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

[Mandle]

I'm not sure if this theme has been done before but, even if it has, it deserves another round I feel considering where we all are:

ADVENTURE GAME

Spoiler

[close]

The story can be the plot of an adventure game, about someone playing or making an adventure game, or anything really, as long as something about an adventure game comes into play.

Trophies and deadline details coming soon:

[JudasFm]

Can we write a story about the aftermath of a known adventure game (for example, what happened to the characters of Maniac Mansion after the game ended)?

[Mandle]

Can we write a story about the aftermath of a known adventure game (for example, what happened to the characters of Maniac Mansion after the game ended)?

Of course! So much more interesting than any of my examples!

Or a sequel that doesn't exist would be awesome too:

I'm tempted to enter now just for kicks:

Day Of The Tentacle 2: Fred's Dead, Baby, Fred's Dead.

EDIT: Yup, I have an idea of how this story could work and so I will be writing it. Of course, as host, it will not be an actual entry into the contest. More just for my own fun, and hopefully a bit for anyone who reads it.

EDIT 2: Actually, screw you, last-month-myself! Present-right-now-myself put a lot of effort into his story! I'm just going to enter my own contest even as host! If anyone has an issue with that then just don't vote for my story.

[Mandle]

My entry:

Day Of The Funeral

Location: Obed Edison's House Of Rest.
Time: 10:15AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Bernard Bernoulli.

Jeepers! When I received the hamster-delivered telegram I thought maybe it was just another one of Dr. Fred's lures to draw us, once again, back to the mansion but, when I stood in front of the funeral home and saw the stark black plastic letters slotted into the tracks of the white placard outside I knew deep in my tummy that this was for real:

10:30AM FUNERAL SERVICE
DR. FRED EDISON*
GENIUS! INVENTOR! PATRIARCH!
*PATENT NO LONGER PENDING

I walked into the tasteful black-velvet decor of the lobby, the pens in their pocket-protector rattling uncharacteristically nervously, and used one to sign in at the guestbook. I pushed open the swinging doors that led to the funeral service hall proper and began my walk down the ailse.

On my left I passed by two strangely familiar and almost identical men wearing black suits and black sunglasses. Their conversation faded in and out of my field of hearing:

"...so then it would be probate form two-four-slash-zero-A."
"No, concerning the death of an individual still under investigation, it's the slash-zero-B."
"You're right. How are the kids?"
"Dependant."
"Mine too. I'm considering filing a D-five-zero-eig..."

I walked on.

To my right, sitting in the handicapped-access-pew-zone was Nurse Edna in her wheelchair. Her leg was still in its cast, as was her arm and, yikes, a shaved section of her head. Were those the outlines of metal bolts showing through under the plaster?! Thankfully she was too busy pawing her muscle-bound physical therapist, Lance (or so his name-badge claimed) to notice me and make a potential scene.

I walked on.

I passed by Weird Ed on my right, sitting in the pew in front of Edna. He had his book of stamps in his lap and was stroking them and muttering under his breath. He glanced up at me and, from under his protuding brow, we made eye contact for only an instant before his fled back to his totem of sanity. Only an instant, but the pain I saw in those red-rimmed, tearless eyes will remain with me forever.

I walked on.

There was Dead Cousin Ted, propped up stiffly in a pew to my left. It looked like the Edison family had tried to wash the red paint out of his bandages but now they were a faded pinkish hue. Yet another of my sins on display, faded, but not forgotten.

I walked on.

And there, in front of me, was the casket, lying amongst a bed of what I could only assume were cloned versions of Chuck the Plant. Maybe the original was mixed in there somewhere? They were too identical to tell apart. Another branch of Dr. Fred's research I suppose.

Now came the moment I had been dreading most of all.

I forced my eyes down to look into the casket and, sure enough, there lay Dr. Fred. He didn't really look all that different to when he was alive to be honest. Maybe even a bit better.

My glasses started to slip from my nose. I hadn't realized what a cold sweat I'd been in. I pushed them back up, my finger habitually on the tape holding the bridge together, and that's when my gaze fell upon something else in the coffin:

Upon Dr. Fred's chest, grasped in one of his lifeless crossed hands, was a sealed envelope.

In his shakey spiderlike script a name was written upon it:

"Bernard"

********************************************************************************

Location: Obed Edison's House Of Rest.
Time: 10:45AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Hogarth "Hoagie" Zelwinski.
   
Woah! I was totally late for Dr. Fred's final gig! The Bandmobile dropped me off in front of the grieve-and-leave like really tardy-for-the-party.

That's about when the door of the place like burst open and Bernard came running out, holding some kind of paper with something like dangling off of it.

I said something like "Bernard!" as he ran down the path toward me. And then I said like "Dude!" as he totes snubbed me and ran past down the street, all elbows and knees.

Then, like, from out of the open door a grody mob of angry Edisons poured, looking like the cover art from Iron Maiden's "Best Of The Beast" album or something.

I took off after Bernard, because I totally wanted to punch him or something. Trust that geek to screw up a really heavy deal like whatever I was doing here for. I think I might have even totes shouted out "Bernard, come over here so I can punch you!"

So, we're like both running down the middle of the road with the grody Edison groupies chasing us when I hear a horn blasting and Laverne totally hits me with her car.

********************************************************************************

Location: Obed Edison's House Of Rest.
Time: 10:30AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Laverne Wunderlich.

Wow! I would never be allowed to do sutures on a live patient yet, or maybe *GIGGLE* ever, but the basement of Obed Edison's House Of Rest is a pretty well-paying summer job and nobody complains when I get *TWITCH* "creative" with my needlework.

I was almost done with this guy for the *HEE-HEE* noon service... Just one last stitch on the severed...

Then a huge THUD hits my ceiling from the roof above. It makes me jump like some kind of *TWITCH* jumpy animal and my needle and thread go through the client's right nostril wall instead of completing my perfect needlepoint replication of...

Well, you get the point though, right?

*TEE-HEE* Point... Needlepoint... No? Oh, nevermind.

I'm now *GURGLE* pissed off!

I stomp up the stairs and there's Bernard getting chased through the *TWITCH* lobby of my sweet summer-job stitchery shop by what looks like all of the still-mobile Edison clan. And even the *GIGGLE* less mobile, like Edna clinging to the massive torso of some tank-like guy who is powering her through the rampage screaming in perhaps angry German?

Enough is *TWITCH* enough!

I leave through the back door, get in my car, and screech outa there.

Then, suddenly, there's Hoagie running away down the middle of the *WHEEEE* road with half his ass hanging out of the back of his jeans as usual.

I blast the horn but he's too fat and lazy to get out of the way so I pick him up on the *TWITCH* bonnet.

Now that his fat ass is out of the way I see Bernard's skinny one *HEE-HEE* next, and so I pick him up too.

********************************************************************************

Location: Obed Edison's House Of Rest.
Time: 10:50AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Bernard Bernoulli.

Holy-smokes! After going through the whole ordeal of yanking the letter addressed to me out of the cold, dead hand of Dr. Fred, overturning the coffin in the process, spilling poor Dr. Fred's corpse out onto the floor, and hightailing it out of there with the entire enraged funeral attendance in hot pursuit, then I get hit by a car?!

The impact was not as harsh as I had been expecting though. It seemed to me at the time that I might have landed on some kind of futuristic frontal airbag system that the car-makers had develo...

But, sadly, no... It was just Hoagie I had landed on...

He punched me and then said "Bernard, why are you, like, totally clutching that letter with that grody-'n-moldy, like, severed hand clutching it from the other end?".

Hoagie was always amazingly perceptive despite his chosen turn of phrase.

This was the first time I noticed that, when I had yoinked the letter away from Dr. Fred's cold dead hand, the hand had also come along for the ride.

Yikes! No wonder the rest of the Edisons were so angry!

Speaking of which, I noticed at this point that the rate at which the fever-pitch of the angry mob was drifting off at between us and the car, whose bonnet we were riding on, was increasing at an accelerating rate.

I looked past Hoagie's bulk and saw Laverne behind the wheel!

Her lazy eye bulged determinedly as she yanked the wheel hard to the right and we barely missed picking up a familiar-looking cow scurrying out of our way.

The signpost at the fork in the road flashed by.

It seems we were heading, after all:

BACK TO THE MANSION!

********************************************************************************

Location: The Edison Mansion, Exterior Front Entrance.
Time: 11:15AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Hogarth "Hoagie" Zelwinski.

So then like Laverne totally puts the metal to the pedal, stops the car, and me and Bernard fly off the bonnet in a heap in front of that total goth-lure of a mansion. We totally wrecked the mail box if I kinda like recall!

Laverne comes crashing out of the door of her doomsmobile and blasts something at us like:

"Okay, like, LOSERS lets just end this for..."

And then she does that totes weird twitchy thing she does and continues:

"...once and forever!"

Bernard and I like disentangle ourselves from the pile we ended up in. Everyone takes a breather moment and then Bernard says something like:

"This, YIKES!, letter from Dr. Fred's like, JEEPERS!, body must be, HOLY-SMOKES!, important or something!"

Or something totally like that.

And like then...

********************************************************************************

Location: The Edison Mansion, Exterior Front Entrance.
Time: 11:15AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Laverne Wunderlich.

So then after I *GIGGLE* disembarked the passengers safely from my car I stepped out myself and *TWITCH* said:

"Okay, you losers! It's time to end this weirdo connection we have with this *TWITCH* mansion and the family that dwells *TEE-HEE* within it once and for all!"

Then Bernard opened a letter he had been *CLUTCHES* clutching the whole while.

I might have like zoned out a bit while he was reading but I did pick up the *GIGGLE* interesting bit that fell off when he opened the envelope...

********************************************************************************

Location: The Edison Mansion.
Time: 11:20AM, day of the funeral.
Statement: Bernard Bernoulli.

Jiminy-Crickets! I then read Dr. Fred's letter, written in his spiderly script, out loud:

   Bernard,

If you are reading this then that means you have attended my funeral and know of my fate.

There is, however, one last thing I would have you do, my dear boy.

Open the safe in my office and you will find inside the will to my estate stating to split the mansion and its grounds into portions for yourself, and both of your friends: The weirdly sandwich-named boy and the twitchy girl.

Screw my family, the ungrateful lot of them!

You and your friends provided me with the most amazing adventures of my entire miserable life!

If any of you can open the safe and retrieve my will the first of you to do so will receive the lion's share of my estate. The second to do so will receive the meerkat's share, and the remaining one of you will have to settle for the earthworm's share.

     Thanks for the fun,
     Dr. Fred Edison.

     P.S: I have changed the combination for the safe.

After my reading, when I glanced back up over my glasses, I found myself alone, apart for two cartoonish Hoagie-and-Laverne-shaped clouds with speed-lines indicating both directions they had departed in.

I might have also heard a "whizzing" noise at some point.

It seemed a new game was afoot.

THE END???

[HanaIndiana]

Me no write good. But I love the theme, so perhaps I'll give it a go.

[Mandle]

Updated my own story above...

It's a work-in-progress so if anyone wants to read in episodic form please feel welcome to unhide it and continue reading whenever I update it...

I have the story mapped out mostly in my mind beginning to end, but not sure of what twists and turns may lay along the way. Actually if I knew all that I would instantly lose interest in writing it.

I'm quite happy with where the first installment has gone so far: a cliffhanger and a window into the story structure.

Back with more soon!

[JudasFm]

I'm going to be writing my story a bit at a time and hiding it for now.

So, if you prefer an episodic reading then feel free to unhide and read, otherwise please wait for the full story:

That's a pretty good idea. Mine is shaping up to be a long one so I think I'll follow your example

[JudasFm]

Okay, here are the first two installments! More will be added to this post later so keep checking back

Prison Without Walls

Part 1: Early Morning

Spoiler

Alexander sat down by the edge of the lake, pulled off his boots and dunked his feet in the cool water with a sigh of relief. This was his favorite place in Daventry, and the fact that it was some seven miles from the castle only added to its charms. Close enough to get to fairly easily, far enough to net him some privacy.

He knew how it was supposed to go.  Everyone knew how it was supposed to go.  It was the best-known tale in existence.  Long-lost heir captured and enslaved by evil wizard, long-lost heir turns evil wizard into black cat by sneakily hiding magic cookie in porridge and feeding to aforementioned wizard, long-lost heir finds out about heritage by eavesdropping on chickens and squirrels (quite how they knew about it was still a mystery to him) long-lost heir returns home and drops the long-lost part of his title just in time to save kingdom from evil three-headed dragon.

Well, alright, maybe best-known was a slight exaggeration.  But none of the rags-to-riches stories he'd heard had mentioned any kind of culture shock.  Everyone accepted that going from a rich and powerful monarch to a slave would be the culture shock to end all culture shocks, so why would no one believe that it worked the other way too?

And his family!  Alexander shook his head.  That was a little too much for him to take in all at once.  Oh, he'd been welcomed back, of course, with a fervor that surprised him.  His mother had done her best to kiss him to death, his father had given him a manly clap on the shoulder and said how proud he was of him, and so far only his sister seemed to think that this whole thing was just a little bit unnerving and kept her distance as much as possible. 

Exactly.  I was a wizard's slave with no name or family.  Now I'm in this huge castle with two strangers who are my parents and another stranger who's my sister and I don't know any of them.

There had been other things too.  His parents had been shocked to discover that, although he could read and write with no trouble, his etiquette and diplomacy skills were nonexistent.  Alexander had distinguished himself at the last formal dinner by telling the matchmaking mother sat next to him that there was no way in all the hells he was going to marry her silly little featherhead of a daughter, especially since he'd only just met her an hour ago. Lessons in behavior had begun the very next day, something Alexander deeply resented.  As far as he was concerned, he knew to say please and thank you and any extra manners on top of that were frilly and unnecessary.

He wished Valanice hadn't ordered that damn parade in his honor as well.  Quite apart from not being used to such things, when every single person in the kingdom has seen your face, every village has a picture of your face, and every brass coin in the kingdom has your face embossed on it, slipping away unnoticed becomes very difficult no matter how careful you are about it.

He pulled one of the brass coins out of his pocket and looked at it.  It was known as an ander (they'd even named the damn coin after him!) and had been added to the official coinage just as soon as enough had been struck.  In monetary terms, an ander was the lowest denomination in the kingdom â€" four anders made one copper coin â€" but Alexander didn't mind that.  In fact, he rather liked it; most days he felt like the lowest denomination in the royal family, so it was only fitting he had the coin to match.

What am I supposed to do?

That was the question that had been bouncing around inside his head ever since he'd arrived.  There was a constant feeling of restless dissatisfaction in his mind, as though he'd left something vital undone but couldn't remember what. 

Of course, these clothes didn't help.  Alexander plucked at the sleeve of his velvet doublet sourly.  He liked the color, and he couldn't deny the outfit was comfortable, but wandering around in puffed sleeves made him feel like the world's biggest idiot.  His father could wander around in an open-necked shirt and traveling breeches, but not him.  Not the Crown Prince of Daventry.  Not if Valanice had anything to say about it.  Nothing but velvet and silk was good enough for him, and neither of those materials made for good traveling clothes. He'd tried to persuade one of the servants to switch outfits with him, but the man had refused, saying only that Valanice wouldn't like it. Mindful of the kind of punishments Manannan had doled out for disobedience, Alexander had immediately dropped the subject and never raised it with any of the servants again. He balked at stealing money for something he wanted rather than needed, and so he'd started squirreling away all the dropped coins he could find in the hopes that one day he'd have enough to buy himself a more sensible outfit.

And then what, Gwydion? a little voice inside whispered.

Candidly, Alexander had no idea. If he'd been left alone for a few days, maybe he could have figured something out, but there was no chance of that here.

As if in answer to his thought, which Alexander had often believed to be the case with Manannan (certainly the wizard had had the habit of turning up whenever Alexander particularly hadn't wanted him to) Alexander heard a twig snap behind him and groaned inwardly.

"So this is where you've been hiding."

Alexander glanced up at his father, his face politely neutral. That had been a talent he'd developed very early on with Manannan. Smile and you were laughing at him. Let one hint of exhaustion or pain or reluctance cross your face and you were defying him. Cry and you were ungrateful. Any emotion at all meant pain, or worse.

"Your Majesty."

A pained look flickered across the king's face. "Please. Call me Graham, at least."

"As you wish." That was one of the very few unsolicited comments it had been safe to make around Manannan, and Alexander had to bite his tongue very hard and very fast to stop himself from adding Master.

Looking at his son, Graham wasn't entirely sure what to say. If Alexander would only speak, but he never did. He would answer questions, but asked none of his own.

Carefully, because previous experience had taught him that Alexander didn't react well to having his personal space invaded without warning, Graham sat down next to his son.

"Things have gone a little off course with us, haven't they?" Whether they'd ever been on course in the first place was a matter of opinion, but it was the best opening he could think of.

Alexander didn't answer. There didn't seem to be anything he could say in any case.

"Are you having nightmares again?"

Still silent, Alexander leaned back on his hands and stared at the sky. Yes, he was having nightmares, nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat two or three times a night. Nightmares in which Manannan broke the spell and came after him â€" and in his darker moments, he was terrified of the wizard doing just that â€" or nightmares in which his attempt to poison the wizard failed. He didn't know how Graham had found out about them. Perhaps he'd screamed in his sleep again.

"I see you're wearing your new clothes. They suit you."

"Your wife had my old clothes burned. It was this or walk out naked."

Never my mother, Graham thought. Alexander seldom, if ever, referred to his family by name, much less their relationship to him.

"Your clothes had seen better days," Graham couldn't help saying.

Alexander still didn't look at him. "So has most of Daventry, at least the parts I saw on my way here. Are you going to burn them as well?"

Graham took a deep breath and brought out the question he'd been trying to summon up the courage to ask his son for several days now. "Alexander...are you alright?"

"Of course."

That was the worst part, in Graham's opinion. When he spoke to anyone else, he could generally tell if they were lying or what they were feeling. With Alexander, there was nothing.

"If something was wrong, would you tell me?"

Alexander remained motionless. "Yes, if you ordered me to."

Silence descended again. Hard as Alexander was to read, it was clear enough to Graham that his son wished him a thousand miles away.

"I wish I knew what to say," Graham said at last.

"You can say whatever you please." Still that same infuriating neutrality and Graham was seized by a sudden urge to grab his son, to shake him, to push him the lake, to do something to get a genuine reaction out of him.

"Let's turn it around then. What would you like me to say to you?"

Alexander shrugged. "You could start with Gwydion, I'm leaving. Or maybe Gwydion, you're free to wear whatever clothes you like. I'd take either one right now."

Graham sighed. "And I really wish you'd stop calling yourself that."

Alexander laughed, the first time Graham had heard him do so, but there was no humor in the sound. "Why? Because you don't like the name? Or because it's my slave name and every time you hear it, it reminds you of what you allowed Manannan to do to me?"

"Allowed?" Of all the accusations Graham had expected, that certainly hadn't been on the list. "Alexander, if I'd known â€" if I'd even suspected â€" where you wereâ€""

Alexander rose to his feet. "How could you? You never bothered to search for me!"

Graham stared at his son, shocked out of his forced calmness. "I tore my kingdom apart looking for you!"

"And when that failed, didn't it occur to you that I might have been in some other kingdom? Llewdor's not that far from Daventry; you could have included it in your search without spending too much time away from home."

"A king has responsibilities." Now Graham's voice held a faint shade of reproach.

Every muscle in Alexander's body tightened, giving Graham the answer to his question. No, Alexander was not alright, had probably never been alright from day one.

"Responsibilities." Alexander stared at Graham, his eyes flashing. "Of course. And tell me, did those responsibilities stop you when you decided to travel to a faraway land and risk life and limb to rescue the beautiful princess Valanice. You had no guarantee she would accept you as a suitor, but you decided to let your kingdom go hang while you took a long vacation to rescue her. Why didn't you leave her to rule in your absence and rescue me, if I meant that much to you?"

Graham half turned, the better to face his son. "I knew where your mother was. The mirror showed her to me; all I had to do was go and get her. When you disappeared, the mirror clouded over and it stayed clouded over until your return."

"I see. And what about the chest full of gold coins that never runs out? Or the tree that grows gold walnuts? Did they cloud over too? If you couldn't leave your kingdom to search for me yourself, you could have offered a reward of some kind. From the general state of disrepair, you certainly don't seem like you've used either of those money sources for the good of your kingdom." Alexander shook his head slowly. "King or not, magic mirror or not, if I had children, I would die before I sacrificed them. And if one was carried off, I would tear the world apart until I found him, no matter how long it took. I wouldn't just hide in my castle and let my kingdom break and shatter around me. Although I suppose your daughter and I could be considered expendable. After all, you only have one kingdom, but you can easily get more children."

Shock robbed Graham of speech for a few moments. He'd expected accusations from his son â€" up until now, Alexander's enslavement had always been the elephant in the room, and one of the main reasons he'd come out that morning was to try and get this talk out of the way â€" but not this level of personal attack.

"Do you really believe that?" he asked at last.

Alexander leaned back against the nearest tree, arms folded tightly across his chest, and looked away.

"Do you?" Graham repeated.

Even as he watched, his son's face smoothed out into that damnable mask again and Alexander's voice was back to the same near monotone as he replied, "It's hard not to."

"I...see." Graham stood up and noted Alexander's flinch with a certain sadness.

What exactly does he think I'm going to do to him?

Whatever it was, Alexander kept it to himself. The mask was back and the moment gone. Graham had no idea what to say or do to recapture it, and so he simply bade Alexander goodbye and set off on the return to the castle. Maybe giving his son the space he obviously wanted would help him find some kind of peace. Then they could all get back to normal, pick up the pieces of their broken family and start all over.

[close]

Part 2: Mid-morning

Spoiler

It was late in the morning when Graham arrived back at the castle, his mind full of uncomfortable thoughts. Uppermost in these was the knowledge that he could no longer kid himself that things in the family were fine.

Oh, they'd started out that way, particularly when Rosella had brought the fruit back and things had started to turn around again. They'd spent all day in their son's company, wanting to make up for lost time. As the days passed though, Alexander had become more and more withdrawn, leading Valanice to wonder aloud how to get the real Alexander back.

Graham had never answered her, because he'd had a terrible thought in the very back of his mind that this wary loner was the real Alexander, that the first few days had been nothing more than a kind of honeymoon period brought on by high spirits. Now the honeymoon was over and Alexander was cold, suspicious and refused to let anyone inside him. Given that the only company he'd ever had up until now had been Manannan, who would have severely punished the slightest hint of insolence, it was no wonder Alexander had learned to keep everything locked up inside him. Even his voice was always quiet, neutral, inoffensive. This was the first time his son had even come close to showing any kind of emotion.

On the other hand, could that be considered progress? If Alexander was comfortable enough around his father to say things that would most likely have earned him a severe punishment from Manannan, wasn't that a step forward? Was Alexander finally beginning to trust him?

Or on a darker note, was Alexander trying to provoke that same punishment? To get some idea of where the lines were and â€" most importantly â€" what the consequences would be for crossing them? Graham couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that some part of Alexander would welcome a beating or some other equally brutal punishment, because it would bring their interactions around to something he could relate to. Could understand.

They'd handled it badly. Noâ€"Graham shook his head, determined not to sugarcoat things in his own thoughtsâ€" they'd handled it terribly. His heart attack had been something of a blessing in disguise in that it had taken the bulk of the focus off Alexander, and Rosella's return from her quest had had much the same effect, but after that they'd got back to the business of celebrating properly. None of them had stopped to think how Alexander might feel about it. He'd been taken out of the background, the only place he felt safe â€" and, as a slave, the only place he'd ever been relatively safe â€" thrust into the public eye and held there by the same two people who he should have been able to trust.

Alexander, I'm sorry.

Abruptly Graham decided that he would take tomorrow off and spend the whole day with his son. Get a walking outfit from the castle stores for him, and take him on a hiking trip around Daventry. Nothing regal, no court pressures or anything, just the two of them walking along and talking about nothing in particular. Graham wasn't stupid enough to think he and Alexander would become best friends by the end of it, but he did hope his son might come to see that being with his father wasn't a bad thing, or at the very least that it didn't involve pain. If he could just break down the barriers enough so that Alexander no longer perceived his own father as an active threat, Graham was sure they could build up from there.

Alexander would agree to it, of course. Alexander agreed to anything, which Graham thought was at least half the problem. If his son would just say no once in a while, or tell them that he needed some space, then half the problems they'd had up until now could have been avoided.

He walked into the family dining room â€" they only used the main one on special occasions â€" and sat down, letting his head drop into his hands.

Someone sat down opposite him. Graham could tell without looking that it was Valanice. They knew each other so well after all these years.

"Did you talk to him? How did it go?"

"Wonderfully," Graham said in a monotone. He lifted his head, poured a cup of juice, drained it and poured another one. It had been a particularly hot, dusty walk back. "He now hates us both."

Valanice frowned. "But all you did was talk to him."

"He blames us for what happened. He says we should have used the royal treasury to mount a bigger search effort, and damn me if I don't think he's right, Valanice."

"We did everything we could."

"We should have done more. The upshot of it is that our son doesn't trust us. Our lives haven't changed too much, so when he returned we expected to pick up where we left off, like he'd never been taken. We forgot that he had more or less grown up with a separate identity for nearly eighteen years." He shook his head. "Why didn't I search Llewdor? He's right; it's not that far and I could easily have raised a search party to explore the surrounding kingdoms."

"Manannan would have sunk it."

"Even if he had, at least I could have looked my own son in the eyes this morning." Graham leaned back and then quietly brought out the heart of his fear. "I think we're losing him."

Valanice went white. "You can't mean that!"

"Haven't you noticed how he comes back a little later from his walk every time?"

Valanice shook her head. "He's always back by half past five."

Graham gave her a rather tired smile. Whatever his son may be, no one could question Alexander's intelligence. "He used to be back by four. Then it became one minute after four, then when everyone was used to that and accepted it, he upped it to two minutes. Then three. The only reason he's kept it at half past five is because we eat dinner at six and he knows there's no way he can skip out on it without being missed." Graham didn't add his other thoughts on that subject: that food had been a very precious commodity in Alexander's world and he wasn't about to miss out on it. He would eat today because he might not be able to tomorrow. Graham also didn't see any reason to mention to Valanice that Alexander had been hoarding food since he arrived; there was a sizable stash under his son's bed and very likely several more hiding places that he didn't know about.

"You don't think he's planning to run away or anything stupid like that, do you?"

There it was. The tiny, secret fear that had been gnawing on Graham's heart for the past few weeks.

"I don't know."

Valanice reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If he is, we can do something. Appoint a bodyguardâ€""

"Bodyguard?" Graham echoed with a bitter smile. "Don't you mean a real guard?"

Valanice hesitated, then decided to throw euphemism to the winds. "Well, yes. Some parts of Daventry are still dangerous, and Alexander won't carry a sword. We could allow him to go anywhere safe in the kingdom, and if he wanted to go to a dangerous part, well, then the guard will just stop him from going anywhere he wants."

"The guard will stop him?" Graham repeated. "The three-headed dragon didn't stop him! And if you think Alexander will simply ask the guard for permission and respect his decision, then both you and that guard are in for a nasty surprise because Alexander doesn't ask. He takes. Or he manipulates the situation to get him what he wants. I don't know that we can entirely blame him for that; Manannan wouldn't have granted any of his requests, and probably would have punished him severely for asking, so manipulation is the only way he knows. I can't think Manannan would have set him a shining example either; I imagine Alexander learned all kinds of ways of dealing with problems from him, even if that old man hadn't meant him to. But it doesn't change the fact that our son is a very dangerous young man."

Valanice went so white Graham thought she was going to faint. "How can you say that? He spared Manannan's life. After everything that old man did to him, he still didn't kill him!"

"He didn't kill him with magic, Valanice. He could have turned Manannan into a cat, then just picked him up and broken his neck. I wouldn't blame him in the slightest if he had, but if you're going around thinking that Alexander is a pure, noble innocent who would have qualms about swatting a fly without a signed declaration of war, then I have to tell you that you are very, very wrong."

"Our son would never hurt us."

"Our son doesn't know us!" Graham surged to his feet, pacing the room, then turned to face Valanice. "That's where we've been going wrong all this time. When Alexander was taken, it left a hole in our hearts. We worried about him, we grieved over him, because we knew who he was and we could still remember him. From his point of view, we're complete strangers. Not only that, we're complete strangers who abandoned him to a life of slavery and abuse. I don't think he'd hurt usâ€""

"Don't think!" Valanice's voice rose a full octave on the last word.

"No, and that's half the problem; I can't be sure. I think â€" I think â€" he'd only use magic as a last resort, but he would use it if he felt there was no other way out. So if you insist on monitoring his every move and never giving him a moment's privacy, there's a good chance I'll go out for a walk one day and come home to a castle full of cats!"

Something in his tone got through to Valanice; she sat a little straighter and looked her husband full in the face.

"Do you think he would? Seriously think so?"

Graham couldn't find the words to answer, not because he didn't know but because he though the truth would upset his wife too much. Because the truth was that if his son decided he had to deal with them in that way, then they would be dealt with swiftly, severely and without mercy.

Alexander had learned that from Manannan too.

[close]

I had to split posts as the next two installments put this over the character limit. You can read the next part here

[Mandle]

JudasFM... loving the story so far...

The realistic take on...

Spoiler

...Alexander's mental state after being an abused slave for so many years and trying to fit back into a "normal" family situation rings true for me. And also the emotional turmoil of his father Graham in trying to deal with this uncomfortable situation with all his guilty feelings, but also the pragmatic issues of the day-to-day life of being a king, interests me deeply in where this tale is going. Bringing the reality of what the people would actually have to emotionally cope with into the world of silly old-school adventure games and yet stay true to the original material is a challenge I am also attempting with my own story. It ain't easy but it is fun!

[close]

Also:

My own story is updated a bit above...

[JudasFm]

Thanks This is actually a bit of backstory to my KQ fan novel; it's been buzzing around in my head for ages now so I'm glad I finally got the chance to write it! I always like to write reality rather than happy fantasy. It's like Maniac Mansion; those kids were trapped playing a game of cat-and-mouse with two crazy people. It sounds fun and it looks fun on screen, but the reality is very different

Part Two is now uploaded! (Any news on a deadline yet?)

[Mandle]

Thanks This is actually a bit of backstory to my KQ fan novel; it's been buzzing around in my head for ages now so I'm glad I finally got the chance to write it! I always like to write reality rather than happy fantasy. It's like Maniac Mansion; those kids were trapped playing a game of cat-and-mouse with two crazy people. It sounds fun and it looks fun on screen, but the reality is very different

Part Two is now uploaded! Only two more parts to go! (Any news on a deadline yet?)

Well, the official deadline should be Sept 28th, but extensions are possible of course.

[JudasFm]

Well, the official deadline should be Sept 28th, but extensions are possible of course.

Great, that means I can make a longer entry

[Baron]

I too will be writing my story on the instalment plan.  Enjoy!

Lost in the Baron

   You lean forward in your faux leather chair, squinting through your monocle at the pixels on the screen.  Perhaps the merlot-red was too ambitious a hue for the glowing eyes of a semi-sentient death droid sprite.  The gaming public would probably follow you to current-red, even to garnet-red, but merlot-red was clearly a step too far.  You take a sip of whiskey distilled from the tears of young children while twisting your rakish goatee pensively. 

   Blood-red.  It really had to be blood-red.  It was a death-droid, after all.  Nobody cared that it secretly had a heart of gold, maiming and culling in the most humane way possible to spare its victims any extra suffering.  Nobody cared that it really preferred long crawls on the beach, hunting fat guys in Speedo bathing suits in the surreal glow of an apocalyptic sunset.  It was all just wasted character depth: all they would really see is the metallic killing machine.  And metallic killing machines have eyes that glow blood-red.

   Except blood-red was a trifle obvious.  Everyone would expect it.  You take off your pickelhaube and use the razor sharp spike on the top to scratch at a nagging itch between your shoulders.  You can see the gamer review titles now:  “Typical Baron Fare, Mad with Mediocrity.”  In a fit of pique you fling your pickelhaube against the wall where it sticks spike first, the vibrating metal humming murderously.  “So they expect blood, do they?!?” you shout, the words echoing manically through your cavernous lair.     

If you PM Ponch your witty repartee to that quip he sent four hours ago, turn to post 15.

If you retire to the spawning chamber with Mrs. Baron, turn to post 22.

[Baron]

The continuing saga of awesomeness continues!

Spoiler

   You decide to take the Baronmobile out for a spin.  You descend to the haunted depths of the garage bay, careful to avoid the caninoid's sleep-mode basket so that his murderous death-barks don't alert Mrs. Baron.  After passing through many biometric scans and emergency bulkheads you emerge into the dingy wasteland of the garage bay.  Truthfully you should rename this sector, as it is mostly just jumbled storage of abandoned projects and Christmas ornaments.

   But there, at the front near the aft-receiving gate, is your pride and joy.  A metric ton of black-chrome and rocketry, replete with retro tail-fins and a sleek command turret.  The Baronmobile can go from zero to 140 in the blink of a monocle glint, and sports more accurate missile capabilities than a North Korean birthday party.  In moments you are behind the ergonomically designed control panel, tearing up the substandard paving surfaces of your low-tax municipality.

   You pull up to a stop light next to a gangsta hotrod with multiple exhaust pipes and some Spanish hip-hop blaring.  The driver inclines his chin at you and revs his engine.  You wave back cheerfully while secretly activating the lateral spatula mechanism that flips his car over on its roof.  The light turns green and you deafen anyone within 69 meters with the outrageous decibel output of your mach-three-capable turbine engine.  You roar with maniacal laughter: Buwuhahahahahahahaha!
   But then you hit some kind of glass debris on the road and burst your left drive-tire!  The auto-fix mechanism fails to engage, probably because you forgot to reset it the last time you used it.  Blast!  In a state almost as deflated as your tire you pull up to the curb.

If you decide to call a tow truck, turn to post 37

If you decide to go steal a tire from the gangsta hotrod, turn to post 42.

[close]

[Mandle]

The continuing saga of awesomeness continues!

Spoiler

...upon

[close]

Please continue your saga in your original post. Thank you. That is all.

P.S: I really like where your story is going by the way... [/fan-gush]

[Baron]

I know I'm asking for trouble disobeying a direct request from the contest admin, but I'm experimenting with a bold new cutting edge format for my story.  It's like, I'm taking the Adventure Game genre to vivid and reckless places, you know?  But it's all about the art and the creative process.  The pen is mightier than the light brigade and all that.  How do you fit a muzzle onto a typewriter?  How can I touch your soul if you keep blocking me, bro?  How do I get off this crazy train called... dystemporal articulated pseudofiction?

Spoiler

   You decide to PM Ponch, your favourite virtual sparring mate.  He makes himself out to be some kind of shoot-from-the-hip Regulator from the wild-west, but he's actually just this sweet gender-confused cow from New Jersey with a flare for sassy bravado.  Not that you're one to share your shrewd deductions: the charade of him working as a roughneck by day and as an aspiring aerobics instructor by night in some sweltering desert state serves you both well.  Truth is a fleeting mistress on the interwebs, and you'd much rather build a mental image of your favourite correspondent wearing jeans and spandex rather than jogging pants and Miracle Whip.

   â€œSpare me your hot flashes of pity,” you begin, “and check out this pre-alpha build of my latest creation!”  You limp purposefully to the breaker panel and flip a giant lever, resulting in ominous clouds of electric pulses emanating from the impressively huge machinery in the cavern.  You throw back your pickelhaubeless head and cackle with venomous glee.  “It's alive!” you howl.  “IT'S ALIVE!!!1!”

   You hit send and then you go and fix yourself a sandwich, giving Ponch time to try your new creation.  You make sure to fix an olive on top with a toothpick, just like a mini one-eyed pickelhaube-wearing Baron.  “Oh no you didn't, you naughty little megalomaniac!” you say to the olive, revelling in your moment of glory.  “You didn't just bend the rules of gaming science, oh no.  You shattered them with an iron fist!  And... what's that?  You think I should have...  But what do you know about game design theory?  No, it was an intentional reference to archaic user interfaces.  It was supposed to be clunky, that's the whole point!  Do you know, there's only room in this cavern for one raving genius!”  You eat the olive, crushing it to pulp with your teeth of rusty steel.

   Your computer trills a happy note indicating a reply has been posted.  “Why the purple eyes?” you read.  That bastard!  It's clearly merlot-red!  This is the last straw!

If you smite your colour-blind foe with words of shock and awe, turn to post 29

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

[close]

[JudasFm]

Can we have an extension please? I have three more parts to write. One's almost done but I just need a few more days...

[Mandle]

Can we have an extension please? I have three more parts to write. One's almost done but I just need a few more days...

Yup, in fact I need an extension too. Busy with something else and it's a black hole for all my spare time.

And also there is a distinct lack of entries so far.

Anyone mind if this becomes a three-week round?

[Baron]

I might need an extension of several months to make my new format work.

Either that, or we need to relax the rules for double posting.

Spoiler

   A blazing aura of searing meta-light has erupted into being in your cavern.  You idly wonder if it might turn out to be a more efficient way of roasting marshmallows, but soon you become aware of the dangerous creeping expansion of the tear in the space-time fabric of reality.  Now is not the time to play the blame game of who created what.  Now is the time to turn tail and run like a little school girl!

        Diving for the bilge duct you are engulfed in a blinding waft of eight million degree meta-light.  For a short moment you consider that your evening could have been better spent.  Then, rather than walking into the light, you are instead atomized into the all consuming para-photon flood.

It's been an enlightening experience.  The End

[close]

[Mandle]

Either that, or we need to relax the rules for double posting.

Hehe...that was just a joke, my good fellow...