It'd concern this guy making his way through an irradiated wasteland, trying to use the internet (which was still up for some reason) to find out where the other survivors had gone to.

He'd survive trial after trial; danger after danger. But he’d keep trudging along because there was evidence that others had survived the apocalypse, and were trying to rebuild the world.

But then at the end, the twist would be that all the people he'd been talking to via the internet had just been bots, and he was the only real human left on the planet.

In his despair from the revelation, he'd kill himself. And then the story would just end with various shots of the abandoned wasteland, as bots continued to argue with each other in the background over nothing.

>>21988504 (OP)

Sounds like dogshit I wouldn’t read.

Also sounds like a thinly veiled metaphor for your own life. The world is fine, you’re the problem. Just do what your protagonist did in the end.

didn't read 

cool pic though

>>21988504 (OP)

This would be too much of a sleeping aid for a 200+ pages book. Write it as a short story.

>>21988504 (OP)

Your story seems vague, and the suicidal ending is (sorry) pretty stupid - but the concept of 'the internet' surviving the apocalypse definitely has merit. If we wanted to be realistic, the WWW probably wouldn't survive, but a network of deep underground pipes definitely could. Kind of like a LAN server, or the old DARPA-net. I can imagine the protagonist waking up but seeing nothing. Confused, panicked, and coming to terms with having severe memory loss they'd be stirred into survival mode. They'd be quick and confident, but easily pinched into deliberate examining after cutting their palm. Even then, most of the room felt aggressive, unsanitary, and rough. That was until they felt the cube. It felt so smooth, even soft, compared to everything else; a blotch of blood would gather on the rim. Inspecting further, dragging a bloodied trail across the screen, the device would truly become a source of comfort. It’d be like a blue campfire. It’d illuminate the room and familiarise what was left of the world. It’d give the protagonist a name. A stupid one with numbers and undulating capitalisations, but a name nonetheless. It’d contain documentations of old screenshots, conversations, and web accounts. Nothing would be connected to reality, so any assurance the cube held the protagonist’s past would remain uncertain. It’d connect with the others. The screamers, the prophets, the nomads. It’d connect with all of these people, each in their own dark room. Each with their own adoptive accounts. The scariest part of it all was that some disappeared forever; in the darkness, neither death or escape are certain.



Okay, that’s my two cents. Went on a tangent so hopefully this doesn’t read like spam.
