Sleep, mercy and prison both keeps you tangled here, swimming within the rough fabric of cheaply-made bedsheets. Your body weighing heavy like lead, it keeps you held [[down.|dylan flashback 1]]<<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
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</style><span class = gray>Eyes dance on the backs of her hands. She drums black-ringed fingers against the bar, grimacing when she does so. “Are you [[nervous?|incision]]” she asks.</span><<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
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<span class="glitch" data-text="First incision.">First incision.</span><<cont append>><span class="glitch" data-text="Bath of ice.">Bath of ice.</span><<cont append>><span class="glitch" data-text="Smell of rot.">Smell of rot.</span><<cont append>><span class="glitch" data-text="Reek of blood.">Reek of blood.</span>
<<cont append>><p><<type 40ms>><span class="glitch" data-text="Why did you trust her?">Why did you trust her?</span><</type>>
<<timed 5s>><<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I don't know.|waking up]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><</timed>></p>
<</cont>><</cont>><</cont>><</cont>><p>When you awaken fitfully in the middle of the night, you cannot find what you <<linkreplace "were">>are<</linkreplace>> looking for.
<p>The glow of your alarm clock eludes your weary and swollen eyes, leaving you trapped within pitch dark.
<p>Deep within your bones sits an ache. With every shallow breath you grow colder, skin stinging bitterly to spite muggy summer's stagnating heat.
<p>Moisture beads upon your clammy skin, the back of your shirt forced to wick the brunt of it. Bodily marinade seeps in and lingers, adhering fabric tight to your frame as the back of your neck continues pooling sweat. The fever coursing through your body asks too much of you, takes too much out of you. With your burning eyelids threatening to droop closed with every moment that passes, how can you be expected to stay awake?
<p>The world will go on without you; It's alright. Just [[sleep.|dylan flashback 2]]</p><<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
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</style><span class = gray>Fractal light glints in the artificial red of her eyes as she looks you over. For a moment, it resembles a flash of hope. Your chest swells with anticipation. Pride. Perhaps this is how it feels to be needed, to have purpose. “You hear that, right?” Her finger traces the rim of her glass, expression quickly giving way to melancholy that becomes her. “You don't need to believe me. You only need to retrieve the [[coords.|scav meeting]]</span>”<p>When the world gives way beneath you, stomach turning as you feel yourself become weightless, the back of your head becomes the first part of you to bear the brunt of the fall. It sends electric shock through your body, searing white pain goring itself through the backs of your eyes.
<p>A hot, wet spatter coats your shoulders as you land with a dull thud. The breath you gasp is ragged.
<p>“Fuck!” shouts a man's gravelly voice, accent heavy on his tongue. “What a dead weight!”
<p>“We're almost there, baby,” tuts another voice. This time a woman, sinus and nasal singing clear in every word. “Just a little bit more and then we can go home, alright?”
<p>“In a minute,” the man calls out, voice drawing nearer. “I want to see what we're working with after the good ol' doc got at the implants. See if the little shit got what was deserved.”
<p>Through a haze, you move to push against the pitch black that surrounds you, to pull it away from your face and let the light in. Your own body does not feel your own. When finally you identify the feeling of your hands, they lay pinned beneath your weight. You fight past the dim prickling, the soreness in your shoulders. You struggle to make use of your arms and take them back for yourself, but something rough tethers your wrists, digging into the skin and whittling away soft flesh.
<p>Your voice comes out raw when you try to protest, throat crackling as your mouth gapes to form intelligible sound. The thought of speaking dies upon dry lips, hushed beneath the grinding, hissing sound that rushes in front of your face.
<p>“Oh, shit,” says the man as polluted salt air spills into confined space, chilling your now-exposed skin. “Looks like we still got ourselves a [[live one|scav meeting 2]], babe.”</p><p>Flickering teal hologram blinks bright in front of your eyes, brash red markings spilled across the screen to resemble ghoulish features twisted in disdain. You cannot see your captors eyes looking down upon you beneath the mask he wears, but you feel them. Spots of light impress upon your retina as you gaze upward beyond his shoulder, watching small insects that bat against the yellowy glow of light pole that spotlights you now.
<p>Brisk steps creak closer across wooden board. You glimpse your second captor, a shock of cherry hair spilling onto another flashing hologram of a face. Another Scav. “Alive?! Really?! Oh, honey, I hate that! We're supposed'ta be on cleanup duty, not an execution squad!” She shakes her hands in disgust, stamping her feet against wood that quakes beneath every stomp.
<p>The man crouched over you is not affected in the same way. He tilts his head from side to side, watching. “Yeah,” he breathes slowly, considering. The dripping red meant to mimic eyes never wavers, never leaves your face. With the way your skin crawls, you think that he must be watching you just the same, scavenger animal eyeing bleating deer left to call for help as it agonizes. “Hey, buddy, hey. You remember me?”
<p>He leans closer to your face, inching toward until you hear the soft slow of his breathing picking up in excitement. “You remember what you did? Yeah. Don't worry. We carved you up real pretty for it.”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|scav meeting 3]]>><</button>><p>The woman gasps before you know what's to come. “Denny, <i>don't</i>, that's disgusting!”
<p>The man's hand brushes your face, gliding across slick skin to slip past your ear and dig fingers into gap found open at the back of your head. It itches, searing with every millimeter he digs in. Your skin screams at you, ripping, tearing, until finally he forces you to sit up, wrenching you from what looks to be a black body bag. Your vision spins. Though you couldn't move them if you tried, for a moment, you see your legs bound and tethered at the ankles.
<p>He grips at the back of your head, slamming you sideways in jerk-neck motion as he brings your face into the wooden slats below. Warm liquid spatters around you, trickling. You convulse with the pain, shuddering. You are so, so cold. “Look around! You wanted to fuck with us? With me? You get to die here.”
<p>He raises slick fingers, painting them against your face. The residue left behind is thick. “Bad dogs have to see the mess they made. Look at this shit.”
<p>“Baby! No!” His companion continues squealing in disgust. Almost comically, she holds her hands over the X's marked across her mask to denote eyes. “That's gross, stop! Stop!”
<p>When he turns your head with both hands, smearing your face into pooled residue, you meet with dark crimson and the unmistakable tang of your own blood. It drips through warped wooden slats, smears over your mouth and nose. If your body did not feel so sluggish, perhaps you would cry for the injustice of it all. This is no way to die. “Stop,” you croak out.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|scav meeting 4]]>><</button>><p>It is not your own plea that brings forbearance, but the desperation of revulsion.
<p>Your second captor leaps upon the first, slapping her bare hands rapidly against his back in protest. The slapping is ineffective; The admonishment she gives him is not. “Don't you <i>dare</i> start acting up right now, Dennis!”
<p>Your first captor—<i>Dennis</i>—releases his grip on your head, raising his hands in protest. The mangled flesh at the back of your head tingles, searching for implant or wires. When the search comes up short, it simply gapes to the world around it, leaving you feeling hollow. “What?! Hey, I'm not doing anything! Baby, babe—I'm not <i>doing</i> anything!”
<p>“Yes you are!” says your rescuer, bringing satisfying slap down upon his shoulder. “You're gonna track blood in all over at home, you're gonna smell the whole way there, and who's gonna have to clean it all up at the end of the day? Huh?!” She shoves him away in a teary huff, pouting. “You never listen to me!”
<p>Dennis looks at her, then back to you. Finally, he pats your shoulder before scooping an arm under your torso to sit you up. “I'm being nice now, Cherry, see?” His hand slaps weakly against your face in what you can only assume to be a feigned gesture of good faith. “See? We're almost done here, baby, I'm sorry.”
<p>Cherry, who seems to be named for the dye in her hair, sniffles, patting a sleeve against the mask obscuring her face. “You promise?”
<p>“I promise,” he nods.
<p>So much for your moment of dignified suffering, you suppose. Dennis sits behind you, leaning you against his torso and holding you tight. “Look out there, little gonk. It ain't so bad, is it? At least you get to die all the way out here.”
<p>You sit listless against the Scav a moment, staring at the dark stain of boardwalk now marked with your blood.
<p>You nearly miss what he says, until the ocean crashes in your ears.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|scav meeting 5]]>><</button>><p>The dark tide below pools over itself, moon reflected against black foam. The ocean is vast, wide. It spans the world over, currents pulling with and against gravity. At least you get to die all the way out here. Maybe drowning will feel better than bleeding out does.
<p>The man behind you tightens the cable that digs into your wrists, easing you back into the bag he plucked you from. “Uh,” he tilts his head toward his output, seeking her approval. “Sorry. No hard feelings, right? Of course not,” he says, zipping the fabric back over your face.
<p>The ground rubs raw and hard against your back and arms as the bag scrapes boardwalk.
<p>“Ugh,” Dennis groans. “Cherry, it's leaking on me.” Cherry squawks something in reprimand, but you do not listen anymore.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|scav meeting 6]]>><</button>><p>The world is not cruel. It is just very, very <<linkappend "indifferent.">>
<p>From the gentleman you've waited on in a previous life; out to lunch after learning of terminal diagnoses, to the children who smiled wide as they ordered for <<linkappend "themselves.">>
<p>From the lovers squabbling above, to the things they do to survive; the back of your head splayed open, limbs tethered crudely <<linkappend "together.">>
<p>From new beginnings denied, to perseverance, to <<linkappend "survival.">>
<p>To you, plummeting like a rock beneath the water's surface. The ocean <<linkreplace "is">>was<</linkreplace>> beautiful.
<p>The cold shock of the water feels like cruelty. It is just indifference. You suppose that a world like this could be nothing but <<linkappend "indifferent.">>
<p><i>You</i> are not.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|scav meeting 7]]>><</button>><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><p>You loved, you wanted to love.
<p>You still have a heart. You have to get out of here.
<p>Survive, survive, [[survive.|motivation set]]</p><p>As water leaks faster into the bag, it sucks you under. Saltwater laps at your face, your lungs sucking in one last desperate breath before you are submerged completely. The freezing water burns against your skin as the salt licks at your gaping head wound, inching in and stinging the space where your neural port used to reside.
<p>You kick your tethered legs with all of your might, but the water solidifies around you, cloth of your makeshift coffin tangling around your feet and slowing you to a halt.
<p>It wasn't supposed to end like this. You haven't even gotten to live yet.
<p>You haven't yet gotten what it is that you <<linkappend "want.">>
<p>What is it that you find yourself wanting now, at the end of your life? What is it that you've <i>wanted?</i></p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[To go somewhere where everyone knows my name.|scav meeting 8][$motivation to "fame"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I want more out of life. Money. Luxury.|scav meeting 8][$motivation to "money"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[To live for myself. To be free.|scav meeting 8][$motivation to "freedom"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><</linkappend>><<if $motivation is "fame">><p>Your likeness wouldn't have to be set in stone, but you'd like for people to remember your name after you die. Could that really be so wrong? It's not as if you have anyone waiting up for you at home. Just a little bit of fame, and you wouldn't be passing away in obscurity now. Do you truly deserve a watery grave at the end of it all?</p><<elseif $motivation is "money">><p>So, you tried to claw yourself out of the gutter. What could be wrong with that? Money is power, and power is security. If you had that sort of security under heel, you wouldn't be in this position. Is that all you've done wrong? Does that mean you truly deserve a watery grave at the end of it all?</p><<elseif $motivation is "freedom">><p>You wanted to take life into your own hands, to find a way to love life and to live by your own agenda. Of course, there were only so many ways to grant yourself a dream so grand. So what if you made mistakes along the way? Does that mean you truly deserve a watery grave at the end of it all?</p><</if>>
<p>More than just surviving, you wanted to live. You wanted to <i>thrive.</i>
<p>There is a pressure in your chest, ever-tightening as your diaphragm expands against your will. You grow dizzy. Lightheaded.
Your hands remain useless behind your back. There is no one coming to save you.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|dylan flashback 3]]>><</button>><<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
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</style><p><span class = gray>”Preem. Nova. Flicking you the detes now.” Her eyes linger on yours a moment too long when you say goodbye. “I'll see you [[later|sink or swim]], okay?”</span>
</p><p>Maybe she knew that you wouldn't be coming back after all. One thing is clear: you never should have taken that job from her.
<p>Your lungs threaten to burst. Your time, it seems, is coming to a close as the ocean cradles you in its arms.
<p>You didn't get the life you deserved. At the very least, you can have an easy goodbye.
<p>Under the thick of the water, time moves differently. You can no longer feel the ocean current as it pulls you downward, wrapping you in. Your heartbeat resounds in your chest, thundering against your eardrums.
<p>There is very little else here beyond you in the dark. You are going to die alone.
<p>Fighting can only sustain you for so long. Will you give up here? Will you go with grace?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I'll go with grace.|sink][$giveup to true]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I can't just die here.|swim][$giveup to false]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p>When the going gets tough, you get dying. You decide that it would be best not to prolong the inevitable.
<p>When your life flashes before your eyes, mingling with a strange yellow film that seems to fall over the dark, you deem it unremarkable. Instead, you think of the things you did not have: Someone to return to at night. Beloved friends to look forward to seeing. A thirst for the everyday that could never be quenched.
<p>If it was always going to end this way, you suppose it couldn't be helped. Still, your heart pangs for missing the world around you as you do what must be done.
<p>First, you strain against the instincts of your body, forcing it to exhale. A soft rush of bubbles flood past your nose, kissing you <<linkappend "goodbye.">>
<p>Then, you give your body what it so desperately craves. You <<linkappend "inhale.">>
<p>Something thicker than air burns as it flows into you, making home for itself inside of lungs you betray. There are no words for what it feels like; Not everything feels like something else.
<p>[[Your vision goes black.|flatline][$chapter to "fatal brain damage", $location to "NC medical center"]]</p><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><p>A strange yellow film washes over your vision, tangling itself with the darkness. Your makeshift coffin warps around you with the undercurrent, waving black flag before your eyes to taunt you.
<p>The life you've lived is not worth dying for, not yet. It leaves you starving for more. You won't give up until you've had your fill.
<p>Your legs kick, cutting slow through the water like butter. Pressing feet to the zipper of the body bag, you mean to take advantage of flimsy design, to press against the seam until it pops to set you free. With every strained shove, the bag fights back against you, leeway at the leg traded for wet fabric pulling taut against your face.
<p>The lungs you work so desperately to save scream against you, vision fading as you fight the urge to exhale. Escape plan deemed fruitless, you decide instead to do the only thing you can to rise to the surface.
<p>You thrash, willing the motion to propel you <<linkappend "upward.">>
<p>As your life begins to flash before your eyes, you ignore it, black spots swimming in your vision. There is only here and now. You do not want to think of the things you've never had.
<p>You will have these things. You just need the time to find them.
<p>You do not want to die <<linkappend "here.">> It did not have to end this way.
<p>Your body betrays you, rush of bubbles spilling from your mouth and bubbling over your face. You gasp in desperation, lungs overtaken by fire and quickly filling with something thicker than air.
<p>There are no words to describe what it feels like; not everything feels like something else.
<p>[[Your vision goes black.|flatline][$chapter to "fatal brain damage", $location to "NC medical center"]]</p><</linkappend>><</linkappend>><<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
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<p><span class = 'flatlinelarge'>flatlined</span></p>
<span class = 'flatlinesmall'><<type 40ms start 2s >><p>WARNING: CRITICAL DAMAGE TO NEURAL CONNECTIONS.</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>ATTEMPTING REBOOT: STAND BY...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>ERROR: 0x00000160 ERROR_FAIL_RESTART ; 0x00000039 ERROR_DRV_NOT_EXIST ; 0x000000F0 ERROR_CN_DISCONNECTED</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>REATTEMPTING CONNECTION...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>FAILED TO CONNECT. DAMAGE ON RELAY(S): 74616d, 67726179x, 67726179x2, 6920616D, 6e63f, 61746c, 6174c1, 6174c2. ATTEMPTING BYPASS.</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms>><p>...</p><</type>>
<<type 40ms start 2s keep>><p>ERROR: CRITICAL DAMAGE ON PORT(S): 6c6e6b, 62696f1, 62696f1, 6f7074. TERMINATING PROCESS.</p><</type>></span><<nobr>>
<<cont append>>
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</style><center><h1><span class = fade><i>[[Six weeks prior...|back in time][($chapter to "The Ballad of Buck Ravers") , ($location to "Atlanta, GA, NUSA")]]</i></span></h1></center><p>A house can be made a home: even in this recession, which has been growing ever worse for the last 50 years, what with the monumental poverty disparity between the 1% you'll never meet and the 99% that contains you, so maybe the economy just sucks and this isn't a recession after all.
<p>This home welcomes you every day within bulletproof glass windows and doors, beckons you beyond the flag of the NUSA stamped at the entrance and into safety yellow walls. It clothes you, cladding you in blue buttoned polo. It fills your belly, mad dashes made to pour batter into scalding appliance and scarf it down before infrequent supervisor looks your way. It even pays your bills, reminding hungry customers of how little you make in exchange for 50 solid hours a week and enticing them to fill your wallet of their own. In short, it <i>sustains</i> you.
<p>This home, with signage unchanged since somewhere around the second Corporate War, falling letters clinging on stubbornly and glowing like a beacon to those who ride the highways, is a Waffle Home. A majestic beast, standing steadfast and silent amongst the ever-changing Atlanta scenery. The last of its kind. And <i>you</i> are the poor, sad bastard staffing it alone today.
<p>You gaze upon the brick building from the safety of the parking lot, taking refuge inside of your car. The view is obscured by substantial cracking in your windshield and duct tape used for makeshift fix, but with enough luck and prayer, you can still see well enough to navigate the many winding intersections of the Atlanta freeways. The sky changes slowly, colors swirling on dilapidated horizon. You decide it's a shame, that in a world of such beauty you would have to spend your precious time going to work.
<p>Different shifts require different types of people; Not everyone is suited for every sort of task. When the blue glow of dawn breaks to brilliant sunrise, a fine establishment such as the Waffle Home might have need for friendlier faces, the sort of people who can grin and bear the abuses of the busy public.
<p>Then again, strange things move in the dark. Under the dimming cover of the night, Waffle Home might employ those who hold their own, who don't hold back as often, ready to fight as quickly as they're ready to turn tables.
<p>Does the sun rise, or fall around you now? Do you await the day, or the night shift?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[The sun rises. I am a day-shifter at heart.|tattoo][($shift to "day")]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[The sun sets. I was born to be a closer.|tattoo][($shift to "night") , ($aggro += 20)]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p>In the swirl of sun<<if $shift is "day">>rise<<elseif $shift is "night">>set<</if>>, your eyes meet red upholstered booths. The analogue clock you can never read inside watches you in turn, waiting. Stalking. Analyzing your every move. With every second the clock ticks on, it brings you closer to your imminent clock-in time, counts down the final moments you have left to walk in the sun. The last moments you have as your own before schedule subsumes you, makes you another mindless piece of the waffle machine, meant to take orders and fry eggs until the sweet call of shift rotation comes to send you home once more.
<p>Were this a standoff, Waffle Home would become your fated opponent to meet at high noon. The stakes of the duel would be high, ending in a life taken one way or the other: the outcome would gain you your freedom all the same.
<p>This is not, however, a glorious standoff for honor or duty, love or freedom. It is not even a standoff for the sake of pride, holstered pistol at your hip dissolving into nothing more than imagination as the apron you tie around your waist settles into place.
<p>Suit up. This is you, donning blue polo. This is you, donning old-fashioned guestbook and pen in apron pocket.
<p>Do you have tattoos on your arms?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I do not have tattoos.|nametag][$tattoo to "none"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I have tattoos, but not on my arms.|nametag][$tattoo to "body"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[Yes, on one or both of my arms.|nametag][$tattoo to "sleeve"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $tattoo is "none">><p>Then this is you, donning your nametag as the last part of your uniform for the day. The last shred of your individuality remaining: your name written in shining plastic. A name customers seize for their own beck and call, to condescend or to show you that they're different both, the last piece of you to become theirs until it is relinquished back to you end of day. You wore someone else's nametag until management caught on, and "forgot" your own in your car until you earned a write-up.</p>
<<elseif $tattoo is "body">>Good for you.
<p>Then this is you, donning your nametag as the last part of your uniform for the day. The last shred of your individuality remaining: your name written in shining plastic. A name customers seize for their own beck and call, to condescend or to show you that they're different both, the last piece of you to become theirs until it is relinquished back to you end of day. You wore someone else's nametag until management caught on, and "forgot" your own in your car until you earned a write-up.</p>
<<elseif $tattoo is "sleeve">>Then this is you, donning two black sporting sleeves, because no matter the amount of tattoos you have, only one sleeve would look silly. You cringe as you pull the black fabric up your arms, revealing the bold, blocky yellow logo emblazoned on the both of them: "<b>W A F F L E H O M E.</b>" Were you to wear a shirt beneath your polo, you could save yourself the embarrassment of advertising your own employer, though the relief would come at the cost of collapsing in this Georgia heat.
<p>With a sense of finality, you don your nametag as the last part of your uniform for the day. The last shred of your individuality remaining, your name written in shining plastic. A name customers seize for their own beck and call, to condescend or to show you that they're different both, the last piece of you to become theirs until it is relinquished back to you end of day. You wore someone else's nametag until management caught on, and "forgot" your own in your car until you earned a write-up.
</p><</if>>
<p>Still, those little acts of defiance ended years ago, and your name stares back at you from your side-view mirror, letters shown in reverse.
<p>What is your first name?</p>
<<textbox "$firstname" "Name" "pronounce">><style> button, select {
text-transform: uppercase;
width: 12.5em;
height: 2.5em;
position: absolute center;
}</style>
<p>They'll take everything from you if they are able. You run your fingertips over the small font left below your name—In an attempt to reach the masses, to humanize their own corporate model, your nametag gives the people another way of knowing you, of beckoning you toward or away: the pronouns you call yourself, printed neatly in pitch black. At the very least, you were able to type them into the computer yourself.
<p>What does your nametag address you as?</p>
<br>
<center><<button "he/him">>
<<set $pro_they to "he">>
<<set $pro_them to "him">>
<<set $pro_their to "his">>
<<set $pro_theirs to "his">>
<<set $pro_themself to "himself">>
<<update>>
<</button>><<button "she/her">>
<<set $pro_they to "she">>
<<set $pro_them to "her">>
<<set $pro_their to "her">>
<<set $pro_theirs to "hers">>
<<set $pro_themself to "herself">>
<<update>>
<</button>><<button "they/them">>
<<set $pro_they to "they">>
<<set $pro_them to "them">>
<<set $pro_their to "their">>
<<set $pro_theirs to "theirs">>
<<set $pro_themself to "themself">>
<<update>>
<</button>>
</center>
<br>
<center>CUSTOM PRONOUNS (OPTIONAL)</center><<lb>>\
<table>
<tr>
<th>SUBJECT</th>
<td><<textbox "$pro_they" $pro_they>></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<th>OBJECT</th>
<td><<textbox "$pro_them" $pro_them>></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<th>ADJECTIVE</th>
<td><<textbox "$pro_their" $pro_their>></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<th>POSSESSIVE</th>
<td><<textbox "$pro_theirs" $pro_theirs>></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<th>REFLEXIVE</th>
<td><<textbox "$pro_themself" $pro_themself>></td>
</tr>
</table>\
<</lb>>
<center><<button [[CONTINUE|ccdone]]>><</button>></center><center><p><b>W A F F L E H O M E</b></p>
<p><<name>></p>
<p>$pro_they/$pro_them/$pro_theirs</p></center><hr>
<p>Sounds about right.
<p>You steal one last glance in your side-view mirror, greeted by the prominent <span class = cycle><<cycle "$def_feature" autoselect>>
<<option "acne">>
<<option "pockmarks">>
<<option "moles">>
<<option "eczema">>
<<option "freckles">>
<<option "oily skin">>
<</cycle>></span> decorating your face.
<p>That's you. Crooked teeth, average looks, and all. But you didn't come here just to gawk in the mirror and mourn fashion choices made on your behalf, did you? You idle in this parking lot here today ready to work. That's right, get out and walk past the discarded veteran who sits with cardboard sign by the door every day. He tips his chin to you in familiar greeting, a motion you echo.
<p>Not like you could afford to donate to the guy right now anyway, with your lack of a pot to piss in and all.
Repeat the tedium of the everyday: Go <<if $shift is "day">>[[inside.|dayshift]]<<elseif $shift is "night">>[[inside.|nightshift]]<</if>></p><p>16 split checks for what appears to be a child's birthday party, a lone woman in a corner booth ordering up something else from the menu every time you check in on her—which would not be so terrible, were you not the only chef in-house, in-<i>home</i>—and two gonks making homestyle spud-launchers of their silverware at each other from the spinning bar stools later, and you are, perhaps, in over your head. You work as fast as your ancient sales system will allow you, counting down from 16 below the din of screaming men and children and laughing parents who are agreeing that they should do this again sometime, as long as they can get time away from the kids.
<p>"Seven," you breathe, pairing receipt to pen to respective credchip, "six," after another, "five left," as the printer begins to sputter paper slower and slower, the end of a loaded roll of carbon paper becoming more and more imminent. From your peripheral, an unidentified flying starch, a chunked potato that smacks into your cheek and thwacks wetly onto the floor, spattering ketchup much to the delight of two grown men.
<p>The heavy clip of combat boot behind you sets you on high alert, alongside the sound of vocal fry quickly becoming all-too familiar with every order requested. "Hey," metal fingers reach out to brush your shoulder, and you whirl to meet the eyes of the lone woman diner. At this range, you realize she reeks of the metallic tang of blood. "Do you have a toothpick?" she asks, blissfully ignorant to the implosion of the world around you both.</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[Stare at her. Can't she see that I'm busy?|toothpick][($aggro += 2) , ($choice to 1)]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[My tip at the end hinges on this. Answer her.|toothpick][($aggro -=2) , ($choice to 2)]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p>16 split checks for what seems to be a party of seniors escaped from the retirement home for bingo night, a lone woman in a corner booth ordering up something else from the menu every time you check in on her—which would not be so terrible, were you not the only chef in-house, in-<i>home</i>—and two gonks making homestyle spud-launchers of their silverware at each other from the spinning bar stools later, and you are, perhaps, in over your head. You work as fast as your archaic sales system will allow, pointedly avoiding the elderly who grow handsy beneath pushed-together tables. What they say about senior homes is true, it seems, as one particularly flirtatious woman leans closer, licking her lips as you approach with her check.
<p>“Dropping this off here,” you mumble, avoiding eye contact as you set the receipt paper face-down. “No rush on that. Take your time.”
<p>She inches closer, walking her fingertips across the table and spidering them up your arm. Your skin crawls. “It's my birthday,” she croons.
<p>You blink at her audacity. “Congratulations?” you ask, dumbfounded. At her age, it does seem like a pretty big feat.
<p>To your chagrin, she seems unbothered. “You know what I'd really love to take home?”
<p>“I can get you a to-go box,” you offer, palms sweating. There is no mercy in her lustful gaze, and you <i>really</i> do not want to listen to a list of things she can do for you when she takes her dentures out. While there may be nothing inherently wrong with the desire of older women, there is something wrong with anyone who tries to pick you up and take you home like leftovers to be ravished from a Waffle Home.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|nightshift2]]>><</button>><p>Small mercies come in unexpected form, an unidentified flying starch thwacking wetly against your cheek before rolling across the table with a thunk that sends ketchup spattering. “Oh!” the horny senior sputters. Somewhere behind you, the grown men locked in food fight-turned-food-battle erupt into fits of laughter. Directly in front of you, your suitor dabs at her clothes with paper napkin. While you feel a pang of guilt, with her thoroughly distracted you beeline to escape, only to jump at the cold brush of metal fingers against the back of your neck.
<p>“Hey,” says a voice that becomes more familiar with every order she makes, vocal fry dragging as she talks. You whirl to meet the bored expression of your lone woman diner, who seems blissfully unaware of the high stakes of your situation at hand. At this range, you realize she reeks of the metallic tang of blood. “Do you have a toothpick?” she drawls.</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[Stare at her. Can't she see that I'm busy?|toothpick][($aggro += 2) , ($choice to 1)]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[My tip at the end hinges on this. Answer her.|toothpick][($aggro -=2) , ($choice to 2)]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>><p>You suck in a deep breath, trying to placate raging irritation that wells within your chest. "No," you say.
<p>"Okay. Rude." she says, flicking long loose hair that swats your arm as she turns on heel toward the restroom. She does not say thank you.</p>
<<elseif $choice is 2>><p>You suck in a deep breath, trying to calm the shuddering sob of frustration that wells up within. "They're on your table, ma'am. In the caddy."
<p>"Okay," she says, flicking long loose hair that swats your arm as she turns on heel toward the restroom. She does not say thank you.</p>
<</if>>
<<button [[CONTINUE|nomad radio broadcast]]>><</button>><p>Only after dodging through a minefield of flying scrambled egg and mashing copious amounts of potato beneath your shoes to gather new rolls of paper, only after swapping and printing and gathering receipts, only <i>after</i> issuing a refund twice upon mixing credchips up and recharging them properly, only <i><b>after</b></i> <<if $shift is "day">>ushering out the horde of children that scream, one particularly wily toddler delivering a swift kick to your shins on the way out, and bidding adieu to the gaggle of parents that either ignore your presence or wave goodbye in kind, do you look upon the many tables they've destroyed and allow yourself to nurse the fresh bruise blossoming upon your shinbone. “Ouch,” you hiss through your teeth, before sighing in relief as you watch family after family drive away, never to bother you again.<<elseif $shift is "night">>fending off offered holo-contact information and gestures goodbye presented politely but definitely meant to get a handful of you, do you look upon your many destroyed tables and allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.<</if>>
<p>Only two customers, decimated caddies at vacated tables, and a sizable amassment of dirty dishes for you to collect and wash later remain. Your lone diner returns to her corner booth, her long stint in the restroom seemingly complete. Three customers left.
<p>Everything accounted for, you set to work. With the newly lowered noise levels, you note that the jukebox continues playing the same song on loop. You won't be giving it any of your hard-earned cred to change the tunes, and so decide to focus on instead enjoying the radio as it crackles.
<p><i>"...have been seen roaming the greater Atlanta area... We repeat—do <b>not</b> engage with these vagrants. Nomads travel in numbers, and are the number one perpetrators of roadside crime. These criminals are armed and dangerous. We have confirmation of two deadly carjackings and one armed gas station robbery within the last 24 hours. Travel beyond city limits is not advised. More updates to come as we have them. This has been an Atlanta Public Safety announcement."</i>
<p>Nomads are road warriors who ride the highways around the NUSA and elsewhere, vowing never to settle in one place. They ride in gangs, take up mercwork and smuggling where they establish camp, and move on once they've worn through their welcome. They are also known for being the perpetrators of extremely violent crime. Or at least, that's what the news wants you to believe.
<p>What do you believe?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I believe that nomads are bums.|flesh nose][$choice to 1]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I don't have much of an opinion on nomads.|flesh nose][($dorothea += 5) , ($choice to 2)]] </div></li>
<<if $motivation is "freedom">><li><div class = choice-item> [[I respect them.|flesh nose][($dorothea += 15) , ($choice to 3)]] </div></li>
<<elseif $motivation isnot "freedom">><li><span class = gray>I respect them.</span></li>
<</if>>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>><p>Nomads roam the wastes to prey on those less souped-up than they, and cause trouble when they come into town. They rub you the wrong way.</p><<elseif $choice is 2>><p>Personally, you've never met a nomad. If any have dined in your fine eatery, they caused no trouble you've not handled before, and so you don't think much about them at all.</p><<elseif $choice is 3>><p>Nomads are meant to represent an ideal. They take to the road in order to avoid crushing themselves beneath corporate thumb, submitting to no man whilst they uphold family values. At least, that's what the romanticised books you've read describe.</p><</if>>
<p>“Hey, choom,” mechanical voice in realspace cuts the static. You turn away from your busywork to face the occupants of the bar stools, only to realize that they are really, really ugly. One stares at you with four yellow eyes, eight eyelids squinting closed together in unison when he blinks. The other bears an all-chrome faceplate, save for ganic, fleshy nose left bare and poking out through rectangular cutout. Baring his teeth in warning, Four-Eyes nods to the radio. “Turn that shit off, why don't you?” Flesh-Nose keeps silent, forking down what little scrambled eggs remain on his plate.
<p>With one staticy skip fading into exaggeratedly spooky jingle, the radio has your back, transitioning from Public Safety Announcement to radio talk-show. <i>“Good day, Atlanta,”</i> an even voice inoffensively welcomes listening ear. <i>“It's Haunting Hour. Today, we'll be discussing something synonymous with signing your own death warrant… becoming a legend in the free city of Night City. From Andrew Weyland, to Morgan Blackhand, to even the infamous Johnny Silverhand, provided we don't get taken off-air early, we'll be delving into famous mercenaries who marked their place in history by snuffing it. Spectacularly.”</i> You can't imagine a show like that would be taken off-air early, even if it blatantly called for the imitation of Silverhand. So steady is the voice of the host that were you the driver on a long road trip, it would lull you to sleep, sending your car veering to the side of the road and leaving you tipped upside-down in a ditch with the cacti somewhere. Anyone scanning for mention of threat to the NUSA is likely snoozing in their listening booth already.
<p>You suppose it makes sense that news of the last great metropolis would reach even Atlanta—which used to be a bustling metropolis, supposedly. You aren't old enough to have lived through it, and not much happens out here now, save for rumors of a corporate academy and Militech base nearby somewhere. Four Corporate Wars and another war meant to unify a country divided later, and Atlanta was left another hollowed-out shell of abandoned construction projects and one million fucked-up roundabouts that will never be repaved.
<p>Tucking an armful of dirty dishes against your chest, you nod. “PSA's done now, if that's what you <<if $shift is "day">>meant.<<elseif $shift is "night">>had a problem with.<</if>>” All four of Four-Eyes' glowing eyes roll as he turns back to his company. “Do you need a refill on your tap water?” you ask. You <i>are</i> ever the good server, after all, but with a flick of Flesh-Nose's hand, you are dismissed. Swaying clumsily back to the dish pit, you stack your spoils, before returning to the tables containing mess insurmountable. You're pretty sure you even see <<if $shift is "day">>a broken retainer<<elseif $shift is "night">>a pair of panties<</if>> crammed into the folds of the booth.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|class select]]>><</button>><p>With the sweet sounds of yet another loop of Rumba no. 6 and some radio storytime in your ear, you set back to the task at hand, scraping half-chewed food and stuck pieces of gum onto smaller plates and molding gummy pieces of waffle into monumental towers. “And this one is Arasaka tower,” you mutter, winding up a spoon and knocking your Tower of Pre-Chew over with force. “Boooooom.”
<p>Well. Now the table in front of you is covered with even more food. “That's so fucking gross,” you tsk under your breath. “Why did I do that?”
<p>Pilfering paper napkin from caddy located mid-table, you sweep food chunks over the edge, gathering them onto a small plate. The radio talk show keeps you entertained during drudgery, at the very least. You read comics about N.C. mercenaries as a kid, and the nitty gritty details, embellished or not, remain just as thrilling. The show host mentions Blackhand's mythic title as a Solo's Solo. You clang fork and butterknife together, locking yourself in an epic duel of katana or perhaps just silverware you are avoiding having to wash later. In this cutthroat duel of blunted cutlery, <i>you</i> are the Solo's Solo now.
<p>...Or are you? You aren't exactly sure that's right. Now you're verging on the territory of important questions, decisions that would never affect your life of serving up hot buttered waffles. Still, your daydreams need some depth, here. If you were a mercenary, what kind of mercenary <i>would</i> you be?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Techie">><<run Dialog.setup("Information");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("techiedesc").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Netrunner">><<run Dialog.setup("Information");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("netrunnerdesc").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Solo">><<run Dialog.setup("Information");Dialog.wiki(Story.get("solodesc").processText());Dialog.open();>><</link>> </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><style> #ui-dialog {
width: 66%;
}
#ui-dialog-body{
font-size: 1.1em;
}</style>Techies are the mechanics and technicians of the world. They fix and improve the physical bodies of the tech that code feeds into. Techies are best at rewiring devices to their advantage and jury rigging a bypass coupling to milk a few more miles out of a dying, sputtering car. While often overlooked, techies are crucial in a society that still runs on hardware, and they know it. Ever broken that chrome you just chipped and found out the warranty made up a new clause to refuse to cover it? Yeah, a techie can fix that. Does this sound like you?
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Yes." "class intro">><<run Dialog.close();>><<set $class to "techie">><</link>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "No.">><<run Dialog.close();>><</link>> </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><style> #ui-dialog {
width: 66%;
}
#ui-dialog-body{
font-size: 1.1em;
}</style>Netrunners used to be called chairjocks, not because they are particularly physically imposing, but because while their mind runs wild in cyberspace, their bodies are left behind, all but comatose in a chair somewhere. Netrunners are hackers, uploading attacks called daemons that target the cyberware and systems of others. In a society where more and more people continue to abandon their ganic bits and bobs, netrunners are particularly well-armed. Notable netrunners include Rache Bartmoss. Yeah, the guy who crashed the “inter"net and inadvertently turned it into the Net. You know the one. Does this sound like you?
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Yes." "class intro">><<run Dialog.close();>><<set $class to "netrunner">><</link>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "No.">><<run Dialog.close();>><</link>> </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><style> #ui-dialog {
width: 66%;
}
#ui-dialog-body{
font-size: 1.1em;
}</style>Solos are professional meatheads. Or at least, they would be, if they didn't live in the era they do. Most solos commit to chrome to keep up with their line of work, augmenting their ganic bodies and reaping the tolls of doing so as time goes on. Solos are known for being physically capable, and are incredibly useful in hand-to-hand combat. Simply put: Solos are experts in beating ass. Notable solos include Morgan Blackhand, best known for the mystery of his disappearance after he went M.I.A. 50-something years ago. Doesn't seem like much could kill him, though, so alleged rumors of his survival have some cred. Does this sound like you?
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "Yes." "class intro">><<run Dialog.close();>><<set $class to "solo">><</link>></div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<link "No.">><<run Dialog.close();>><</link>> </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $class is "techie">><p>You've taken things apart since you were a little kid. First, you started with the remote control, and once you mastered putting that back together, you became unstoppable. Hell, if you couldn't do the things you do, your junker of a car would be scrap metal by now. Sure, being a techie would make sense for you.</p><<elseif $class is "netrunner">><p>You spend long hours code diving on your second—okay,<i>third</i>hand laptop in the limited time you have at home. Your eyes grow puffy and bleary from lost sleep and time spent staring at a screen, but you suppose if you had the money to get chipped, you would waste no time figuring out the most direct route to jacking your brain into cyberspace and causing havoc. Sure, being a netrunner would make sense for you.</p><<elseif $class is "solo">><p>You graduated first and foremost from the school of hard knocks, though you did also graduate from the standard NUSA educational grade system. You would hate to let yourself be caught off guard, or worse, to lose a fight. With your slightly-above-standard physical ability, you're almost certain that if you had the eddies, you'd chip some gorilla arms and start swinging. Sure, being a solo would make sense for you.
</p><</if>>
<p>You are snapped back to reality.
<p>Literally.
<p>Against the backdrop of your wildest mercwork daydreams, cuts a scraping, metallic <i>snap</i> from the corner. You wince and whip your head toward the source of the sound just in time to see sparks catching between metal fingers, only to be gestured closer by your lonesome woman diner. She draws silver finger toward herself in come-hither motion and leans back comfortably against the upholstery of the booth, legs spread wide in a way that indicates she is far too comfortable taking up space in public.
<p>You set down your weaponized flatware before making your way over, <<if $shift is "day">>clearing your throat apologetically. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I completely forgot to check in on you.”<<elseif $shift is "night">> raising your chin to her in greeting. “What's up?” you ask. “What do you need?”<</if>>
<p>She rests too easily in the booth, silver metal arm draping to rest across the cushioning, ganic hand making busywork of picking her teeth clean. So she was able to find a toothpick, after all.
<p>In the chaos of everything happening earlier, you hadn't taken a good look at her. The clothes she wears seem a few sizes too big for her, pants zipped tight to her waist only by the good graces of a damaged leather belt. Her clothes seem to be marred with something you wouldn't like to consider, but it certainly smells of unsavory things such as “meat” and “chunks,” which nearly gives you cause to hurl. She taps a booted foot slowly on the tile floor, rolling her head back against her shoulders to look at you. “Can I see a dessert menu?” she asks.
<p>With the amount of half-abandoned plates strewn about her table, you aren't sure she would do much other than pick at a dessert. Ordering yet another dish she wouldn't finish could be a power play for her, but she will have to find her sick kicks elsewhere: No dessert menu exists for her to see in the first place. “This is a Waffle Home,” you say, gesturing broadly to the safety yellow walls. In its glory days, Waffle Home was known for many things: a mean steak and eggs, extravagantly full-bodied waffles, a higher crime rate than one could normally expect from an all-day breakfast joint. While it still boasts the last-mentioned, a varied menu including desserts has never been one of its talking points.
<p>“Okay?” That was not explanation enough. She will be making you work for your gratuity today.
<p>“We don't have dessert. I can make you, like, a waffle? With chocolate chips on it or something?”
<p>“Mmm,” she pauses a moment in consideration. “Can you make it a pancake?”
<p>It had not occurred to you that anyone would walk into a Waffle Home and ask for a pancake. To you, this defeats the point of this being the humble waffle's home. Still, no one asks for your opinion, and you are most especially not being paid to give it unsolicited. Your shoulders slump. “I mean, I guess.”
<p>She squints her eyes slowly, sizing you up, grinning. When she looks you over, it feels as though you are being hunted for sport. “That'd be nice,” she says, twirling chewed-upon toothpick in her mouth. “And can I get a to-go box for all of this?”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|dine n dash]]>><</button>><p>You stand here today on the precipice of the end of your really bad day, non-slip shoes stuck slightly to tile floors caked in flour and oil. Here, you have been welcomed back into the arms of your <span class = cycle><<cycle "_cycle" autoselect>>
<<option "beloved">>
<<option "beloathed">>
<</cycle>></span> griddle, whom you betray by raining heaping scoop of waffle batter down upon.
<p>This griddle has seen many things—better days, certainly, but most often, it cradles hashbrowns or filet of locust steak, or thoughtfully fries your No-F'in-Way-This-Is-eggs into a perfect sunny-side up. The hissing sizzle of waffle batter turning pancake cries out, and you flinch, unable to bring yourself to look upon your act of treachery. You hold up one finger to silence antiquated griddle, cringing as you look toward the empty waffle iron by your side. It sits spread-eagled, forever left waiting for hearty scoop of batter. “Don't make that sound,” you whisper to the sobbing griddle. The waffle iron watches you judgingly. “Don't look at me that way,” you beg of the appliance.
<p>Behind you, you can hear your counter guests mumbling a <i>”what the fuck”</i> or three, but you have to keep yourself entertained <i>some</i>how.
<p>Beneath the dancy tunage of Rumba no. 6, the static droning of radio show, the sizzling hiss of grilling pancake, and the murmuring disbelief of your very own captive audience, the doorbell chimes.
<p><<if $shift is "day">>“Welcome into Waffle Home!” you call out to entering guest, raising a hand in brief greeting, “I'll be with you in a second. Sit wherever you want and I'll meet you there with menus.”<<elseif $shift is "night">>Entering guest and greeting policies be damned, it would be prudent not to burn the food you cook. People can see that you're busy. “Be with you in a second,” you nod, calling back to those who enter.<</if>>
<p>There is no reply.
<p>The heel of your shoe cuts through grease and grime as you turn, searching for the source of the alert.
<p>You see it.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|dine n dash 2]]>><</button>><p>Correction: You see <i>her</i>. Through the bulletproof glass windows, you spot the very woman for whom the pancake sizzles, cutting a path through the parking lot.
<p>For the sake of your blood pressure, making assumptions is unwise. Miscommunications are inevitable in the service industry, unavoidable, ingrained into human nature itself. She could be stepping out to grab something.
<p>You glance at her table. Numerous plates lay abandoned, picked bare like the corpse of a videogame NPC, likely scraped into requested to-go box.
<p>There is no cash thrown haphazardly down to cover the bill, so that whittles away the possibility of leaving for an emergency. You step away from the kitchen, walking farther into the dining room to inspect. No personal items linger behind as collateral, nothing to make promise of her eventual return.
<p>In this moment, you know that you've been played. She has dined, and now she is dashing. When you think of the bill she's left to be covered, which you most certainly will have to foot yourself due to lacking labor laws, your eyes begin to sting.
<p>Peanut gallery reaches similar conclusion at the same time as you, Flesh-Nose and Four-Eyes snorting as they turn to watch dine-and-dasher walking away at brisk pace. Despite them laughing—it is definitely at you, and not with you—you could almost force yourself to be grateful for their presence, relieved that someone else has witnessed this petty crime. It's almost as if you three are really in it together now. Except, you are not. They are laughing at you, and you are alone.
<p>When in tandem with someone throwing your hard work in your face, being laughed at becomes especially embarrassing. You could go for a good cry right now.
<p>There's no time to dawdle. In the face of humiliation, you must make a choice. Do you want to give into mercy, sacrificing your hard-earned tips to cover her bill at the end of day, and take this chance to shed a few tears? Or do you want to beat her ass and make her cough up eddies until she's paid in full?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[I'd prefer to go cry, actually. I really need to cry.|gocry][($aggro -= 5) , ($choice to 0)]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[Say no more. I am jumping her in the parking lot.|THEYJUMPINHERASS][$aggro += 5]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p><<if $choice is 1>><<include "shitter">><</if>>
<p>The prickle of hot tears bites at the back of your eyes. Your lip quivers. You need to get out of the dining room, and fast.
<p>Where do you go to cry?</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[The restroom.|gocry][$choice to 1]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[The walk-in.|walk-in]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>>As you speed toward the gender neutral restroom, a foul stench wafts your way, curling your nose hairs and causing your eyes to water faster. The dine-and-dasher was the last person in here—you decide all at once that it's really fucked up that she would drop a nuclear shit in your restroom and then walk out on her tab. You can't cry in there right now. You turn away.<p>Despite the lack of self-respect that this decision would indicate, you deign to cry in the walk-in refrigerator like any other self-respecting restaurant employee would.
<p>To your credit, your nose runs before your eyes do. Watery snot runs down your face as metal door suctions shut behind you. Chilled temperature works hard to cool down your warming skin, hot tears beginning to spill down your cheeks in fat, wet droplets. Today has sucked, your job sucks, and honestly, your life as a general whole sucks, too. Maybe <i>you</i> suck. Who are you kidding? You definitely suck.
<p>Racking sobs possess your entire body, turning your ribcage inside-out as spittle and other various fluids run down your chin, creating a thick and slimy Slurry of Crybaby to seep into the collar of your polo. You heave forward, both in disgust and with the pain of ever-creeping chest pains, gripping your fingers tightly through the grating of plastic milk crate.
<p>A hiccup escapes from your quivering lips. Another sob squeals through. Following closely, forceful hiccup yet again. With every hiccup the chest pains grow nearer, and as cathartic as you want this to be, you can't pretend that there's much dignity in doubling over and drooling on yourself.
<p>Plus, you have one last table out there. You can't stay holed up in the walk-in forever; you have to get it together.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|walk-in 2]]>><</button>><p>First things first, you need to calm down. The automated voice on the other side of every helpline you've ever called has suggested to first drink a glass of water. As you hiccup again, spittle and snot spattering onto walk-in floor as you do so, you feel that those prerecorded messages may be full of good ideas, after all.
<p>You glimpse around the shelves of the refrigerator. There are some out-of-date containers and improperly stored raw meat-substitutes, but you are not so lucky that you or a coworker has forgotten an energy drink in here.
<p>You sniffle grossly, sinking down to your knees as you continue crying. You must be a new brand of loser, worse than the world has ever seen before, you think.
<p>As you untangle yourself from plastic grating to wipe tears on your palm, the sting of indent left pressed into your fingers settles upon you, dawning new thought—the milk crate. What loot does it contain? It's no water or NiCola, certainly, but even an ice cold glass of milk could help a little crybaby like you to calm down.
<p>Inspecting the contents of the crate in front of you, you find…</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|walk-in 3]]>><</button>><p>Nothing. You find absolutely nothing. This must be the breaktime milk crate, used only for sitting and doomscrolling on the holo during downtime.
<p>“What?” you whine, “why?”
<p>You wobble to your feet shakily, stepping upon the milk crate to search further. You are becoming more desperate, more frantic. “Milk?” you ask, vision blurring with tears as you grip the shelves in a frenzy. “Milk? Come on, man, I know we have milk. Please.”
<p>You shove the contents in front of you to the side, peeking your head in. Surely, there could be something in the back, however old it may be. You certainly don't practice the timeless art of “first in, first out” here. Who cares if the milk is a little out of date? You've had worse, certainly. In fact, you're nearly sure that the synthetic stuff is all shelf-stable regardless.
<p>The milk crate slips beneath your feet, giving way to the ground. Stubbornly, your probing hands cling tight despite your best wishes, dragging the shelves of the refrigerator down with you.
<p>You are…</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[short|walk-in 4][$height to "short"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[average height|walk-in 4][$height to "average"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[tall|walk-in 4][$height to "tall"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $height is "short">><p>…unimpressively sized, and the fall is substantial. As you struggle to maintain your footing on slippery floor, the collapse of the shelves above bears down upon you.</p><<elseif $height is "average">><p>…a shockingly average height. While the fall isn't very substantial, the collapse of the shelves above you is.</p><<elseif $height is "tall">><p>…decently sized. While the fall is of no consequence to you, the collapse of the shelves bearing down upon you is.</p><</if>>
<p>Cartons of synthetic egg fall around you, popping as they hit the ground and rupturing in gooey, yellow geysers. A tub of pre-grated hashbrowns slides to the floor, plastic bin exploding as it makes contact. Chunks of shredded spud stick to your pant leg as they scatter. If you had an enny for every time a potato has smacked you today, you would have two ennies. Which isn't a lot, but it is still upsetting that it's happened twice.
<p>You watch the onslaught of food storage in horror. The floor resembles battlefield, two warring sides left bleeding out, rotting, dying for no purpose at all. You step into a not-yet broken egg yolk and it pops, spilling over the toe of your shoe. Before you can even gasp, the gallon jug topples down, conking you over the head and knocking you out stone-cold on the floor.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|walk-in 5]]>><</button>><p>Or at least, you think it knocked you out. When again you open your eyes, no time has passed at all. You squint at your assailant lying beside you from your space within eggy puddle, a suspiciously head-shaped dent punctuating its smooth plastic surface. While your vision spins, you make out the label in a bleary haze: Dairing Dairy “milk” has fallen right into your grasp.
<p>Or at least, upon your head.
<p>With great effort, you heave yourself into a sitting position, pulling the gallon toward you with trembling hands. Your grubby paws grasp at the lid, making short work of twisting the lid open with a satisfying <i>crack</i>.
<p>There are no cameras in the walk-in, and so you will never face repercussion for this, you hope. Raising the gallon to your lips, you tip your chin back, allowing the cooling milk to spill down the back of your throat, drowning out the hiccups and the crying and taking your troubles away. Your guts will have words for you later, certainly, but right now, you need this.
<p>Foul liquid runs down your chin just as quickly as you drank it. You gag, sputtering out the thick drink, covering yourself and your work polo in your spoils. In betrayal, you retch, cringing as the horrible liquid runs out of your nose in surprise. “Why?!” you cry out, rotating the jug in your hands to inspect it.
<p><b>Dairing Dairy “Buttermilk,”</b> reads the label.
<p>The thickness coating your tongue, buttermilk. The sour scent you inhale with every breath, buttermilk.
<p>You are now covered in buttermilk. At least the shock has dampened your need to cry. Defeated, you rise to your feet, leaving behind the scene of your crime. Whatever job you have left to do can't be more miserable than this, you suppose.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|stick em up]]>><</button>><p>First, she runs you ragged, snapping to get your attention and putting her hands on you to ask for a toothpick she very clearly could have found if she had looked for more than two seconds. Then, she disrespects this place of sanctity, the humble home of the waffle, by asking for a pancake. Now, she's dined and dashed? In <i>this</i> economy?
<p>Absolutely not.
<p>Your body moves faster than your mind, and you stride forward, pushing your way through two layers of bulletproof glass doors. Muffled hooting and hollering from your choombattas-in-chaos cheers you on, Waffle Home herself ringing the gong as the door chimes when you step outside. The round has begun.
<p>Your enemy walks briskly, combat boots clipping the concrete, but you easily outpace her, fueled by rage and fear of the financial hardship you will endure after giving up a day's wages. Two cars occupy the far side of the parking lot: first, your own, the beautiful beat up junker standing steadfast in wait to take you home once all of this is over. Farther ahead, a car that appears <i>too</i> pristine to belong to someone skipping out on a tab, the sleek body of black accented in rich, deep gold. <<if $class is "techie">>You'd recognize that make anywhere. She drives a 2070 Rayfield Caliburn, and she wants to short <i>you</i> on the bill?<</if>>
<p>You realize she means to make speedy getaway in a car you could not afford if your life depended on it. She tilts her head forward as she walks, likely summoning digital key fob, and a sleek door raises itself off of its hinge, turning impressively counter-clockwise and beckoning her forward to the driver's seat.
<p>If she gets in that car,<<if $class is "techie">> she doesn't even have to drive. Onboard navigational computer will take over, and<</if>> she is home free.
<p>If she gets into that car, you are fucked.
<p>Not on your watch. You shift into second gear, gaining on her until long stringy hair flows within your grasp. And grasp it, you do. You lunge forward, wrapping brown hair round your knuckles in one fell swoop and <i>yanking</i>, staggering her [[backwards|THEYJUMPINHERASS 2]]</p><p>“Not today, bitch!” she screams, spinning round to hit you full-force with a styrofoam box of leftovers. The plastic splits over your face, spilling yellowy, dripping egg over your skin, the goop finding a new home upon your blue polo.
<p>“Seriously?!” you yell, shouldering her into the side of your own car before you can pass it. You grapple against her, continuing to tug her hair in your hand as you both fall to the ground. Her metal hand smacks heavily into your face, blunt against your cheek bone, cutting the skin beneath your eye.
<p>Something heavy clatters beside the both of you, the shatter of thin glass pealing, singing. For just a moment, you look toward the sound as you both scramble, and the dine-and-dasher snarls, sending metal fist flying into the side of your head. The brief flash of your side-view mirror broken on the ground is replaced by darkness, your eyes scrunching shut as you sail headlong into the side of your car door.
<p>When your eyes again open, no time has passed, but there is an impressively skull-shaped dent in the metal of your driver's side. Your enemy's thin hair has wormed its way from your hand now, leaving ripped-out strands wrapped tight round your fingers as she begins scrambling to her feet. When you move, the world sways beneath you, your body feeling heavier than before.
<p>You did not come out here just to accept humiliating defeat and potential concussion.
<p>In fact, you came out here to jump this woman in the parking lot. That's exactly what you're going to do. You take quick stock of your surroundings, searching for any weapon you could possibly use to tip the scales in your favor.</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<<if $class is "solo">><li><div class = choice-item> [[All I have are my hands.|THEYJUMPINHERASS win]] </div></li>
<<elseif $class isnot "solo">><li><div class = choice-item> [[All I have are my hands.|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss]] </div></li><</if>>
<<if $class is "techie">><li><div class = choice-item> <span class = accent>[TECHIE]</span> [[I am using my surroundings to my advantage.|THEYJUMPINHERASS weird win][$weird += 1]] </div></li>
<<elseif $class isnot "techie">><li><div class = choice-item> <span class = gray>[TECHIE] I am using my surroundings to my advantage.</span></div></li><</if>>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p>If the only weapon you can make is yourself, then a weapon you will become.
<p>You rise from your knees, the world spinning around you. It's not much. Just enough to lurch forward, enough to tackle, wrapping your arms around your opponent's torso from behind as she struggles away. Adrenaline leading you forward, you rise to your feet in a hurry as she jerks, attempting to send a flying elbow into your ribs.
<p>You are…</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[short|THEYJUMPINHERASS win 2][$height to "short"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[average height|THEYJUMPINHERASS win 2][$height to "average"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[tall|THEYJUMPINHERASS win 2][$height to "tall"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $height is "short">><p>…unimpressively sized, so you need every ounce of help that you can get. Her elbow misses, but you sputter anyway, choking on the stringy hair that falls onto your face. Heaving a grunt of desperation, you knee her in the back of the leg, sideswiping her feet out from beneath her with your own.</p><<elseif $height is "average">><p>…shockingly averagely sized, so you need every ounce of help that you can get. Her elbow misses, but you sputter anyway, choking on the stringy hair that falls into your face. Heaving a grunt of desperation, you knee her in the back of the leg, sideswiping her feet from beneath her using your own.</p><<elseif $height is "tall">><p>…tall, but so is she. You heave a cough, spewing spittle over her shoulder as her elbow connects with your ribcage. With a grunt of desperation, you sideswipe her feet out from beneath her using your own.</p><</if>>
<p>As she loses her footing, tipping to one side, you tilt your arms to the opposite and let her go, sending her toppling down onto her head. She lands with a sick <i>crack</i> and a groan. You pant, staring in disbelief and wiping beaded sweat from your forehead. “That worked?!” bouncing on your toes, you take to briefly punching at the air in celebration. “That fucking worked!”
<p>Her long legs splay, booted feet hitting the ground with a thud as she collapses onto her back. Her face contorts in discomfort, and with confirmation that you did not in fact just give her fatal brain damage, you seize opportunity, clamoring atop of her and pinning her onto rough asphalt.
<p>“Pay.” You wind up a fist, sending it into her face. The feeling of face against knuckle is an offensive one. “Your.” You hit her again, bringing the side of your fist into the bridge of her nose. It splits beneath your hand, and thick crimson floods before your eyes. “Oh—bill.” You pull your hand back a moment, observing your handiwork in equal parts curiosity and disgust.
<p>Her bloodshot eyes open wide, spilling tears that mingle with her bloodied visage. Metal hand shoots out to grab your balled-up fist, while ganic hand works to fumble behind your back. “I have a gun!” she screams, brandishing a pistol in your face—presumably procured from the waistband of her pants, meaning she does not practice proper gun safety. “I have a fucking gun, you mouthbreathing bitch, and I will blow your fucking brains out! Do <i>not</i> try me today!”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|THEYJUMPINHERASS win 3]]>><</button>><p>Admittedly, you do not want to die to gun violence today. You hold up a single digit on your balled up hand, meaning to excuse yourself.
<p>She locks eyes with you a moment. You nod. Then finally, she releases your hand.
<p>You swing a leg over her torso to release her, nearly being knocked over by the force she uses to pull herself up in an instant. She scrambles into a squat, breathing ragged, gurgling breaths as she aims the pistol your way, hair falling over her face to reveal little beyond eyes filled with hatred. “Don't. Fuck. With. Me.” She hisses, before finally spitting a fat glob of pink saliva into your eye as she stands to leave.
<p>Gold-rimmed tires scream as she peels out of the parking lot, revealing Night City plates on her bumper. You lean quietly against the suspiciously head-shaped dent in your driver's side door, nursing your spinning head and soothing a thumb over swollen knuckles. “I did it,” you grin, the sound of fire-spitting engines marking the sweet sound of victory. It is a rare occasion that you have a win in this life, and you should like to bask in it.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|winner winner chicken dinner]]>><</button>><p>If the only weapon you see is your hands, then a weapon you will make of them.
<p>You rise from your knees. It's not much, but it's just enough to lurch forward, just enough to wrap your free hand around your opponent's ganic arm while she struggles away—and swing your bare fist straight into the side of her head. Your knuckles split in an instant. Pulling your hand back, you wince. “Ow,” you yelp, nursing your hand. “Ow, ow.”
<p>In no time at all, your opponent has regained footing. From your spot on the ground, you finally realize just how tall she is as she stares down upon you, irritated smirk cracking across her face.
<p>You are…</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[short|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 2][$height to "short"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[average height|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 2][$height to "average"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[tall|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 2][$height to "tall"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $height is "short">><p>…unimpressively sized, and it makes her presence seem immense. “You wanna try that again?” she asks, one hand on her hip. “You really wanna fuck with me?!”</p><<elseif $height is "average">><p>…shockingly averagely sized, and it makes her presence seem immense. “You wanna try that again?” she asks, one hand on her hip. “You really wanna fuck with me?!”</p><<elseif $height is "tall">><p>…tall, but somehow, she is still taller. “You wanna try that again?” she asks, one hand on her hip. “You really wanna fuck with me?!”
</p><</if>>
<p>You do not, in fact, really want to fuck with her. As she raises her leg, you begin to regret the decisions you made that led you here—when her knee connects with your face, all goes dark.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 3]]>><</button>><p>…It would seem that it was not enough vengeance simply to knock you on your ass. When you come to, your face feels as though it has been pulverized to meat. You sit propped against the tire of your car, head rolling onto one shoulder as you watch the dine-and-dasher rifling through your black apron's pockets. “Issat mine?” you ask. If your entire face were not crying out in pain, you would wince against the split of your lip.
<p>“Hm?” she asks, hardly sparing a glance in your direction. “If you mean the apron, and your shitty amount of tips, then yes.” She crams a small wad of colorful eurodollars into her pocket before holding up her silver hand, wriggling fingers that now stain the color of rust. “If you mean the blood, then also yes. Bet you wish you didn't fuck with me.”
<p>“Yeah,” you nod, small amount of drool pooling off of your lip as you do so.
<p>“Too late,” she wads up your apron and tosses it over your face. When it slides off, dropping into your lap, you see that it was merely the curtain for dramatic reveal. She stands proudly, lifting the hem of her shirt to reveal pistol tucked into waistband below. “And by the way, I have a gun. You're lucky I didn't use it on you. Gotta delta.”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 4]]>><</button>><p>The scream of gold-rimmed tires and the loud rip of fire-spitting engine roar in your ears, the cannon signalling your epic defeat today.
<p>They grow louder, as if to rub in the loss. Not just louder, no—they grow closer.
<p>You squint bleary eyes, before letting them grow wide. The obscenely expensive car she drives backs closer to you as she angles her way out of the parking lot's roundabout, <<if $class is "techie">>rear-wheel drive <</if>>bringing you closer and closer to demise at the end of her bumper. You could almost swear that she means to kill you, as her Night City license plates come closer into focus. The flame of her engine spits heat toward you. You throw yourself to your feet and back against your car, trying to make flatter target of your body, to put as much distance between you and her vehicle as possible.
<p>She does not hit you. Danger passes as she peels forward, catapulting herself from the parking lot at mach speeds. Something catches your eye as she disappears down the road, at the very last second: from her driver's-side window, her silver hand sticks out, flipping you the bird.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|THEYJUMPINHERASS loss 5]]>><</button>><p>Your apron lying tarnished on the ground in front of you, you decide that putting it back on would simply add insult to injury. She took any eddies you had, and from the tire-mark left on the fabric, she backed over the apron, too.
<p>You turn back towards Waffle Home, flinching at the disappointment you feel radiating toward you. You suppose you have to go back in there, now.
<p>Throwing your head back, you allow yourself a groan of frustration.</p>
<p>[[“Fuck.”|stick em up][$tyche to "loss"]]</p><p>Your hand wraps tight around the side-view mirror on the ground. The shattered glass smarts in your fingertips, blood smearing against cracked reflection. It's a shame your car had to accrue damage in this way, but you knew it stood ready to come to your aid. It always has.
<p>You rise from your knees. It's not much, but it's just enough to lurch forward, just enough to wrap your free hand around your opponent's ganic arm while she struggles away—and swing your weaponized rear-view into the side of her head.
<p>She collapses onto her back, long hair spilling around her. Seizing opportunity, you clamber above, pinning her to asphalt beneath your weight.
<p>You are…</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[short|THEYJUMPINHERASS weird win 2][$height to "short"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[average height|THEYJUMPINHERASS weird win 2][$height to "average"]] </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> [[tall|THEYJUMPINHERASS weird win 2][$height to "tall"]] </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><<if $height is "short">><p>…an unimpressive height. You are fortunate to have momentum on your side as you continue swinging.</p><<elseif $height is "average">><p>…shockingly average, but your opponent is still taller. You are fortunate to have momentum on your side as you continue swinging.</p><<elseif $height is "tall">><p>…tall. About the same height as your opponent. She could overpower you if she tried, but you have momentum on your side, and you would be loath to waste it. You continue swinging.</p><</if>>
<p>Smug expression contorted to horror as her nose splits, cracking to reveal thick crimson, she becomes Abel and you her Cain, except you are fully aware of the consequences of your own actions. “Ow, ow, <i>ouch</i>!” she protests beneath you, face deconstructing to resemble meat with every new hit. “Bitch—<b><i>bitch!</i></b> What are you even hitting me with?! What the hell is that?!”
<p>You lean back, slowly raising your makeshift weapon with some sort of pride. In the remaining shards left in frame, her face mirrors: skin split at the temple, gushing nose quickly covering her mouth and chin in dark blood, brown eyes growing wide, aghast. You raise your hand higher, preparing to bring it [[down—|THEYJUMPINHERASS weird win 3]]</p><p>You are bucked forward as she kicks madly. “Oh, shit,” the world spins around you as you are nearly tossed from your vantage point. “Dude, stop,” you hiss, digging your knees into her ribs to grip tighter.
<p>“Stop?! You want me to stop?! You're the one who attacked me in a parking lot like some kind of junkie!”
<p>“I just wanted you to pay your bill!”
<p>“I have a gun!” she screams, bucking again to throw you off. “I have a gun and I will blow your brains out, you fucking cunt!” In one motion she rips the hem of her shirt upward, hand fumbling behind your back to pull out pistol you can only assume was tucked into the waistband of her pants. “You're lucky if I don't fucking kill you!”
<p>Admittedly, you do not want to die to gun violence today. You hold up a single digit on your free hand to excuse yourself, swinging your leg over her torso to release her, and are nearly tipped over by the force she uses to pull herself up. She scrambles into a squat, breathing ragged, gurgling breaths as she aims the pistol your way, hair falling over her face to reveal little beyond bloodshot eyes. “Don't. Fuck. With. Me.” she says, before finally spitting a fat glob of pink saliva into your eye as she stands to leave.
<p>Gold-rimmed tires scream as she peels out of the parking lot, revealing Night City plates on her bumper. You cast away the mirror from your hand and lean against the suspiciously head-shaped dent in your driver's side door, patting the glorious beast that is your car with bloodied fingers. “We did it,” you mumble, the sound of fire-breathing engine ripping within your ears. “We did it, girl.”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|winner winner chicken dinner]]>><</button>><p>…The surge of pride wanes slowly. You fumble for the guestbook in your apron pocket, thumbing over receipts with bloodied hand. It is in this moment that you realize, whether you won that confrontation or not—you did not, in fact, get her to pay her bill.
<p>You turn back towards Waffle Home, flinching at the disappointment you feel radiating toward you. You suppose you have to go back in there, now.
<p>Throwing your head back, you allow yourself a groan of frustration.
<p>[[“Fuck.”|stick em up][$tyche to "win"]]</p><p>You trudge miserably along, shoulders slumping forward as you reenter the dining room, as one who has had the day you have does.
<p>If all of the stars had ever aligned in order to make sure you were fucked thoroughly sideways, it’s been today. Whilst you had intended to watch your shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world to avoid looking at the mounds of dirty dishes that await you, your eyes sting with a foul black smoke that permeates the room.
<p>You seem to have left your pancake cooking. Or more rather, burning. “Oh fuck,” you gasp before promptly coughing, hacking as the reek of burnt pancake fills your lungs. You pull your polo up, fashioning makeshift mask over your nose and making haste toward the griddle. “Oh fuck,” you murmur with every step, the smell seeping into your clothes, “oh fuck, oh fuck, oh <i>shit,</i> the pancake.”
<p>What you find waiting for you no longer resembles pancake at all, but instead a small ball of flame. Fighting fire isn't in your job description, and you won't begin to pretend that it is. “Are you kidding me?!”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|stick em up 2]]>><</button>><p>The metal that presses to either side of your head is cold. “'Fraid not, choombatta,” says Four-Eyes from your left, pressing pistol to your temple. To your right, Flesh-Nose nods in silence, holding a shotgun to your ear. It seems like overkill, but evidently, he prefers to be the silent-yet-deadly type.
<p>“Like a fart,” you whisper sagely.
<p>“The fuck did you just say to us?!”
<p>“I said the smoke smells like a fart!” You did not, but when there are two guns meant to blow your brains clean out of your skull trained upon you, you figure that telling the truth may not work in your favor.
<p>Four yellow eyes stare you down over the barrel of a gun, vertical pupils narrowing. “Is that really what you want your last words to be? And what the hell happened to you?”
<p>You can only assume that he means the generally upsetting assortment of slop that you find yourself covered in now. “Does it matter?” you ask.
<p>He rolls his eyes. “Come on. You know what we're here for, just give us the fuckin' eds.”
<p><<if $tyche is "loss">>“Would if I could,” you say, throwing your hands up and pointing a thumb toward the front door, “but she already took 'em.”<<elseif $tyche isnot "loss">> “You can have what's in my apron,” you say, raising your hands slowly, “but it's really not worth it. I make jack and spit per hour, my guy.”<</if>>
<p>For a moment, you think that you see a pang of sympathy in his many, many eyes. That is, until he grabs you by the shirt collar, pushing your face closer to the fire that only grows upon the flattop. “What are you, a fuckin' leadhead or something? Then let us in the safe, and we won't have to zero your sorry ass.”
<p>The heat laps at your face, tauntingly, menacingly. You hope that you don't die in your work polo without eyebrows. “<<if $shift is "night">> Are <i>you</i> a leadhead? Some type of gonk?<</if>>I can't! Only managers can do that. Do I <i>look</i> like a manager to you?”
<p>Flesh-Nose takes over, pulling your arms behind your back and tipping you away from the flame so that all four of Four-Eyes' eyes can take a better look at you. Closely, he inspects your Million ED Waffle Club nametag, a substantial honor in the Waffle Home, but not one that marks you as anything more important than a dignified line cook. Perhaps it is the sheer amount of mysterious muck that coats your body at this point, or mayhaps he cannot see past the black smoke that continues to assault your eyes (and likely, his), but you must look pathetic enough to be deemed non threatening. With a huff, Four-Eyes waves his pistol at nothing in particular. “Alright. 'Ya got me. But riddle me this one, <i><<name>></i>, how do ya make change when someone hands you a twenty?”
<p>“I can't open the register without a sale,” you wince, wriggling as the heat of the griddle aflame warms your body. At this rate, you fear you will roast alive before this gonk line of questioning ends.
<p>“Then make a fuckin' sale!” his mechanical voice screeches, straining against its synthesizer.
<p>“Crystal! Then let me go!” You pause a moment in thought, rubbing circulation back into your wrists once your hands are released. “Does this mean you two are paying?”</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|stick em up 3]]>><</button>><p>You stand at antiquated point of sale system, punching in numbers aimlessly with barrel of a shotgun stuck pointed into the small of your back. <<if $aggro gte 15>>“You know, your check would have come out to…”
<p>“Shuuuuut the fuck up,” mechanical voice bellows in irritation.</p><</if>>
<p>You hit the “exact cash” button on the screen, and the change drawer pops open.
<p>“There. It contains less than 300 eds at all times, just so you know,” you cross your arms over your chest indignantly, pretending not to fearfully eye the growing flame that threatens to lick kitchen counter.
<p>“You make it really hard not to flatline you, kid. You know that?” Four-Eyes collects rubber banded stacks of cred before waving a hand. “Later, you fuckin' gonk.”
<p>Flesh-Nose throws a heavy hand onto your shoulder, spinning you face-first into the butt of his gun. With a sickening crunch, your nose jams in some direction you don't feel like it was meant to go, dropping you to your knees. The doorbell chimes as they leave you behind, tears spilling down your cheeks while fresh blood rushes down your face. Smoke continues filling the room, though in silver lining, you begin to realize that you can smell it no longer.
<p>Your eyes burn, both with the sting of hit taken to presumably-broken nose and with the tar that works to replace the very air you breathe.
<p>Today has been terrible.
<p>You look up at a bar stool, limply extending a hand toward, before letting it drop as you decide that climbing to sit up there would be entirely too much effort.
<p>Instead, you curl up beneath the counter. Tucking your knees to your chest, you assume fetal position, gently positioning your head upon fallen scrambled egg for pillow. “Damn, <<if $shift is "night">>day<<elseif $shift is "day">>night<</if>> shift really needs to sweep up in here.”
<p>Could it really be considered crying when you are simply seasoning these flavorless eggs with the salt of your tears? You'll be fine in a minute. You just need to lay here a moment.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|firestarter]]>><</button>><p>…Though, you suppose you <i>are</i> hungry. You've not had a shift meal yet, what with the chaos of the day. You turn your head, allowing your tongue to gently probe the floor beneath your face, and lap a small bite of cold scrambled egg into your mouth. It doesn't taste like much other than blood and floor grit, but it's nice.
<p>Yeah. This is what you need.
<p>As if from the dead, your body rises, taking you where you need to go without much input. From somewhere inside of yourself, you watch in first person as your hands ignore the ball of grease-fire flame on the griddle, as they take condiment bottle of butter-flavored oil and squirt it generously upon the grill.
<p>From somewhere inside of yourself, you watch as the fire leaps from coal-blackened pancake to the puddle of oil, bursting high in miniature explosion.
<p>The fire climbs, lapping at the vents above the flattop. Huh. That's strange. As flame kisses the vents, orange fingers running along ancient char, you realize that the fire-suppressant system is not at all kicking in.
<p>It's almost as if the mural of scorch-marks along the wall tells a story. As if Waffle Home never reinstalled the system after it was used once, many years ago, despite the propane gas system running throughout the pipes. It's almost as if this home, the last-standing Waffle Home, is going to burn.
<p>[[“Oh no.”|firestarter 2]]</p><p>Fire seems a very real, very imminent danger now, as flame spreads across the entire grill, rooting itself to the poor material the wall is constructed of and climbing. Though fighting fire isn't in your job description, it seems prudent to try to put it out. What do you use? Flour? You could have sworn you are supposed to use flour to put out a grease fire. Or is that the thing that makes the grease and the fire both explode into a more fiery, greasy explosion?
<p>You need to think fast. Waffle Home is counting on you.</p>
<<nobr>><div class = choices><ol>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "I'll look for a lid to suffocate it.">>[[I QUIT.|firestarter 3]]<</linkreplace>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "I can't handle this. I'll call emergency services.">>[[SCREW THAT TWO-WEEKS NOTICE.|firestarter 3]]<</linkreplace>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "I need to call my manager.">>[[THIS IS MY RESIGNATION.|firestarter 3]]<</linkreplace>> </div></li>
<li><div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "Nope. I'm out.">>[[EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY: I QUIT.|firestarter 3]]<</linkreplace>> </div></li>
</ol></div><</nobr>><p>You stare at the fire in disbelief for a moment.
<p>Slick condiment bottle still in-hand, you squirt more oil onto the fire for good measure. Despite the way it pops and explodes, it still seems… underwhelming.
<p>With a flick of your wrist, you toss the bottle itself onto the flattop, watching as the plastic shrinks and gives way to toxic fumes while stoking the flame.
<p>You look to the corners of the ceilings for a camera, for any indication of someone listening. Slowly, you enunciate, making sure that the beady-black lens can read your lips. “HEY!” You shout, wrapping your hands around the waffle iron that sits on the counter, still plugged into the wall. “HEY. I QUIT.”
<p>Finally, you spot your target: camera posed above the register, meant as an anti-theft deterrent. First, you make eye contact with the glinting lens. Then, you throw the waffle iron into the flame.</p>
<<button [[CONTINUE|firestarter end]]>><</button>><p>From the safety of your car, you watch through bulletproof-glass storefront as flame spreads throughout the restaurant. The analogue clock on the wall dripping and melting like some sort of painting, you can finally leave now, satisfied.
<p>Destruction continues in your rear-view mirror.
<p>When the eruption happens, cracking the bulletproof glass and collapsing a wall in on itself, your entire car rattles around you. Flame engulfs the roof, gurgling black smoke as Waffle Home sputters its last, majestic beast lain dying on Atlanta horizon.
<p>You struggle a few times to get out through the roundabout. Then you [[drive.|drivin][($chapter to "ERROR: No New Content") , ($location to " ")]]</p><style>
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<br>
<p><span class = 'flatlinelarge'>end of demo</span></p>
<p><span class = 'accent'>Thank you for playing.</span></p><<script>>
var passages = document.getElementById("passages");
passages.scrollTop = 0;
<</script>>
<<if tags().includes("title")>>
<<else>><div id = header><span>$chapter</span><span><span class = headertext> $location</span></span></div>
<</if>>
<<if !tags().includes('title')>>
<<run UIBar.show();>>
<</if>><div id='footer'><span>INTERFACE LOADED</span><span>PROVIDED BY NEXUS NETWORK V30.30</span><span>BUILD 1.00.9122124.G99</span></div><div id="struss"></div>/*game display*/
<<set $chapter to " ">>
<<set $location to " ">>
/*player character*/
<<set $firstname to " ">>
<<set $lastname to " ">>
<<set $gender to " ">>
<<set $trans to true>>
<<set $pro_they to "they">>
<<set $pro_them to "them">>
<<set $pro_their to "their">>
<<set $pro_theirs to "theirs">>
<<set $pro_themself to "themself">>
<<set $def_feature to " ">>
<<set $height to " ">>
<<set $piercings to " ">>
<<set $hair to " ">>
<<set $tattoo to " ">>
<<set $fashion to " ">>
<<set $motivation to " ">>
<<set $mercname to " ">>
<<set $class to " ">>
/*personality*/
<<set $aggro to 0>>
<<set $stoic to 0>>
<<set $humble to 0>>
/*^ arrogant*/
<<set $cool to 0>>
<<set $weird to 0>>
/*relationships*/
<<set $dylan to 0>>
<<set $steph to 0>>
<<set $dorothea to 0>>
<<set $miller to 0>>
<<set $claude to 0>>
<<set $cho to 0>>
<<set $dylanromance to false>>
<<set $stephromance to false>>
<<set $dorothearomance to false>>
<<set $millerromance to false>>
/*game events*/
<<set $dorotheadead to false>>
<<set $dylanbetrayed to false>>
<<set $claudedead to false>>
<<set $corporat to false>>
<<set $giveup to false>>
<<set $kisseddylan to false>>
<<set $tyche to "no">>
<<set $shift to " ">>
<<set $choice to 0>>
<<run UIBar.stow(true);>><<link "Go Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>><<run UIBar.hide().stow();>>
<style>
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</style><center><h1><span class = fade>A Life Supreme</span></h1><span class = fade><hr><hr></span></center>
<<cont append>><center><table>
<tr>
<td style="width:25%"><<button [[NEW GAME|opening]]>><<set $chapter to "Prologue: Genius Next Door">><<set $location to "location services offline">><<run UIBar.show();>><</button>>
<<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<button "RESUME GAME">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</button>><</if>></td>
<td style="width:25%"><<button "LOAD GAME">><<run UI.saves()>><</button>></td>
<td style="width:25%"><<button "SETTINGS">><<run UI.settings()>><</button>></td>
<td style="width:25%"><<button [[CONTENT WARNINGS|cw]]>><<set $chapter to "content warnings">><</button>></td>
</tr>
</table></center>
<</cont>><h3><b>A Life Supreme</b> is intended for mature audiences and contains content warnings for:</h3>
<ul><li>flashing/animated text effects</li>
<li>depictions of death, violence, blood, and gore</li>
<li>use of guns and bladed weapons</li>
<li>drowning</li>
<li>surgical procedures with and without consent</li>
<li>kidnapping and use of restraints</li>
<li>vomiting</li>
<li>use of illicit drugs</li>
<li>use of tobacco and alcohol</li>
<li>substance abuse and addiction (includes discussions thereof)</li>
<li>sexual content and discussions of sex</li>
<li>suicidal ideation, mentions of suicide</li>
<li>discrimination against fictional groups resembling real-world prejudice</li>
<li>mention and discussion of transphobia</li>
<li>mentions of child abuse</li>
</ul>
<<button [[RETURN TO MENU|titlecard]]>><</button>>/*player name/pronounce*/
<<widget "name">><<print $firstname.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "They">><<print $pro_they.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "Them">><<print $pro_them.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "Theirs">><<print $pro_theirs.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>