This is fun to read, although I can’t read all of it due to not having played some of these (really need to get through my Life is Strange backlog at some point in particular). I particularly liked the Exit/Corners one where as a reader you get the dual meaning behind that conversation, haha.
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Ooh, an entry I can play. I always enjoy these.
I don’t have many fic snippets hidden away, and of those that I have you’ve seen many of them, but I did find some in my notebook. I tend to either have FFN style fic summary style summaries of what would be in a fic with nothing written, some writing with no real sum up, or occasionally some uber vague notes.
Your Turn to Die
The year I defaulted from Yuletide, I was assigned Your Turn To Die. I was having a bit of a tough time at work and just getting a huge list of Do Not Wants with nothing about what they liked combined to make me default as I just wasn’t feeling it. I actually wrote more than I remember, though: here’s what I had. Note what topics I default too when I don’t have guidance!!
(Notes: Nightmares? Sou has put the fake Joe on the monitor, then she faints and forgets who Joe is.)
In the corner of her eye, there’s a shadow. It creeps around corners and snakes itself away when she turns her head, hiding, always hiding. Sometimes, she tries to focus on it in her peripheral vision, until her eyes water and the pressure in her head rises. Her vision swims, and when she blinks, it’s gone. It feels like somebody is mocking her.
-
“You look… better,” says Reiko. The hesitation in her voice undermines the compliment somewhat. Still, Sara does feel fine. The occasional headache aside, she’s doing fairly well for herself given the situation they’ve found themselves in. “Maybe Sou did you a favour.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s Keiji. He’s taken to frowning at her from across the room recently, and to be honest it’s starting to get on her nerves. The absence of his self-confident smirk is almost concerning; the serious expression makes him look like another person just masquerading as him. Dimly, she wonders if he’s been replaced by a doll, but surely they wouldn’t try that trick twice. And, deep down, she knows it’s really him.
“Would you want to forget what Alice did for you? You might breathe easier, but would you lose nothing?”
“That’s ridiculous and unfair!” she says, but her cheeks are spotted with pink. Clearly something had hit home.
-
The day after Joe dies, she lies awake and stares at the ceiling. The morning has solemnly marched on, but she hasn’t slept. Her eyes itch with fatigue and unshed tears. The voice of damnation says, “This is your fault, Sara.” And maybe he’s right. She saw that sacrifice card and left it there, ready for Joe to pick up. She could have voted to save him (but he wouldn’t have scored enough, he’d still be dead). But reason doesn’t matter, does it? You’re still a killer. But Kai’s ghost leaves her alone, like he feels he died with her blessing. Meanwhile, Joe, with blood-red eyes, judges with the weight of an authority that Sara respects.
“Murderer,” that familiar voice whispers, and it echoes around the room like an ominous promise. The Main Game makes murderers of everyone, and it takes no prisoners. (For none of them will be remembered in history as prisoners, simply as the dead, victims of a grotesque game of logic versus emotion. Or maybe perpetrators, since their votes are like the echoing clank of a gavel of execution.)
“I’ll murder you too.” It’s a vow in the gloom, and she wonders if the voice echoes in her head or out of her mouth. Surely that broken hiss can’t be either of them, but Joe’s mouth moves with the words. Even when blood blooms from his body like a trampled flower, his mouth moves and spews poison into her ear.
Then Keiji is there, anchoring her to reality with clarity and a practical regime of giving her no time for her own thoughts. Bags take up residence permanently under her eyes, and she sleepwalks through the rest of the day, the sense of unreality descending whenever she sees something and thinks, “Joe would love this,” and a forbidding tone utters, “he WOULD – if he were here.” It doesn’t need to say more – she can feel the hands of guilty weighing her down entirely by implication. Distantly, she thinks that must be pretty impressive.
In those moments caught between fact and fiction, she feels a hand firmly on her arm, anchoring her to reality. “Hey,” he says, like a mantra, “don’t end up like Mr. Policeman.”
Warchild
((No context for this one but I seem to have been writing from Finch’s POV.))
Your eyes snap open. Confusion. When did you fall asleep? Momentary panic envelopes you; feral faces fill your memory, eyes tracking you like a missile. Danger – don’t let your guard down.
There’s movement below you, snatching your awareness. Someone’s broken in. Your room mate’s going to shank you – his face, so young and cherubic, almost fooled you, but you recognise those dead, dead eyes.
Those dead, dead eyes that should be glinting in the paltry light offered by the wink of moonlight, but you see nothing.
“Babushka,” your roommate says, small and lost in a hollow cell.
I might have more on memory sticks as opposed to notebooks and I’ll bob in annoyingly at another time if I have any to share.
no subject
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Ooh, an entry I can play. I always enjoy these.
I don’t have many fic snippets hidden away, and of those that I have you’ve seen many of them, but I did find some in my notebook. I tend to either have FFN style fic summary style summaries of what would be in a fic with nothing written, some writing with no real sum up, or occasionally some uber vague notes.
Your Turn to Die
The year I defaulted from Yuletide, I was assigned Your Turn To Die. I was having a bit of a tough time at work and just getting a huge list of Do Not Wants with nothing about what they liked combined to make me default as I just wasn’t feeling it. I actually wrote more than I remember, though: here’s what I had. Note what topics I default too when I don’t have guidance!!
(Notes: Nightmares? Sou has put the fake Joe on the monitor, then she faints and forgets who Joe is.)
In the corner of her eye, there’s a shadow. It creeps around corners and snakes itself away when she turns her head, hiding, always hiding. Sometimes, she tries to focus on it in her peripheral vision, until her eyes water and the pressure in her head rises. Her vision swims, and when she blinks, it’s gone. It feels like somebody is mocking her.
-
“You look… better,” says Reiko. The hesitation in her voice undermines the compliment somewhat. Still, Sara does feel fine. The occasional headache aside, she’s doing fairly well for herself given the situation they’ve found themselves in. “Maybe Sou did you a favour.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s Keiji. He’s taken to frowning at her from across the room recently, and to be honest it’s starting to get on her nerves. The absence of his self-confident smirk is almost concerning; the serious expression makes him look like another person just masquerading as him. Dimly, she wonders if he’s been replaced by a doll, but surely they wouldn’t try that trick twice. And, deep down, she knows it’s really him.
“She looked half-dead before.” Reiko defends herself.
“Would you want to forget what Alice did for you? You might breathe easier, but would you lose nothing?”
“That’s ridiculous and unfair!” she says, but her cheeks are spotted with pink. Clearly something had hit home.
-
The day after Joe dies, she lies awake and stares at the ceiling. The morning has solemnly marched on, but she hasn’t slept. Her eyes itch with fatigue and unshed tears. The voice of damnation says, “This is your fault, Sara.” And maybe he’s right. She saw that sacrifice card and left it there, ready for Joe to pick up. She could have voted to save him (but he wouldn’t have scored enough, he’d still be dead). But reason doesn’t matter, does it? You’re still a killer. But Kai’s ghost leaves her alone, like he feels he died with her blessing. Meanwhile, Joe, with blood-red eyes, judges with the weight of an authority that Sara respects.
“Murderer,” that familiar voice whispers, and it echoes around the room like an ominous promise. The Main Game makes murderers of everyone, and it takes no prisoners. (For none of them will be remembered in history as prisoners, simply as the dead, victims of a grotesque game of logic versus emotion. Or maybe perpetrators, since their votes are like the echoing clank of a gavel of execution.)
“I’ll murder you too.” It’s a vow in the gloom, and she wonders if the voice echoes in her head or out of her mouth. Surely that broken hiss can’t be either of them, but Joe’s mouth moves with the words. Even when blood blooms from his body like a trampled flower, his mouth moves and spews poison into her ear.
Then Keiji is there, anchoring her to reality with clarity and a practical regime of giving her no time for her own thoughts. Bags take up residence permanently under her eyes, and she sleepwalks through the rest of the day, the sense of unreality descending whenever she sees something and thinks, “Joe would love this,” and a forbidding tone utters, “he WOULD – if he were here.” It doesn’t need to say more – she can feel the hands of guilty weighing her down entirely by implication. Distantly, she thinks that must be pretty impressive.
In those moments caught between fact and fiction, she feels a hand firmly on her arm, anchoring her to reality. “Hey,” he says, like a mantra, “don’t end up like Mr. Policeman.”
Warchild
((No context for this one but I seem to have been writing from Finch’s POV.))
Your eyes snap open. Confusion. When did you fall asleep? Momentary panic envelopes you; feral faces fill your memory, eyes tracking you like a missile. Danger – don’t let your guard down.
There’s movement below you, snatching your awareness. Someone’s broken in. Your room mate’s going to shank you – his face, so young and cherubic, almost fooled you, but you recognise those dead, dead eyes.
Those dead, dead eyes that should be glinting in the paltry light offered by the wink of moonlight, but you see nothing.
“Babushka,” your roommate says, small and lost in a hollow cell.
I might have more on memory sticks as opposed to notebooks and I’ll bob in annoyingly at another time if I have any to share.
-timydamonkey