Totally valid point! I just wasn’t sure if there was a resource for public beta-testers (I love this forum, but I’m still pretty bad at navigating it 
). I’ll probably ask on my own post, but as a very early teaser, I’m not sure it has enough traction for my post to get testers. But, asking can’t hurt!
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There’ve been a few attempts at a ‘Feedback Assist’ thread, not just for beta testing, but for all kinds of feedback, but they never really took off. Here’s the most recent one I could find. You might still be able to approach the potential testers who posted there.
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I know this won’t calm the nerves, but you really have nothing to worry about. The game is amazing, and you consistently stand out as one of the best writers on this platform.
It was actually really gratifying to read this, since I think of you as the ideal for when I eventually become a writer. It’s reassuring to know even titans like Paul Wang get anxious, even if the post-release jitters keep you from seeing yourself that way.
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I’m definitely still at that point where a single negative review will be mentally weighted more than fifty positive ones - and I’m not even sure if I’ve gotten fifty positive ones yet.
I mean, I kinda get it, but it definitely doesn’t feel that way, living in a rent-controlled one-bed and knowing that my best-selling title came out all of 11 years ago. Certainly, the other “titans” make more, and I’m not sure this will change that or not, especially at this moment.
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Or in my case:
hand-wringing limbo after their forum post comes out 
(pls like 
)
I think it’s only natural, I’m sure you have a lot riding on how well it does, but unless you are doing something constructive with the feedback, I would step away from the screen for a bit and take a break!
The positive reviewers are the ones still reading…
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Yes, every time 
Nowadays I try to avoid looking at anything until the numbers come in. I rarely achieve that, but it’s a reasonable goal to stop me from gnashing my teeth over it. Sending sympathies - it’s not a nice feeling at all being on tenterhooks that way.
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I misread hand-wringing limbo as handwriting limbo and I imagined for a second that once you publish a CoG game, they send you to purgatory where you aren’t allowed to use any keyboards to write. They only let you out once you reach your sales quota. Of course, I realized that was silly, since you wouldn’t be able to post on the forum from said limbo. It’s either that or they’ve already let you out. If that’s the case, congrats on meeting your quota!
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From what I’ve heard from artist interviews and from my personal experience, there’s this… post-work depression? that may or may not be the Finnish variant of the hand-wringing limbo (I mean, we’re Finns, being kinda-sorta depressed is our natural state, so) that also seems to be something creative people are intimately familiar with and also less-creative people have a really hard time to fathom.
That is to say… I believe some post-work stress is very common, even if it’s not always public knowledge.
I dunno, I wouldn’t mind a paper-computer-interface all that much.
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I feel like my writing energy is like a low campfire, flames flickering, that I occasionally poke with a stick to make sure it didn’t die (not that it ever would). I consider writing to be one of my passions (the other being music) but at the same time I find it hard to actually do it (same thing with playing guitar. ADHD sucks). What I’ve noticed brings the spark back the most is when I read/listen to people talking about craft (like Mr. Rushton’s post that was shared in the first post of this thread). And being able to write/add notes from my phone also helps; not only is it convenient on-the-go, it requires less mental energy than having to sit down and lock in at my computer to write. If I couldn’t write/edit from my phone, the amount of writing I’d do would shrink from dismal to absolutely abysmal. (I do wanna do more writing off my phone, though, be it in a notebook or on the PC.)
I haven’t dealt with scope creep yet on account of not having gotten very far in my longer projects, but aside from wanting to mitigate the amount of work it’d be, I think what I’ll consider is what I’d find most fun to write, and what kind of story it is that I want to tell in the first place. I don’t remember who/where but I remember someone talking about themes in regards to this topic; just making sure the branches we’re offering tie to the themes, or something like that. If I successfully attempt to find it later, I’ll link it.
Although I intend to switch away from it in the future, I’m currently just using Google Docs—just a single document for the shorter projects, and multiple documents in a folder for the longer ones.
I’ve been somewhat MIA for a variety of reasons, both positive and negative, but I really, deeply want to get back in the swing of things with writing. I want to finish the project I started for the Halloween Jam, I want to read and study other people’s works, I want to stay in community with all my fellow writers, I want to work towards publication.
There’s some other priorities I have to mind at the moment (some of which I’ve been procrastinating on) but I think I can at least start with a low daily quota for finishing the Halloween Jam project. I’d also like to create a schedule of sorts with the IF I’ve been wanting to read, and keep a notebook for my thoughts on them (the toughest decision: which notebook to use). Seems like Snippet Day’s fast approaching as well, so I’ll hopefully contribute something then.
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I can confirm this is awful. Also the part about weighting one negative review more than fifty positive ones. I’m not sure what the best remedy is, except time and mental distance. And reminding myself that nothing is for everyone, and there are definitely people out there who treat personal preferences as if they were objective standards of quality and will write reviews as though they’re very emphatically about the second when they’re definitely about the first.
Sometimes that helps with the endless purgatory of self-recrimination.
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Love how we are biologically programmed with a negativity bias 
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I’ve been mostly getting friends to playtest. Ask a variety — some video game enthusiasts, some fanfiction enjoyers, some casual fiction readers, some with MFAs. The forum is good for getting validation and for bugs or spelling errors, but I’m not sure it’s good for high level feedback. It’s a major reason why I don’t plan on posting newer chapters to the forum, because I’m not sure it would help the writing process much.
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Well, since it’s now the middle of the month here in Manila, I believe I’ll take the initiative in starting the flood of snippets. Critiques are welcome.
This is the pre-boss battle dialogue for the fourth chapter of Lily Adventuresses! Episode 3. Joyselle and Zackseth are long-time bitter enemies, and the latter is also the secondary antagonist of the entire episode.
[Thelmanpik Bunker, Confinement Room]
Joyselle:
Zinnia, Azalea, Aiyika…
This is where Zackseth Brutus Tylerllanes Garyudo is currently holding his victims…
…who have been turned into data against their will and are being stored in a mainframe right behind him.
(Beat)
Zackseth:
So… we meet again after hundreds of years, Joyselle Savofanny!
You woke up on the wrong side of the bed, right?
Joyselle:
Look at you… a human with no soul exists right in front of me.
Look at those eyes.
They’re as dead as your political career.
Right until now, you don’t accept the fact.
Zackseth:
Yes, I accept the fact…
…that you LOST to me!
Joyselle:
You’re calling yourself a loser?
Or… it’s much lower than that.
Zackseth:
It’s OK, babe.
You can accept that you’re lower than an imbecile.
Yes, I can accept that, too.
Joyselle:
Oh, don’t you cry, guy wearing a general’s face who is actually not just a clown, but is the entire circus.
Are you earning money from your grifting and shilling?
Your brain is full of ashes and is permanently tilted sideways.
You’re out of touch on the ground; you’re unaware of what was really happening hundreds of years ago.
You don’t care about criminality being widespread during those times.
You only care about your idol, the “Lord Emperor”, whom you’ve made a saint alongside his elite friends.
Zackseth:
Oh, so you admit you’re a troll!
Joyselle:
Troll your face!
Zackseth:
Naaaahhh, you can’t take it back, dolomite turd!
Hahaha. Gewr.
Joyselle:
That insult of yours just doesn’t faze me anymore.
You’ve already ruined my life, anyway; as well as those of 49 other women whom you’ve taken advantage of and then disposed like ragged dolls.
And it all began when you first ruined my career as a promising actress, and you even did the same to all the others by accusing them of underage drinking.
Is the evidence weak for those 49 career deaths? Haha.
Zackseth:
I should’ve sent you a video of you being so waked and baked that you even kissed random men on the street, so that you will cry more, LOSER!
Joyselle:
Hahaha, no one no longer believes you and your manipulated deepfake video, douche-bag!
Zackseth:
But still, I’ll send it to your friend Rosemarie, so that you’ll finally cry! Ahahahahahaaha!
I’ll put your name on it, hahahahahaha, ENVIOUS B****!
Just accept it so that I can send an undeniable proof of your transgressions to other losers like you! WahahahaahahaHAHAHAHA. Gewr.
Joyselle:
Why you!
You’re dragging the name of my disgraced best friend into this!
She inspired me to finally take action against you and Lord Tenebris, because I’ve had ENOUGH!
And why would I waste my time with your supposed “proof” if it’s not the main issue here?
Zackseth:
Listen, you three other girls who are tagging along with her.
Your ally is a typical bimbo who’s determined to die stupid.
She hates proofs… because she might CRY!
WAHAHAHAHAAH! LOSER!
Joyselle:
How dare you!
I don’t care about your personal life!
I care more about you being an accessory to the atrocities Lord Tenebris committed, you self-proclaimed “Minister of War”!
Zinnia:
And why are you targeting Joyselle’s old friend?
Stupid clown.
Azalea:
Your insults are always below the belt; but if those same insults are hurled at you, I can sense your internal crying.
Aiyika:
A typical megalomaniac politician that when ticked off, they go “I’ll sue ya”.
So abnormal.
Zackseth:
Wahahaahaha!
You’re insinuating a link between what I did and my “loser behavior”…
And yet most of us who aligned with the one and only Lord Emperor STILL live in comfort, while you peasants are still waiting for aid even after hundreds of years.
LOSERS!
Just cry over the fact that you will all die crying in despair!
Wahahahahahaah! CRY!!!
And about what I exactly did to Rosemarie, who gave you the idea to rise up against me and my master…
She begged me for mercy, so I gave it to her.
I ended her worthless existence quickly with my words…
…just like what I did with that disgrace of a military officer who blew his own head off right in front of his mother’s grave!
HAHAHAHA. Gewr.
Joyselle:
Oh, good.
You’re still the same old dumb-guard who thinks highly of himself, so that’s why you lost every non-rigged election.
You couldn’t even get the masses to vote for your one and only master, so you and your cohorts manipulated the results of the very last one… the one that finally installed Lord Tenebris to the throne, to rule forever.
Zackseth:
Bah, I don’t care.
You all like to vote for those who are giving you a hard time.
Just rely on that aid, dunce!
Joyselle:
Yup, pretty much.
I live on aid… from the ones who believed in me and are believing in me.
I’m now in a vegetative state thanks to you, drama QUEEN. Happy?
Zackseth:
And you, persistent pain in the rear…
You deserve all the bad luck this world could ever offer.
You deserve all of that.
And we, the forces of the one and only Lord Emperor…
We are not preparing for a period of peace.
Instead, we are shifting all our bases into an actual state of war after all those years of stasis.
Enemies are gathering, and threats are mounting.
You feel it. And I feel it.
Joyselle:
Yes, I and my new allies can indeed feel it.
So here you are.
Feeding on your own loneliness.
Consumed by your own pain.
Believing your own lies.
Zackseth:
…
…
…
Heheheheheh. Gewr.
If you think our upcoming decisive battle will have a happy ending on your side, you haven’t been paying attention.
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I’ve posted my snippet for today over on the XoR2 thread.
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Thanks for getting us started!
As stated, it’s the 15th of November! For those new to this thread, on the 15th of every month, we invite all willing to share a snippet of their writing. This isn’t meant for critique unless requested. It is more to show off a little bit of what you’ve been working on, and for those nervous about sharing their writing, to get used to showing their work. Feel free to share soemthing as polished or unpolished as you’d like.
I’m currently behind on my writing goals by about a thousand words. For NaNo I have been working on a side project of a Solo Leveling-inspired setting.
Apocryphal Lucidity Snippet (Formerly Survival - Road to Power Fantasy)
“I think we’re as ready as we can be,” Nyra replies to Grant. “If I don’t make it out of this, I just wanted to tell y’all that each of you has immense talent and’ll make great gatewalkers. The fact that you’ve made it this far is evidence of that.”
The tone of the team becomes somber and collectively the initiates look to the floor.
Nyra then smiles. “And if I do make it out of this, remind me not to do any more missions with initiates – this shit’s stressful.”
A few chuckles escape a couple of mouths.
Grant approaches the door and uses his shoulder to slowly push one of the large doors open. First, it’s the heat that gets the group’s attention. ${name} didn’t think the heat could be more unbearable, but ${HeShe} now sees that the group jumped out of a sauna and into an incinerator. The second thing is the smell of sulfur and something burning – whatever it is burning the team’s eyes. The third is the red and yellow hellscape of the room. Floor vents spouting fires, rock walls that appear half melted, a second metal double door at the far end of the room, several platforms raised throughout the area just poking out of a molten sudge that looks like liquid at first.
${Name} glances at the liquid and ${HisHer} eyes tell ${HimHer} that it is infact molten metal.
On the largest platform lies a massive shape that rivals the length of a firetruck. Pulsing light at its core, but the skin is semi-transparent, and as it seems to wake from the party’s entry to the room a liquid just underneath its exterior shifts and moves like a liquid. It reminds ${Name} of blown glass with extra liquid inside it.
${Name} thought the creature’s long, cylindrical figure to be a snake at first. When its neck fully lifts to find no head, all ideas of what the team is staring at vanish. In the place of a head is a circular mouth with unknown glass-looking teeth.
${Name} tries to identify the creatures with ${HisHer} eyes. @{(EyesLevel>2) Vitreus Maw – a giant molten glass worm. Above the creature’s head a large bar appears. | It only identifies aspects of the creature, marking it is a glass worm, but nothing else.} The roar of the worm nearly knocks ${Name} off ${HisHer} feet. The force of the superheated air would have been too much if not for Grant holding his shield forward.
“The hell is that?” Varn yells.
There is no time for reply as the door closes behind the team from the pressure of the blown air. The worm giggles a second before its body begins charging the group in a near, in what ${Name} can only call a gallop. The creature races over the molten metal, unaffected by the fires releasing below it.
“Run!” Grant commands and the group does as ordered.
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Snippet inbound!
I wrote this a few weeks ago inspired by true life events… I was waiting in the rain. Which was incidentally where I wrote it.
Snippet - Intro to a mystery/horror/thriller mini project
It was a dreary autumnal day, grey clouds hung low over the town blending into the concrete tower blocks that dominated the horizon. Rain, if you could call it that, more of a descending mist, drizzled interminably, saturating the landscape. Aside from the odd vehicle gliding over the mirror black tarmac, the cold streets had shed their pedestrian traffic, just as the trees had shed their leaves.
It seemed only you were willing to brave the elements and stand prominently on the street corner.
Your friend was late.
The clocks had only just been put back, and you had to assume they had fallen foul of the chronological bureaucracy.
Your wristwatch, a Casio digital with a button to illuminate the display, read 16:43. The light was beginning to fade, although the weather had already stolen most of it, just as the winds had stolen the golden trees, and the time change had stolen your friend. Out there somewhere, but not here where they could be appreciated.
They were supposed to meet you at half past, you had been running a little late because a customer had walked into the cafe where you work just as you were about to close up. A double espresso to go, they were in a rush and had seemed a little frantic, but it wasn’t your place to question their choice of beverage. You just hoped they weren’t late for anything involving a steady hand.
Interruptions aside, you had expected your friend to be waiting for you. They should have just finished their art class which was only 2 streets away. You could wait a little longer in the cold drizzle, but it might just be simpler to give them a call. You pull out your Nokia classic, not as small as the modern lightweight models, but the chunky buttons were easier to press and the heft felt reassuring.
*Choice
#Call
#Wait
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Spy games
You reach the meeting point, some kind of a storage room, and the door slams shut behind you. [E] slams against it immediately; the door doesn’t budge. You are trapped. In a… some kind of storage room, apparently. A lot of crates piled over, in more or less high piles. A half-collapsed shelf leans against the wall on one side, cirquit boards sprawled on the floor.
“Knew this was a terrible idea,” [E] mutters. “Knew it. Knew it. Knew it. Walked straight into a trap.”
Sounds from the corridor catch your attention. Like footsteps… multiple footsteps. “Wait, do you hear that?”
[E] tenses, then ducks into cover behind a pile of crates. You follow suit.
The door opens. Something’s tossed into the room — grenade, your mind screams, then helpfully offers oh crap, and you find yourself in a disorienting experience where you seem to observe the events separate from your mind — and then the world turns white.
[E] curses heavily, reverently. You fight the ringing in your ears and thank the stars from flashbangs, but there’s no time and you prepare for a fight you know is coming. And— there, just in time.
Boots on the ground; five soldiers step in, rifles at the ready. You pull your pistol and look at [D], who meets you eye his own gun in his hand. So while the enemy looks around all superior, thinking you defenseless in your flashbang-ed state, you and [E] aim and shoot in practiced unison, and then there were three. But now you’ve lost the surprise.
“You are surrounded,” one of them says, tone formal and accent heavy on their [lanC]. “Throw down your weapons.”
One of the others whispers hurriedly something, and it’s not only the use of [lanB] that makes you think it wasn’t meant for your ears, when what you can hear from the words sounds like we can’t let them get away with this.
[E] leans out of cover to aim again, but earns only a burst from a rifle in response for his trouble, so he quickly ducks again.
The two soldiers who haven’t spoken to you sweep the room with their rifles at the ready.
The third one, the speaker, moves to stand in the doorway, arms behind their back. “All right, then,” they say. “If you will not co-operate, then we wimmmph—”
The rifleones startle, and steal a glance at the direction of the sound, probably to see what’s happening.
The speaker is thrashing for no apparent reason, struggling like someone’s holding them but there’s no one to see, and you don’t know what’s happening either, but you know a chance when you see it, so you shoot again, and so does [E], and then you lunge and pick the rifles and turn them to the third one, but they’re already bleeding on the floor, throat cut open—
The air shimmers and gives away to a human shape, dressed in IPRIS uniform, standing over the body. And then you stare as they crouch to wipe their bloody bayonet clean with the jacket of the soldier whose body they stand over.
“What,” [E] says, but trains his rifle at the newcomer.
They straighten up and slid the bayonet to their belt. “Easy there.” Their [lanC] accent is smooth and soft and something you can’t place, but they’re clearly more fluent in it than you are.
“Don’t move,” [E] growls.
They don’t, but they stare at the gun like it has personally offended them. And you can now see the captain’s tags on their collar, and you realize you have been briefed of him— very firmly. Bold letters. In the do not engage category. [D].
Oh, wonderful.
“We don’t have time for this,” he says. “And that camera’s still recording.”
“What?” you oh-so-eloquently ask.
“Camera,” he says. “Recording. Do you need me to switch to [lanA]? I’m less fluent, but I can—”
“I know what a camera is,” you intervene.
“Behind you,” he then unhelpfully offers, and it takes you a moment to realize he did, in fact, switch to [lanA]. And that his accent in that does, in fact, sound stiffer. More noticeable. “I would be glad to take care of it, but I fear your partner might actually shoot if I did that,”
“You’re right I will,” [E] says.
“Wonderful,” [D] responds to that. “I suppose we will then just stand around here and wait for more guards to arrive, so that they can kill us all.”
“[E].” You step closer to your partner. “I think we need a timeout here.”
“I’m not going to let him come closer.” [E] keeps their aim firm.
“Oh, I will just move one of my hands,” [D] says cheerily. “Like… this.” He rises his arm slowly, palm open, and then presses something on his temple.
The electric sizzle behind you makes you jump. Sparks fly above your head.
“There,” [D] says. “That’s done. Shall we talk, now? You are here because of my message, yes?”
Well, if this isn’t fishy at all.
“Nine?” [E] asks.
“Nine,” [D] confirms. “Although why [A] sent you two and not—”
[E] hasn’t taken his eyes off him. “[A] is dead.”
[D] falters at that. “What? How? Why? When? Where?”
“Doesn’t matter,” [E] says. “You wanted to talk. Although I don’t know why, since you’re clearly the one who wanted to capture us in the first place. So, talk. If you must. But talk fast.”
“To the point, then,” [D] agrees. “I need your help.”
[E] thinks for a moment, then swings the rifle over his shoulder. “If you think we’re going to spring some random IPRIS agent—”
“Oh, it is not that.” [D] waves his hand dismissively. “It’s true I may have blown my cover, but I have my own ship. No, I need you to blow up something— multiple somethings. If it was just one, I could do it myself.”
“That’s not what the message said,” you say.
“Oh, I know that.” [D] shrugs. “Predefined signals, you know? For some reason, the codebook lacks a phrase for ‘shit hit the fan, need an emergency meeting’. Oversight, really.”
Space ghosts
Clang.
Everyone stops on their tracks. Leif twitches; Sterling looks down his scope. Ekström stands very, very still. At the back of your mind, something stirs… a long-dormant instinct of prey.
“That’s…” Connor laugh nervously. “That was just another piece of machinery, right?”
“Right,” Ekström responds, but her tone indicates anything but.
“Stay sharp,” you mutter. In under any normal circumstances, in any circumstances with atmosphere, it would be better to just ping everyone, but the others are already speaking, and since they’re speaking to comms and voices don’t carry in vacuum, it would go through the same signal channels anyway, so that would be pointless.
…wait. Vacuum. Voices. Where did that clang come from?
Nobody seems willing to be the first to move, instead just giving sideways glances to each other. So it’s Sterling who takes point, rifle at the ready (that ridiculous sniper rifle, mind you), creeping around the corner in the crossroads of tunnels. Then he stops, and recoild like someone just hit him.
Leif gives a low growl, and you have to ping him to remind him to not shift in here.
Sterling breathes out something that sounds like a curse, but it’s in a language neither you nor your translator can recognize. The. he breathes in. “Folks. Lot of them. Fighting each other.”
“What folks?” You creep closer. Right about now, you’re missing your sharpened senses.
Ekström’s mind presses a comfortable presence at the edge of your awareness, and you can feel she’s just behind you.
“Seems USF. Not suited up either. Must be the crew.”
You sneak a peek. There’s the mess hall, doors open: in the doorway, a group of USF personnel crouch behind a haphazard barricade built of turned over tables and chairs and one random medbay bed. In the corridor, another group of similar personnel take cover against the walls on the sides. All of them are blatantly ignoring both the total lack of atmosphere and the total lack of gravity, in their regular on-board uniforms not suited for either conditions— the older model of uniforms than yours, but any recent boarding party would be wearing armor anyway. No, these ones are just taking shots at each other, as if everything was perfectly normal.
Ha. Normal. Nothing about this is normal.
One of the… attackers? notices you and starts drifting in your direction. You pull back, flatten yourself against the wall, and wait. Nothing happens, so you’ll hazard another peek; they’ve lost interested, and have returned to whatever it is that they were originally doing. You step back, satisfied that you won’t be rushed at this very moment at least.
“What’s in there?” Kozlov asks. “What did you see?”
“I’m not—” you say. “Either they’re continuing the fight that killed them, or they’re re-enacting it. Could be either.”
“Could be both,” Kozlov agrees.
You didn’t know he’s that well-versed in ghost psychology, but you’ll take it.
“Could we ask them what happened here?” Connor asks. “I’d really prefer to get out of here ASAP.”
“I mean, be my guest,” Sterling says. “But do you really want to disturb someone in the middle of the battle? Even if they’re not hostile in principle, they might just react—”
“Right,” Connor mutters. “I’ve seen that happen.”
“They probably don’t even know that much,” you point out. “I can see a couple of sergeants, but nobody higher than that.”
“I think,” Ekström says, “that we should just try to avoid them. Maybe get around them? Is there a route?”
You check the map in your HUD. “Past that one, certainly. Although I don’t know what we’ll do if theykre everywhere.”
“What we must.” Ekström sounds grim. “Lead the way.”
In truth, you all — except maybe Sterling — could probably navigate the ship without too much difficulty, even without a map. Eraser is smaller than Producer, true, but the models are very similar, in the way upgraded versions often resemble their predecessors, and the corridors still have all their direction signs. Not much weather in space to fade them away. But you take point; Kozlov brings the rear.
Connor can’t settle in to walk in silence. “Couldn’t we just hook in into some other computer system?”
You re-check your map. “Connor, engineering’s at the other end of the ship. Are you telling me you want to go there?”
“No! I just meant… a security station or something. Those should have access, right?”
“Access, yes,” Kozlov chimes in. “Also ghosts. In a ship-wide battle like this? Those are the first places to be overrun.”
“So’s the bridge,” Ekström says.
“It’s possible,” Sterling says. “But it’s also close enough. I say we try our luck there first. If it doesn’t pan out, we can always head to engineering later.”
“Who asked you?” Ekström mutters under her breath. But of course she does that into comms, so everyone hears her anyway.
“I’m sure Repo agrees with me,” Sterling responds.
It is a sound plan. You can’t say you’re a fan of running into a nest of angry bridge officers, but they’re not necessarily there. “Worth a shot,” you say. “It’s not like we’re on a that much of a time limit. And we might even find someone to talk with there. They don’t seem too angry with us, generally speaking. Which, granted, I wasn’t expecting either.”
A runner crashes into Leif, making him falls on his ass. You all jump, but the ghost doesn’t dawdle; they’re gone as fast as they appeared. They bring some questions though: why a runner? Are (were) comms not an option for these people? It would make sense, in a way — the echoes you’re seeing don’t come from a boarding action, you need to remember that. It’s a mutiny. Everyone’s using the same channels. So depending on who’s on whose side, the connections might be compromised for everyone.
It’s not what you expected, though. The testimonies that were taught to you in your years at the Academy made it sound like Vega had single-handedly torn through the opposing crew, and from whot happened in the medbay— you could totally believe it. But what you’re seeing here, from how the ghosts are behaving, looks way more balanced. Forces on both sides, unless the people were just shooting at each other for no reason. Even a single-person rampage would cause confusion, but like this…?
You reach the bridge access checkpoint, manned again by ghosts, so you halt. Before you can decide what to do, the sergeant in chaege waves you through. And now you’re the one who’s extremely confused.
“Everyone all right?” Ekström calls. “Someone just brushed my mind.”
But the bridge doors close behind you with a soft hiss (wait, how did they—?) and your attention is already elsewhere.
Robot spiders
You snap the locator on your wrist — it sits snugly, like a watch — and stumble with it for a moment. While Nachtweber did show you how it’s used, you’re far from proficient. But it seems to respond to your touch, and after a while you manage to open the floorplan and find a room named “kitchen”. That should do it. You tap at it — a tiny arrow appears, showing you directions — and slip into the corridor.
Okay, so that’s that part done. But how to actually use the map? You keep your eyes on the screen and take a few steps in one direction, then the other, then slowly spin around in a circle. It seems the arrow moves based on where you’re facing? It’s probably the direction you should follow. It is, after all, an arrow. The corridor looks the same in both directions, so you have nothing else to go by in any case.
A few steps down the corridor confirm your decision, and you continue on your way.
The sights on this route are not very varied. Gray concrete, well-worn although not quite falling apart. A few cracks here and there, but carefully patched. Strings of lights run the legth at the roof, as far as you can see and probably further, although corridor-wide doorways form gaps where the lighting is sideways instead. All in all, a very boring corridor. If you forget the fact that you’re walking around a supervillain lair. Underground. And the walls have cracks.
Are you even allowed to walk here?
Something scurries past you, and you jump. A spider the size of your palm climbs on the wall. Another runs on the floor. A third one looks ar you from the roof! The tink-tink-tinkle as they move rings in your ears—
No, wait, that’s not the sound spiders make. Thus enboldened, you lean forward to look at the critter; it looks back at you, a tiny red light focusing on your face. Light glints off the chromium surface of its legs, as it turns around. As you lean closer, you notice the almost-inaudible humming it emits. Then the light turns to green, and the spider scurries away.
Oh. One of Sparkgap’s drones, carrying whichever task it is that he uses them for. Certainly, checking for cracks seems to be one of them, judging by what the one at the roof is doing. (Wait, the roof is cracked? Better get somewhere else fast!)
You continue on your way, following the arrow on the map. Past mysterious doors (that don’t look any more mysterious than any other door, but you don’t know what’s behind them) and crossing corridors (somethimes you turn, sometimes not); you pass a stairwell, and what looks like an elevator but that one has “out of action — yes, Skinner, it concerns you too” note taped on it. This place is a maze, and an amazingly large one; you wouldn’t have expected this much space.
And what is the weirdest thing, is telling you where to go and what to do. Some of the spider-bots scuttle by, but other than that you are not disturbed: in particular, nobody stops you to ask where you’re heading. More than that, you don’t even run into anybody. It seems you’re alone here. Which, fair enough: everyone else is probably still asleep.
Cybermedical issues
[D]'s being kept in a room high in one of the towers, which may or may not be a reasonable idea. Less chances of him escaping through the window, certainly, although you can’t really say he’s given you the impression he would want to try that. Quite the opposite, really, he has seem really happy to be out of IPR. Additionally, being located so high up, there’s more of a chance of him accidentally falling to his death through the window, what with how the status of his implants seem to be affecting his coordination and all.
Well. The room is certainly private, if nothing else.
He looks at you as you enter, from his perch on the desk. Then he just keeps staring, unblinking, way too long, a confused expression on his face but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.
“[D],” you say.
“Mh.” He finally blinks and looks away, staring out of the window.
You pull a chair and sit on it. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like I have lost a sense,” he says.
You look at him. “Cutting you off from Master Control was the only way to prevent your brain from getting fried.”
“I know. I am not complaining. Just disoriented.” He touches his temple, traces the scar in there.
“The implants are still in,” you say. “The doctor wanted to remove them, but turns out they’ve grown too intertwined with your nervous system so that would have killed your brain too. So they just blocked the transmitters.”
“So I am permanently off the grid. But that is still something, I guess.”
“Do you really rely on the connection that much?” You can see the benefits of having a constant data stream to your tactical on combat situations, or running facial analysis when you’re trying to track a target. But it’s not like you’re doing that all the time.
“I smacked myself in the face this morning,” he says.
“What has that to do with—”
“Yes. The answer is yes.” He turns to look at you, flinches, but keeps looking even though you can clearly see it is a struggle. “I am not sure you are you. I am not sure I recognize your face. Or voice. And it is too silent. No comm chatter at all. Not even a buzz.”
“That’s…”
“Yes.”
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I’m not sure if I fully like this scene, but here we go after three rewrites. Hopefully this reply works the first shot…
time-loop murder mystery
*page_break "$!{pc_displayname}..."
*if (guided)
— ⓘ Notes Unlocked & New Note —
*set notes true
*set new_note true
*set have_queenia_notes true
*set new_note_queenia true
*set queenia_note1 true
*if (glasses)
Shoving your glasses on your face, you
*else
You
whip your head to the sound. Rocking near the front windows, blanketed in the warm sunlight, is a bone-thin, old woman. Though her eyes are shining from excitement, her drooping eyelids and lips corners morph her happiness into a grimace.
Grannie Queenia.
*fake_choice
*if (solemn)
#You stare at her, nonchalant.
...on the surface, at least.
Ignoring your pounding heart, you watch your grandmother peer at you with excitement.
*if (sassy)
She's definitely sick or something.
Growing up, your grandmother hated your solemn nature. For her to be staring at you like this... why is she still at home?
*if (warm) and (sassy)
#Oh, the poor thing. She's too thin!
Nuh-uh. No way. You totally remember she had a little fat on her four years ago!
Grannie Queenia's just... too thin.
#Had Grannie look that thin four years ago?
It's only been four years since you left home, but you're sure she wasn't this thin. With her old age, her arms and legs shrunk as her stomach swelled.
Now even her stomach is flat. Her veins wrap around her neck and limps like nature retaking ruins.
*if (cold) and (solemn)
#You'll talk to her. Else your mother will complain.
Grannie Queenia hadn't really been around much growing up. Well, around you. Your coldness... your solemness... it never really brought your grandmother closer to you.
Having said that, she looks [i]excited[/i] to see you. She must be sick.
*if (daring)
#"Grannie! You scared me."
Huffing, you say "Grannie! You scared me."
Truthfully, in more ways than one — your grandmother looks far more sick than you last saw her. How could she decline this much in four years?
#Why is she still here? She needs higher care.
*if (warm) or (hopeful)
Protectiveness
*else
Anger
shoots through you. Four years ago, she seemed sick enough. You told your mother that Grannie Queenia is one day away from falling and breaking a bone.
Now, she's thin. Much thinner.
*if (foul_mouthed)
#"Holy shi — er, hey, Grannie!"
"Holy shi — er, hey, Grannie!" you barely stop the swear in time, the years and years and years of your grandmother complaining about how disgusting it is to swear.
*if (birth_gender_female)
She [i]fixated[/i] on "Women don't curse!"
You often found yourself sitting on the bathroom floor with a bitter, foamy soap bar stuck in your mouth.
#You yelp!
You can't help it.
*if (timid)
Though your yelp is more of a tiny squeak, you
*else
You
don't seem to startle your grandmother.
*if (cold)
#You wave and walk off.
*if (sassy)
Your mother can nag all she want.
You were never close to your grandmother growing up. She never like how cold you were.
It's easy to wave at her and walk away...
Yet you don't. Why is Grannie Queenia [i]excited[/i] to see you?
8 Likes
Hey, you know how I said I was gonna try to relax and get some rest after A Time of Monsters came out?
Yeah, I lied. Guess what I’ve been writing this morning?
Snippet
They say that all plunder belongs to the Nation, but what is the Nation exactly? Is it the politicians sitting safe in Paris? Is it the bankers and the profiteers who make nothing except ill-gotten gains?
Or is it the soldier, who risks life and limb for France? Who braves shot and steel for France? Who fights for France, who dies for France?
Yes, all plunder belongs to the Nation, and right now, you can think of no better representatives than you and your troopers.
Your superiors, of course, disagree. They may not know precisely what happened to the enemy’s pay wagons, but the fact that you and your subordinates suddenly seem to have pockets laden with gold does not escape them, and despite the common stereotype regarding the intelligence of senior cavalry officers, they are still capable of putting two and two together.
There is no doubt that you have been judged, perhaps even reported to Paris for your actions.
How aggravating, perhaps you will have a little cry into your new pile of money to make you feel better about it.
20 Likes
Think I will probably need to give snippet day a pass for once, as this was sadly mostly a non-writing week due to my work schedule and that I was a little unhealthy. We shall see how the weekend goes, but maybe I will manage a snippet sometime tonight or maybe be a bit late and get to it tomorrow. Won’t have time right now, but I look forward to reading everyone’s!
Also a quick look at this thread shows some awesome discussions going on – hoping to add my 2 cents (may the penny live on forever!) when I have more time.
7 Likes