The Chronicles of Virgil

[Munch's Master]

Woah, great chapter! Your writing talent is as good as ever, if not even better! Fantastic chapter, please don't make us wait this long again, this is another case of a story too good to be put on hold.

[Nepharski]

Woah, great chapter! Your writing talent is as good as ever, if not even better! Fantastic chapter, please don't make us wait this long again, this is another case of a story too good to be put on hold.

Not to worry. If all works out, I plan on writing and releasing it on a weekly basis, every Friday or so.

[Nepharski]

Silence. Dead silence. Never is there more activity anywhere, than when it is silent, generally because of the large amount of excess activities persued in order to keep the primary one quiet. Silence is, perhaps, the greatest attention-getting ploy available. Armed with this knowledge, a sudden cacophany of noise was generated from seemingly nowhere at all. No one investigated the noise, of course, because if they (Those involved) weren't going to go to all the trouble of masking it, then they (Those not involved) weren't going to got to all the trouble of un-masking it. It was genius. Pure genius.

Deep below, giant machinations and belows pumped into furnaces and tubes which connected in seemingly intangible ways to yet other feats of industrial imagination. Unidentifiable fluids circulated through machines the sun was never meant to shine on. Finally, all finished in a bizarre, steampunkian contraption, which dripped a reddish liquid. Said liquid was collected in an orblike glass incased in a cage-like holder. Once the flow ended, someone closed the jar.

"Ahh, perfection. No mortal or god has ever seen the likes of this, nor ever will again."

Footsteps faded away. Another voice broke in.

"Now then, all we need to do is refine it. Yes, that will suffice."

There was a crash.

"Err...hmmm. Now where is the janitorial staff?"

There was a moment's pause, interupted by constant hissings and oozings.

"...And where in Odd's name is the floor going?"

***

It was dawn in the jungle. Time for life to continue moving again. A young paramite step out from it's hive. It had never been alone before. The world was sooo big! It pranced a little along the floor, then began sniffing around. Ah, the adventure. It's primative musings were interupted by a whizzing sound, followed by a thumb in the sand, which captured it's attention. The creature scattled over to this new curiousity, and began to examine it, as only an animal can. What is it? Oh! Cold! Very cold! But smooth. Ah, sooo smooth. Feels nice. A smooth rock! Who would have guessed it? And perfectly round too! This...is the best rock EVER! I should bring it back to my friends! Wait...what's that sound it's making so fast...and faster...and faster...and fas-

The explosion, needless to say, sparked everyone's attention. Particularly those of a nearby Slig, and I am not talking about Virgil. "Bullseye! Bwhaha!" There was a mechanical hum, and a flying Slig swooped into the scene. Who knew a career in freelance scouting could be so self-fufulling? He zipped past the wreckage, loading up another grenade in hopes of more quary.

He found Virgil. Propped up in his make-shift wheel chair, the Slig was fast asleep. It occured to the flying Slig how inexplicably odd it was to see another Slig in the middle of all this, ugh, nature. It then occured to him that he should probably either stop his course or watch where he was going. And then...nothing occured to him ever again. The second explosion, so soon after the first, was seen by the inhabitants of the jungle as nothing more than a lame cash-in on the first, and no where near the fine quality and tragic drama of the original (Besides, it wasn't so much of an explosion as it was a..."Splat"). Virgil, however, thought differently...but then most would, finding a charred wreckage of a flying machine all over their nicely-trimmed lawn.

To Be Continued...

[Munch's Master]

Good chapter, as ever. very mysterious gonigs on with this machinery, it's another oddworld mystery story that I'm dying to know the answer to (The other, by Shrink ,hasn't been updated in ages.) Anyway, good stuff. And nice way to reintroduce Virgil. The bit with the paramite and the grenade somehow reminded me of the whale contemplating life in Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Great chapter, keep it up. And Happy new Year!

[Nepharski]

Good chapter, as ever. very mysterious gonigs on with this machinery, it's another oddworld mystery story that I'm dying to know the answer to (The other, by Shrink ,hasn't been updated in ages.) Anyway, good stuff. And nice way to reintroduce Virgil. The bit with the paramite and the grenade somehow reminded me of the whale contemplating life in Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Great chapter, keep it up. And Happy new Year!

My inspiration hath been revealed.

[Nepharski]

I really hate to do this, but I'm in the middle of another, Oddworld-related, project right now, so the story is on Hiatus for about a week. Just an update for all my Dog Food Ganstas.

[Nepharski]

Virgil never got around to clearing up the scarred wreckage on his front yard. He felt it was sufficient deteraint against trespassers of all shapes, what with the calamity of it all. Besides, it reminded him of home, and happier times...or at least, less angst-ridden times. He would have invited people in to show it off, but there were no people for many miles, so he mostly showed it off to himself. Course, the crash was not without consequence. The smell arising from it was..."unique" to say the lest, and what's more, the craft had crushed poor Kristen, one of his favorite rocks. Still, live was somewhat improved over how it had previously been. Virgil took one last look at the carcass of the machine, then fell asleep, reclined in his wheelchair.

Night fell. Everyone was asleep on the jungle floor, and in the trees. Above the trees, however...

Slowly, it loomed, like a pregnant beast on a steep incline of stairs. Despite the ackwardness of it's movement, however, it remained relatively silent. Well, accept for the forebodding music that played during it's traveles.

"Must you play that?"
"What!? We're effing looming here, in case you didn't notice! You can't loom without the proper theme music."
"But, the element of surpris-"
"Element of surprise!? Don't see that one on the periodic table."
"But-"
"LOOK! If we're going to loom, then by Odd we're going to loom professionally!"

The craft stoped over a conspicuous clearing. The music cut ("Oh, thank Odd!"). In the light of the ship, two forms could be seen; one was green and thin and lying on a rock, and the other was mechanical and marring an otherwise flawlessly cut yard. Without a word, the ship sent down setinals to retrieve the wreckage and the slig. After all, it was natural to assume a pilot of theirs, despite a tendacy to go off Jungle storming without notice, would wisely stay next to his Flying harness for them to pick him up. Soon after collecting the cargo, the vessel began to move again, although this time it was moving much faster, and not looming whatsoever.

"See!? We're not looming any more. Turn it off!"
"How do ya figure?"
"How do I figure? They just said so!"
"Oh! Time to get the standard travel music then, eh?"

There was a gunshot, and then there was silence. The craft shuffled on.

To Be Continued...

[Dave]

"LOOK! If we're going to loom, then by Odd we're going to loom professionally!"

Bravo.
This gets curiouser and curiouser.
Hooray for you!
I'm too jealous of this for words.
Virgil > my story

[Nepharski]

Virgil blinked.

It was raining outside. He knew this, because he could hear it, but otherwise he had no idea whether or not it was a lie. The world was fuzzy, and not in the way people usually prefer. Like a bad home-movie. He heard muffled voices surrounding him. If they said anything worth hearing, he missed that. The rain was the predominant sound.

Virgil blinked.

He was fully aware of his situation. They thought he was someone else, no doubt that Slig he'd seen crash in the jungle. Of course, their mistake was going to have horrible repercusions on him when the figured out it was not their long lost comrade, who's body was busy fertilizing Virgil's lawn. He sighed. They wasn't much he could do at this point, nor wanted to do. What he did want to do, however, was blame someone. Anyone. Anyone else.

"Winters," he muttered, and then he passed out again.

***

Winters. Now there was a chap the likes of which you wouldn't meet in a dark or even well-lit ally, nor want to. He was exactly the kind of person you would usually predetermine someone named Winters in Winters' possition to be. He pushed buttons, and people were miserable. He snapped his figures, and chaos spread. He wrote a note on the back of a napkin and handed it discreetly to someone from under the table, and profound confusion was instigated.

But, nobody every actually died, that is to say not directly anyway. That's what all the rumors stressed. That's all any of it was. Rumor, and Rumor Kontrol.

There are some people who were born, specifically, mandated by higher powers to serve specific purposes. Winters had full knowedge of his purpose, and he carried it out to the letter; the initiating and preserving of confusion in mass numbers. The Magog Cartel never wanted anyone to trace any kind of line to anything, especially not a straight one. Someone need to deliberately mess up the system. That someone was, supposedly, Winters. Numerous black lists had his name engraved upon them, and more than one secret society was formed bent soley on his destruction. Pipe dreams, unfortunately. No one was in any possition to do anything, benefitial or otherwise, to Winters. He was untouchable, untraceable, and thusly invincible.

Virgil knew why. That was the start of his troubles to begin with.

To Be Continued...

[treehugger]

The tiny slurg in the back loves this. Odd!!! how's my fan fic going to compare????

[Nepharski]

I am experiancing some "technically difficulties," the magnitude of which has so manifested itself that it doesn't seem so much to be a internet hiccup as a foul spirit of malicious intent. I'm on another computer right now (Not my regular one), so suffice to say the next chapter shall be a bit delayed until I can call over an computer exorcist.

Exasperatedly,
Nepharski

[Nepharski]

"What!?"

The Overseer was not a very happy Vykker to begin with. He hated his job, so he made as much an attempt at possible to be perfect at it, in hopes that his talents would be recognized and he'd get a ticket out of this Hell-hole. His superiors, conversely, recognized his talents and quitely decided amongst themselves that he was too valuable an employee in this particular feild, and so deemed to keep him there. Stuck perpetually in the economical machine of the Magog, the Overseer was rather disgruntled; so often, in fact, that his state of anger become his normal natural state of being, to the point where simply ignoring everyone counted as a good day. Suffice to say, he'd seen more than someone else's fare share of unhappiness, and it would really take something big to force any further alterations in his mood.

This, was one of those "Big somethings."

"We go all this way to find a missing collector, and you bastards get the wrong guy!?"
"Moriarty, sir, it's not what it looks..."
"Oh, I can see that dipwad. What, you think I'm blind!?"
"No, sir, Moriarty, sir, no, Moriarty, sir, no."
"Here I am, almost relaxing myself (See note on ignoring everyone), when I hear there's been a malfunction. Well, what kind of malfunction? I ask myself. Turns out, we've got a stow-away in the first class. Common filth, IN FIRST CLASS!!"
"Sir..."
"OH, but it get's better doesn't it? Turns out, our guest of honor has disappeared. Imagine that. Well, can you!?"
"Yes, si-"
"Oh, would you just shut up! If my cousin Humprey had survived that horrible accident and was here right now..."

Virgil crawled through the ducts above, not really paying attention to the scene below him. He'd figured it was time to move when the intercom rang "Overseer to steering. Overseer to steering. We have a situation." He didn't like the sound of the Vykker in the next room, so he focused on other matters, such as the rather convenient size of the ducts. Note to self: When constructing lair of moral ambiguity, check that air ducts are too small to crawl through. He scurried on. "It's Winter's fault," he thought, gloomily, "That's why I'm here."

He found a nice little corner, far away from the racket, to settle down in. "Better get some sleep, before the ship lands." He stretched and lay down on the cold, steel floor. The sounds of the fans lulled him to sleep, even over the sounds of Overseer Moriarty below, spilling coffee on himself.

"GAH!!"

To Be Continued...

[Nepharski]

Just bumping this, because I think it got lost in the shuffle. Yes, I have finally updated.

[Scrab Watcher]

*dance of joy*

I do enjoy these, and I really should have commented earlier. Neph, your writing is fresh and sparkly, and I like it very much. It reminds me of Douglas Adams. Only thing: make sure you spell things/use the correct words (eg. affect/effect). If you don't it can harm the polish of the piece.

[Nepharski]

make sure you spell things/use the correct words (eg. affect/effect). If you don't it can harm the polish of the piece.

Eggsahctly!

I'm a procrastinating bastard, but at least I come through...eventually.

*Begins handing out Christmas cards from 2004.*

AHEM.

Virgil blinked. He'd been asleep for quite some time now; the room was foggy. He adjusted his mask as he righted himself. Huh, that's odd. Somethings right in front of me. He squinted. Well, whatever it is, it sure is ugly. He blinked again. Oh, it's a-

***

Overseer Moriarty stirred his coffee lightly. The right side of his face was smug at the prospect of having captured a wanted fellon. The left side, however, was glaring menacingly at the thought of how to handle the stow-away (Moriarty was one of the few members of his or any other species who was able to convey two entirely separate emotions at the same time, albiet at a cost of wrinkles). Virgil was mummbling in his sleep, something about operas. It didn't matter. He continued stirring his coffee. Moriarty never actually drank coffee, as he felt that defeated the entire purpose of it, which was to stir it methodically to keep your body from shutting down while you were thinking about something else. He believed in this to an almost religious degree, although he never got any converts...but he did get enough sugar.

Virgil moaned. He opened his eyes again, but instantly wished he hadn't. He could have just sworn a moment ago that there was a BigBro in front of him, weilding a cattle prod, but the beast had transformed into a monicled Vykker (and a hideous one at that), stirring 3 cups of coffee at once. Never something nice to wake up to.

"So, you're finally awake. Little bastard."
"Finally? How long have I been asleep."
The Vykker pulled out a bizarrely proportioned time piece and examined it. "9 hours, 33 minutes, 17 seconds. No, wait, 21 seco-23-no, wait." He quickly, yet calmly, closed the device. "I suppose you're wondering why you're still alive?"
"If I were you, I'd be worrying about myself. Seesh."
"I'm older than I look!"
"Yeah, sure."
"You have no right to insult your captor!"
"On the contrary, I have every right to insult my captor. Can you prove me wrong."
Moriarty began stirring his coffee furiously. After a time, he slowed down again.
"Quite the tongue, for a fellon. So, this is the Virgil I heard about. Never dreamed I'd be the one to locate you. Half of the office was sure you'd have starved to death in the jungle right now."
Virgil blinked.
"I'm sorry, but do I know you."
"No." Replied the Vykker. "Not yet, anyway. We still have 17 hours left before arriving back at the Magog Cartel. Might as well discuss something."
He smirked nastily. "Good thing we found you alive. Winters needs you rather badly."
Virgil flinched.

***

It was dark, as bland as that sounds; it was so dark, that no excess description could be honestly used or even needed - so all-consuming was this darkness. Suddenly, out from seemingly nowhere, a laugh rang. It rang to the hights of the darkness and back down into the depths, never revealing it's point of origin, or moment of final demise. All the pieces all falling into place. Soon, it will all be over. Soon. Soon...

To Be Continued...

SIDE-NOTE: This may sound rather blatant of me, but if anyone who enjoys my writings also happens to be artistically affiliated, I would love to see some illustrations of your mental images of my story.

[Dave]

Dammit.
I wish I could draw worth half a damn, because I love this story, and would love to be able to illustrate it. But, I cannot.
In any case, YES! Good work.
Me 'n you should write something. Probably. If you feel like it. I'd be proud to work with you on a writing project.

[Nepharski]

Dammit.
I wish I could draw worth half a damn, because I love this story, and would love to be able to illustrate it. But, I cannot.
In any case, YES! Good work.
Me 'n you should write something. Probably. If you feel like it. I'd be proud to work with you on a writing project.

With our combined literary forces, you, me, and Dipstikk could probably make a bid for the Trinity of Oddworld Creative Writing.

Unfortunately, I'm a rather horrible procrastinator (as witnessed by my occasional unmotivated leaves of absence). Maybe, one day.

[Nepharski]

To put this simply, computer errors + writer's block + Fable: The Lost Chapters = A rather ungodly wait for the next chapter. Yet, I assure you, it is coming, so please don't run me out of town...again.

[Dave]

grinding pitchforks, lighting torches ...
Just a warning.

Seriously, though, this is too good for you to procrastinate.
Set some goals.
What I did when I restarted my story after the most ungodly of disappearances (a full year) was sit down and plot out the entire story, event by event. That way, when I wanted to write, I just had to flesh out details. And, it sort of puts procrastination in check.

[Munch's Master]

I can't believe I missed all these chapters while I was on hiatus. More fantastic work Nepharski, your fic is just great, it's serious yet also has touches of humour and wit to it that remind me of Douglas Adams or Monty Python. I'll accept the wait for the next chapter, I suffer from similar delays with my fic. I'm looking forward to the next chapter, although I hope that the note you left the most recent one on doesn't mean you're coming to the end. If it does, so be it, but I'm hoping for a sequel or even a prequel.

[Dave]

Interesting note: Douglas Adams used to write for Monty Python.
No excuse for Neph, though. Move it along.

...pretty please?

[Nepharski]

I'm looking forward to the next chapter, although I hope that the note you left the most recent one on doesn't mean you're coming to the end. If it does, so be it, but I'm hoping for a sequel or even a prequel.

Well, we are reaching the climax. I originally just sort of churned it out as it came to me, but a plot has slowly emerged that I'm going to follow. Such questions as Virgil's exile and what Rumor Kontrol does will be answered soon, as well as a revelation about a certain someone I've been hinting at for far too long.

I don't know about a sequel or a prequel, but I may do other works in relation with the political conditions of the Magog Cartel.

[Nepharski]

Finally, after more delays than Twilight Princess and the Election 2000 recounting combined...

The ship landed near the outskirts of the Magog Cartel. Of course, in Cartel's instruction manuals, a landing qualifies as any "Reunion" with gravity you can walk away alive from (crawling away suffices for a "Controlled crash"). Virgil was barely aware of it at the time, as Moriarty had poisoned his tea. A BigBro lifted him up and folded him into a suitcase ("With air holes this time, please"). The transport happened relatively rapidly, and more than a bit of Moolah was traded between hands.

Keeping the trains on time. Despite recent collateral damages done to the grand terminal and the disapearance of several very import heads of staff, FeeCo Depot still delivered less-than-quality transportation for rather expensive fees. Still, what could one expect in a society where every newspaper called every other newspaper "Lies and slander!" The Train moaned on. The Magog Cartel filled all the windows. It was a forboding, yet saddening sight, the city. A political hell-hole, masked over by a sociological hell-hole, which was also covered by yet more confusion. Not really much to see, for those who had seen it. Once had been more than enough.

The train clicked along, abruptly changing rails. The rail it had been traversing was generally accepted as a very-well to do rail, but the one it was now connected with was generally eyed with suspicion, and only by those who insisted that, despite what the government said, it did exist. The rail then began to descend deep into the city's underworld, where light has never shown, nor particularly wants to. Finally, the Train on the rail that "Did not exist" came to a halt in a Station of a similar nature, accompanied by a timetable board, also dubious in physical manifestation. Cargo was unloaded, and the train moved on.

***

"So...it's all taken care of, yes? Excellent. The gears are in motion, and everything is going according to our vision. Now then, you must excuse me. I must inform Winters that Virgil has arrived."

A door opened onto a room that could have sufficed as a backlot for Hell. A figure sat crouched in the corner. From the open door boomed a forboding, yet undeniably snarky, voice. "Virgil has arrived." The door closed, and all was darkness. Odd, thought the now darkened figure. Why make a point of telling me "Virgil has arrived"? I am Virgil.

To Be Continued...

[Dave]

Dammit Neph!
It's not enough!
You need to write more.

[Munch's Master]

(Before reasing)
Hooray, update! *Starts signing 'Happy days are here again'*
(After reading)
You bastich! But in truth, althuogh it was a very short chapter, it was stil lgood for while it lasted. althuogh as Dave said, you must write more. Please?

( Unrelated:And also, Douglas adams wrote for Python? Where'd you find that out Dave, is it in the Pythons' autobiography, as I'm reading that currenty and have yet to find any mention of this.)
But back on topic, very short but still good chapter Nepharski, please bring us the next chapter soon. And make it a big one. I'll give you a cookie if you do.

[Dave]

Yeah. Hahaha. Turns out Douglas Adams only wrote a few sketches for Python, or at least was only credited for a few. He had also appeared briefly in two sketches during the fourth season. Looked it up on wikipedia.

[Nepharski]

There's a reason the last instalment was so short. It's call the "Deep breath before the plunge"...





Smoke filled the room. So poignant was this new stentch, however, that all other smells were neutralized, resulting in the greatest air-filter seen this side of the cosmos. It's only flaw, of course, was 88% chance of lung-cancer, but that had never stopped any Glukkon before. He sat in silence, pondering the next moves of his chess pieces, such as they were. He doused the cigar, and darkness flooded the chamber.
"Sir?"
"Escort Virgil into the Negotiation Chambers, please."
"Right away boss."

***

Virgil was awakened rather rudely with a splash of water. If it hadn't been worse than how he was usally woken up in his previous jobs, he might have complained. Course, he might have also complained anyway if he hadn't been held captive for Odd knows how long. He filtered in and out of subconciousness, which he liked much better than where he was, but he finally came to a stop in the world of here and now, which was not where he wanted to be in the first, second, or last place. He hardley put up a fight as the manicled him to the platform, as survival was high on his list of priorities (and also the sole contender, by this point). His guards left, and the door slipped shut behind them. Virgil waited. He'd never been so patient in his entire life. He wasn't betting he'd hold, though.

After what seemed like an unbearably short wait, there was a noise. Green lights clicked on, followed by a whirlling. A rather large and cantankerous looking machine lowered down and glared menacingly at him. It was a Shrink, albiet one modified for interregation rather than psychoanalysis (although that made a great hobby on the side). From the expression displayed on it's "Face," it appeared to be pissed, and in more ways than one. "Soooooo, Mr. ViRgIL. CitiZn of the MagG kARt3l. Furmor first-cl@zs emPLOYee of Rum-Or Cortnol. Known con^ict arnd ecksi1e. What bRinG yOu to oUr do0rStEp?"
"Well..." thought Virgil.
"ShUT uP! Previous uttter@ncez rhetorical."
"...You on medication?"
"SiL3nz! F@ilYURE to complie..."
The Shrink subsided backwards, swerving around. There was some comotion arising from somewhere else, but the origin of the noise couldn't be pinpointed. Suddenly, the device, swung back around, this time with a lear more suitible of a machine in its position.
"...You have seen NOTHING."
"You've got that right." finished Virgil.
The machine inspected him prudently. "Hmmm...could've picked a better canidate. But then again, when emotional appeals such as revenge surface in beings, it is to be expected. Your data suggests that your name is Virgil, indeed?"
"...Yes."
"Flawed. Incomplete. Obsolete," the Shrink retorted. "The name Virgil has only been momentarily employeed as your sirname. Erasing in process."
Some cheerful elevator music played during this rather akward sequence.
"Done. Name Virgil is now...deleted. New source name?"
Virgil started to object, but a voice rang in over a speaker. "New source name is decided 'Winters.'"
Virgil blinked. So that's what this is about. Knew it would be involved somehow, but this...clever. Or is it? "What's going on here!?"
"Oh, I suspect you are already fully away of what is commencing." Replied the voice over the speaker. "Winters' needs stage presence, which he, regretfully, lacks at this point in space and time. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"Now hold on a minute!" Virgil cried out.
"It really is a shame. So soon after entering the public eye, Winters will be struck down by politically correct divine lightning. Tsk tsk."
"STOP TALKING ABOUT WINTERS LIKE HE ACTUALLY EXISTS!!!"

There was silence.

To Be Continued...

[Munch's Master]

Interesting and well-written chapter Neph. I'm really puzzled by the story, but in a good way. So who actually is 'Winters', and what's Virgil's role in this. Also why did the Shrink talk in l3tt3rsp3ak to start with? Will any of this be revealed next Nepharski?

[Nepharski]

Interesting and well-written chapter Neph. I'm really puzzled by the story, but in a good way. So who actually is 'Winters', and what's Virgil's role in this. Also why did the Shrink talk in l3tt3rsp3ak to start with? Will any of this be revealed next Nepharski?

This particular Shrink has "Issues," one of which is a split-personality disorder. One of them is intimidating and stern, while the other is, well...angry and drunk (Pissed means "Angered" in America, but "Drunken" in Britian, thus "It appeared to be pissed, and in more ways than one"). I wasn't sure how to convey drunkeness in a machine, so I resorted to disfiguring the text. It's more a character choice than important plot element.

I'm on Spring Break right now, so the chapters should come a little faster for the time being.

[Slig_Cake]

this is undoubtedly the best story i've read on the forums. I want more