NARRATOR – Fitting the mask once more over your head, you look up, and notice a figure reflected from the quickly-fogging mirror. As you stare into the muddled blur of a face, you realize that you do not remember… any of its features. Not its mouth, not its nose, not its eyes. Nothing.

Slack-jawed, you press your hand against the glass, and begin to wipe.

As moisture is swept aside by your palm, the features of a stranger are revealed to you.

You blink. You stick your tongue out. You rub your mask and bristly neck with moist digits.

The stranger repeats the movements.

This is you. You do not remember your face.

Come to think of it, you don’t remember anything.

REACTION SPEED – You’re just coming to that conclusion?

YOU – “I… who am I?”

NARRATOR – You are a tall, spindly man. And if I am to be honest, you do not look well. With messy raven hair contrasting awfully against skin white as bone. Your face is partially obscured by a scruffy beard, leaving exposed sunken eyes, and a long, crooked nose. The only real color on your features, aside from the dark eye circles, is a bright red flush running along your cheeks. Likely induced by many years of alcohol consumption.

A thought occurs.

YOU – How old am I?

LOGIC – Hmm… I would say… late twenties or early thirties.

ENDURANCE – A rough late twenties or early thirties.

NARRATOR – You lift your dress shirt to peer upon more of your flesh. A foolish decision indeed. Beyond the thick near-fur covering your abdomen, is a pallid, swollen belly marked by deep blue veins and fiery pimples. The pudge is accentuated by a series of stretch marks running along your hips, including a particularly nasty line nearly reaching your belly button.

Actually, on second glance, this is not a simple stretch mark at all, but instead a poorly healed surgical scar.

CONCEPTUALIZATION – Simply another brushstroke upon the canvass.

NARRATOR – Morbid curiosity sated, you tuck your dress shirt back into your pants. You could continue the examination, but you decide against it.

VOLITION – You’re too worried over what you may witness.

RHETORIC – Schrödinger’s Crotch, if you will.

NARRATOR – You take one more long look into your forgotten features.

…

This is the face of a dying man.

VOLITION – You need to turn your life around.

YOU – “…Think I can’t see that?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – All I see is someone who knows how to have a good time.

ENDURANCE – You are not having a good time. You can feel your organs slowly dying.

In my professional opinion, You’re dying.

LOGIC – I concur.

PERCEPTION – You have a problem, sir.

CONCEPTUALIZATION – You don’t have a problem! You are an artist. And your art is liver damage!

NARRATOR – Silently, you turn away from the mirror, and exit the bathroom.

Eyes scanning the room you spot your other boot crammed into a corner of the bedframe facing the window. Eager to no longer risk stepping on broken glass, you pace over to it and slip your feet into your reunited pair of shoes.

INTERFACING – Snug as a bug in a rug.

NARRATOR – You stomp about in them to get a feel for their properties. They grip well upon the carpeted floor – it’ll be a lot easier traversing uneven grounds in these. Your feet are protected by their thick leather, which is perhaps even strong enough to stop a blade in certain areas.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Now you don’t have to get worried about your toes being stabbed.

NARRATOR – And your feet, as aforementioned, are snugly fit into the interior comfort-lining. It is clear that you have broken these shoes in long ago.

SAVOIR FAIRE – In addition, they are arguably the epitome of Diopper-Laneshire fashion.

COMPOSURE – They do complete your current ensemble.

SUGGESTION – Why are you all so hung up on these boots?

VOLITION – They’re-they’re- they are the boots man.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Do you not get these boots?

DRAMA – He doesn’t get the boots!

SUGGESTION – I-I mean they’re… okay but I don’t get what all the fuss is all about.

EMPATHY – SHUT UP!

THOUGHT GAINED – ELYSIAN BOOTS

NARRATOR – After you’ve had your fill with the amazing boots – for now – you turn to the cracked window. Questions stir within your mind as you walk closer on the amazing boots. How was the window cracked? Why is the sky outside green? And why is the air in your room so thin?

It takes only a brief moment’s examination before you spot a jagged hole in the middle of the glass pane, a spiderweb of cracks spreading from it. The hole itself is roughly two centimeters in width, and yet still spews precious air out into The Beyond.

PERCEPTION – W-wait…

NARRATOR – Quickly, your eyes shift their focus from the window’s hole to outside. To the sky.

The green sky.

The green sky that stretches as far as you can see, uninterrupted by building or tree or mountain.

Looking down, you see more green sky. And yet more green sky. And finally, clouds.

Below you.

FAR below you.

VISUAL CALCULUS – Kilometers below you. Dozens of kilometers…

LOGIC – Hmm, I can just about see the curvature of the planet from here…

SAVOIR FAIRE – You… aren’t in a flying vehicle of some sort. The floor is far too stable for that, and if it were the case, then the stray clouds would be moving much faster in your sight.

You’re in a building – a skyscraper.

ENCYCLOPEDIA – No, this is far too tall to be a skyscraper, or even a megascraper…

INLAND EMPIRE – A tower that looms above all; even the heavens…

SHIVERS – No, not a tower. A spire. One that sits atop the planet itself.

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NARRATOR – You stare down upon the thick covering of clouds. It is impossible to the see the surface of the planet this obelisk has been constructed upon. A drop of nervous sweat falls from your nose. Your eyes… they cannot move away.

Suddenly, lightning flashes from the roiling clouds!

SHIVERS – In the middle of the churning sea, a reefpine stands proud above the waves, its verdant bark pelted relentlessly by massive balls and spikes of ice, like artillery fire. It is but one of many outcroppings of this vegetal reef that protrude above the water’s edge, though by the end of this hailstorm, it may be one of few.

It is a sturdy specimen, having lived through many tempests in decades past. Storms larger and harsher have come and gone in this tree’s lifespan, and so it will hold strong. But the various creatures nestled within know nothing of this. One, particularly young lyrgh shivers, its layers of youthful blubber jiggling. It was separated from its mother during the onset of the storm and badly injured by a hailspike before finding refuge.

Another freezing wave crashes into its shelter, spraying the poor pup with yet more ice-cold water. The salty liquid mixes with its purple-blue blood, stinging in the gash running along the side of its sphere-shaped torso. It mewls for comfort, but no reassuring nuzzles, or warbling hums follow. It is confused – it has never experienced a hailstorm before, nor the sudden freezing temperatures they herald.

It repositions itself, struggling with its tired flippers, and peeks a compound eye through the crack it used to crawl into this shelter. The boats of the odd surface dwellers rock atop the tides in their protective bays. They too take shelter from the storm.

The pup calls out into the din, but alas, its cries will go unanswered. Unknown to it, the mother lyrgh has fallen victim to an opportunistic snaggleback in the chaos of the squall. It is now without a protector or a source of nourishment.

It will not survive.

NARRATOR – All at once you are back in your hotel room, shivering from the cold winds and waves so far below. You stumble backwards, and step awkwardly on a stray bottle. It rolls beneath your boot, and sends you flying through the air.

Pain flashes through your back, eliciting a startled yell. You have landed upon the empty bedframe, directly on your spine.

HEALTH -3

You moan pitifully as you slide down to rest on the floor, but nothing seems to have been broken, and the aching is a negligible concern when compared to other matters at hand…

YOU – “What… what was that? Wh-where am I?”

NARRATOR – Your eyes pan across the room, wide as searchlights.

YOU – “What’s happening!?”

NARRATOR – A fury wells within you, a deep, boiling rage.

YOU – “What is happening?! What! Is! Happening?!”

HALF LIGHT – Punch something. Now.

NARRATOR – Your fist lashes out, cracking against the bedframe. A pained growl rumbles through your throat as you cradle your now-throbbing hand.

There is a bottle in your grasp – you hardly remember picking it up – and it is thrown against the window. It spreads a half-dozen fine cracks across the surface as it shatters.

PERCEPTION – Thankfully, none are deep enough to create yet another avenue for air to escape.

NARRATOR – You clamber to your feet and march towards the broken television, ignoring the crunch of glass shards beneath your boot steps. Grabbing it, you pull back with all your force and weight, eliciting a dangerous creaking noise before the arm’s bolts pop, and the screen is torn from its mount. The jarring cessation of resistance nearly makes you lose your footing once more, but you quickly right yourself.

The television is held aloft above your head, as if it were the skull of a great conquered nemesis, before being slammed into the ground.

The stomping that follows is unnecessary, though deeply satisfying.

With one final kick, bits and pieces of television are scattered across the room, and your anger fades.

You are left panting in the middle of the room. Which you have successfully made even worse than it was before.

LOGIC – That was productive.

SHIVERS – Two dirty, bearded men sit at a table directly below your room. One looks up at the ceiling, “Looks like old Detective [Belgium]faced has woken up.”

“What a joy…”

NARRATOR – It’s happened again. A sight you should not see. A sound you should not hear. A scent you should not smell. But this time it is… lesser in magnitude, and when you are behind your eyes once more, you feel only slightly uncomfortable.

INLAND EMPIRE – Maybe because it was further away? Or perhaps your body is simply acclimating to the visions.

REACTION SPEED – What about that thing they called you? ‘Detective [Belgium]faced’.

SAVOIR FAIRE – It sounds like you’re a celebrity!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – It sounds like they’re buzzkills.

REACTION SPEED – Those are… interpretations.

YOU – Are we really going to be so casual about this whole ‘psychic visions’ thing?

INTERFACING – Yeah like, how do they work? Or what are they in the first place?

LOGIC – What exactly are you all on about?

RHETORIC – The vision.

LOGIC – What ‘vision’?

YOU – The vision. The one with the-the guys talking about me. Like that other one with the puppy-seal-mouse-thing.

LOGIC – I have no idea what any of you are talking about.

SUGGESTION – You didn’t see anything?

LOGIC – No, I didn’t.

SUGGESTION – That was a double negative, you did see something!

LOGIC – I did not see anything! And it wasn’t a double negative!

DRAMA – He is lying, my liege. He watched the visions, same as all of us.

NARRATOR – Shaking your head – as if to rattle your brain and snap out of this inner conflict – you walk towards the door so that you may leave this foul room and collect your thoughts elsewhere.

Having learned your lesson, bottles and various other pieces of refuse are deftly avoided as you step around the mattress. You should probably move it back onto the bedframe, but you don’t care enough to do that right now. With two more strides you stand before the front door. Though just before you turn the handle, you feel a piece of cloth slung over it.

Momentarily curious, you lean down somewhat to inspect the fabric, finding it to be a necktie bearing an eclectic mess of symbols, stripes, and colors. If that were simply it, you would likely regard this tie to simply be an utterly hideous object which should be discarded immediately. Yet… that is not the case.

This tie… looking at it, touching it, you feel nauseous. Truly, physically ill. And yet the mere thought of letting go makes you even more so.

INLAND EMPIRE (SKILL CHECK 2/6: 1 = PASSED) – You hate this tie. And it hates you right back.

EMPATHY – How could it not? It Knows.

HALF LIGHT – Burn it. Burn it! It is evil, burn it!

VOLITION – You will do no such thing! I will not allow you!

NARRATOR – A cold sweat sprouts from your clogged pores, your hands tremble, but you must wear this… abomination around your throat. There is no other option.

The tie is slung over your neck, underneath the coat. Shaking fingers then work to create a knot with practiced ease, completing their task within seconds.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Muscles don’t much care for amnesia. Drill something into them, and they’ll remember for as long as you need them to, and longer.

NARRATOR – Hands falling to your side, you feel the malevolent aura of the hideous necktie begin to fade. Soon enough, the sensation of discomfort dissolves into the background.

Suddenly, a beeping noise jars your attention away from the tie. You look around to find the source.

INTERACING – Your mask, it is starting to run out of oxygen.

NARRATOR – Focusing on the respirator, you notice faint pulses of red light accompany every ring of the alarm. You need to get out of this room, fast.

Your hand once more curls around the handle.

LOGIC (SKILL CHECK 5/8: 2 = PASSED) – Wait. The atmospheric pressure in this room is lower than in the room beyond the door. It’s a vacuum in here, comparatively.

PERCEPTION – Indeed sir, there is a whistling noise emanating from the door in front of you created by air rushing through the slight gap in its bottom.

YOU – Okay, and?

NARRATOR – A sigh echoes in your skull.

LOGIC – From where you are standing, this is a pull door, not a push door. Which means that as soon as you turn the handle, a wall of air constituting several dozen kilograms of force will rush through. Because of this, you should stand to the side as you open it.

YOU – Oh, uh, you got it.

NARRATOR – After shuffling to the right and pressing yourself against the wall, you twist the handle. And, as deduced, the door is flung open by a massive gust of air. You are only just able to pull your digits back in time to save them from injury.

LOGIC – I mean, what kind of idiot can’t work that out?

INLAND EMPIRE – I know right?

NARRATOR – You stand flush beside the door, mere millimeters away from the powerful draft. You briefly wonder just how you’ll force yourself through, but, you realize, in a few moments the rooms will equalize in pressure, and leaving will be a trivial matter.

It is barely four seconds before the howling quiets, then disappears entirely, and you are able to step into the hallway without issue.

The room that you now stand in is long and narrow – as hallways typically are. The floor is covered in fluffy, emerald-green carpeting. Shag, you think it’s called. Before you is a door made of dark black wood, much like your own. Small brass numbers identifying it as Room One-Twelve. To the left and right of you is a row of near-identical doors, save for their numberings.

In between these doorways are pale-green walls inscribed with various grey symbols and shapes, the most predominant seeming to be diamonds.

As you close the door behind you, a mental note is made to remember that you must be cautious when you reenter your room.

HALF LIGHT – When you reenter? The last time you were in there you almost died!

VOLITION – Yeah, if you’re planning on staying here, you should definitely look into getting that window repaired. In fact, even if you leave for someplace else, which I recommend, you need to tell someone. It would be rude not to. Someone could get seriously hurt.

SUGGESTION – And then they charge you for breaking it, and the room in general. No. Just try to get your bank information and slip away before anyone finds out what you did in there. Then you’re golden.

YOU – …Do I have bank information?

SUGGESTION – I don’t know, honestly. Probably a safe bet to say you do though. Hopefully you paid in cash here, that would probably simplify things.