webdiplomacy.net

WebDip Story Compilation

Story of the thread:
I was looking for a good, intresting, exciting story. And I decided to have one - which is written by WebDip members.

How will we write it:
We all will write a writing, which consist of the ideas of all of us. If you want to add something on it, you will write as much as you want. Everything will depend on you, unless they're not about the rest of the story. But you can do any amendments on the story. You're free to maintain it.

How much will we write?
It depends on you too. I think the best articles will consist of 40-50 sentences. It's not limiting, you can write 0-1000000 sentences too. However if you write too long, people won't read it.
Also if you wrote once, you can edit it to correct, add new parts or follow thread to read the story of Webdiplomacy members.

When should we write?
Anytime. Whenever you want. You can send successive story parts. You can write after someone's part. I will send the first part after I create it. You can add anything on this.

Rules:
I hate rules, but we need them to maintain the peace.

1) Minimum religious-ideologic details.
Character can visit a church, but can't detonate itself in a church.
Character can meet with nazis, but it can't join them.

2) When you want to ask a question or add something, use “#” to keep separate from the story. Sample:
# Do we need to register to write?

3) Free to edit.
I will request mods to let us edit. If I can get their permission, that will be free editing posts.

# I want to write simple, to let you add details.

Bryce (#is name ok for you?) arrived to his home. He carried the bags to the door, and put the bags onto the threshold. He looked for the key, but he couldn't find it in his pockets. Then, he remembered that he put the key into his back pocket.
He took it and opened the door. And entered into the house.

Bryce looked around his living room. Where had he left that towel? He had been on his way to the train station when he remembered that, even though traveling, he had not brought a towel.

Recalling the words of his great-uncle, he grabbed the towel from the lamp table and stared at it. It was originally light green, but years of use and lack of care had given the towel a dingy, hardened appearance. If that towel could talk, what tales it would tell...

Stuffing the towel in the right pocket of his crisp trench coat, Bryce turned and faced the door.

Time to leave, again.

But a shadow appeared in the small round window imbedded in the upper third of the door. A shadow in the form of a strange hat.

And a knock sounded. Three sharp, serious, almost scary knocks.

Tax collector's voice said:
"Mr., are you here?"
Bryce knew this voice well. After the revolution, they gotta pay taxes every week.
New government was too oppressive, even mostly about these taxes.
Bryce went to open the door. He would prefer not to open - however the collector may have seen him.
Tax collector knocked the door two more times until Bryce opened the door.
Bryce was shocked.
The man who knocked the door wasn't the tax collector. Instead there was a unknown person in front of Bryce.

He had a shadowy appearance that made Bryce nervous.
"How can... How can I help you?" he managed to ask politely though he did it with the second attempt.
"Relax, mon ami, the other man said, someone, would think you saw something terrible, like a tax officer or something."
"What the..." Bryce thought. How this man guessed it and what in the name of sanity he wanted.

The man entered the house without ask. Bryce turned to him and asked,
"Who are you?".
"Calm down, I can imagine that you didn't expect me. I will explain everything."
The man sat on couch. Bryce closed the door and sat on another couch. The man was staring his decorations.
"We all suffered a lot from the government and it's bad decisions." the man said.
"Are you working for them?" Bryce said.
"We're an organisation against them." the man said.

"Against them?"
He didn't want to repeat it, it seemed stupid but his surprise was too strong to fight it. One does not say just like that his against the government.
"In what aspect?" he asked carefully."Legally? Financially?"

The mysterious man's eyes darkened.
"I have worked for the Department of Excessive Interior Design. Your house is soon to be examined."

Bryce blinked. And swallowed. And frowned. This was new.

"What do you mean?" he stammered.

"You have too many couches."

Both men's eyes went suddenly from couch to couch to couch to couch.

"It is a lot" muttered Bryce. "But I didn't know it was illegal!"

The stranger smiled a very small smile. "It is. But I, and others like me, oppose the Government's stance on couches."

He reached into his coat pocket.

"So I quit... and came to bring you this."

His hand took an object out of his pocket.

It was a brochure for a local furniture store.
Bryce was confused, but he took the brochure.
Both men were silent while Bryce read the brochure;
deals on couches, chairs, and even a beautiful mahogany dresser set for only 999 units.

As Bruce continued reading the man explained;
"Mr. Livingston, may I call you Bryce?"
Bryce nodded in affirmation and the man continued, "Bryce, we are a secret society of wood-smiths, artisans, and upholsterers. Collectively known as 'The Carpenters'. Ever since the government began this abhorrent torocide (#Invented a word here, Toro=Latin word for couch) we have stood to defy them. We know you are a man of many talents, and Bryce, we need your help."

Couches? A prosecution for couches? It was ridiculous! It was worse than that, madness to all its grim majesty.
"Oh, come on, who would bother with such a triviality?" asked Bryce.
"Do you remember the coffee shop in the corner?"
"It closed, why?"
"Do you know why it was closed?" said the stranger.
"They had some problem breaking some rule concerning the establishment."
"Exactly, the couch executive directive."
"You can be ser..." Bryce stopped mid-phrase seeing the other man's expression.

"Yes, we all thought it is ridiculous to defend the rights of having couches. But this is quite serious, and important. We need you Bryce. We're going to visit you once again. Be ready for next time." said the man.
Bryce thought the offer one more time. The man stood up.
"What should I do until next visit?" said Bryce before he leave.
"You must hide your couches. They will check you to see if you obey the rules. Be careful." said the man. His voice was ordering. Bryce glanced at his couches by worried eyes. The man was leaving the house.
"Who are you?" said Bryce.
"Owner. Owner of the coffee shop." the man said and left.

"It was always this way", he mused
"A bunch of retail whore phonies"
It was a calm 64° Celcius outside. The trees ablaze and bums hiding in the shadows.
Car tires melting.
Luckily Bryce brought his skateboard. He darted past boarded up store fronts and burning buildings.
"Fuck your couch" he laughed.
His laughter turned to a sharp painful grunt as he crashed his skateboard into Nancy Pemberdale; the love of his life.
Suddenly the weather wasnt the only thing burning up.

One of the policemen who was arresting Nancy, shouted him to go to hell.
Bryce blushed due to that he did crashed his loved one. Police pushed him onto the sidewalk. Bryce objected:
"What did she do! Why do you arrest her, she's innocent."
"Bryce" told Nancy, even she whispered.
"She broke the rules" said the policeman, "she ignored the couch executive directive".
Bryce noticed the importance of the couch directives.
He thought he must run to his house and hide the couches, but first, he gotta rescue his love.

But how? How could he do so?
"Is it an action to get someone arrested?" he asked.
"No. but she denied paying the fine or handing over the illegal pieces of furniture," replied one officer with an arrogance that reminded Bryce of high school bullies. And as such he decided to face him.
"You know this woman is a free person with rights!"
"We read them," answered the officer with the same uninterested tone.
"How much?" said Bryce. "To let her go?"

"This is my modus operandi officer, deal with it"

Policemen began beating Bryce and Nancy with bats.
They fell to the concrete like billiard balls clacking off the rails.
The ground felt hot.
Bryce dusted off his jacket as it burst into flames.
"Nancy take off your shirt!" He screamed.

The police dragged the two into the alley scraping them on the scorching pavement.
Nancy appeared lifeless. In shock.
He face like the emperor from star wars.
The evil cops ran off as a horde of homeless men descended down the alley.

You are safe now kids.
Welcome home!
Above bryce was a man with gold teeth, brass knuckles and eyes like saturn.

The Blanket Fort network. Bryce had long thought them a myth; but here and now, as the man with Golden Teeth lead them through the alleyways, he could no longer deny their existence.

"The old Coffee shop owner said to keep an eye out for you." Gold Teeth said.

"How... how did..."

"You're not the first furniture lover to crack under the pressure, learning about the Couch Directive."

Bryce now noticed it was getting cooler. They were heading below ground, and a startling, wonderful smell...

"Is that...?"

"Yes." Replied Gold Teeth, as they entered into a massive subterranean chamber. A chamber filled with...

"Quality Upholsetry."

Ottomans, Recliners, Bean Bag Chairs, filled the grimy chamber of the sewer.
Rat men smoked hookah by the corner.
Others gambled and smoked the finest cigars.

Bryce became puzzled.
"These people are homeless?"
"I mean yea the walls could use some paint but... good god this is like a rummage sale in here"

Nancy was still in shock. She laid down on a couch to rest.
"I... I cant take all this madness Bryce, the brutality.. the savagery of it all"

From behind them a familiar voice, the owner of the old coffee shop. “Ah! I see you’ve made it. Wish the circumstances had been less... straining.” The coffee shop owner smirked, “Please take a rest and enjoy yourself some coffee courtesy of myself and the Carpenters”. Some hostesses came forth with fresh coffee and poured for Nancy and Bryce.
Bryce paused, looking down at his coffee then up at the coffee shop owner, then to Nancy and finally all around; “What in the actual fuck is going on!”

At that moment Bryce threw his coffee against nearby wall. When the coffee made contact Bryce noticed that the wall had not gotten wet. Without saying anything he looked at Nancy and motioned for the bathroom.

Together they went inside, “Nancy, listen I don’t know what going on but I think we may be in a simulation.”

Nancy looking surprised and perplexed replied “Really? Why?”

Bryce responded “This whole day it’s felt like our story has been being controlled by unseen forces and we are being pulled in all directions. Did you see the way my coffee hit the wall? That wasn’t natural.”

Bryce locked eyes with Nancy but something was different. Her eyes were glazed over and her mouth was agape. Bryce looked on in panic as the room around them slowly faded into darkness, Nancy’s still figure still illuminated from all angles. Bryce lashed out “What did you do to her?! Who are you?!”


A male voice spoke from everywhere but nowhere at once; “Agent Bryce Livingston, usually people don’t catch on so quickly. Don’t worry lad, Nancy is perfectly safe. You however are in a simulation, at a moments notice I can do whatever I want to you or to your environment. I can kill you in the simulation and you’ll still be alive and I can rinse and repeat. My recommendation if you wish to escape this eternal hell is to answer all of my questions.”

Bryce paused and looked down, a gun was in his hands. He leveled the gun toward where he bought he heard the voice and fired. The voice laughed; “Gotta try harder than that.”. Bryce spun around firing blindly into the dark, finally his weapon was empty, but as he looked up he saw her stumble from the darkness... Nancy, shot in the chest grasping for life. He ran to her but she vanished before he could get close.

Suddenly, everything got darken.
"I'm in the simulation since when?"
"Is everything lie?"
"Is this the first simulation I'm in?"
"Why, me?"
"Am I the only person in the simulation?"
Bryce was confused. And he lost himself among headaches.
.
.
.
Two weeks later.
.
.
.
Bryce woke up. Looked at the room. Two weeks ago, there was four couches. Now, room seemed too empty.

There was a knock at the door. Three sharp, serious, almost scary knocks. Bryce heard again the Tax Collector’s voice,
“Mr, are you here?”
Bryce thought about the question in a way that no man should ever have to. He boggled at the situation he now found himself in. Should he open the door again? Continue the cycle? Should he see just how far he could push the boundaries of the simulation? Was it worth checking if he could even act counter to his first time through? Not answer the door. Talk to the man through the door instead.

An idea came to him, so bizarre that he had to stop himself from laughing. He walked up to the door, still holding back a ridiculous smile, and put his hand on the handle. Then he gently let go, and moved his hand as if the door was opening, carefully following its arc until his hand rested against the wall. The door remained firmly closed.

His voice shaking, trying not to contemplate too hard the exact ramifications of what he was attempting, he spluttered out,
“How can... how can I help you?”