NARRATOR – Gingerly, you shamble about the abode. Your muscles feel… new, for lack of a better term. Like they haven’t been used at all for a month or two. But they are not atrophied, far from it. You feel a tad more power in them than their appearance would suggest.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Still pathetic overall. But there is potential, I’ll give you that.
NARRATOR – Coupling this is an odd vertigo which plagues your every sense, though thankfully it seems to be fading.
First, most importantly, you grab a pair of briefs from a large pile partially stuffed underneath the bedframe. You have no idea why you have so much underwear, or why they’re under there. But you are still grateful, nonetheless.
INLAND EMPIRE – He was coming. You had to hide the evidence.
YOU – Evidence of what?
HALF LIGHT – It.
YOU – …
NARRATOR – Disregarding that, your black pants are pulled from the vent. You seem to have smashed something hard into it – repeatedly – before tossing the trousers half-way into the resulting hole.
AUTHORITY – The vent was guilty. And it was making too much noise besides, so you were forced to gag it. Couldn’t have the perp attracting any livilers.
ENCYCLOPEDIA – A ‘liviler’ is typically a person who is considered either too persistent or curious for their own good. The term originates from Harold Liviler, who, in 2176, was tortured, murdered and consumed by a cannibalistic street gang after investigating a then-recent string of disappearances. The five days preluding this unfortunate demise were recorded by Liviler and automatically uploaded to the internet upon his death. Three years later, clips of the recording went viral, leading the arrest of his killers.
The video has been the inspiration of numerous, predominantly comedic, adaptations.
ENDURANCE – Stabbing. Drugging. Burning. Drowning. Liviler was half-dead, but still he carried on.
ESPIRIT DE CORPS – He needed the truth.
NARRATOR – Taking the pants, you stuff your legs in one at a time. Notably, the right pantleg possesses a thick yellow stripe on its front, stretching from the waistband to the cuff.
It occurs to you that you have no idea what you attacked the vent with. However, this seems unimportant, so you discard the thought.
PAIN THRESHOLD – Your hand aches, briefly.
NARRATOR – Next, the television shoe is extricated from its jagged alcove. It has suffered a number of light scrapes, though it is thankfully made of a thick leather, and retains structural integrity. There is no sign of its sibling, and your balance is already precarious, so you hold back from wearing it until the other can be found. Even if there is glass on the floor.
You spot a white dress shirt, crumpled in the room’s dustbin by the desk. Grabbing and slipping it on, you note that the fabric feels different from the rest of your clothes. It feels… fresh. Like you bought it just yesterday.
Looking down, you inspect the garments covering your body. The shirt’s cloth is pristine, nearly glowing in the sunlight trickling in from the window. Your pants and socks, however, are covered in a variety of stains. Some are from sauce, others, grease, and a worrying amount, completely mysterious in nature. You cannot smell, given your oxygen mask, but you assume that they absolutely reek.
COMPOSURE – You need to get a new set of clothes as soon as you can. A man can’t walk around looking half as bad as this. You’d clearly be surprised at how many opportunities appearing respectable can create for you. You’re likely already acquainted with how many you can lose looking like this.
NARRATOR – A shiver tingles down your spinal cord. You feel a presence begin to surface from deep down within the Ocean of Thought.
THE STEM – What does it matter if you look awful? You were awful. You are awful. A few drops of liquor, a splatter of grease, a soaking of sweat; they’re all nothing. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.
NARRATOR – Before a response may be formulated, the Entity has already sunk back into the depths beyond consciousness, just as suddenly as it had arisen.
COMPOSURE – …[Belgium]hole.
NARRATOR – A moment passes, with the only noise, the shrill whistling of the cracked window. You don’t feel up for examining it yet, and taking a glance around the room you can see no other points of interest. That leaves only one concern in your mind.
This mask is getting washed. Now.
You grab the bathroom door’s handle and push, but an odd weight pressing on the other side resists against your efforts.
PERCEPTION – A slight hissing noise emanates from the bottom of the door.
LOGIC – The atmospheric pressure in the washroom must be much higher than in here.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – It’s ten kilograms-worth of force, to be exact. Really nothing; just put your shoulder into it.
NARRATOR – With renewed drive, you press your weight against the door. A great whooshing noise sounds as air rushes past your ears. With every second you feel the struggle tip more and more into your favor, until finally, pop, the door swings open.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – See?
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NARRATOR – The bathroom, at first glance, appears to be in a similar state of ruin to the rest of your abode.
The toilet, for example, is stuffed full of towels.
HALF LIGHT – A necessary precaution.
NARRATOR – A strange black hunk of wood has been thrown into the shower, possibly – certainly – through its glass screen, judging from the shards and twisted metal upon the floor.
CONCEPTUALIZATION – The log looked like it would make a really good shower bench, but I suppose you misremembered the bathroom’s layout, because it totally kills the feng shui.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You needed a place to sit and drink while you were in here, after all.
NARRATOR – The walls have been covered with various odd fluids, and the ground is layered with damp refuse.
You have no interest for any other oddities in this room, however. Not while the oppressive smell of stomach lingers within your mask.
The sink of the bathroom actively sprays hot, steaming water. It seems that someone – most likely you – tore off the faucet lever in a fit of masculine energy, and skewered it into the wall.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Yeah, if ‘masculine energy’ is code for amphetamines.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION – It was aimed for the mirror.
NARRATOR – You stumble over to the sink, cringing as your feet squish the wet toilet paper and fast-food wrappings left lying on the floor. Once you have reached your destination, your socks have become thoroughly soaked with miscellaneous bathroom fluids. You can only hope that it is all simply water.
You are not checking to see if it is.
Cautiously, you remove your mask and begin washing away the chunky greenish-brown substance from both its interior and your face. Periodically you are forced to put it back on to take a breath, which did complicate the process slightly. Though at least it tipped you off when there was still more sick gummed into the respirator’s crevasses. It takes quite a few rounds of vigorous wiping and rinsing, but eventually you are fairly certain that it is clean.
Throughout the process the main issue was the water. It was extremely hot, to the point of burning your hands and face. Though, eventually, you figured out how to avoid the issue by only dipping your hands into the stream for brief moments at a time.
As you reequip your now-sanitized mask, you look up to the bathroom mirror. However, your eyes are met not with your visage, as expected, but instead black cloth. It takes a moment to realize that you are gazing at your coat, hung over the mirror, and obscuring nearly all of the reflective surface.
INTERFACING – It was the next best thing, really.
NARRATOR – You do not know how you didn’t notice it before. The coat is black as coal, with a bright yellow stripe down the front of its right side, torn to tatters at the hem from some incident.
You remove the garment from its unconventional rack and slip it over your dress shirt. The thick lines of yellow on your coat and pants align perfectly, creating a continues streak of color from the top of your shoulder to your ankle. It is obvious that they were made to be worn as a pair.
You cannot help but note the large number of stains marring your coat. Just the same as your pants.
COMPOSURE – A pair indeed…
NARRATOR – As you adjust it, you spot a symbol situated inside of a circular expansion of the yellow stripe where it overlays your pectoral muscle. Curious, you lean into the mirror to catch a better view.
It is three crimson half-rings surrounding a spiral galaxy of yellow dots. At its center is four green lines pointing towards a red circle containing a yellow triangle. The design is simplistic – utilitarian in nature.
INLAND EMPIRE – The Markinsian’s burden. The responsibility of guidance. The insidious Enemy. The glorious future. An eternal gratitude.
NARRATOR – The insignia is completely foreign to your eyes, and yet, simultaneously, it is as though this mark has always been with you. A part of your very soul. Minutes pass as you examine the symbol, but in the end, you are no closer to understanding this paradox, and you decide it best to give up… for now.
THOUGHT GAINED – ELYSIAN BLOOD
TASK GAINED – FINISH THOUGHT: ‘ELYSIAN BLOOD’
NARRATOR – An odd sensation pulses throughout your central nervous system. You must understand the meaning of this insignia. It is important.
The sensation ceases, though its message has been imparted deep into your psyche.
ENCYCLOPEDIA – Thinking on the issue further will do you no good for now. Remember those flashes you felt while you were collecting your clothes? The little sparks of remembrance? They were triggered by witnessing things which you had done. So, it stands to reason that you could piece together this symbol’s importance by seeing or doing or feeling or smelling something that jogs your memory.
REACTION SPEED – You forgot some.
PERCEPTION – Hearing and tasting, to be specific.
SHIVERS – Are you attempting to suggest that there are only five senses? How droll…
RHETORIC – That’s just semantics, his point still stands.
NARRATOR – You push the argument to the back of your mind and look down upon the sink before you. It is still gushing hot water. Tentatively, you reach up a hand to shut it off, but recoil as you notice the state of the faucet.
Where the lever once was is now a fragmented mess of jagged, rusting metal that you are absolutely not touching with your bare hands.
INTERFACING – You wouldn’t be able to get enough leverage without turning your fingers into minced meat anyways. For now, you’re just going to have to let it stay running. I suggest that you find a pair of pliers or perhaps a wrench post haste.
SAVOIR FAIRE – Because you may end up being charged for utilities.
RHETORIC – Hotels don’t do that. Or, they don’t usually do that. This may be an exception.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Well, since it’s here you might as well make use of it. I personally prefer my water as a vehicle for alcohol, but the pure stuff will do for now.
NARRATOR – It is then you notice that you are indeed quite thirsty – your mouth and throat coated in dried, pungent saliva.
After a moment of thought you take a deep breath and remove your mask to hold it beneath the faucet, using its visor as a makeshift bowl of sorts.
With the survivalist’s cup filled a decent amount, you bring it to your lips and begin to tip its contents into your awaiting maw.
PERCEPTION – Stop. Sir, this water tastes… off.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Oh don’t be melodramatic, there’s nothing harmful in this. And even if there are some possible impurities, you’re only drinking it this once, so it’ll be fine.
NARRATOR – Hesitantly, you begin to swallow the water in small sips, and then large gulps as the liquid awakens an instinct hardcoded into your ancient reptilian brain. Before you know it, you have emptied the mask’s visor, and find yourself filling it once more.
The second mask-full is swallowed down, as is the third, and finally, you find your thirst sated.
DRAMA – My kingdom for a waterskin.