Last Train to Atlanta
Two hundred and twenty miles an hour, and it isn't fast enough.
Interactive fiction with a skeleton — pick a shelf, pick a story, and play it your way.
Two hundred and twenty miles an hour, and it isn't fast enough.
The monsters only ever come for us. At dawn, you learn why.
You woke ninety years too soon. The ship sleeps on.
Every morning is the same morning. This one noticed you back.
The tunnels rearrange overnight. Map fast. Be home by dim.
The helicopter is gone. The test begins tonight.
She woke healed. Something else woke inside her.
It only ever asks: may I have control?
Someone in this room sold the place. Last call is two.
You were paid to expose a fraud. The fraud knows too much.
All summer a stranger wrote to you. Tonight, the last dance.
The sign said ninety minutes. That was three hours ago.
Forty minutes to curtain. The lead won't come out.
You used to pay taxes. Now you're a dog.
You know the medicine is poison. The regent does not know that you know.
Spend a billion in thirty days. Tell no one why.