the throne and be a noble, courteous prince, but none of you ever bothered to ask me what I wanted."

"Then I'll ask you now, although from your words, I think I already know what your answer will be." Graham's voice was heavy. "What do you want?"

Alexander didn't hesitate. "To be left alone. To be allowed to enjoy the freedom I worked so hard and risked so much to earn, without being hounded about this point of etiquette or that one. Let Rosella find a good, solid prince, let the two of them inherit the throne after you've gone, and let me go."

Graham forced himself not to look away from his son as he answered very quietly, "Alright."

Judging from the shock that darted across Alexander's face, it had never once occurred to him that Graham might say yes.

"If you really want to go that badly, then go," Graham said. "You're not a prisoner, and I'm sorry if we ever made you feel like you were. You don't have to worry; I won't come after you."

Alexander smiled, the bitterest smile Graham had ever seen.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Where will you go? Back to Llewdor?"

Alexander didn't answer his father, just looked at him.

Graham sighed. "Very well. But I hope you don't believe me capable of kidnapping you, whatever else you think of me. And you can come back whenever you want. There won't be any attention or ceremony, you can just walk in like you're coming home from a stroll."

"Yeah." Alexander looked away and Graham knew with that one simple act that it was truly over, that he'd waited too long to have this conversation and his son would never return to Daventry. "Well. Anyway."

Graham shook his head slowly. "Where did it go wrong? When did we lose you?"

A cold, bitter look flashed through Alexander's eyes. "About seventeen years ago. Or had you forgotten?"

"You know what I mean."

Alexander shrugged. "You didn't lose me, Your Majesty. You never had me."

"You never let me have you. If I've been at arms' length from you, Alexander, it's only because you've been doing everything in your power to keep me there."

Silence descended, Alexander shifting his weight in an I know you're right but... manner.

"You can go by the road. I'll stop the guards or anyone coming after you. And I'll make sure the patrols don't interfere â€" not that they would have anyway â€" but I want you to do something for me in return."

Alexander curled his lip. "What might that be? Leave by a so-called secret route where you just happen to have hidden your best men?"

"Come back in a year. Not to live here, not if you don't want to, but you'll be able to see your family through new eyes. Maybe it won't be so bad. Come back in a year, stay for a month and if you still feel like you do now, you can leave again. If you want to stay on or come back again later for good, you can." Graham risked taking a step forward and then, when Alexander didn't react, another one. "Go away for a year, go wherever you want to go, do whatever you want to do. Then come back and give us another chance. I meant what I said; there'll be no fanfares, or if you come back earlier, no I-told-you-sos. I can give you that much, at least."

There was a new look in Alexander's eyes as he stared at his father, a vulnerable look, as though he were a child who had been punished for something he hadn't done.

Graham suddenly realized he'd never once hugged Alexander after that first joyful reunion. He wanted to now â€" more than anything, he wanted to take his son in his arms and hold him tightly until all the pain in the boy's eyes was finally gone â€" but it was out of the question. In Alexander's world, physical contact had only ever resulted in pain, and to force the issue would likely prove counterproductive, possibly even dangerous.

"Do you still want to leave?" he asked.

Alexander nodded.

"Alright. When? You should at least say goodbye to your mother and sister."

Alexander hesitated. "Tomorrow, then. Before the dinner with the ambassador. At least that way I won't embarrass the family."

"You have never been an embarrassment to us. Ever. And if that's why you're going, because you think we're disappointed in you, then you're very wrong."

Alexander tightened his lips and turned his head away. "With all the criticisms your beloved wife heaped on my head, you could have fooled me."

Even though Alexander had a valid point, loyalty to Valanice kept Graham from agreeing with him. Instead all he said was, "Tomorrow, then. That should give you enough time to get prepared. If you still want to do this, that is. You might feel different after a good night's sleep."

Alexander studied his father for a long time, unsure whether or not he was being honest, then nodded once, slowly.

"Agreed."

Graham nodded back, his face calm and betraying no hint of the pain inside. He couldn't give his son back his childhood, but at the very least, he could give him his freedom.

"Shall we go inside, then?"

Alexander shook his head. "You go ahead. It's a nice evening. I'd quite like to stay out for a while. Maybe take in that nice view you mentioned."

He walked over to the parapet, leaning on it as he looked out over Daventry. Not wanting to push things any further, still cherishing a faint hope that Alexander might yet change his mind and decide to stay after all, Graham went back inside, giving his son the privacy he so obviously wanted.

Alone, Alexander's hand strayed into his shirt. There was one spell he had that nobody knew about, purely because he'd made it earlier that morning and hadn't got around to putting it in that chest yet.

Time to go.

When Graham went back up to the roof a few hours later to see if his son wanted any food before going to bed, he found it deserted. On the ground was a shattered flask, and in the air the scent of saffron and rose petal essence.
[close]

(Quick explanation of the end for all those who never played KQ3:
Spoiler
One of the spells Alexander/Gwydion learns is one that enables him to turn into an eagle or a fly. The ingredients are saffron (easy to come by in a royal kitchen) rose petal essence (likely used as a fragrance by either Rosella or Valanice) an eagle feather and fly wings. In other words, rather than wait until the next morning and risk being stopped, Alexander simply turned himself into an eagle and flew away
[close]

Baron

I'm half done, but I'm so swamped right now with work.  I could have it in if you'll give me Friday night.

Spoiler


   You are so tired after a long night on the road.  These misadventures are murderous at your age.  Oh man, and there's that writing contest thingy that you've been putting off.  What is it, like 4 am?  Gah!  Maybe they'll give you another extension.  You reluctantly hit the post button and slink off to bed.  Yaaaaaaaaaawn.

You are a lazy prat.  The end!

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JudasFm

Quote from: Baron on Tue 03/10/2017 02:13:12
All these submissions make me think that I really should get started on continuing my introductory sentence.... (roll)

I know I'm on the edge of my seat (laugh) It reminds me of the Three Word Story forum game
:P

Mandle

Quote from: Baron on Thu 05/10/2017 05:00:24
I'm half done, but I'm so swamped right now with work.  I could have it in if you'll give me Friday night.

Done!


Baron

Bah, I'm still not done.  And I'm drunk.  This is like the first contest I've missed in three years.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.  It's enough to drive a fellow to drink.... :=

Spoiler


   You decide to call for a tow-truck.  Despite the state-of-the-art weapons and propulsion systems, the Baronmobile has by comparison an extremely primitive communications system.  Mindful of the honking of passersby you reluctantly hook your telegraph wire up to the nearest road-side cable and attempt to broadcast an all-channel TMW (Tow My Wreck).  Patiently you wait for a response from the network, vaguely aware of a gathering crowd of gangsta-looking fellows down the street.  Alarmingly they seem to be setting off semi-automatic fireworks and moving in your direction.

   You consider hiding in the blast-proof cocoon of the Baronmobile, safe from all danger in its steel and nano-tube womb.  Or you could make a dash for it on your emergency utra pogo-stick.  Decide fast: they are coming!

If you decide to hide in the Baronmobile, turn to post 25.

If you decide to cut and run on your emergency ultra pogo-stick, turn to post 31

[close]

Mandle

Quote from: Baron on Sat 07/10/2017 04:56:58
Bah, I'm still not done.  And I'm drunk.  This is like the first contest I've missed in three years.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.  It's enough to drive a fellow to drink.... :=

Meh, let's just extend the deadline over the weekend until Monday. We can't have a FWC without teh Baron!

(And also I've found the time, inspiration, and motivation to complete my own entry)

Let's party like it's 1995!!!

JudasFm

Quote from: Mandle on Sat 07/10/2017 06:11:12

Meh, let's just extend the deadline over the weekend until Monday. We can't have a FWC without teh Baron!

(And also I've found the time, inspiration, and motivation to complete my own entry)

Let's party like it's 1995!!!

Great, that means I can write my final epilogue too :D

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