Adventure Gamers - Forums

>type andra
No records found.

>type alex
No records found.

>type alexandra
No records found.

>type atlantis
The search turns up the following results:

history books: The search finds some 72 titles, focused especially on Mediterranean cultures ancient and modern. The history of Atlantis, and the political history of the Bureau itself, are covered in a series of popularizing works. One book, “Wartime Operations and the Invention of Atlantida,” has evidently been read through several times.

>type atlantida
The search turns up the following results:

history books: The search finds some 72 titles, focused especially on Mediterranean cultures ancient and modern. The history of Atlantis, and the political history of the Bureau itself, are covered in a series of popularizing works. One book, “Wartime Operations and the Invention of Atlantida,” has evidently been read through several times.

Maybe those noises I heard earlier were nothing. It’s quiet now.

>open window
I open the tall window.

Our ears are straining for something far away.

>x grassy ledge
(I only understood the first part of that — trying anyway. Retrying that as “x grassy”.)

I can’t see what you’re talking about.

>out
Maybe you would do that. I’ve got a little more on the line, and you’ve lost most of your vote, so we’re going to do things my way. We’re going to reinstate Atlantida in her new form. Someone the Bureau will have to listen to. Someone who will be merciful to Brock and Higgate and all those protesters, who’ll put the power back in the hands of the citizen referendum.

That’s Alex taking control, right? For better or for worse, but they’re no longer equals.

The lull continues.

>w

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 metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently lowered. There’s a pulley and hook arrangement above the portcullis, but the hook is empty.

On the inlaid desk is a stack of files.

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

Strangely quiet out there.

>open portcullis
I strain at the base of the gate, but the portcullis is much too heavy for me to lift unaided. I need some kind of mechanical advantage.

No signs of anyone coming for me quite yet.

>i
I am equipped with the following essentials: an anagramming gun, your B-remover (upgraded to handle animates and abstracts), a backpack, a flash drive, a monocle, some Origin Paste, a pan (really the smuggled plans in disguise), a roll, and a tub of restoration gel.

I am also carrying some asparagus, an atlantida, a ball, a band, a bandana, a pair of Britishizing goggles, some broken components, a Catalan punt volat needle, a clock, a cloth napkin, a coat, a counter, a cross, a crumpled cocktail napkin, a dirty coffee cup, a draft document, an ebook reader, a funnel, Guidebook to Anglophone Atlantis, some jacks, a jotter, Journal of Third-World Economics, a key (which opens the apartment door), a lamb, a leaflet, a letter, lime, a map of Slangovia, some members, a paper, a pass, a pic, a poppy, a restoration gel rifle, a ring (which opens the sturdy iron gate), a rubber stamp, a seer automaton, a shopping bag, a shrimp tail, a shuttle, a silver platter, a stick, Studies in Primary Language Acquisition, a stuffed octopus, an umlaut punch, a watch, a wig, a word, and a yam.

Of that collection, the flash drive, the leaflet, and the Origin Paste are packed away in the backpack, which is gaping wide open so everyone can see what’s inside.

I am wearing the monocle, the bandana, the ring (which opens the sturdy iron gate), and the wig.

>w

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 metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently lowered. There’s a pulley and hook arrangement above the portcullis, but the hook is empty.

There is a stack of files on the inlaid desk.

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

>x paintings
They look like originals. I have seen some of these portraits before, in books at school or in the museum, but was given to understand that they’d been stolen, leaving only photographs or replicas.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the oil paintings with the crosshairs.

A distant alarm bell is ringing.

>type wartime operations
The search turns up the following results:

history books: The search finds some 72 titles, focused especially on Mediterranean cultures ancient and modern. The history of Atlantis, and the political history of the Bureau itself, are covered in a series of popularizing works. One book, “Wartime Operations and the Invention of Atlantida,” has evidently been read through several times.

>x sticky notes
(I only understood the first part of that — trying anyway. Retrying that as “x sticky”.)

I can’t see what you’re talking about.

>wave s-remover at jacks
I reset the device to s. There is a mad-scientist cackle, and the jacks turn into a jack. A heavy-duty jack, suitable for raising cars or other substantial objects.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the jack is a faint, greenish image of some jacks.

The faint ringing continues.

>put jack under portcullis
I slip the jack under the portcullis and raise it a few feet — enough for me to slip past.

>w

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.

Giom, yes, > x me is different.

It’s still our joint body, but it feels like you, and I’m riding along, somehow. Part of you, but alienated. Something’s wrong. I want to get out.

And we are given a choice when we try to leave through the window.

You could do that. You could climb out that window and not look back. It would be faster, easier, unquestionably safer. But what about the people we’re leaving behind? What about my father and Professor Higgate? What about the protesters who got arrested today?

We’ll only know they’re safe if we leave this island with a new, improved Atlantida. Someone the Bureau will have to listen to. The one they were afraid of creating. One who will put power back in the hands of the citizen referendum.

So you tell me how it’s going to be. Are you going to stay and see to things? >>

>u

Surveillance Room
A surveillance computer is mounted on the wall, an impressive flat screen readout displaying current activity.

The Workshop lies to the east. The door I came through is west, and there is also a spiral staircase down to the tunnel.

>e

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

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 cord snakes across the floor, connecting the dais socket to the wall socket.

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

I definitely hear footsteps. And voices.

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

>turn switch
I give the switch a strong twist and turn it to swap homonym.

>pull lever
The programmable dais glows deep red. Almost at once Atlantida is lying on the surface. She looks very similar to her earlier self, but the differences are there. The eyes are grey now. A tattoo of a writhing squid encircles her left wrist. Her face is younger.

She gets to her feet.

“You’d better leave, quickly,” she says. “I’ll make sure your friends get out, but it will be easier if we don’t have to explain you as well.”

I’d like to ask how to fix the fusion.

>ask about fusion
“The two of us, Alex and Andra, we seem to be stuck together permanently. You don’t happen to know how to remove our fusion?”

She shakes her head. “We’ve never found a way to undo that effect completely,” she says. “I’m sorry. But try to listen to both your voices. One may be the weaker now, but if you try to kill that self entirely, it tends to cause a severe mental illness.”

My response would be to ask what Atlantida knows about synthesis.

>ask about synthesis
“Wait, what do you know about synthesized people?” If we don’t find out now, will there be a better time?

“There have been experiments. They didn’t end well, though most didn’t collapse into a single dominant personality as quickly as you. You’ve been under unusual stress.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Hurry!” she says. “Take the window in the Solarium, climb down the beach. Don’t look back.”

Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium. I think she’s enjoying her role as conspiratorial heroine.

>w
Atlantida follows, looking around sharply. Her expression when she sees the computers and television screens is wry, but she doesn’t say anything. No time now, perhaps.

Surveillance Room
A surveillance computer is mounted on the wall, an impressive flat screen readout displaying current activity.

Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium.

The Workshop lies to the east. The door I came through is west, and there is also a spiral staircase down to the tunnel.

>d
Atlantida accompanies us, close on our heels in the narrow space.

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.

Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium.

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

I can also see a weight here.

I can go east through the portcullis to Personal Apartment and up to the Surveillance Room from here.

>e
Atlantida comes along with 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.

Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium.

The metal portcullis guards the way back. It is currently raised a few feet by a jack. There’s a pulley and hook arrangement above the portcullis, but the hook is empty.

There is a stack of files on the inlaid desk.

Air and sunlight stream in from the east.

Someone is coming into the workshop upstairs. There’s at most a few seconds before they’ll be down the tunnel.

>e
The guards are coming down the tunnel right now. I should find a way to delay them.

Luhr28 - 31 March 2021 07:14 AM

I don’t understand why we have to leave now. We were running from the Bureau and now with the new Atlantida in charge, things should be better, right?

Yeah, I agree. She’s can’t be that powerful and probably never was down there in her little apartment.

giom - 31 March 2021 07:31 AM

Thanks, I think I prefer your version.

Can we steal the paintings?

> wave s-remover at paintings

Seems like something that Andra would do.

>get paintings
They’re hardly portable.

>wave s-remover at paintings
There is a flash of psychedelic colors, and the oil paintings turn into an oil painting. Just one painting, but a very valuable one nonetheless, showing Ms Shaply as a young woman.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the oil painting is a faint, greenish image of some oil paintings.

The guards arrive. I am captured and taken away for interrogation, and it’s some time before Atlantida is able to arrange for our release.

I should have done that earlier, I suppose. 

>shoot jack with rifle
I shoot the restoration gel rifle at the jack. With an audible SPLORT, the jack becomes some jacks.

The portcullis crashes shut.

The portcullis should at least slow down anyone coming after us. Though that’s only moderately comforting.

>wave s-remover at paintings
There is a smell of anise, and the oil paintings turn into an oil painting. Just one painting, but a very valuable one nonetheless, showing Ms Shaply as a young woman.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the oil painting is a faint, greenish image of some oil paintings.

>get painting
I pick up the oil painting.

The oil painting is far too large for me to carry, and falls onto the floor.

>e
She follows. “Go, go,” she says. “You’ve done good work today. Atlantis is grateful.”

Private Solarium
Atlantida stands nearby, urging me to hurry out via the Private Solarium.

A window in the north wall, cut out through the cliff face, gives a view of tranquil sea under a darkening sky.

On the coffee table is a silver tray. There is some crumbs on the silver tray.

From the other room, the noises make it sound as though someone is using a metal torch to dismantle the portcullis bar by bar.

>n
As soon as we’re through, Atlantida closes the window behind us, and we hear it lock. No evidence that we came through here, now.

Precarious Perch
From up here there’s a handsome view of the sea, which isn’t so far down really. But it’s a scramble down a nearly sheer cliff for the first bit, until I make it down to the rockfall below, and it would be easy for a careless person to injure herself.

It’s hard to see through the tall window to the room behind: mostly it reflects the sea.

>d
It’s a nasty business lowering ourselves over the edge, with little to hold onto up here; scrabbling around with our toes for good holds; letting go with one hand to descend a little further…

But after some minutes of this painstaking process the cliff begins to slope outward more, and it’s no longer a question of climbing down a face, but rather of scrambling down over boulders. And then…

Abandoned Shore
There’s a little inlet of shore here, mostly boulders with little sand, completely cut off from the dock area and sheltered by the curve of the rock so that it wouldn’t be visible from the sea unless someone were very close in.

There is a squid in the tidal pools among the boulders.

A bollard is bolted to one of the rocks, which is curious considering the otherwise unused and inaccessible look of the spot.

An old but still serviceable kayak is drawn up and firmly shackled to the bollard.

>x kayak
A green plastic boat, designed to be used by one person with a paddle or oar. It’s seaworthy, at least for reasonable distances, and shackled to the bollard for safety.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the kayak with the crosshairs.

>x bollard
A metal pole, painted all-weather green and bolted to a rock. Its ilk are used in more trafficked places for securing boats and so on; and indeed so is this one, despite the implausible setting.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the bollard with the crosshairs.

>x squid
A squid, washed into a tidal pool, but not damaged. When the tide comes back in, it will be free to go.

The monocle pings happily as I sight the squid with the crosshairs.

>get squid
When I reach into the pool for it, it hangs onto the underlying rocks with all its strength and cannot be extracted.

>wave l-remover at bollard
I reset the device to l. With a distinct whiff of raw wood, the bollard turns into a board. It’s a fairly generic plank — sort of pine, by the looks of it, though constructed things tend to be a little vague on niceties such as species — and looks like it’s designed to be part of a new deck or somesuch thing.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the board is a faint, greenish image of a bollard.

>get board
I pick up the board.

>enter kayak
I get into the kayak.

>paddle with board
I can’t see what you’re talking about.

>row
It would be helpful to have something to paddle with.

>row with board
I can’t see what you’re talking about.

>row with plank
I can’t see what you’re talking about.