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Victorious at last, you now need to get yourself and your fleet back home. Decide as if it all depends on you, trust as if it all depends on the gods, and you will have an amazing quest...
Two sisters, a truck driver and a housewife, fend off a Kaiju apocalypse in the Great Smoky Mountains with their mech Mama Possum.
Something new in your everyday hunter-gatherer routine: where did this strange edifice come from? Dare you enter and explore the secrets of this... thing, or do you try to face your enemies? Like you have a choice.
A surrealist piece of interactive fiction by Chris Klimas about a man who is offered a hallucinatory drug at a party.
It was meant to be a routine visit on behalf of the imperial government, just to remind the settlers that the Empire hadn't forgotten them, and if you stick rigidly to the letter of your orders and refuse to use either your eyes or your initiative that's all it'll be. But with an interstellar war brewing in the background, you'd be wise not to take anything for granted. A piece of Interactive Fiction written by Eric Eve.
Sun Dogs is about exploring our inner solar system, altering your body, and embracing death. In a distant future, humanity readily alters itself, adapting bodies to new environments. Skim along the Sun's corona, float above the surface of Venus, travel the dusty plains of Mars, and beyond.
Anglophone Atlantis has been an independent nation since an April day in 1822, when a well-aimed shot from their depluralizing cannon reduced the British colonizing fleet to one ship. Since then, Atlantis has been the world's greatest center for linguistic manipulation, designing letter inserters, word synthesizers, the diminutive affixer, and a host of other tools for converting one thing to another. Inventors worldwide pay heavily for that technology, which is where a smuggler and industrial espionage agent such as yourself can really clean up. Unfortunately, the Bureau of Orthography has taken a serious interest in your activities lately. Your face has been recorded and your cover is blown. Your remaining assets: about eight more hours of a national holiday that's spreading the police thin; the most inconvenient damn disguise you've ever worn in your life; and one full-alphabet letter remover. Good luck getting off the island.
You play as a xenohistorian on an expedition. You've been dropped (more literally than you planned) by a dropship over the ground of the Ancients. Your equipment was scattered and the dropship crashed. Now it's just you, your wits, and the Ancients to help you find a way home.
Lieutenant Huchess came to, an hour or so ago. That was around the time Runoma, blazing orange-hot so near this, its second planet, fell below the distant, jagged crag line. Ensign Covegn died not long after -- Sandra Marie Covegn, both legs crushed under the weight of the pod's torn hatch. Night came quickly, bringing with it cool and howling winds that whistle through desert rocks and carry other, more dangerous sounds.
This is where I end and you begin. That, at least, is what I want to think. I don’t know you. Perhaps one day I will. But this Implementation-rather, its copies-are my seeds blowing to the wind. The palm-parsers, their oak gears whirring, will be pressed into hands long after I finish this. Hands like yours. A metatextual work of interactive fiction by Anya Johanna DeNiro.