Adventure Gamers - Forums

>x shuttle
It’s a wooden device that holds a quantity of yarn, allowing the user more easily to pass the thread back and forth while weaving.

It is also a bit of a snarky joke on the Bureau’s part. Atlantean land prices being what they are, the Bureau prefers not to have to build a parking garage. Instead they have shuttles that an All-Purpose Officer with a homonym paddle can easily convert into a full-sized vehicle for use, and back again for easy storage.

The shuttles in their untransformed state are no earthly use to anyone else, of course, which is why they can be left around unsupervised.

>put gel on shuttle
I dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the shuttle. Alas, nothing happens.

White light flashes from within the boiler and the meters twitch.

>get cord
I take the cord.

A loud pfft! sounds within the boiler and all the steam gauge needles jump violently.

>w
The lamb walks after us.

Workshop
A room whose importance is obvious from how clean it is and how little furniture it is allowed to have.

The lamb is here.

A programmable dais sits in the middle of the room. It has the raw look of lab equipment rather than a nice smooth commercial instrument.

A specialized wall socket is built into the east wall, clearly not part of the ordinary power system for the Bureau.

I can go east to the Generator Room and west to the Surveillance Room from here.

>put cord in socket
I plug the power cord firmly into the wall socket. The other end remains free and not plugged into anything.

>put cord in dais
I plug the power cord firmly into the dais socket. Both ends of the power cord are now plugged in, so the dais is connected to the wall socket.

>put weight in dais
That can’t contain things.

>open dais
It isn’t something I can open.

>x dais
It’s a round black metal platform with substantial stabilizing coils visible underneath, five or six feet in diameter. This is experimental lab grade letter equipment, ferociously powerful, insanely dangerous.

The dais has a big lever, a massive switch, and a dais socket (from which a power cord runs to the wall).

>x lever
One of those big heavy levers you see at demolitions. You won’t be tripping this thing by accident.

The big lever is currently switched off.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the big lever with the crosshairs.

>x switch
A large black switch with a red arrow painted on it. There are two stops, labeled with black marker on tape: swap homonym and synthesize. It is currently set to swap homonym.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the massive switch with the crosshairs.

>flip switch
I give the switch a strong twist and turn it to synthesize.

>put weight on dais
I put the weight on the programmable dais.

>put counter on dais
I put the counter on the programmable dais.

>turn lever on
The programmable dais glows vibrant blue for five seconds, leaving behind a counterweight.

A very substantial hunk of metal with a ring at the top end, suitable for attachment to a hook or rope.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the counterweight is a faint, greenish image of a weight and a counter.

>d
The lamb follows after us.

Tunnel through Chalk
This passage has been cut through natural cliff rock and looks older than the Bureau itself. The walls are rough-hewn, exposing sedimentary strata. Here and there it looks as though someone has actually excavated a favored rock or relic.

The lamb is here.

Blocking the far end of the corridor is a metal portcullis. It is currently lowered. There’s a pulley and hook arrangement above the portcullis, but the hook is empty.

I can go east through the portcullis (closed) and up to the Surveillance Room from here.

>put counterweight on hook
I hang the counterweight on the hook. The portcullis shifts slightly but doesn’t rise on its own. Perhaps with a little help, though.

>pull rope
I open the portcullis.

>e
The lamb trails after us.

Personal Apartment
At a guess, this is a room hardly anyone ever visits, or even knows about. Though the ceiling and one wall are bare cave, the rest has been paneled and graciously decorated in the style of the end of the 18th century. Oil paintings on the walls depict great men and women of Atlantis gone by: Phyllida Shaply, Amelia Landison, Clarence Arbot, Jon Rosehip. An antique bed stands in the center of the room.

The lamb is here.

The metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently raised. From the pulley above the portcullis hangs a counterweight.

On the inlaid desk are a stack of files and a rubber stamp.

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

Please press SPACE to continue.

“Don’t move, Alexandra, or I’ll split you in two.”

A very tall woman with Bureau-blue eyes steps into the room from the east, carrying a restoration gel rifle. Her face is ageless, her mouth full-lipped but proud. We’ve never met, but I recognize her at once. The monocle sees her as a fake, a fossilized shellfish.

Atlantida moves the rifle a fraction and fires through the portcullis at the counterweight. With an audible SPLORT, the counterweight becomes a weight and a counter.

The weight falls to the ground.

The portcullis crashes shut.

tell me what to do, I don’t want to be responsible for our death

>x atlantida
Her face is ageless, her eyes a piercing blue. She looks like Phyllida Shaply, our famous forebear, except that there is something ethereal and heroic about her as well.

Atlantida is carrying the restoration gel rifle.

>x stack of files
Even a quick look through the titles gives some idea. “DCL Plausibility studies on a syllable-removing gun.” “Economic impact study towards an S-inserter, with particular attention to factory closures and workforce reduction in the developing world.” “Single-noun Targeted Bomb.” “Popular Opinion Study Concerning Utopian Linguistics.” “Monthly Counterintelligence Report on Progress towards Manipulation of Simplified Chinese Character Set.”

There are others like this, some thin, some fat with paperwork and sticky notes.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the stack of files with the crosshairs.

>x rubber stamp
It is made to stamp two words: ETHICAL VETO. The discoloration shows it has indeed been used, though not, perhaps, very recently.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the rubber stamp with the crosshairs.

>x rifle
A rifle that shoots pellets of restoration gel, converting objects from a distance. Guns like this are illegal to carry unless you’re Bureau. They can inflict unpleasant bruises if they encounter nothing to convert and absorb the energy.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the restoration gel rifle with the crosshairs.

>topics
I want to ask how she justifies cold storage.

>ask about cold storage
“How do you excuse putting people in Cold Storage? It’s a human rights violation.”

Atlantida makes a motion as though brushing away an insect. “The laws of Atlantis are special. They keep us strong; they keep the rest of the world safe.”

Her grip tightens on the restoration gel rifle. She fires again. The pellet hits us, cold and hard, in the shoulder. It stings like hell and for a moment I think our clavicle is broken. I put our hand over the wounded spot.

Our hand.

Atlantida lowers the rifle, surprised. “Fused,” she says. “Isn’t that interesting. And so recently, too. If the gel rifle won’t separate you, nothing will.” She smiles, not warmly. “Pity. You would have been easier to deal with separately. Cold Storage for Andra, house arrest for Alex.”

Fused? We should be two pieces by now. Maybe she has an explanation? But you seem to be focused on her gun hand. How can you be so calm?

We have to get that gun and fossilize her!