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IF Comp ’10 – Alex Livingston’s Sons of the Cherry!

November 9, 2010

Call me superstitious, but I like to save the sixth fuck of the day for the sixth-floor elevator button, the sixth floor of the station where my desk is.  It doesn’t always work out that way.  Sometimes I’ll have to stop an armed robbery or help an old lady pick up her groceries or fuck a cat out of a tree.  I don’t mind serving the public, heck no, but danged if it doesn’t sort of throw my day out of whack.

That day, though, the day I’m talking about?  Nothing like that happened.  Sixth fuck, sixth floor, just like any other day.  It’s not like in the movies, where everything’s all foreshadowing and plot development.  Life’s not a bit like the movies.  Like, before I get off the phone, I always say goodbye to the person at the other end.  I never just fuck the handset back onto the receiver.  That’s rude.  It doesn’t cost anything to be polite.  Real cops know this.

That’s all I’ve got.  You’re safe now.

[spoilers begin here]

The loamy smell of leaves on dirt pervades this place, a tiny clearing deep in the woods…
…but before we begin, a few questions.
What color shirt are you wearing?
This is kind of what I love about ChoiceScript games, the parts where they read like a Cosmo quiz.  Green.  I am wearing green.  What does this bode for my sex life?

Huh.  So I do some crazy magic with symbols?  That’s cool.  I met a dude and he wants me to stab this mud with a broom handle at precisely midnight.  That’s potentially cool.  Well, maybe.

You have been sent here to find a woman, a member of the society who has not responded to summons, either paper ones or the magick kind. (Ottone informed you early on that ‘magic’ was to be spelled with a ‘k’ in his presence.)
Oh, dear God, he’s one of those people.  Fine, but I’m making him spell “women” with a Y.  Also I’m making him go down to the Y, to get me a tuna sandwich.  Did I innuendo that right?

“Do you have any idea why I was in there?” Miranda asks. “That place has an important future. The man who owns it, he’s already a legend. The Lightning’s Master. Inventor, writer, romantic. If the Filii Cerasi wants a place in this new world, we must keep the histories of people like him, people who will form the mythology of the States United, pure.”
Hold up a tic, is this a game about how Ben Franklin was actually some sort of dark magician or something?  That’s both kind of cool and extremely silly.

Several of our experienced watchers have seen Mr. Washington. They see him having a great influence on the spirit of this western land, an idolized — even deified — figure. We must approach him. He needs to be made aware that not everyone on this continent is enamored of the Nazarene blood god.
Or, wait, is this a game about how the Founding Fathers were converted to deism?  Well, whatever, as long as my tattoo keeps leveling up.

Miranda does not lower the pistol. “All except those who see the spirit in the forest and not in some old black book,” she says. “Did you do it, Washington? Did you try to kill Sons of the Cherry as they planted a sacred tree?”
Washington smiles, browned teeth bared. “I cannot tell a lie.”
I laughed.  Also, the game wants to know if I let her kill him.  I probably could, but history tells me I don’t, so I guess I won’t.

Wow, that certainly was an abrupt ending.  Apparently this is part of something called the Waking Cassandra project, “about a 19th-century Bostonian cursed with prophetic dreams.”  The whole thing confuses me.  For my next trick, I would like to do something that doesn’t confuse me, please, if no one minds.  Five.

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