The Idea: This is a sandbox-style interactive writing game designed to test your character creation, dialogue flow, and scene formatting. My main character, Hector, is currently moving toward a fixed goal: finding the source of a dead body's stench in a Nevada salvage yard. Along his path, he encounters your characters. Your character lives, acts, and speaks entirely inside this sandbox.-Communication Style: To speak out-of-character (OOC) to critique writing style, suggest plot shifts, or give feedback, wrap your text in parentheses: (Like this).-Fractal Writing Mechanics: Every sentence is its own micro-story; every full narrative is just a fractal expansion of a single line. Contributions of any size—from a single gerund phrase, to a punchy sentence to a short story—are welcome.-The Hook: Surviving the 404Every thread has an expiration date. In this sandbox, the 404 error is an active, inevitable apocalyptic event. Your character only survives if they can stick with the group and transition to the next thread before this one gets pruned.I have already mapped out the destination for the next thread. Once our core group of writers settles in, the next destination and survival objective will be chosen by the posters using a 'get' competition. "Surviving the 404" can mean anything you want: jumping through a localized spacetime portal, scrambling to outrun an incoming nuclear strike, or locking down ina survivalist bunker. Your sole objective is to survive alongside the rest of the cast.Who can you play? Anyone. You can write an original creation, a historical figure, or an introspective character consumed by absolute existential ennui.The Golden Rule: You can harm or hinder other characters, but you cannot kill or maim another writer's character. Everyone controls their own physical agency.How to drop in right now? Simply write your entrance directly into the current scene layout.Active Entry Points Available:-The Locked Outhouse: You are currently occupying the closed Porta-Potty that Hector is walking past.-The Empty Shed: You are the owner of the steaming coffee cup and the spiral notebook left on the folding table, watching Hector from the shadows.-The Junkyard Rows: You are currently hiding inside one of the wrecked late-century cars as Hector follows his nose into the lot.Drop your character in below and let's build the sequence. If the thread remains slow, I will keep Hector's narrative pushing forward solo to complete the short story fractal.
[STORY BEGIN]1.He answered the phone's ring while standing on the hill (note to reader: sunny hill top where the mob tosses dead niggers in the game. need a dead nigger storage reference here maybe). He looked up the road wonderinng if the dead body smell was road kill or something else. There was a hightway sign up the hill, with the spray painted word "dead" something else i cant make out.Speaking into the phone, he says "Hello".2."who's this?""its gater the lizard king. new phone Hec. Always rotate phones. I'll use this number to contact you. Where are you, Hector"."I'm standing on a hill smelling a dead animal, struck by the truck traffic, or a very dead man with a password who works for certain someone in Las Vegas, USA.".(note to self: stop here? or continue the phone back and forth)(continue it is)Hec, listening; heard: "Follow the smell". Then a click, like those old phones.3.>Hec, listening; heard: "Follow the smell". Then a click, like those old phones."Very dead man with a password..."It hit Gater like a tonne of bricks. He quickly called Marla:>"Marla! Your thong. Now!"(note to readers, I'm edging)4.>"Marla! Your thong. Now!"(note to reader: dont take over another's character). (Also, your character can not kill another character. It can harm the other characters though but not maim)."Maria, never mind. I have a better idea".Maria- if that is her real name- might be Mexican from Mexico: since this area is near the border; and out side of Las Vegas; most surely under the influence of a narcotic. Not weed, but maybe something else. Hallucinogen? Either way if she doesn't go off on an LSD trip, Hector has plans for her. She can search the stinky dead guy for the password.Looking down at the mile marker post, he read the sign: 'SB No.25251185'. Tattered and dusty with road grime, but the metal plate was new.Miles ahead, another mile marker. The land: dull brown; withering in the heat Its speed limit higher out here. 86 miles per hour is a recommendation.He looked at Maria, a person who wandered into his path as he was walking from where he parked his car. One thing about Ford used police cars: great A/C; cool, far away from the smelly hot acrid air south of Las Vega. Air dotted with the occasional gust of wind carrying the smell of death from this area out in the dessert, used by the mob to ditch their recently departed coworkers."Maria lets get going if you want to come with me", Hector said, as he left the mile marker behind and the graffitied post behind. The smell was getting stronger here. but away from the main road. Tire tracks below in the dirt, leading up the small hill.Looking back, Maria, talking to herself, meandered behind Hector. Up ahead in the distance, something moved towards the group. (Note to reader: am i overdoing it with semi colons?) (if you want to test your writing, jump in. Many openings: 4chan-ish; 'dead nigger storage', or test the waters via 'the movement up ahead').[cont]
>>6416844[cont]5.> dongs6.> schlongs7.Hector, walked for about 30 minutes towards the smell. Closer and closer was the junk yard. Surrounded by nothing but dirt and gravel and vegitiation acting as boundries; the sharp edges of the cacti plants dotting the perimeter acted like guards. It's deffently coming from the car yard, though Hector, as a new odor mixed in with the smell of decay. The new smell came from a pot of coffee. The shed office was empty Standing outside, Hector took note of the porta-potti out house on the other side of the clearing just before the cars, placed in rows. Cars mostly from the late last century, except the newer cars that were damaged beyond the point where the insurance company would cover repairs. The clearing between the Shed and the Porta Potti, sized roughly like a large municipal golf course putting surface made out of gravel and sand. The shed and the blue water toilet were labeled. The toilet was labelled by the manufaturer, Porta-Potty in dirty white on a blue plastic shell. The door was closed. The office shed was labelled by the sign that indicated the business: "Lots of Parts". From where Hector was standing in front of the shed's open door, he could see a mug of coffee steaming, and a plastic tin of cookies atop of a foldable table. Next to the coffee was a deck of cards splayed out like a game of memory concentration. Next to the coffee and the cards wa a pen a reciept booklet, and a new spriral notebook. Tight space, but the shed fit two, comfortably seated across from the white foldup picknick tableThe empty shed had a worn track of foot prints to the portable toilet. the toilet door was closed, the door indicator signaling it was occupied. Not wanting to wait, Hector walked past the thorny cacti towards the start of the lot area. The gusty wind, muffled Hector's footsteps, as Hector was following his nose towards the smell.[SCENE END]
>>6416851[STORY CONTINUES --From a /lit/ General]>>252813648. Changchang Zhang groped about in what remained of the cabin of the T-boned 1971 Dodge Demon. He wondered if he would contract tetanus, or worse if he accidentally cut himself on the jagged frame. His dusty fingers traced grey lines along the surprisingly intact door panel, looking for any hint of prior tampering before withdrawing from their search to retrieve earmuffs and an old battery-powered sawzall from Changchang's duffle bag. BzZzZzZzZzZzZ! The Demon's interior refracted the sawzall's strained cry into a cacophony of screaching dissonances that deepend somewhat as Changchang sunk the reciprocating blade into the woodgraine of the door panel, doing his best not to cut too deeply into the hardware for fear of damaging the very thing he was looking for. The screeching sawzall choked on the must of rotting leather and burning plastic fumes as it moved at awkward angles through the workpiece. Changchang cut a rough rectangle out of the vinyl panel which he, after putting the poor sawzall out of its misery, grabbed by the door handle and pulled out out to reveal the door's internal mechanisms. There it was— the small plastic-wrapped package tied with string and nestled in the hollow of the door. Changchang retrieved his prize which he dumped, along with all of his equipment, into his lumpy duffle bag before crawling out of the wreck. Changchang took a moment to look at the scrapheap. He wondered what the muscle car must have been like in it's heyday. "Like driving a falling star", his father used to tell him whenever they were in the garage working on the ancient station wagon that served as their main mode of transport for the better part of 36 years He turned to leave but felt a sudden force tug him back towards the wreck. The shoulder strap of his duffle bag had somehow gotten wedged between the driver's side door and the A-pillar. Zhang tried to open the door a little further but the hinges had seized with rust a long time ago so he elected to try to yank the duffle bag free. He pulled at it once no avail, then again a second time, harder; still to no success. Then, putting all his weight into it, Changchang tugged at his duffle bag a third time, wrenching the shoulder strap free of the wreck and launching Changchang backwards at an oblivious Henry.[SCENE END]
>>64168589.Richard Byrne had spent the better part of his morning sitting at the end of a blank notebook, but it was difficult to focus through the thick blanket of rot that hung in the air. Something stank – stank terribly – and it mingled with the smell of his coffee, which simmered angrily at his elbow. He knew he’d be too disgusted to drink once it cooled down, just as he was already too disgusted to write.It had been a mistake – that much he was willing to admit. Richard had never killed a man before, and it was only once he had to hide a body. It would’ve been better, he thought, if he had simply thrown the man into some wayward field, but this yard seemed cluttered enough to serve. He was wrong about that – the appearance of this newcomer proved it.“What brings you here?” He called out. “I didn’t see you at the check-in.”[SCENE END]
>>6416859[STORY CONTINUES]10.Hector, walking toward the smell. The amalgam of smells mixing is melding into a breeze that all smells the same. Once your smelled a dead body, you know its a dead body. Same as when you see one dead Honey you've seen em all. So the breeze that flows a bit like waves on a beach, then thrashes about when hitting rocks on the beach boundary, found itself splashing its scents into Hectors nose.. Water everywhere among the rocks. Here, in the waterless Nevada sand and rocks, or as they say, 'in the weeds', the smell of dead was coming from every where. In one old car, a poisoned rat, in another something, maybe a possum, fresh nothing smelly, but the eyes, hollow, unmoving. Gone too soon to be noticed by the insects, but noticed by me, and the hovering vultures. Others would argue she is still warm, not worm yet.. Hector is no scientist, but that is a female possum, as it has rows of tits.Stopping, then looking back where he walked, he looked for Maria, the wandering cute light skin girl with, black hair and blue eyes. Hair, smooth to the shoulders. Cut sharp and flowing heavily, Like Cameron Diaz's, but jet black. Hair to the shoulders, heavy with oils and pheromones. Maria's hair a bit messy from not shampooing and conditioning, but I bet a faint smell of some dew fruit combination is still lingering in there. That and the powerful smell of patchouli. That scent, most often associated with Jamaican men and marijuana. Not exclusively. So honey dew and pot. Nice legs: smooth, a bit stained and dusty.. The small hairs on the legs,weighting down by the dust. Making her look taller, more rugged. Rugged is what she was. Khaki skin tan color shorts made for women, and alluring, sexy but useful. Pockets right up to the buttons. Is it even a pocket? Tan, some brand with color strip generally up the sides of the thigh.She was gone, no doubt wandering about. Looking a bit further, Hector tried to see movement near the post with the graphiti. No movements Even the noise from the ridgeine line area. Nothing.Turning around, a few steps past some rusted out cars from well over twice Hec's age, flapped in the wind a newspaper from a while ago. Caught between weeds and rusted iron. Someone got lucky as per the paper. Then there was another article. It was about the universal feeling of dejavu, almost everyone with an IQ is realizing. Something was happening.Hector pushed forward, toward where the smell of decay was most hopeful. He kept the paper, wanting to read the article. (read the article).[SCENE END]
>>6416861 [STORY CONTINUES] 11. Hector, sitting on the rusted rounded hood of a Volkswagen Beetle--the new ones, with bright hues, separating it from classic Volkswagen Beetles. This rounded hood, lime green, supported Hector as he sipped on a bottle of water and read the article on page 5 by the guy that rambled on about gay frogs. In this article, he proposed that there is a connection between numbers, and what recently happened. Hector could not place what happened. Hector, while not being book smart or street smart, can usually sort things out. But, this general sense..., that something is different in the world after that girl got dubs is true. He feels it. Cant quite describe it. Deja vu? Existentialism? He kept the paper, as he got up, and capped the water bottle for later. Whipping the beads of sweat from his sticky hot forehead like he was swiping right or left on a tablet. The sweat droplets, flung from the fingers, and landed on the hot green hood, quickly evaporated. The rear of the car, crushed and crumpled all throughout the interior of the car. The rear seats, pushed up against the front seats. The large dry blood stains on the cream colored seat hinted that whomever was in the back of the car is dead. The rounded top of the car was ripped open like an orange, by the Jaws of Life. The bulb shaped car, push in the back by a truck or heavy car, and the sharp shreds of metal, peeled back by firemen to extract the passengers, resembled a citrus fruit peeled for breakfast, then crushed for its juice. Getting up from his break to read the article, and look at the cartoon, Hector saw the owner of the lost shoe. A man, fat. Face bloody. Head had fallen back onto the ground. The sand dampening the fall--but it was not the fall that killed him. The exit wound in the back of his skull is what killed him. Next to him, a car, new and out of place, classic, sleek and well maintained. Not crumpled, but its hood open. Like someone was trying to repair the car when he was discovered by who ever ventilated the man's brain. Hector, looked around before investigating the body and the car. He moved closer. [SCENE END]
>>6416865>>25285476 (You)12. "Finally some company", the dead man thought to himself. "Over here!" he called out but no sound escaped his blackened lips which, withered, bared a strained yellow grin. "Aww nuts. I forgot I died"[SCENE END]
>>6416839Interesting stuff, OP, but you might want to give some time between the scenes so that other people can write in their stuff. You're going pretty fast.
>>6416867While the dead man was already halfway across the Styx and Hector was busy investigating, the decrepit car's glove box rattled and rocked like a marching band was sealed within...From beneath the dust-caked leather came a high, yet muffled voice:"grt mr outtrhr yr brg lrg! Rght nrr!"Their tone was impatient, but not threatening. Yet. A warm prairie breeze rattles the abandoned car.
>>6416871Hector's hand barely approaches the offending glove compartment before it bursts open in a light, powdery shower of desert dust! Tumbling out amidst a cascade of unpaid parking tickets and yellowed old receipts comes a coughing character barely bigger than Hector's fist--gossamer wings flapping erratically as their owner tumbles onto a dried mustard stain in the passenger-side footwell!"Euuughh... took ya' long enough." Grunts the compact ex-captive as she straightens her tiny back sending an unnerving CRUNCH throughout the derelict vehicle. "An hour longer and I woulda' had to eat an old cigarette butt I found in there..."With the initial shock passed, Hector realizes what he's looking at: a tiny female figure with dragonfly-like wings, a messy bob cut, and a scowl on her face usually reserved for biker bar regulars. Or gym teachers.Hector had seen something like this before--a whimsical critter straight out of a fairy tale... or in this case...A PIXIE!Locking eyes with her erstwhile hero, the pint-sized person gives him a hasty once-over before coughing out a request:"... Got any sugar, stretch?" Her bright eyes dance over to the elephant in the room... or in this case the dead man on the ground with a hole in his head."... I didn't do that."Coughing a few more lungfuls of dust from her lungs, the fairy flutters to Hector's eye-level to study his face for a harrowing moment."Look, you found him with me, so that means we're accomplices now." She extends a tiny gloved hand for him to shake. "Name's Razzle. Anyone asks, yer' my parole officer, got it?"[MY INTRO END, if I did that right]
>>6416881[Just saw that post in the QAG. I'll draw something up/find a picture for Razzle later since its a bit late where I am right now. Sorry, would have added a picture otherwise!]
[So like. What's next? Am I misunderstanding what this quest is, or]
