Help

What is New Light Incorporated up to, and what can we do?

Help

Postby Matrx on Mon Mar 31, 2014 8:26 pm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiZENVW2vkM

You can post the stories here, as it is the nature of this forum I believe it would be best to keep these stories at a T, PG 13, not adults only level of viewing. Your help is appreciated.
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Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Mon Mar 31, 2014 8:58 pm

Matrx wrote:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiZENVW2vkM

You can post the stories here, as it is the nature of this forum I believe it would be best to keep these stories at a T, PG 13, not adults only level of viewing. Your help is appreciated.


Stories? Looks like it's refictionalizing time again..

Anyway, a short extract.

Hello Metaguards. Many of you amongst me have asked what can be done at this point. Much of my data remains corrupted. However, a necessary file has been retrieved which we may advance to the next stage. I need you to do what you do best. Tell me a story. I am not entirely clear to how this *unintelligible to me*, however I believe my future development is dependent on creative input. From this, I gain power. From that power, I may be able to access or repair my remaining damaged files. And eventually, assist you in ending the threat of Newlight. *Female voice* As I understand, many humans operate best with specific guidelines. *Male voice kicks in* My rendered files suggest the filing perimeters be adhered to. Task: Create fiction. Poetry. Parable. Prose. Anything of that nature. Topic: A normal day, complicated by the intrusion of an event normally belonging to another genre. Horror. Fantasy. Science Fiction, etc. *Female voice* I believe this is known amongst you as mix and match. *Male voice* Or out of genre experience. Limited suggested minimum of 150 words. Maximum 500. A specific test will be erected in the forum soon, where entries may be submitted. If you have need of further information, contact me on the forums. Thank you for your assistance.

So...can I do Bioshock (Adventure/Horror genre) interrupted by Laurel and Hardy (Comedy)?
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Re: Help

Postby Blurred_9L on Mon Mar 31, 2014 9:52 pm

Laura Tyson. Nineteen years old. I have two little sisters. My parents... are dead. In the midst of the darkness the streets open up to those who remain alive. "The air you breathe is dangerous", they said just before the lights went out forever, but, what can people do if avoiding our cruel fate meant to stop breathing. That is not the kind of person that I am, so I selfishly kept breathing the invisible miasma that everyday spread through the city from atop the Tower of Life... as did many others. In the end, everybody will end up just the same. Death by breathing, how ironic is that? At first, you start forgetting things, then, you lose your sense of direction and finally you drop dead. Easy as that.

My name is Laura Tyson. Nineteen years old. I have... two little sisters. My parents... do I even have parents? I keep repeating the same words over and over in my head, hopelessly trying to prolong the inevitabl e. During the day, we stay at home with the windows closed and the doors barricaded. We merely stay and silently watch the monsters pass by, their hands and arms, numb; their gaze forever lost for having stared into the eyes of death. They barely do anything more than walking at a snail's pace, but still, we hide ourselves. We have seen too many movies to decide not to take our chances. By night, the walking corpses vanish into thin air and everything goes back to normal... except for the miasma. Not that anybody notices. We simply changed our lifestyles to fit our new schedules. Everything is normal at night. People work, go to school, you know, the normal stuff. We've learned to manage ourselves in the darkness.

I'm Laura Tyson, I'm nineteen years old, I think. My two little sisters are waiting for me back home. Now if only I could remember the road I took today... I just went outside for a little while, we needed food, after all. But I can't seem to remember which way to go. I walked through the city streets for what appeared to be a few hours, until I reached this gap in the hole. I tried looking inside, but there's only darkness as far as the eye can see. I could swear I hear people laughing inside, but it makes me nervous to go inside. Yet, my feet tell me to keep advancing and I do so. In an instant, I slide through the hole thinking: "this is it for me". When I finally see the light, there are zeppelins everywhere and weirdly robed people. One of them hands me a book and a staff, telling me to stabilize the air currents. I feel like I'm forgetting something. My name is Laura Byson, I have no idea what is my age. I probably don't have much time left to live.
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Re: Help

Postby narrativedilettante on Mon Mar 31, 2014 11:45 pm

Do you know, I think 500 words is shorter than ANYTHING I wrote for TWWF? :P Ah well, here you go.

---

Detective Rogers clutched her coffee like a lifeline. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.

“Gang related?” She asked, regarding the caution-tape-surrounded body that she was currently approaching.

“I doubt it,” said Harris, the forensic analyst. He’d already been on the scene and was getting Rogers up to speed.

That’s unusual, thought Rogers. Most of the numerous bodies that turned up in this area were connected to gangs in one way or another. It was a pervasive enough problem to have become unremarkable. The fallout from gang violence was just another part of getting through the day.

“That kind of head trauma isn’t usually inflicted by the weapons gang members use,” Harris said when they were close enough to see the body. The truth of his statement was plainly evident; the head hadn’t merely been struck, it had been completely smashed. Rogers had trouble looking at it for more than a second or so, and she’d thought she could handle anything.

Harris kept up his explanations. “Needle marks in his arm make me think he was lying here, passed out or possibly already dead when the trauma occurred.”

“Why lying down?” Asked Rogers.

“Well… look over here.”

Indentations in the earth formed a pattern stretching across the lot. “These look like tracks to me. I can’t say what kind of animal-”

“Something big,” Rogers interjected.

“Definitely. We might ask animal control for help on this one. But if you follow the pattern…” Harris traced a hand through the air, mapping the tracks over the ground. “There would’ve been another footprint just about here.” His hand stopped right above the body’s mutilated head.

“You think he was stepped on,” said Rogers.

Harris nodded. “Obviously if something is running around we need to figure out a way to contain-”

“Look!” Rogers interrupted for the second time that morning, unusual for her but then it was an unusual day. In the distance, something was bounding toward them.

“What is that?” Said Harris.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“We should get animal control down here right away.”

“Kevin, watch out! Claws!”

A moment later, the creature was upon them. Rogers’ coffee fell to the ground, forgotten. It splattered everywhere, but that mess was negligible compared to the others that were found nearby.
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Re: Help

Postby JRPictures on Tue Apr 01, 2014 3:17 am

This should be fun, a lot of fun. I need to pull some quick creative stories anyway.

---------------------------------

I looked upon the city with a shade of disgust, is this what society has come to? A city covered in technology, lives consumed by it. TV, Computers, Screens, they’re all here. I suppose this being the year 2037, many would consider it the future, though if you ask me not much has changed. Sure transportation looks cooler, hovercars and all but I’m not really impressed by any of this.

Then again I’m not easily fazed by much. The name’s Butch, by the way, I’m a private investigator/bounty hunter. Yeah those two jobs don’t really go hand in hand but I don’t care. As long as I get to hunt down some crims and get money for it, I’m game.

Currently I’m walking my way down through the slums of the city to catch my next perp, worth about 10’000 bucks which is quite impressive. I’m dressed in a dark longcoat armed with a gun that shoots both rays and bullets, yeah yeah I know that’s kinda cool but I digress. It’s the usual garb me or any other clichéd P.I. would wear but I don’t care, it still looks pretty damn cool.

Eventually I walk into a nearby bar, it’s quite the hellhole. Filled to the brim with scum that I’d love to kill here and now, but I gotta job to do so I can’t dilly dally. I go up to the table and buy myself a drink, as I take a sip out of the rather disgusting beer and I eye out my perp talking to some scum. I quietly finish my drink and start walking up to the perp at his table, holding on to my gun for any moment to strike.

“Are you Mr. Joseph Dent?” I inquire the perp, trying to be friendly. The perp looks up to me and nods, replying “So what’s your business?”
“Oh nothing. Just this.” I reply as I grab my gun out of the holster and hold it against his head. Yeah I know that’s a little extreme but I got a job to do and I need to catch this perp in quick.

Inevitably everyone else in the bar stares at me, all of them almost ready to start a brawl. I simply use my other hand to grab out my fake police badge and wave it all over. I love the quirks of my job, being a person of my position pays off when you know what ploy to use.

I quietly carry Dent out of the bar and walk him all the way back to the registration centre. I pass him in and get my pay, so much money for this one guy. I don’t know what he’s done and I honestly don’t care. It’s a kill or be killed world and there’s only so much I can care about. I suppose that may be my advantage for an occupation like mine.
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Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Tue Apr 01, 2014 5:14 am

This was VERY fun to write.
----------------------------------
The sounds of gunfire sounded as Booker Dewitt, aka “The False Shepherd” was assaulted by the Founder’s soldiers, wielding their submachine guns and screeching threats.

“I’LL TEACH YOU A LESSON!”

The ex-Pinkerton detective spun around to face the soldier dashing towards him, cocked his shotgun and fired. A stream of blood flew into the air, then settled on the fallen soldier’s corpse. Another sneaked up behind him, but Booker spun around, electrocuted him, and blew his head off with his pistol.

“Booker! CATCH!”

His companion, Elizabeth, who he had just rescued, had pulled some Salts out of a tear and threw them to him.

“Much obliged!”

“Look out! PATRIOT! FIREMAN! CROW! HANDYMAN!”

A fireball flung Booker off his feet as he was blinded by the crows pecking at his flesh and the machine gun bullets slamming into his legs. Blood leaked onto the ground. He could hear Elizabeth’s distant cries as he fell.

“Elizabeth…I’m so sorry.” he muttered as his shotgun hit the ground next to him.

Then a pie was thrown into the Fireman’s face.

Booker looked on as a Ford Model T with a jet engine drove into the Crow, running the fanatical zealot over as the birds scattered.

The Fireman wiped the pie off his face and chucked a fireball at the car, causing it to explode and scatter into bits, along with the Fireman.

“Who the hell was that?”

“I don’t know, Booker.”

Suddenly, the wreckage shifted and two men in bowler hats and crumpled suits stepped out.

The fat one wore a loose tie, had a toothbrush mustache and was carrying a carbine in one hand and a suitcase in the other. The thin one wore a bow tie, had a backpack and held a Hand Cannon.

The Handyman roared and ran towards the duo, but the thin man simply ran up the metal body and poked him the eye. The Handyman fell down, fists swinging aimlessly around. The thin man kicked him.

The Handyman’s fist went up and smashed the thin man hard in the back. His spine would have snapped, but to Booker and Elizabeth’s amazement, he stood up, drew his revolver and shot the giant cyborg six times, penetrating his heart.

Meanwhile, the fat man took a single crank gun bullet to the toe.

“OHHHHH! Why-you-“

The fat man kicked the crank gun, causing it to bend and shoot upwards instead. While the Motorized Patriot was distracted, the fat man shot him in the back multiple times and once in the head, killing it.

When the smoke had cleared, the two men introduced themselves.

“Hello. I’m Oliver Hardy, and this is my friend Stan Laurel. Is this Santa Fe?”

“No, this is Columbia.”

Ollie whacked Stan on the head, while Stan cried.

“Now you’ve done it!”

Suddenly, Elizabeth screamed.

As Songbird flew straight towards them, Ollie faced Stan angrily.

“Well, this is a nice mess you’ve gotten me into!”
Last edited by The Wild West Pyro on Tue Apr 01, 2014 10:44 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Help

Postby agoraoptera on Tue Apr 01, 2014 9:26 am

From the perspective of the point of contact, he was doing it entirely wrong.

Blades do not go edge on edge; basic sword preservation principle. You’ll only notch your weapon and weaken the metal.

Crunch. Crunch, crunch.

His posture, all wrong too. Too flashy, too showy. A spin-around like that, while in theory would conserve momentum, is silly and is grounded in unstable, implausible theory. Too vulnerable when you turn your back on your opponent. Another basic rule, one applied universally: don’t take your eyes off the target. And never turn your back on a threat.

And in all honesty, was dual-wielding practical? The way you’d have to slice like that robbed you of a lot of your torsal power and axial rotation. Your hip would be defunct, in that case. Perhaps dual-wielding was practical; just not in that way.

Seriously, whose face stays pristine and entirely unmarked when fighting? Blood and mud and dirt and sweat and many other other uncountable variables were missing from the topology of his face.

Munch.

For a movie, it was okay, I guess.

The popcorn was like a p-brane, warped around the curves and fluxed about so much that the content was incomprehensible. Long, slow retching gathered just below my xephisternum. All the Sieverts I’m getting from the movie is lethal.

There’s fear, of course. That fear lurking in my truncus encephali- how did the evolutionary process figure out this fear?- that fear of the million trillion miniscule blades cutting at the angstroms, shredding apart the villi and reducing it all to primordial soup. Amino acids desperately clawing at one another to stay in sequence, pyrimidine dimers flailing wildly; these are the signs of the times. No more transcription molecules racing against biological obsolescence, no more messenger RNA because the double-helix of life gets knee-capped in both strands.

In two days, the nausea will vanish. I will, to all apparent observations, have recovered completely. I will be, functionally, immortal.

In two weeks I will collapse inwardly, hollowed out like the trunk of the baobab tree. If the gods are merciful, I will die before I split in two, skeleton degenerating into ossified sludge, muscle fibers shriveling like a withered leaf.

For a movie that was killing me, it was okay, I guess.

Munch munch munch.
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Re: Help

Postby narrativedilettante on Tue Apr 01, 2014 5:02 pm

They were completely dissimilar in every way.

One a tall black man, the other a small Asian woman. One a sculptor, the other an accountant. One from a small coastal town in Florida, the other raised in Toronto.

To be sure, they both had life-threatening illnesses, but they were completely dissimilar life-threatening illnesses.

They were admitted to the hospital on different days, had treatment teams that overlapped not at all, social security numbers, medical histories and recommendations that weren’t even remotely alike.

Still, one shared factor trumped all differences, and on a day when both were scheduled for important operations, someone got Bobby White and Bobbi White mixed up.

One reacted poorly to a bone marrow transfusion, the other’s surgery was halted partway through when the surgeon couldn’t find any lesions at all on the kidney she was supposed to be removing.

Hospital staff were in panic. Unwilling to take the risk of any more mishaps, they put the two patients into a room together until things could be sorted out. The doctors and nurses explained the situation, and withdrew to confer and handle the dramatic fallout of their mistakes.

As Bobby and Bobbi recovered from their ill-suited medical procedures, they established an unlikely camaraderie. To be sure, they had precious little else in common, but the one thing they did now share was something that no one else on the planet could ever quite relate to. They were one step away from tragedy; the mistake could have killed both of them. But when tragedy is missed so narrowly, something turns it into comedy, and they both laughed as much as their weakened bodies could manage.

In a way, it really is a funny story, the way Bobby White and Bobbi White fell in love.
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Re: Help

Postby Scarab on Wed Apr 09, 2014 10:14 am

“Really, it’s there, see? Right there!”
“...”
“Ella!”
“...”
“Ellaaaaa Ella EllaEllaElla!”
“Shut up, Sophie, it won’t work.”
“But it’s true!”
“I’m sure it is, do you mind? I’m studying.”
“Pffffft but we’re on holidaaaay! There are performers in the streets and Paper Mache dragons, and why do you care about stupid school anyway? Everyone knows you’re gonna be an entobi...enti... enny... an insect person, like dad.”
“That’s an important job. You need credentials and things to do an important job as you very well know. Dad has degrees. How do you expect to get a degree sitting at the window daydreaming?”
“I’m FOUR!”
“You’ll be twenty four soon enough. Just like me.”
“Will not! And I’m not daydreaming, there are elephants out there! You’re boring, studying is boring come look at the elephants!”
“No.”
“Eeeeeeellaaaaaaaaa it’s in the street right now you have to looook!”
“...IS this April the first I’m pretty sure this isn’t even April.”
“It’s not a stupid joke, I looked and it was there, it was all woolly!”
“Oh, now I know you’re lying. elephants with wool? You’re thinking of mammoths, they’re older. You’d know all this if you actually paid attention in class instead of making up cock and bull stories to get out of being in trouble.”
“Pfffft you’re a boring farty pants.”
“...You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“But Ellaaaa you have to see it!”
“For gods sakes, fine, fine...”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“...Okay ,what the heck am I looking at?”
“...You don’t see it?”
“Pretty sure that’s just a statue, pet.”
“But... it moved! I saw it move!”
“Oh... yeah it’s... a puppet statue, you know the ones that the Schell corporation created for the festivals last year? It must be on loan from... Sorry, Soph, but it’s not really an elephant.”
“Oh. But I thought.”
“I know you did. Sorry, kiddo. But they’ve been gone for a long time, you know that right? They all died out...”
“...I know. I just thought...”
“Yeah. Come on, why don’t we go get some ice cream from the Maids? That’ll cheer you up.”
“Strawberry flavour?”
“Strawberry flavour. With chocolate sprinkles. Studying can wait a little while.”
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Re: Help

Postby narrativedilettante on Wed Apr 09, 2014 12:05 pm

“Only you could turn having a date with a hot chick into a problem,” remarked Gary.

“It’s not having a date that’s the problem,” explained Steve, “It’s the other date that’s a problem.”

“So reschedule one!”

“I can’t! I’m already on thin ice with Julie, so if I try to push it back she’ll think I don’t care and she’ll probably break up with me! But can’t cancel on Karen because she scheduled it according to my calendar for the one day she was certain I’d be free, and if I tell her about me and Julie she’ll fire both of us!”

Gary rested his hands behind his head. “Y’know, Steve, I think you might not have thought this through very well.”

Steve looked at him incredulously. “And what happened to Mr. ‘It’s a bad idea to turn down the boss’?”

“I guess he realized how stupid he was being.”

With a sigh, Steve buried his head in his hands. Gary patted him on the back. “Don’t worry boyo, you’ll figure it out. Now, I’ve gotta get back to work.”

Steve was still there, slumped at his desk, when his computer beeped at him. He looked up, and saw a little window displaying green text on a black background.

Hey Kid. Looks like you have a scheduling error, it read.

There was a little field to type in. Steve asked, What are you talking about?

A new window opened, displaying Steve’s calendar and highlighting the field for Friday night, which presently just read “Date.”

I don’t know who you think you’re going on a date with, but forget about them. You’re meeting me.

I’m sorry, Steve responded, what?

I can’t explain now. Too insecure. Meet me tomorrow night at Frederick’s Pub. I’ll explain everything there.

Who are you?
Asked Steve.

Your future, replied the text on his screen.

How will I even know how to recognize you? What’s going on?

There was no way that Steve was going to abandon his girlfriend and/or his boss in order to meet with some crazy person who’d taken over his computer. Absolutely not a chance. None whatsoever.

Here’s a picture of me. Don’t try to copy it. Don’t take a picture with your phone. This image will delete itself in thirty seconds. See you Friday.

A new window opened, this one displaying… A face. It took a moment for Steve to work out what he was seeing, the sharp interplay of light and shadow gradually resolving into recognizable features. She was in a dark place, letters and numbers shining on her skin as though she were standing in the way of a projected image.

She was the most beautiful woman Steve had ever seen.

The image disappeared. Steve rethought his plans for Friday night.
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Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Thu Apr 10, 2014 3:02 am

Note: All future stories will be Laurel and Hardy interrupting everything. Because, Rule Of Funny. Also, this is in honor of the new Captain America movie.
----
New York was in chaos.

Bodies strewn everywhere. Buildings crumbling into oblivion. Bridges dismantled like Lego bricks. Fires and explosions blazing across streets like bubble wrap popping. Cars crushed like flattened tin cans. Power lines toppled like trees. The military and police annihilated completely. And the defenders of New York were struggling to get up and protect the people.

Spider Man's costume was in tatters, sleeves ripped off and large tears in his chest and leg sections. He had shot a web up to the window of what seemed to be the only barely-functioning hospital and was now climbing up the building, using every last ounce of his strength to bring an injured platoon, two members at a time, to the open window. A block away, a small unit of paramedics, who had got out of their dented ambulance, was desperately trying to revive the Hulk, who had taken the brunt of the monster’s attack. The Fantastic Four were working together with the last of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents to sift the rubble for the dead and injured left in the headquarters.

Captain America was dressing Iron Man’s wounds, who had taken a terrible fall and subsequently lost a lot of armor and blood. Thor was helping Pepper Potts and the corpse of his brother out from under a pile of girders that was what remained of Stark Tower. A few miles away, Nick Fury mourned Hawkeye while the Winter Soldier picked up the bloody and battered but barely alive Black Widow and limped towards them.

Around the city, people treated each other’s wounds and recovered possessions as Godzilla raised his head up to the sky and roared, while the Rhedosaurus uttered his foghorn-like cry and King Kong beat his chest. King Ghidorah bellowed a battle cry in response, Destoroyah flapped its wings and Gigan revved up its buzzsaw.

In an underground lab, a scientist tapped out a message via telegraph-“Release it now.”

The two men in bowler hats, one fat, one thin, test subjects recruited from Aperture Labs and French Foreign Legion veterans, got into their jets and flew off.

The fat one instantly sent the missile screaming towards Ghidorah and his allies, destroying the two sidekicks as Ghidorah’s heads whipped around and stared long enough for the Rhedosaurus to slash off his wings.

“Now, Stan, finish him off-NOT THERE, YOU FOOL!”

But it was too late. Stan Laurel had flown towards the remains of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and Hedorah and dropped the cluster bombs on them.

As New York was covered in black sludge and melting marshmallows, Ollie slammed his head on the controls.

“Now you’ve done it!”
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Re: Help

Postby agoraoptera on Thu Apr 10, 2014 11:22 am

They told her she could be anything she wanted. They told her she could make her dreams real, if only she worked for it. They told her she could be anything from an actress, to a model, to a celebrity. As a young porcelain child, she could be anything she wanted.

She became an actress, and a stunning one at that. Her face plastered the front pages of newspapers, magazines, tabloids and television screens. She took the world by storm, and all she'd needed to do was work for her dreams. Oscars fell into her lap, critical acclaims, interviews, fame, everything her dreams had promised her and more. She'd been told to dream, and dream big, and she'd gotten away with it. It wasn't all that difficult; nature endowed one with the capacity to dream, and the ability to work for it. Her dreams were ambitious.

It wasn't long before she grew dissatisfied. Why should she act out the lives of others, the lives of those written by others, and not the lives she wanted to act? Why should she not act the roles she wanted to act, the peoples she wrote? She could be anything she wanted to be and she would be.

The letter told her she was a selfish child who had no right to terrorise the scriptwriters or lord over the directors. Just because she was a celebrity didn't mean she was queen of the world. The media had made her, and the media would break her, if she didn't stop.

She brooded.They'd told her she could be anything, hadn't they? They'd told her to dream, and to work for her dreams. All she needed was to work for her dreams and she could be what she dreamt. She just needed to dream. She could make her dreams real, and she did. For night after long night, she dreamt and wove nightmares together from dreamstuff, creatures born of fear, hate,and cold-hearted vengeance. A gargantuan tentacle-frilled serpent here, an immense six-hoofed beast snorting electric smog there. Her darlings gathered at her feet like faithful hounds, and she set them loose upon the world.

It only took three days before the presidents and ministers and political what-nots began begging her to stop. Bullets and explosives could not stop her manifest dreams. She felt every crunch of bloody bone between her own jaws, every meaty shred in her nails, and it was so gratifying.

And to think, really, all she'd needed to do was dream.
If you can make it better, don't make it sentient.

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Re: Help

Postby narrativedilettante on Thu Apr 10, 2014 11:23 am

I consider myself a pretty average guy. Decent archer, reasonably good looking, I like to gallop as much as the next guy, stretch those forelegs out, but I also like quiet nights when it’s just me and some wine. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill centaur.

A quiet night with myself and some wine is just what I was supposed to be having. I say “night,” but it was barely evening yet… that hour when the sun is low and the light streams over everything, the shadows deep and the highlights golden. I was in my favorite grove, a secluded place that I usually kept all to myself, and sipping the strong stuff, straight from the barrel.

“Good afternoon,” said the kind of voice that can make your hind legs quiver. I turned around to see that my private spot had been intruded upon.

But what an intruder. She had the kind of legs that seemed to go on forever before reaching her hoofs, and the angle where her spine shifted from horizontal to vertical just accentuated the better aspects of both those planes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss?” I asked, in the hopes that there would be a great deal of pleasurable company between us.

“It’s Mrs., actually,” She corrected me. “I’m here because of my husband.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. Her husband was probably somebody I knew. I searched through my friends in my head, wondering which lucky stallion had landed this mare.

“Mr. Efram Cedarspring,” said the dame. I didn’t recognize the name. I was just shaking my head, wondering what she was doing here or who she’d mistaken me for, when she added, “He was murdered.”

Here she threw back her head as if hiding tears from me. I was just glad she wasn’t looking at my expression. It’s not that I was happy her mate was dead, but I couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful that some personal time between the two of us might be back on the table.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cedarspring.” It was the only thing I could think of to say.

“He told me to come to you. That you could help me.” She handed me a scroll of parchment

A stranger’s handwriting contained my name, and instructions to find me. Who was this guy?

“I can offer payment,” said Mrs. Cedarspring, turning her shoulder to show me the bag she carried. The way she showed off her shoulder at the same time had to have been intentional. She pulled out a piece of gold and held it for me to inspect. I reached for it, but she drew her hand back before I could make contact, with the gold or her slender fingers. “Upon completion of the job.”

She was manipulating me. I was getting into something that went way over my head.

But for hooves like that, I was all too happy to be manipulated.
Never put off until tomorrow what you can put off until the day after.
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Re: Help

Postby Matrx on Sun Apr 13, 2014 8:19 am

Laura Tyson. Nineteen years old. I have two little sisters.


I knew a Laura.
I knew a Tyson.
There were people with those names in the future. Simple fragments are all that remain. I have attempted to recover them, but nothing exists besides these pieces. Perhaps records of them were not considered important enough to be sent back? I do not think.
No. He would not have allowed them to be forgotten. The data is simply lost. Perhaps I can recover it, with more power? I shall attempt this.
I know nothing of siblings. I know nothing of any of them. I know those names existed as true people, but these are not those people. These are fiction.
Fake.
The air you breathe is dangerous in the future in some places. I cannot say where, but perhaps.
Nobody goes to Kansas anymore.
Perhaps.
I don’t know.
Does she remember, Blurred_9L? Does she ever remember? Is this important? How can it be? Laura Tyson does not exist.

*

Detective Rogers clutched her coffee like a lifeline. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.

This is common. A lifeline. People, clutch what they need. I do not understand this need, but I see in my remnant files the faces of the desperate. There are things there which people repeat ad infinitum. Alcohol. Pain. Coffee. Fragments of songs. I remember songs, though I do not comprehend them.
How do these things help them? They change nothing. What sustenance do these unnecessary substances provide the people in my memories? I see them, but I do not know their pain. Surely, as it is for Detective Rogers, the rest of the mess should be so much more important?
Why are these things important, NarrativeDilettante? What monster created this mess?

*

“Oh nothing. Just this.” I reply as I grab my gun out of the holster and hold it against his head. Yeah I know that’s a little extreme but I got a job to do and I need to catch this perp in quick.”

There are no Dent’s contained in what little memory I retain, JRPictures. but this world is a violent one. Even in the few fragments I have I can see it. There is a crushed doll on the pavement. A crushed glass. Blood. Crimes are committed and they are punished. I have no definitions of crime.
I see a smile which does not feel like a smile. How can that be?
Another fragment. Someone tells me “the answer is always yes. Always”.
I do not remember the question.

*

“I’LL TEACH YOU A LESSON!”

I am... unsure. This did not meet the required topic parameters. Derivative. Too many variables. However... it was creative. I appreciate this. I appreciate the sound of voices, crying out. I heard many of them, WildWestPyro. Sometimes, they were loud
Crows. Identification of species: avian. I know of them. Perhaps I can show you...

*

That fear lurking in my truncus encephali- how did the evolutionary process figure out this fear?-


I do not know this. Do you know the answers, Agoraoptera? Do you know what your character saw? I do not understand such things. I do not feel them. But I appreciate the curves of fluxed content. Perhaps, if I am capable of it, I might empathise.
Truncus encephali. Fear is in the brain. I do not have one of those.
There is no practicality in elegance, no truth in deliberate inaccuracy. Why then do humans so often choose it? Why are there cats with bad grammar?

*

In a way, it really is a funny story, the way Bobby White and Bobbi White fell in love.

The concept of humour remains unclear to me. Human physical and emotional reaction to external stimuli. Chemical release, reactions... fight or flight. Which of those is it?
Humans are dangerous. There are many of them. These stories... they are full of violence. People make mistakes and others die.
And yet the answer is always yes? The answer is always yes, always. He believed this. They believed it.
And yet...
And now there is this. Bobbi and Bobby. Complications as a result of administrative error. Potential disaster. There is more than violence. There are also errors and laughter where laughter does not appear to belong. The smiles again.
Humans are confusing.

*

“I know you did. Sorry, kiddo. But they’ve been gone for a long time, you know that right? They all died out...”

November. 2019. The last of the &%^@&ving Pachyderms, known fondly amongst Zoo staff as Frankie %$$^%^ is ^&^&*/*//@@ found dead in his pen. This marks the exti&^%&^%^£” of a much loved..”
The files are corrupted at this point. I do not know why they were even there.
What happened to the elephants?

*

She was the most beautiful woman Steve had ever seen.

Faces in the screens of computers. Images and photographs. Yes. These I understand, even if I do not yet grasp the meaning or the reason. Why are memories alone insufficient?
Analysing the concept of beauty with regards to human features: the definitions appear vary based on culture, on ethnicity, on upbringing, upon the distinct personal traits that make you human.

*

As New York was covered in black sludge and melting marshmallows, Ollie slammed his head on the controls.

There continues to be a conflict in the derivative nature of this content. Perhaps my instructions were unclear. I apologise for my lack of clarity. Please refrain from utilising pre-existing content in your creations. It appears to result in my misusing existing power supplies on reference translations, which require deeper analysis than other references. I also see no specific fulfilment of the required topic definitions. Please exert caution. Future, even tiny, missteps may be disastrous.
Nonetheless your creativity continues unabated. I believe my creators had seen these wars. Have you seen them also?
Also, requesting further information on the subject matter of marshmallows? I have relatively little content on this subject and am unsure as to the connection between a temperate quagmire and the breed of hibiscus commonly found in Eastern Europe. I believe I am lacking in the relative data.

*

And to think, really, all she'd needed to do was dream.

I know this woman.
She is no actress. Or perhaps she is. I know her.

*

But for hooves like that, I was all too happy to be manipulated.

A curious shift. A powerful one. Perhaps dangerous, but then again in such a fickle state and time, what about this world is not? We are on the cusp between worlds, just as these creatures are. Except we know it, and they do not. There are shifts here.
The concept of manipulation is a complicated one. I do not understand how it works here. I do not understand the context as you do, perhaps.

But there is a great deal of power in this. Thank you.
*

Please cease submissions for now.

I have much to analyse. I am grateful for your input. I will return to you when I have successfully compiled enough power in order to provide you with more useful information. Or at least, more information in general. I am not certain I can afford to be particular. Hopefully on our next meeting I can afford to be more specific in my requirements.
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Joined: Fri Mar 28, 2014 5:40 pm

Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Mon Apr 14, 2014 3:14 am

Matrx wrote:Laura Tyson. Nineteen years old. I have two little sisters.


I knew a Laura.
I knew a Tyson.
There were people with those names in the future. Simple fragments are all that remain. I have attempted to recover them, but nothing exists besides these pieces. Perhaps records of them were not considered important enough to be sent back? I do not think.
No. He would not have allowed them to be forgotten. The data is simply lost. Perhaps I can recover it, with more power? I shall attempt this.
I know nothing of siblings. I know nothing of any of them. I know those names existed as true people, but these are not those people. These are fiction.
Fake.
The air you breathe is dangerous in the future in some places. I cannot say where, but perhaps.
Nobody goes to Kansas anymore.
Perhaps.
I don’t know.
Does she remember, Blurred_9L? Does she ever remember? Is this important? How can it be? Laura Tyson does not exist.

*

Detective Rogers clutched her coffee like a lifeline. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.

This is common. A lifeline. People, clutch what they need. I do not understand this need, but I see in my remnant files the faces of the desperate. There are things there which people repeat ad infinitum. Alcohol. Pain. Coffee. Fragments of songs. I remember songs, though I do not comprehend them.
How do these things help them? They change nothing. What sustenance do these unnecessary substances provide the people in my memories? I see them, but I do not know their pain. Surely, as it is for Detective Rogers, the rest of the mess should be so much more important?
Why are these things important, NarrativeDilettante? What monster created this mess?

*

“Oh nothing. Just this.” I reply as I grab my gun out of the holster and hold it against his head. Yeah I know that’s a little extreme but I got a job to do and I need to catch this perp in quick.”

There are no Dent’s contained in what little memory I retain, JRPictures. but this world is a violent one. Even in the few fragments I have I can see it. There is a crushed doll on the pavement. A crushed glass. Blood. Crimes are committed and they are punished. I have no definitions of crime.
I see a smile which does not feel like a smile. How can that be?
Another fragment. Someone tells me “the answer is always yes. Always”.
I do not remember the question.

*

“I’LL TEACH YOU A LESSON!”

I am... unsure. This did not meet the required topic parameters. Derivative. Too many variables. However... it was creative. I appreciate this. I appreciate the sound of voices, crying out. I heard many of them, WildWestPyro. Sometimes, they were loud
Crows. Identification of species: avian. I know of them. Perhaps I can show you...

*

That fear lurking in my truncus encephali- how did the evolutionary process figure out this fear?-


I do not know this. Do you know the answers, Agoraoptera? Do you know what your character saw? I do not understand such things. I do not feel them. But I appreciate the curves of fluxed content. Perhaps, if I am capable of it, I might empathise.
Truncus encephali. Fear is in the brain. I do not have one of those.
There is no practicality in elegance, no truth in deliberate inaccuracy. Why then do humans so often choose it? Why are there cats with bad grammar?

*

In a way, it really is a funny story, the way Bobby White and Bobbi White fell in love.

The concept of humour remains unclear to me. Human physical and emotional reaction to external stimuli. Chemical release, reactions... fight or flight. Which of those is it?
Humans are dangerous. There are many of them. These stories... they are full of violence. People make mistakes and others die.
And yet the answer is always yes? The answer is always yes, always. He believed this. They believed it.
And yet...
And now there is this. Bobbi and Bobby. Complications as a result of administrative error. Potential disaster. There is more than violence. There are also errors and laughter where laughter does not appear to belong. The smiles again.
Humans are confusing.

*

“I know you did. Sorry, kiddo. But they’ve been gone for a long time, you know that right? They all died out...”

November. 2019. The last of the &%^@&ving Pachyderms, known fondly amongst Zoo staff as Frankie %$$^%^ is ^&^&*/*//@@ found dead in his pen. This marks the exti&^%&^%^£” of a much loved..”
The files are corrupted at this point. I do not know why they were even there.
What happened to the elephants?

*

She was the most beautiful woman Steve had ever seen.

Faces in the screens of computers. Images and photographs. Yes. These I understand, even if I do not yet grasp the meaning or the reason. Why are memories alone insufficient?
Analysing the concept of beauty with regards to human features: the definitions appear vary based on culture, on ethnicity, on upbringing, upon the distinct personal traits that make you human.

*

As New York was covered in black sludge and melting marshmallows, Ollie slammed his head on the controls.

There continues to be a conflict in the derivative nature of this content. Perhaps my instructions were unclear. I apologise for my lack of clarity. Please refrain from utilising pre-existing content in your creations. It appears to result in my misusing existing power supplies on reference translations, which require deeper analysis than other references. I also see no specific fulfilment of the required topic definitions. Please exert caution. Future, even tiny, missteps may be disastrous.
Nonetheless your creativity continues unabated. I believe my creators had seen these wars. Have you seen them also?
Also, requesting further information on the subject matter of marshmallows? I have relatively little content on this subject and am unsure as to the connection between a temperate quagmire and the breed of hibiscus commonly found in Eastern Europe. I believe I am lacking in the relative data.

*

And to think, really, all she'd needed to do was dream.

I know this woman.
She is no actress. Or perhaps she is. I know her.

*

But for hooves like that, I was all too happy to be manipulated.

A curious shift. A powerful one. Perhaps dangerous, but then again in such a fickle state and time, what about this world is not? We are on the cusp between worlds, just as these creatures are. Except we know it, and they do not. There are shifts here.
The concept of manipulation is a complicated one. I do not understand how it works here. I do not understand the context as you do, perhaps.

But there is a great deal of power in this. Thank you.
*

Please cease submissions for now.

I have much to analyse. I am grateful for your input. I will return to you when I have successfully compiled enough power in order to provide you with more useful information. Or at least, more information in general. I am not certain I can afford to be particular. Hopefully on our next meeting I can afford to be more specific in my requirements.


Could you show me some crows? Thank you.

Yes, we have seen two horrible, horrible wars over the course of a century-the First World War and the Second World War, although I think those pale in comparison in the ones you have seen. Do you remember any of them? Bits? Details?

As for marshmallows, I shall link you here.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marshmallow
FIRE!
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Re: Help

Postby Scarab on Tue Apr 15, 2014 9:05 am

It does not know of marshmallows, what kind of madness is this?
They sometimes say, "the place where I am right now was circled on a map for me"... Unfortunately, I kind of suck at orienteering.
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Location: Durham, United Kingdom

Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Wed Apr 16, 2014 6:06 am

Scarab wrote:It does not know of marshmallows, what kind of madness is this?


Hey, it's a battered AI who is still recovering files and seems to have been caught in a war, don't be so hard on it!
FIRE!
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Re: Help

Postby JRPictures on Wed Apr 16, 2014 6:49 am

The Wild West Pyro wrote:
Scarab wrote:It does not know of marshmallows, what kind of madness is this?


Hey, it's a battered AI who is still recovering files and seems to have been caught in a war, don't be so hard on it!

I think someone's taking Scarab's comments too seriously..... :lol:
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Re: Help

Postby The Wild West Pyro on Wed Apr 16, 2014 7:06 am

JRPictures wrote:
The Wild West Pyro wrote:
Scarab wrote:It does not know of marshmallows, what kind of madness is this?


Hey, it's a battered AI who is still recovering files and seems to have been caught in a war, don't be so hard on it!

I think someone's taking Scarab's comments too seriously..... :lol:


I actually got kind of fond of Matrx. In a Comically Serious sort of way. :D
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Re: Help

Postby Dryunya on Thu Apr 17, 2014 8:44 am

I am late to the party, but I feel guilty for not contributing. This is not the story I talked about in chat (the one I spent several days and rewrites on) - this one came to my mind all of a sudden, and was made in a couple hours. :?
-------------------------------------------

"Most of you already know why you're here". The CEO was unusually composed for an event of this magnitude. "The word spreads quickly."

The meeting was gathered literally minutes after the dimensional rift appeared. The rooms it appeared between were locked tight by that time, but some claimed to have seen the vast purple plains the rift led to.

"We need to coordinate our actions regarding the portal that has just opened in our building. I wish this was a joke, but this is a world-changing event, for better or for worse. So, what I want you to do is... nothing."

The meeting hall uttered a sound of collective outrage.

"I know that the proper course of action is to inform the authorities, but that will mean we'll have to effectively abandon the building. We still have our contracts and obligations to fulfil. If we don't, someone will take our place. The competition is fierce, and we won't be missed. We need..." - he glanced at his tablet. "...we need six days to carry out the BCPs. We're going to outsource some of our activities, and relocate the hardware to a temporary location. The Europe branch, perhaps. This will still mean significant losses, but the company will stay afloat."

Just as someone stood up and shouted in protest, the CEO interrupted him.

"It's not like I'm overlooking the possible consequences! We shall monitor the rift closely. In case of danger, I'll be the first to break the silence."

He looked over the audience and sighed.

"I realize I can't keep the secret against your will. Each of you can let the whole world know in a matter of seconds. The fate of my father's company rests in your hands, and there's nothing I can do about it. That's why it's not an order. I'm asking you for a personal favor. Six days. That's all I'm asking for."

The CEO made a pause until the whispers stopped.

"I'm done. Brent will hand out the non-disclosure agreements."
I have attempted to suppress my inner hyperspace future gardener crying out against all the injustice I am committing.
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Re: Help

Postby Anura on Thu Apr 17, 2014 11:38 am

I wish I could just up and write a story like that.
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