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damned_lounge2009-10-25 11:53 am
psyches) wrote in damned_lounge2009-10-25 11:53 am
Entry tags:
Oktoberfest '09: Seven by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
psyches
Title: Seven
Author:psyches
Beta:the_demon_yuber and eternity_dreams on parts
Word Count: 2,208
Rating: PG-13 for language, imagery, and possible innuendo
Character(s): See Notes.
Pairing(s): Depends
Summary: "You are about to read a story. Or rather, part of a story. You will be asked to define the story by controlling one instant in the life of the man whose story it is. Your intervention will begin and end the story. But be warned; there are many stories and not all of the stories are about the same man."
Notes: Based on the interactive fiction game Aisle, by Sam Barlow. Given the time constraints, there exists only eight actions and no nice interface to go along with it. Also, the characters involved will remain a mystery; though if someone can guess their identities, I'll give you a prize. Or something.
Night descends, and the institute awakens. Your head thrums from the sting of static as you cautiously make your way out into the hall. It comes through quietly in your head—something akin to drumming, a rhythmic reminder in a world of silence. Unconsciously, you press the pipe in your hand against your right temple, the cool touch soothing the beginning signs of pain. The Head Doctor's announcement proved unusually harsh tonight, and you feel an urgent need to progress. There are souls counting on your actions. You cannot afford to let them down for something as inconsequential as a headache.
The next hall comes in six beats.
The area stretches from the north to the south, the former leading you closer to your destination. Doors stand on either side (as is expected from these halls), each labeled with their respective room number. One thoughtful act from the staff, you muse in half-hearted sarcasm.
One advantage to this hell.
You pause thoughtfully at a specific marker, eyes glazing over the number. In the dim, you sense a presence: a brunette woman, armed solely with a flashlight. She appears unconcerned with your proximity and is focused on fumbling with something small. And metallic, if the clicks were of any indication. They match perfectly to the beat in your head, a distant memory forming along the steady rhythm.
Talk to Woman | Attack Woman | Remember Memory | Open Door | Go North | Do Paperwork | Check Pipe | Go South
Talk to Woman;
Intention forms in the back of your head, and you approach the woman’s back—eyes and face friendly. Just because you have a schedule to keep, it doesn’t give you an excuse to be crass and ignore a lady in need. No, that choice existed for those of less social graces than a monkey at a high school graduation ceremony, and you are no monkey.
Besides, your companions can wait for someone as stunning as her. The fairer sex certainly lived up to its name.
You clear your throat and smile elegantly, a gesture unseen in the darkness. “Hey there.”
The woman continues with her motions, hardly fazed by the greeting. She does, however, return your greeting. Greetings are often a good sign. “Hello,” she speaks, voice soft. Distracted. Her task seems particularly stubborn in completing itself.
And that, of course, is where you come in. “Need any help? I’m pretty awesome with opening doors for women,” you explain, blue eyes shining, “especially beautiful women such as yourself.” Smooth. Truly, it is your style—
“No.”
—which is also sucking hardcore as of now. “Are you sure? Want me to at least hold your flashlight?” You would throw yourself upon the ground and grovel for her affection, you discover, but such desperation is not very becoming in a man. Instead, you stand tall, unwilling to lose to a little setback. “Surely, a vision of loveliness could afford more light on her person as opposed to her task—”
A click, however, brings your pride back to reality, and your smile turns to strain as you realize she never needed you at all. She slips through the now open threshold, dark hair disappearing in black, before throwing you a knowing expression. The concluding slam of the door rings loudly in your mind, increasing your headache by tenfold.
Chivalry is dead, it seems. Dejected, you continue on.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Attack Woman;
The rhythm. The clicking. The residue of static, the words of telltale destruction.
It becomes too much—too much stimuli, too much implication. Too much recognition. It fills your skull to the brim and overflows in volume, and in this, you feel a death. A growing need for release. You (and he) cannot stand this invasion, and he (and you) walks the paces necessary, arm stretched to end the pain.
End that which beats against your head.
The woman sees and reacts, but even her quick fingers and quicker feet are not enough. She staggers back as you rip the keys from her grasp, the surprise evident in expression. And yet, those features hold no fear. Until the others, her eyes are cold, a calculation in motion. She watches as you throw the metal far across the reach of the hallway. Watches as you throw a fist to the door, anger and pain clear in your (his) face but not hers.
“If you’re going to open a door,” he (you) seethes, “fucking open it.”
She says nothing and only looks: it is her eyes that force a relenting. A turn, a walk, and he melts into the fade while you run to the foreground, her eyes to your back, your front to the dark.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Remember Memory;
Your memory lasts the span of several heartbeats, but you remember.
The pounding shifts to a sort of desperation as the hallway narrows in your scope of vision. The doors drop in numbers, twisting east and west at the ends. The scene becomes more familiar—intimate—as tile turns to carpet, walls draw in, and the woman—
Woman?
You blink. You remember.
You remember her dark hair—wisps of brown, not strands of black—her perchance tastes for the simple, and her quiet laughter. You remember consciousness surfacing, emptiness rising as you feel her warmth in bed but not her person. You remember the walk down, the light shone through cracks, the muffled sounds of violence and fear, the inherent anxiety piquing at the realization. The dread. The beats quicken, and you force your way—door and weapon swinging yet never hitting—the scent of blood mixed in perfume. A strike from behind draws your attention away; you fall, face-first and flat.
And you remember the dying light behind your wife’s eyes, red blossoming beneath her still form.
Breaths interrupt the rhythm, and you stare blankly into the eyes of another. A brunette. She seems annoyed. You forget as to why she would be.
“Something wrong?” Fingers drum against sleeve.
It takes a minute to process, but you eventually shake your head and move to the next hall. You don’t remember the answer anyway.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Open Door;
You pay no mind to the woman, the pounding, and the memories strung together (you’ve done so too many times before and too little to care) and continue through to the marked door. A cheery countenance graces your features; your steps take an upbeat tone. Your companions like you brimming with optimism and confidence. And you hate to disappoint them.
“Hey, guys,” you greet, tossing manners aside to push open the door. “You ready to head out and get some— What the hell?”
A mess of limbs and tangled bodies meet your eyes, and you stare—frozen, dumbfounded—at the perpetrators. Gasps of air fill the painful realization as one lifts his eyes up to meet their guest’s. The cheeks beneath them shift to a bright red.
“Oh. Er,” he stammers. The obvious sign of one caught. “Hello.”
The other isn’t quite so courteous. “Do you mind?” He raises an eyebrow in both annoyance and doubt, as though accusing you of some form of wrongdoing. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
Something, you find, you don’t want to know the origins of.
As though completely oblivious to your presence, to the stricken horror streaked across your face, they continue. Like you are not standing in the threshold staring at them doing the unspeakable. Like you were never there.
“Come on,” the rude one coaxes, almost disgustingly sweet. “Do it.”
“…I don’t know if I can reach that far.”
The other wrinkles his nose, something mocking and pleasant rising in his features. “Come now, dearest,” he chimed. “I don’t recall any complaints when we started this game. In fact~” A smile. It seems to cause discomfort in the other. “You were pretty enthusiastic when I opened the—”
Panic rises in the first. “Alright, alright!” He would raise his arms and wave, if not otherwise occupied. “I’ll do it, okay?”
No, not okay. The other’s smile eases into a grin. “That’s right~ Right foot on…”
You do not hear the rest and instead turn on your heels, flying out of the enclosed spaced and into the hallway. Withheld screams break the surface, and you sprint down the corridor yelling, something about colored circles, spindles, and the Game Room.
The brunette stares after your trail, bemusement in her eyes. She returns to her task shortly after, continuing without skipping a beat.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Go North;
The memory flows to the foreground and eventually hardens, the facts becoming crystal in your mind. The soundless beats accentuate the effect, and you find your fingers moving rapidly, matching to the brunette’s clicks. A list of names and numbers form, perfect and precise as the time you read them from the bulletin.
Astor Reed, M5
Haru Tanaka, M5
Bruno Godfrey, M6
Marcus Wings, M6
Matthew Lawrence, M7
John Smith, M7
Nathan O'Malley, M8
Josh Hart, M8
Charles Keane, M9
Morgan Harald, M9
And in this, you conclude you are in the right hall. Digits lay flat as you push around the woman and continue north.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Do Paperwork;
ಥ益ಥ
BAD END
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Check Pipe;
Your fingers twitch in response, and your eyes travel downward toward the metal pipe gripped in your hand. There again comes the need to press its cool exterior against your forehead, against the thrumming beneath, but you resist. This pipe is not yours; a second indulgence can’t be entertained by your conscience.
Even if you had risked your neck in its retrieval.
Thoughts coalesce into memory. You had spent the entirety of last night in the splendors of the men’s bathroom, cutting pipes from sinks with a pair of rusted shears. Metal for a relatively new patient; one of your countless exchanges, the fifth in the past two weeks. It was pointless from an objective point of view. You always knew the information you sought.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say the point wasn’t practical. Playing Good Samaritan is a ritual, a habit. Kindness earns your place in existence, deters the feelings of hopelessness that often accompanied the nights. Pretty ridiculous when you think about it. At least your clients will never know.
In the dim glow of the flashlight, you had worked at the metal, the incisions meticulous and steady as times before. The pipe finally gave way in your fingers, gushing dirty water across your face and chest. It settled in a pool on the tile, black in glints of white.
And there, in a corner, you had seen it: the hardened shell, the many legs. It was the size of a small plate—not quite as large as the others, but large enough to cover the entirety of your face. You had flailed helplessly when the thing leapt at you, when it covered every inch of breathing space with that disgustingly thick exoskeleton.
You managed to pry the creature off and threw it at the toilets, hoping by some miracle it would land in a bowl. And it had, to both you and the thing’s surprise, but you remember it was you who took advantage of the situation. You used the remainder of the time to keep its body beneath the murky water, your hand constantly going over the flusher, hoping its strength would not overpower the pipe—
Which drops instantly from your hands, clattering to the floor as you jump back in alarm. It had been in the toilet, you realize. The toilet. And you had held the wrong end to your forehead!
“Are you alright?” There is a woman nearby, veiled concern in her features.
You take a moment to digest, before hastily retrieving the fallen pipe. “Uh, yeah! I just remembered I forgot something.” How you wish it hadn’t been the case.
With nothing else to say, you run to your destination, one hand unconsciously wiping at your temple.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Go South;
You look down the hallway with a fathomless expression, something about the location striking a chord. The sound is distant, hardly noticeable among the pounding in your head, but eventually, it pulls. Despite your best efforts, you gravitate toward the source—feet still, eyes closed. And somewhere in the rhythm, music is born.
It is funny, you think. To hear the strands of a proverbial tune without the aid of his signature radio. To recall an event you thought long buried in a sea of ambitions and rage. The argument, the rising fury. The accident. Echoes of Lennon play in the backdrop, forgotten entirely in the heat.
You hated him and still do, but he has become a constant.
Like her. Her and him and you: creators of a phenomenon, instrumentalists of a fine art. Every man, woman, and child in this institute has the right to kill you, for you and he and she are the makers of their Hell. And it is funny, you think again. They would not have the chance if you had not miscalculated. (If you had not let her go.) In this, they should feel grateful: you sacrificed your own for their sakes.
You stare into the inky black for a moment, only to turn on your heels to the previous hallway. You’ve lost your taste for your former destination; another would suffice just as well. The woman glances in your direction as you pass, and you throw her a kindly greeting, a low hum accompanying the words.
She shrugs and returns to her work.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Author:
psychesBeta:
the_demon_yuber and eternity_dreams on partsWord Count: 2,208
Rating: PG-13 for language, imagery, and possible innuendo
Character(s): See Notes.
Pairing(s): Depends
Summary: "You are about to read a story. Or rather, part of a story. You will be asked to define the story by controlling one instant in the life of the man whose story it is. Your intervention will begin and end the story. But be warned; there are many stories and not all of the stories are about the same man."
Notes: Based on the interactive fiction game Aisle, by Sam Barlow. Given the time constraints, there exists only eight actions and no nice interface to go along with it. Also, the characters involved will remain a mystery; though if someone can guess their identities, I'll give you a prize. Or something.
Night descends, and the institute awakens. Your head thrums from the sting of static as you cautiously make your way out into the hall. It comes through quietly in your head—something akin to drumming, a rhythmic reminder in a world of silence. Unconsciously, you press the pipe in your hand against your right temple, the cool touch soothing the beginning signs of pain. The Head Doctor's announcement proved unusually harsh tonight, and you feel an urgent need to progress. There are souls counting on your actions. You cannot afford to let them down for something as inconsequential as a headache.
The next hall comes in six beats.
The area stretches from the north to the south, the former leading you closer to your destination. Doors stand on either side (as is expected from these halls), each labeled with their respective room number. One thoughtful act from the staff, you muse in half-hearted sarcasm.
One advantage to this hell.
You pause thoughtfully at a specific marker, eyes glazing over the number. In the dim, you sense a presence: a brunette woman, armed solely with a flashlight. She appears unconcerned with your proximity and is focused on fumbling with something small. And metallic, if the clicks were of any indication. They match perfectly to the beat in your head, a distant memory forming along the steady rhythm.
Talk to Woman;
Intention forms in the back of your head, and you approach the woman’s back—eyes and face friendly. Just because you have a schedule to keep, it doesn’t give you an excuse to be crass and ignore a lady in need. No, that choice existed for those of less social graces than a monkey at a high school graduation ceremony, and you are no monkey.
Besides, your companions can wait for someone as stunning as her. The fairer sex certainly lived up to its name.
You clear your throat and smile elegantly, a gesture unseen in the darkness. “Hey there.”
The woman continues with her motions, hardly fazed by the greeting. She does, however, return your greeting. Greetings are often a good sign. “Hello,” she speaks, voice soft. Distracted. Her task seems particularly stubborn in completing itself.
And that, of course, is where you come in. “Need any help? I’m pretty awesome with opening doors for women,” you explain, blue eyes shining, “especially beautiful women such as yourself.” Smooth. Truly, it is your style—
“No.”
—which is also sucking hardcore as of now. “Are you sure? Want me to at least hold your flashlight?” You would throw yourself upon the ground and grovel for her affection, you discover, but such desperation is not very becoming in a man. Instead, you stand tall, unwilling to lose to a little setback. “Surely, a vision of loveliness could afford more light on her person as opposed to her task—”
A click, however, brings your pride back to reality, and your smile turns to strain as you realize she never needed you at all. She slips through the now open threshold, dark hair disappearing in black, before throwing you a knowing expression. The concluding slam of the door rings loudly in your mind, increasing your headache by tenfold.
Chivalry is dead, it seems. Dejected, you continue on.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Attack Woman;
The rhythm. The clicking. The residue of static, the words of telltale destruction.
It becomes too much—too much stimuli, too much implication. Too much recognition. It fills your skull to the brim and overflows in volume, and in this, you feel a death. A growing need for release. You (and he) cannot stand this invasion, and he (and you) walks the paces necessary, arm stretched to end the pain.
End that which beats against your head.
The woman sees and reacts, but even her quick fingers and quicker feet are not enough. She staggers back as you rip the keys from her grasp, the surprise evident in expression. And yet, those features hold no fear. Until the others, her eyes are cold, a calculation in motion. She watches as you throw the metal far across the reach of the hallway. Watches as you throw a fist to the door, anger and pain clear in your (his) face but not hers.
“If you’re going to open a door,” he (you) seethes, “fucking open it.”
She says nothing and only looks: it is her eyes that force a relenting. A turn, a walk, and he melts into the fade while you run to the foreground, her eyes to your back, your front to the dark.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Remember Memory;
Your memory lasts the span of several heartbeats, but you remember.
The pounding shifts to a sort of desperation as the hallway narrows in your scope of vision. The doors drop in numbers, twisting east and west at the ends. The scene becomes more familiar—intimate—as tile turns to carpet, walls draw in, and the woman—
Woman?
You blink. You remember.
You remember her dark hair—wisps of brown, not strands of black—her perchance tastes for the simple, and her quiet laughter. You remember consciousness surfacing, emptiness rising as you feel her warmth in bed but not her person. You remember the walk down, the light shone through cracks, the muffled sounds of violence and fear, the inherent anxiety piquing at the realization. The dread. The beats quicken, and you force your way—door and weapon swinging yet never hitting—the scent of blood mixed in perfume. A strike from behind draws your attention away; you fall, face-first and flat.
And you remember the dying light behind your wife’s eyes, red blossoming beneath her still form.
Breaths interrupt the rhythm, and you stare blankly into the eyes of another. A brunette. She seems annoyed. You forget as to why she would be.
“Something wrong?” Fingers drum against sleeve.
It takes a minute to process, but you eventually shake your head and move to the next hall. You don’t remember the answer anyway.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Open Door;
You pay no mind to the woman, the pounding, and the memories strung together (you’ve done so too many times before and too little to care) and continue through to the marked door. A cheery countenance graces your features; your steps take an upbeat tone. Your companions like you brimming with optimism and confidence. And you hate to disappoint them.
“Hey, guys,” you greet, tossing manners aside to push open the door. “You ready to head out and get some— What the hell?”
A mess of limbs and tangled bodies meet your eyes, and you stare—frozen, dumbfounded—at the perpetrators. Gasps of air fill the painful realization as one lifts his eyes up to meet their guest’s. The cheeks beneath them shift to a bright red.
“Oh. Er,” he stammers. The obvious sign of one caught. “Hello.”
The other isn’t quite so courteous. “Do you mind?” He raises an eyebrow in both annoyance and doubt, as though accusing you of some form of wrongdoing. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
Something, you find, you don’t want to know the origins of.
As though completely oblivious to your presence, to the stricken horror streaked across your face, they continue. Like you are not standing in the threshold staring at them doing the unspeakable. Like you were never there.
“Come on,” the rude one coaxes, almost disgustingly sweet. “Do it.”
“…I don’t know if I can reach that far.”
The other wrinkles his nose, something mocking and pleasant rising in his features. “Come now, dearest,” he chimed. “I don’t recall any complaints when we started this game. In fact~” A smile. It seems to cause discomfort in the other. “You were pretty enthusiastic when I opened the—”
Panic rises in the first. “Alright, alright!” He would raise his arms and wave, if not otherwise occupied. “I’ll do it, okay?”
No, not okay. The other’s smile eases into a grin. “That’s right~ Right foot on…”
You do not hear the rest and instead turn on your heels, flying out of the enclosed spaced and into the hallway. Withheld screams break the surface, and you sprint down the corridor yelling, something about colored circles, spindles, and the Game Room.
The brunette stares after your trail, bemusement in her eyes. She returns to her task shortly after, continuing without skipping a beat.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Go North;
The memory flows to the foreground and eventually hardens, the facts becoming crystal in your mind. The soundless beats accentuate the effect, and you find your fingers moving rapidly, matching to the brunette’s clicks. A list of names and numbers form, perfect and precise as the time you read them from the bulletin.
Astor Reed, M5
Haru Tanaka, M5
Bruno Godfrey, M6
Marcus Wings, M6
Matthew Lawrence, M7
John Smith, M7
Nathan O'Malley, M8
Josh Hart, M8
Charles Keane, M9
Morgan Harald, M9
And in this, you conclude you are in the right hall. Digits lay flat as you push around the woman and continue north.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Do Paperwork;
ಥ益ಥ
BAD END
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Check Pipe;
Your fingers twitch in response, and your eyes travel downward toward the metal pipe gripped in your hand. There again comes the need to press its cool exterior against your forehead, against the thrumming beneath, but you resist. This pipe is not yours; a second indulgence can’t be entertained by your conscience.
Even if you had risked your neck in its retrieval.
Thoughts coalesce into memory. You had spent the entirety of last night in the splendors of the men’s bathroom, cutting pipes from sinks with a pair of rusted shears. Metal for a relatively new patient; one of your countless exchanges, the fifth in the past two weeks. It was pointless from an objective point of view. You always knew the information you sought.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say the point wasn’t practical. Playing Good Samaritan is a ritual, a habit. Kindness earns your place in existence, deters the feelings of hopelessness that often accompanied the nights. Pretty ridiculous when you think about it. At least your clients will never know.
In the dim glow of the flashlight, you had worked at the metal, the incisions meticulous and steady as times before. The pipe finally gave way in your fingers, gushing dirty water across your face and chest. It settled in a pool on the tile, black in glints of white.
And there, in a corner, you had seen it: the hardened shell, the many legs. It was the size of a small plate—not quite as large as the others, but large enough to cover the entirety of your face. You had flailed helplessly when the thing leapt at you, when it covered every inch of breathing space with that disgustingly thick exoskeleton.
You managed to pry the creature off and threw it at the toilets, hoping by some miracle it would land in a bowl. And it had, to both you and the thing’s surprise, but you remember it was you who took advantage of the situation. You used the remainder of the time to keep its body beneath the murky water, your hand constantly going over the flusher, hoping its strength would not overpower the pipe—
Which drops instantly from your hands, clattering to the floor as you jump back in alarm. It had been in the toilet, you realize. The toilet. And you had held the wrong end to your forehead!
“Are you alright?” There is a woman nearby, veiled concern in her features.
You take a moment to digest, before hastily retrieving the fallen pipe. “Uh, yeah! I just remembered I forgot something.” How you wish it hadn’t been the case.
With nothing else to say, you run to your destination, one hand unconsciously wiping at your temple.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
Go South;
You look down the hallway with a fathomless expression, something about the location striking a chord. The sound is distant, hardly noticeable among the pounding in your head, but eventually, it pulls. Despite your best efforts, you gravitate toward the source—feet still, eyes closed. And somewhere in the rhythm, music is born.
It is funny, you think. To hear the strands of a proverbial tune without the aid of his signature radio. To recall an event you thought long buried in a sea of ambitions and rage. The argument, the rising fury. The accident. Echoes of Lennon play in the backdrop, forgotten entirely in the heat.
You hated him and still do, but he has become a constant.
Like her. Her and him and you: creators of a phenomenon, instrumentalists of a fine art. Every man, woman, and child in this institute has the right to kill you, for you and he and she are the makers of their Hell. And it is funny, you think again. They would not have the chance if you had not miscalculated. (If you had not let her go.) In this, they should feel grateful: you sacrificed your own for their sakes.
You stare into the inky black for a moment, only to turn on your heels to the previous hallway. You’ve lost your taste for your former destination; another would suffice just as well. The woman glances in your direction as you pass, and you throw her a kindly greeting, a low hum accompanying the words.
She shrugs and returns to her work.
The end of the story. The end of a story. But not the only story...
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TAURA.
THIS IS SUCH A RIDICULOUS THING TO BE STRESSING OUT ABOUT. MUST PROVE I AM SMART MUST PROVE I AM SMART.
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And no. :[
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So then it's Yomi. But not because I guessed it but because it's the only one left. -1000000 brain points for me. *CLINGS TO NIGREDO*
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