Number 0 presses “Start” on his laptop recorder.

NUMBER 0: And here we are. Welcome to the real Session 1. Introductions are in order, and everybody is—maybe—ready to begin. Now, none of you wrote backstories for your characters. This was explicitly ordered as we were planning to start this game. So… why don’t you have backstories?

Nobody answers. Nobody knows how to answer.

NUMBER 0: Number 1, why don’t you have a backstory?

NUMBER 1: Uh… I… don’t know?

NUMBER 0: Number 2, why don’t you have a backstory?

NUMBER 2: Because you told us not to make a backstory.

NUMBER 0: Number 3, why don’t you have a backstory?

NUMBER 3: Because… I… don’t remember it?

NUMBER 0: Number 4, why don’t you have a backstory?

NUMBER 4: Because we don’t know enough about the world to make one?

Number 0 ominously squints at his laptop.

NUMBER 1: What are you cooking there, pipsqueak?

NUMBER 0: Number 1. Brad. Let’s start with you.

Confusion washes over Number 1’s face.

NUMBER 0: Brad. Bradley. Bradenton. Brandon?

NUMBER 1: Brad.

NUMBER 0: Brad. Is. Entering. The party.

NUMBER 1: Party?

NUMBER 0: Brad is entering the party.

NUMBER 1: Is it true? Brad is entering the party?

NUMBER 0: Brad is about to enter the party.

NUMBER 1: Brad bursts the door open. “Wassuuuup… bitches!!”

Number 3 snorts. Number 1 holds his arms out and looks around awkwardly in silence.

NUMBER 0: Eh… not a single person so much as looks over to acknowledge you.

NUMBER 1: Wow. Okay.

Number 3 cracks up.

NUMBER 0: What are you doing here, Brad?

NUMBER 1: Is some NPC saying that, or are you?

NUMBER 0: What are you doing here?

NUMBER 1: Um… partying. Duh.

NUMBER 4: I wish I had popcorn right now.

NUMBER 0: You just hold your horses, Number 4. So Brad is here to party. The place is a little… crowded, though. There’s not terribly much space. You’re in the center of an avalanche of noise, of incomprehensible conversations, of feet hitting the ground, of music blaring somewhere distant. A lot is going on. Everyone is occupied. And you’re just a guy.

NUMBER 1: Ouch.

NUMBER 0: So… Brad. What are you doing here?

NUMBER 1: I wanna make a friend.

Number 4 lets out a laughing yelp.

NUMBER 0: Then go make a friend.

NUMBER 1: Oh yeah, baby. Brad is gonna get it. Is there like a bartender, or someone serving drinks around? Am I in a house or a club?

NUMBER 0: You see some people sitting around some tables. Are any of them what you're looking for?

NUMBER 1: They may be.

Number 0 subtly gestures for him to go forward.

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna march right up, with a 40-ounce in my hand, and slam it in front of the face of one of them. “Hey, baybee. A—Are you serving the drinks ‘round here? ‘Cause I wanna serve this mouth into that face.”

NUMBER 4: Quietly snickering—What the fuck.

NUMBER 3: That’s what I call a pickup line.

NUMBER 0: A man with a full beard and a fishing hat in his 30s turns to look at you. And he very casually says to you—In country accent—“What are you doin’ here?”

NUMBER 1: “You.”

Number 4 slams the table.

NUMBER 2: Wow.

NUMBER 1: Am I doing this right?

NUMBER 0: You continue staring this man in the eyes very intently… but you don’t seem to see very much staring back at you. With the same degree of emptiness in his voice, he asks again, “What are you doing here?”

NUMBER 1: I’m being fucked with. What the hell is this?

NUMBER 0: What are you doing here?

NUMBER 1: “Listen to me here, chumpstick. Do you even know who I am?”

Beat.

NUMBER 0: Not a single muscle in his face moves.

NUMBER 1: “No, seriously, I’m asking.”

Beat.

NUMBER 0: He blinks once.

NUMBER 1: “…Can you tell me who my dad is?”

NUMBER 3: What the f—Coughs—uck.

NUMBER 0: “What are you doing here?”

NUMBER 1: “You know what? Fuck you. You fucking weirdo. You fucking shitass. You don’t even know what you’re fucking missing out on. Fucking panzee.” And I swipe away my 40-ounce and drink it up myself. “The fuckin’ audacity,” I whisper to myself.

NUMBER 0: Just a reminder, it is quite loud in this party, so you definitely didn’t hear yourself whisper that.

NUMBER 1: Maybe I whispered something even more devious under the noise of the party. You don’t know.

NUMBER 0: I know everything. I know where you sleep. Do you know where you sleep?

NUMBER 1: I sleep… in my own damn bed. Is this my house we’re partying in?

NUMBER 0: What are you doing here, Brad?

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna… I’m here to fuckin’ chat with the host of the party. Where is their ass, upstairs? Where are the stairs?

NUMBER 0: Well, they must be somewhere.

NUMBER 1: Fuck. I’m gonna walk straight ahead until I walk into someone.

NUMBER 0: You walk… straight into a wall, between two people.

NUMBER 1: Ow!

NUMBER 0: But those two people don’t seem to react. And between them, you can faintly hear their uninterrupted conversation. “Caz it wan mane lisstin quarl rad till sish de, mris dois os cratch waper,” says the woman on the left. “Registen prinkler canfirstenary,” says the woman on the right.

NUMBER 1: Are these people speaking fucking Simlish? What is this?

NUMBER 3: This is going great.

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna grab the left woman by the shoulders and shake her violently, splashing my open 40-ounce all over her clothes.

NUMBER 0: You grab the woman on the left and shake her. Her $40 dress, which looks like she’s wearing a tube sock, is now stained with rum.

NUMBER 4: We stan tube sock dresses. I love not being able to breathe in my only layer of clothing.

NUMBER 0: She looks you dead in the eyes with the same pulsing emptiness as the last man did. “—Valley girl accent—What are you doing here?”

NUMBER 1: “Fuck! Are y—Gag—are you even a fucking person?! None of you are people! You’re all just a bunch of fuckin’—ah!” And I run back to the fisherman guy and throw him onto the floor in his chair.

NUMBER 3: Oh my goodness.

NUMBER 2: Are we about to have our first character death when this mob of zombies trounces Brad and pulls his limbs apart?

NUMBER 0: Eh… not quite. The fisherman guy just… kinda lies there on the floor. And his buddies at the table just keep on talking.

NUMBER 1: What are they saying?! “Hey! What are you dudes talking about?!”

NUMBER 0: One guy is saying, “Memem okee zora, kurban okes ya—” and then hears you screaming at him. And he too, dead-eyed and zombie-like, asks you those fated five words: “What are you doing here?”

NUMBER 1: “Fucking you in the tailpipe, assbag!” And I tackle him over the table.

NUMBER 3: Oh! Shit!

Number 4 quietly shrieks to herself.

NUMBER 0: Oh boy. So you just fucking vault over the table and crash onto the ground with him.

NUMBER 1: I grab his fucking neck and start throttling his head up and down.

NUMBER 0: The man’s face does not change at all except for its reaction to physics as you shake him.

NUMBER 1: “React to me, motherfucker!” And I keep on shaking him until I get bored.

NUMBER 0: You’re also starting to fling spit out of this guy.

NUMBER 1: Ew! Fuck! I get off and fucking run away. And I’m gonna go to the center of whatever fucking place that I’m in, hold my bottle of rum to my crotch, and just start dry-humping the air with it and spilling all over the floor.

NUMBER 3: You go, king!

NUMBER 0: Okay. Well, nothing you’ve done thus far has disrupted the broader party, so you’re still in the middle of a crowd and splashing rum all over people.

NUMBER 1: I’m cool with that. I’m gonna fling out the rest of this bottle until it’s empty and throw it up to the ceiling, then spawn another one for me to chug.

NUMBER 0: Oh. Well that bottle you throw hits flat into the ceiling and leaves a circle-shaped crack—emphasized by smacking table—and now you have alerted everybody at the party.

NUMBER 2: Oh god.

NUMBER 4: Fuck!

NUMBER 0: They all rear their heads at you, falling dead silent and just start staring into your soul with their beady little eyes.

NUMBER 3: Holy shit. That’s crazy.

NUMBER 4: Yeah, look, splashing alcohol everywhere and choking people half to death, we can tolerate, but minor structural damage? Ooooh, no, buddy, that’s crossing a line.

NUMBER 1: If they start to point and scream demonically at me, I’m fucking quitting.

NUMBER 4: God, I was about to say.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

NUMBER 1: I’m just gonna do a little Irish jig.

NUMBER 0: You just start… dancing on the spot.

NUMBER 1: I’m just jigging. Turning the temperature down a little.

NUMBER 0: Over the sound of generic club music a room away, you just start boogeying right there with every eye around locked directly at you.

NUMBER 1: “Does anyone know who’s running this shit party?”

NUMBER 0: Their gaze remains fixed. Not a noise escapes the crowd’s throats.

NUMBER 4: Maybe they’re answering that question with their eyes.

NUMBER 3: It’s you, Brad! You’re the party host!

NUMBER 1: “Where are the stairs!”

NUMBER 0: The stairs are in a hall to your left.

NUMBER 1: “Oh, thanks… celestial being.”

NUMBER 0: You just look to your left and see the stairs.

NUMBER 1: “Aha! To my left! Stairs!”

Number 4 chortles.

NUMBER 0: And you stumble to the stairs. But when you walk away, nobody’s eyes move from where they’re pointed. They just keep staring at that spot where you made that hole in the ceiling.

NUMBER 1: So, am I super drunk right now or am I tripping on some intergalactic shrooms?

NUMBER 0: …So you make it to the top of the stairs, and—

NUMBER 1: Man, fuck you.

NUMBER 0: And you see a hall going a short distance ahead, with a shut door at the end. And there’s another hall to your left, which probably has something down it. But in front of you, there is this shut door.

NUMBER 1: Who shuts doors? Honestly.

NUMBER 0: Some asshole, probably. Somebody probably… behind the door.

NUMBER 1: I think you want me to open this door.

NUMBER 0: I think you want you to open this door.

NUMBER 1: Some mystical force is calling me to open this door. Do I heed its call, or do I break from my chains and travel my own path?

NUMBER 0: The choice is up to you. Or is it?

NUMBER 2: This is a turning point in your life, Brad.

NUMBER 1: The otherworldly voices… the voices echoes loudly to me… but I only have one voice, and that is my own. I will not do your bidding. I will turn left.

NUMBER 4: Whoa.

NUMBER 0: So it is. You turn and walk down the left hallway. And in a couple seconds of walking down it, you crash face-first back into that one door.

NUMBER 1: The fuck?!

NUMBER 4: The door!

NUMBER 1: What, I just teleported back?!

NUMBER 3: That door is beckoning!

NUMBER 1: Fuck this door!

NUMBER 2: Free will is an illusion. Sorry.

NUMBER 0: Something is just making you draw to this door. I can’t control it.

NUMBER 1: Yes you fucking can! You’re the Grand Master! You just said earlier that you make all the rules!

NUMBER 0: Why don’t you open the door and find out what the problem is?

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna smash this fucking door down.

NUMBER 0: Do you wanna try?

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna materialize another bottle of rum in my hands and smash this goddamn door.

NUMBER 0: Well, lady and gentlemen, this looks like our first stat check.

Number 0 slides over the D10.

NUMBER 0: Roll for muscle mass. What’s your score again?

NUMBER 1: Brad’s got a muscle mass of 3. So… I gotta roll a 7 or higher.

NUMBER 0: That’s right. Hit it.

Number 1 picks up the D10 and whips it out across the table.

NUMBER 0: That looks like a 6.

NUMBER 1: Balls!

NUMBER 0: You put as much force into that bottle slam that your fat ass body can manage, but only knock the bottle out of your hand when it makes contact. From the other side of the door, all that can be heard is a loud knocking sound and a bottle breaking on the ground.

NUMBER 4: What’s the floor made of?

NUMBER 1: I want to try again.

NUMBER 0: Brad, what’s the floor made of?

NUMBER 1: Do you want me to drop down and lick it to find out?

Number 4 bursts out laughing.

NUMBER 4: God, I’m sorry, I’m just thinking about what this sounds like. You—you just hear a fucking bang on your door, followed by—the sound of fucking glass—

She continues maniacally laughing.

NUMBER 1: I’m gonna drop to the floor and taste it.

NUMBER 0: Awesome. Now roll me for… I guess depth perception.

NUMBER 1: Uh… I have 0 depth perception.

NUMBER 0: Alright. You lick the floor and taste the rum that you just spilt on it. Congrats.

Number 0 and 2 clap for him.

NUMBER 2: Is this the part where he catches chlamydia and dies in two days?

NUMBER 4: Yeah, dude, you just licked a floor.

NUMBER 0: Brad, go ahead and roll for immune system.

NUMBER 1: Hey! Fuck off, you’re not giving me chlamydia!

NUMBER 0: I’m kidding. Now open the door.

NUMBER 1: No. I want to try to smash it again. I can spawn infinite 40-ounces of rum.

NUMBER 0: Okay. I mean, shit, who am I to stop you?

NUMBER 1: You stopped me from going down that hallway, so I’d say you’re pretty fucking consistent to stop me.

NUMBER 0: Roll for muscle mass again, buddy. Still need 7 or higher.

Number 1 grabs the D10 once more, and flips it into the air. It crash-lands, ending with 2 as the face up.

NUMBER 1: Go fuck yourself, D10!

Number 4 cackles at him.

NUMBER 0: You don’t swing at the door with much of a grip on your bottle of rum, and it fucking bounces way back and breaks on the floor behind you. A second smack on the door, a second shattering noise.

NUMBER 4: Oh my god. What I would give to be one of the people past that door hearing this happen.

NUMBER 0: Yeah? You think this is fucking funny? Getting a real chuckle out of my struggling here? Well I bet you aren’t prepared for this!

Number 1 holds his hand up in the air, gripping an imaginary 40-ounce of rum.

NUMBER 0: We’re trying again?

NUMBER 1: I may be a depressed and psychotic drunk, but I am not a quitter.

NUMBER 0: That feels like an integrity check to me. Roll for integrity first, then you can try hitting the door again if you succeed.

NUMBER 1: Oh, sure, this’ll be easy. My integrity is 9.

Number 1 rolls like normal, and gets a 7.

NUMBER 1: Oh, now I get a 7. Piece of shit.

NUMBER 2: I think you’ve just exhausted your quota for rolling high numbers.

NUMBER 1: Shut your hole. I’m gonna roll this again and I'm gonna roll it beautifully.

Number 1 stands up and faces away from the table. He whips back around, blasting the dice from both hands onto the table. It lands another 7.

NUMBER 1: I got it! Two 7s in a row! Fuck you!

NUMBER 2: Only after you cheated the system.

NUMBER 1: Cheat? I can spawn infinite bottles of rum, you cucknugget! I’m cheating the fucking universe!

NUMBER 3: I could watch this shit all damn day.

NUMBER 0: So it is. You finally wind your bottle up with precision, and lay a fucking smackdown on that door. And the butt of the bottle shatters against it, at least leaving a good dent in the wood.

NUMBER 1: Wh—You fuck! You’re twisting the system! That’s not what the check was for!

NUMBER 4: Oh… my.

NUMBER 0: Hey, I was just asking for a successful check for muscle mass. I didn’t say what that success would look like.

NUMBER 2: You were trying to break down a hardwood door with a glass bottle.

NUMBER 1: I’m fucking pissed. I’m going to spawn another bottle in my hand just to throw it against the wall in anger.

NUMBER 0: Now that leaves a solid hole.

NUMBER 4: You have three bottles of rum spilt on the floor now, just in the way of you opening a door.

NUMBER 0: Oh yeah, speaking of: Brad, roll for body stability.

NUMBER 1: Body stability? The fuck is your game here?

NUMBER 0: Just roll it.

NUMBER 1: Son of a bitch. I got… to roll an 8 or better. Alright.

Number 1 grabs the D10 a fifth time and slams it on the table. He gets an 8.

NUMBER 1: Yes! What did I just dodge from you?

NUMBER 0: You narrowly avoided slipping on the 120 ounces of spilt rum as you turn to throw that fourth bottle. This is not a carpeted floor.

NUMBER 1: Good for me. At least my blackout drunkness has limits.

NUMBER 0: Care to open the door now?

NUMBER 4: The people on the other side have been waiting for quite a while for you.

NUMBER 1: Well fuck those other people. I don’t fucking serve them.

NUMBER 0: You’d be surprised.

NUMBER 1: No I fucking won’t. You’ll see right now. I'm gonna swing open that door and show whoever’s in there what for.

NUMBER 0: You… swing the door open. After hitting it with three bottles, of course. And inside… you find yourself in a fucking pimp’s den. Like, everything in the scene is hued red and dimly lit. Up ahead, there’s a whole cascade of generic characters, around a fancy ass bed in the center to gold-adorned couches and shit. There’s the obvious daddy of the bunch in the center of the bed, with a fucking gold chain and a fur jacket without a shirt, two hoes in his arms rubbing along his chest, two security guards with suits and shades on either side standing idle, a few more bitches chilling elsewhere in the room—like, imagine the most fucking cliché LA pimp you possibly can. That’s what you see in front of you. It’s unreal. And it’s the first room that you can properly get a grasp on. You can fully see what is around you in here. The pimp daddy looks at you, kind of smirking. He scoffs. “Looks like a rat got outta their cage, huh?”

NUMBER 1: “You think you’re hot fuckin’ shit, you fuckin’… fuckin’ britz…kiggler?”

NUMBER 0: “Wazzat?”

NUMBER 3: Britzkiggler?

NUMBER 1: “You fuckin’ heard me, you punk. I don’t know what your goddamn deal here is—I don’t even know what my goddamn deal here is—but… you’re… fuckin’…”

NUMBER 0: “How long ago’d ya wake up?”

NUMBER 1: “Are those fucking people around you a bunch of robots too?! What the fuck are you?!” I walk to one of the bitches on a couch or something and slap her.

NUMBER 4: Bro!

NUMBER 3: So not progressive.

NUMBER 0: You smack a woman sitting by the TV, but like the others downstairs, she does not react. But the security guard by her marches over like the fucking Terminator and just WHAPS you across the face. You’re fucking backhanded, and land right on your ass. The pimp daddy just laughs at you. “Hahaha. How’d a moron like you bloom so early?”

NUMBER 1: “The fuck are you talking about, dickpiercing? The fuck does you know?”

NUMBER 3: Did you just use “dickpiercing” as an insult?

NUMBER 0: He unfurls his arms from the hoes laying next to him and sits up to face you. “Look, chud, I know things seem real confusing to you righ’ now. You a little disoriented, a little… eh, out of ya mind. Don't know where ya at, or why. That’s normal. ‘Cause you, child—you are a special one. You one of the few that can’t be swallowed whole. I dunno what it is about that empty head ’a yours that makes it so. I dunno how either. But just because you special, that don’t mean you ain’t one of us, man. That don’t mean you can’t be a part of something bigger! The others out there, they ain’t like you and I. They don’t know what’s good for ‘em, and that’s why they out there and we up in here.”

NUMBER 1: “You’re talking gibberish. You—you’re talking like a… a… fucking gibberish machine. What am I doing here?”

NUMBER 0: “What ya’re doing here is being a little deviant that woke up too early. But you gotta think about what you could do, man! Look, I see a lotta myself when I look at you. I was confused for a bit too, a little weird, a little dumb. But you ‘n I, I can see that us both deep in our hearts just only want peace. We ain’t exactly complex people! People can sway us around one way or another, but nothin’ can fundamentally change ourselves at our core. And I see you at your core. Now, you gonna be hearing a lot for the next little while when you really wake up, but I want you to know what you gotta be feeling. ‘Cause there ain’t no peace outside ‘a here. Them people out there don’t even know what peace looks like. This world ain’t exactly a stable one. An’ you may not get that now, but I promise, man, you gonna know that I’m right. And you gonna wonder again, ‘What am I supposed to be doing?’ Well, I’m gonna tell you. What you needa do is be ready. Something big is gonna be coming. Even I dunno how big. But no matter what you see, no matter what kinda fucked up shit nestles in your memory bank, ya always gotta remember: when all time runs out and that sun turns red, we will be all that holds together.”

NUMBER 1: “So if I fuck one of these zombie bitches right now, they won’t care?”

Number 4 shamefully laughs at that.

NUMBER 3: Has he just been staring at those women’s titties this whole time the pimp has been monologuing?

NUMBER 0: “Ah, look, man. You best just give up your curiosity for answers now. And sure as shit don’t go lookin’. ‘Cause here’s another thing to remember, chud: sometimes when you go talking to the void, that void talks right back.” And he pulls out this bulky TV remote from fucking DirecTV out of his coat pocket and pushes a button at you. And suddenly, you’re feeling this seering burn in a spot on the back of your neck, like you’re getting jabbed by a white-hot fork. And just as the pain reaches its crescendo, your brain just disconnects and you fall flat on the ground unconscious.

NUMBER 1: No! I had to fuck one of the zombies first!

NUMBER 4: You poor guy. You almost had it all.

NUMBER 2: Men can’t have anything.

NUMBER 1: Great, so I just went through all of that bullshit and I ended up fucking dropping on the floor unconscious anyway. What a fucking tangent that was. I can’t believe I got taken out by a fucking DirecTV remote. That’s so fucking insulting.

NUMBER 3: That was gotdamn fantastic.

NUMBER 1: And how did that even happen? Is there some chip in my neck that can just fucking turn me off? Can this guy mind-control me? What does “really wake up” even mean!

NUMBER 0: A good question—for another time. But, uh, yeah, that was quite a bit more exhaustive of an episode than I thought it would be. I was expecting just a quick and weird 10-minute prologue, but you have this weird way of dragging things out to obscene proportions.

NUMBER 1: Hey, you know how I do.

NUMBER 0: But I won’t say that wasn’t a hell of an effective introduction to the contours of the game. Things will certainly be less vague and obscure and more freewheeling shortly, but even in contained situations like this, there’s all sorts of ways for havoc to be unleashed. Like, damn.

NUMBER 2: I can’t wait for the day when we’re all united and Brad is doing endless muscle mass checks to beat someone over the head with his infinite bottles until they die.

NUMBER 0: I may have to incorporate stamina checks in between all that if and almost certainly when it comes to that. What’s Brad’s stamina?

NUMBER 1: …3.

NUMBER 4: Yeah, I don’t think so.

•••••