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Underground > Creation >

Choose ur destiny aventure game thing! (redux)

Ellis

20:47 / 30.06.01

Your name is Helen Bevell and you are 25 years old, you work as a secretary for a big company who pollutes the Ozone layer with harmful gases. Your boss wants to have sex with you, but he is fat.

You wake up and clean your teeth, have a shower, wash your hair and shave, get dressed and have a nutragrain bar for breakfast.
You get ur coat on, grab ur bag and leave for work, its a nice day outside, the sun is shining and birds are singing and communters are honking as loud as they can.

If you want to walk to work go to POST 2 to continue the story

If you want to drive your broken down car go to POST 3 to continue the story

If you have decided that this life is not worth living and instead you want to throw yourself under a bus, by all means go to POST 4 to continue the story

(you must present new options for later posts in your threads and must present an option for the post after all others (so whoever writes post 2 must provide an alternative for post 5 or else there wil be empty posts...)

Pin

20:52 / 30.06.01

POST 2

Whilst walking to work, you find a small, dead, brown bird lying in you path. It looks almost exactly like the feaces you normally hide in your bossess sandwiches and he doesn't notice. To decide to pick it up to plant in his lunch, go to POST 5, or if you wish to kick the bird across the road at the kids playing foot ball with a bog (as the ball, natch), go to POST 6.

[ 01-07-2001: Message edited by: Pin ]

Pin

12:30 / 01.07.01

POST 3

You step out of the house only to find your car has been dlown-up by eco-warriors, killing many small animals in the process. The eco-warriors are American and don't get the irony of this.

Go to POST 2 and get over it.

[ 01-07-2001: Message edited by: Pin ]

Pin

18:15 / 01.07.01

POST 4

You're crap at this aren't you? You fail to throw yourself properly, and instead the bus merely crushes your legs. You are rushed to hospital via means I won't go into here, and you are unconscious, so you can't make any more choices till you get there...

Upon arrival you are awoken by a 3000V jolt applied to your anus by an aging cattle prod and forced to fill out many forms regarding previous sexual partners. You realize they have only given you 600 sheets of A4 paper and that this will not be enough to cover your years spent as a hooker. To ask for more paper, go to POST 7. To lie and face disciplinary procedures at the hands of The Bureau For Pointless Paperwork, go to POST 8

Whisky Priestess

21:56 / 01.07.01

POST 5

You pick up the bird's tiny crumpled body, stroking the soft feathers ruminatively. It's as light as, um, a bird. They're really light, you know. Except vultures. Its teeny tiny heart flutters under its breast and you realise it's still alive.
It struggles out of your hand and flies off, one leg trailing. In your hand is a leg tag with a small piece of paper rolled up in it. You unroll the paper, which says GO TO POST 10, and has a mobile phone number underneath it. If you want to go to post 10, well duh. If you want to call the number on your boss's phone when you get into work, go to post 11.

[ 03-07-2001: Message edited by: Whisky Priestess ]

07:15 / 03.07.01

POST 6

You pick up the bird's tiny crumpled body, stroking the soft feathers ruminatively. Hefting it calculatingly in your right hand you ascertain that it’s as light as, um, a bird, and with modifications for wind-speed and direction it is a simple matter to hurl it up and then spin from your hip to kick the bird far across the street. The faint crack of hollow little bones and final tortured chirrup indicate that the bird was not quite dead when struck: its teeny tiny heart flutters under its breast for the last time.

Your ad hoc avian projectile, however, proves a great success in whatever campaign of fury it is that you are waging with young, street bog-ball players. A single twelve year-old boy cries out and falls to the ground, blood spattering his Tommy Hilfiger jacket, Pokemon cards scattering on the floor. The others turn to you, fingers twitching with the obsessively murderous rhythm of the career console player. It’s then that you realise that while the bird was in the air a small white bit of paper detached from its leg and arced into the bowl of the now ignored porcelain toilet.

Do you run for your life screaming ‘litigation!’ and waving your hands ineffectually as your high-heeled work shoes go skittering across the pavement (go to POST 12), or do you adopt Preying Dormouse position and prepare to show them the skills you learnt at Drunken Librarian Dojo (go to POST 13).

Regrettable Juvenilia

08:35 / 10.07.01

Post 7

"Puh-puh-please sir", you stammer weakly at a passing orderly, "May I have some more puh-puh-paper, puh-puh-please?"

As the orderly spins around you see to your mild horror that "sir" was not the correct honorific for you to have used.

"Do I look like a felching man to you, bitch?" snarls the lumpenly ugly and yet undeniably female creature.

"It's confusing these days", you answer with a gulp.

The medical malcontent grabs you by the scruff of the neck and drags you roughly out of the hospital and into the street, where she proceeds to administer a severe kicking. The damage to your internal organs is considerable and as you lie twitching in a rapidly expanding pool of your own blood, fading from consciousness, you realise this is probably the end of your mortal days. You close your eyes, feeling almost relieved.

You are in darkness. But what's that up ahead? Why, it looks like a brilliant white light, glowing far away but getting ever close! And you can just make out what sounds like a chorus of angelic voices, calling you towards the light...

If you go towards the light, go to POST 9 (strangely not mentioned thus far).

If you turn away from the light and instead follow the sound of a young boy's voice whispering your name in the darkness, go to POST 14.

Regrettable Juvenilia

08:46 / 10.07.01

POST 8

You fudge the figures and this seems to fool the quacks. They drug you up with something potent enough to numb the AWFUL, AWFUL pain in your crushed legs, and tuck you into a comfy hospital bed. Here you are left to eat grapes, watch daytime television and catch up on your reading (fortunately the hospital library includes such gems as Cerebus Book XXIV: Why Girls Have Fleas, Alan Moore: A Life In Beards and A Car Is Waiting).

After a few days like this, a large, kindly-looking surgeon with a bushy white mustache and twinkling eyes comes into your room one morning and explains that you are to be made a rather unique offer by the Secret International Security and anti-Terrorist Agency (S.I.S.T.A.). They will rebuild your legs using cutting-edge nano-mech technology, on the condition that you become their pitiless cyborg assassin.

What's your answer?

"Sounds like a lark! Count me in!" Go to POST 15!

"No thanks, Doc, I'll stick with the chair!" Go to POST 16.