Memento Mori

Browser lacks capabilities required to play.

Upgrade or switch to another browser.

Loading…

You have a nasty headache. A heavy metal band performs an encore at the front of your skull. When you woke up, it was a dull throb you chalked up to a fitful night of sleep. It’s been weeks since you’ve gotten a night of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, your nightmares have been haunting. Not haunting //you//. No, the dreams aren’t yours. In every terrifying sequence of nightmares, you’re a bystander. Your thoughts aren’t your own; the body you’re in isn’t either. You’ve tried explaining it to your therapist. The raised eyebrow you got in return put a stop to that conversation. Dreamwalking isn’t real, she said. Dr.Singh knows best, reviewers said. The //screams//. Their fear. Their broken sobs and resignation. Experiences that make your stomach turn. Dream telepathy, telepathic dreaming, oneironautics. Whatever it is, it feels real. //They// feel real. You don’t know who they are or what they look like, but you hear and feel their suffering even as the shadows fade and sunlight begins to pour in from the window. Said sunlight is amplifying the headache throbbing in your skull. Maybe you are crazy. The upside of these dreams is that you can’t recall them in the daytime. You remember that you had them, but the details are murky. Like sticking your head underwater and trying to see what’s above the surface. The inconvenient pain you could ignore slowly evolved into a vicious, pounding migraine that //demanded// your attention. Painkillers do little to numb it. <div class="choice">[[You don’t drink, so you know you’re not hungover.|no alc]]</div> <div class="choice">[[ You didn’t have THAT much to drink last night.|alc]]</div>

You don’t drink alcohol, so you know it isn’t a hangover that’s sending your head into orbit. You sift through your scrambled brain for other causes. Your dabbling in someone else’s dream doesn't cause //you// any adverse effects. Besides, you know, feeling as though you’re losing your mind. You haven’t been any more stressed than usual. You ate three full meals yesterday. You stayed off technology an hour before going to bed at 11. Hell, you’ve shown healthier behavioral patterns in the last few months than you have your entire adult life. Still, you feel like //shit//. <div class="choice">[[Next|freya]]</div>

Your roommate may disagree, but you know your limits and last night’s shenanigans didn’t even come //close//. Your dabbling in someone else’s dream doesn't cause //you// any adverse effects. Besides, you know, feeling as though you’re losing your mind. You haven’t been any more stressed than usual. You ate three full meals yesterday. You had, what? A beer and a few shots? You can’t remember the order you drank them in. How did the saying go? Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear. Beer before liquor… You’ve never been sicker. <div class="choice">[[Next|freya]]</div>

//Name//: $mcName $mcLastName //Pronouns//: Your pronouns are $pronouns //Hair//: <<if $buzzcut is true>> Your hair is buzzed short. <<elseif $hijab is true>> Your hair is wrapped in a hijab. <<elseif $hijab is false>> Your hair is $hlength, $hcolor, and $hstyle. <<elseif $buzzcut is false>> Your hair is $hlength and $hcolor. ($hstyle) <</if>> //Eye Color//: You have $mceyecolor eyes. //Major//: You majored in $mcmajor. //Weapon of Choice//: You favor $mcweapon

<<link "Character Profile">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Character Profile"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("Character Profile").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link "Stats">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Stats"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("stats").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link "Relationships">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Relationships"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("relationships").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link "Credits">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Credits"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("credits").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ ''//PERSONALITY//'' \ </div> Stoic $friendly Friendly Intimidating $charming Charming Stubborn $passive Passive Sarcastic $genuine Genuine <div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ ''//TRAITS//'' \ </div> Violent $merciful Merciful Selfish $selfless Selfless Cynical $optimistic Optimistic Impulsive $cautious Cautious <div align='center' style='font-size: 90%;'>\ ''//SKILLS//'' \ </div> Combat: $combat Science/Technology: $science Charisma/People: $charisma Deduction/Perception: $deduction Medical: $medical Alien Knowledge: $alien

<span class = "smallfont">//Memento Mori// is rated 18+ for violence, gore, explicit language, sexual themes, drug and alcohol use, and other material that may be disturbing to some readers.</span>

//MEMENTO MORI// <span class = "smallfont">//Remember Death.//</span>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 70%;'>\ by Cheye.W \ </div>

<<set $mcName to "Unknown">> <<set $mcLastName to "Unknown">> <<set $mcHair to "Unknown">> <<set $pronouns to "Unknown">> <<set $mceyecolor to "Unknown">> <<set $friendly to 50>> <<set $charming to 50>> <<set $passive to 50>> <<set $genuine to 50>> <<set $merciful to 50>> <<set $selfless to 50>> <<set $optimistic to 50>> <<set $cautious to 50>> <<set $combat to 0>> <<set $science to 0>> <<set $charisma to 0>> <<set $deduction to 0>> <<set $medical to 0>> <<set $alien to 0>> <<set $mcprologuewound to "none">> <<set $mcmotivation to "Unknown">> <<set $mcalienreaction to "Unknown">> <<set $mcweapon to "Unknown">> <<set $mcmajor to "Unknown">> <<set $mcoutfit to "unknown">> <<set $afullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $cfullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $zfullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $vfullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $xfullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $dfullname to 'Unknown'>> <<set $afriendship to 0>> <<set $cfriendship to 0>> <<set $zfriendship to 0>> <<set $vfriendship to 0>> <<set $xfriendship to 0>> <<set $dfriendship to 0>> <<set $aromance to 0>> <<set $cromance to 0>> <<set $zromance to 0>> <<set $xromance to 0>> <<set $dromance to 0>>

<<widget "are">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>are<<case false>>is<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "were">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>were<<case false>>was<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "s">><<switch $plural>><<case true>><<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>>

select your pronouns: <div class="choice">[[plural - they/them|more pronouns][$plural to true,$they to "they"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[singular - he/him, she/her, xe/xem|more pronouns][$plural to false,$they to "she"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You don’t drink, so you know you’re not hungover.|extra][$abuse to 10]]</div> <div class="choice">[[choice two|extra]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Next|extra]]</div>

<<liveblock>>$they <<are>> happy. $they <<were>> sad. $they run<<s>> down the road. <</liveblock>> <div class="choice"><<link "She/her Pronouns">><<set $they to "she">><<set $plural to false>><<update>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link "He/him Pronouns">><<set $they to "he">><<set $plural to false>><<update>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link "Xe/xem Pronouns">><<set $they to "xe">><<set $plural to false>><<update>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link "They/them Pronouns">><<set $they to "they">><<set $plural to true>><<update>><</link>></div>

<a href="https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/">Sugarcube 2 Documentation</a> <a href="https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2">Chapel - custom macros collection</a> <a href="https://github.com/cyrusfirheir/cycy-wrote-custom-macros">Cycy's custom macros</a> <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a> for sidebar images (<a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/4CpyhNQ-LdU">light mode</a> and <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/1L71sPT5XKc">dark mode</a>)

<h3>StoryInterface</h3> The StoryInterface special passage, used by creating a special passage titled StoryInterface, allows you to override the default UI layout of Sugarcube. At its most basic, it consists of a div with the id "passages" that displays the data from your passages on the screen, as shown in example 1. You can add more complex layouts by adding more elements to this passage, such as menu bars, splash screens, headers and footers, as shown in example 2. Defining these divs is as simple as adding the necessary HTML to the StoryInterface passage; however, note that if a div is assigned a "data-passage" property, you should not add content to it within the StoryInterface passage. This property assigns a passage to that div. In example 2, the div with the id "ui-bar" has the data-passage property "UIBar", meaning it pulls its content data from a passage with the same name. These designations are case-sensitive. If you're just starting out with Twine/Sugarcube, it's a good idea to familiarize yourself with the language and the UI before working with StoryInterface. ''Example 1'' {{{<div id="passages"></div>}}} ''Example 2'' {{{<div id="ui-bar" data-passage="UIBar"></div>}}} {{{<div id="passages"></div>}}} {{{<div id="footer" data-passage="Footer"></div>}}} This will create a layout with three basic elements: the UI bar, the passage, and the footer. Content for the UI bar is found in the UIBar passage; likewise with the Footer passage & div. <h3>Accessing the UI functions</h3> Using StoryInterface by nature removes the built-in UI bar and the links contained within (Saves, Settings, Restart etc); these can all be replaced using their relevant APIs. The most common & useful of these are listed below. These commands can be placed inside links or buttons. {{{UI.saves() - opens the save UI}}} {{{UI.settings() - opens the settings UI}}} {{{UI.restart() - restarts the game}}} {{{Engine.backward()/Engine.forward() - undoes the previous action and returns the player to the previous passage/moves the player forward one action}}} Similarly to the above, you can use {{{<<back>>}}} to create a button that automatically undoes the last action, or {{{<<return>>}}} to return to the previous passage without undoing any variable changes made. <h3>Dialog functions</h3> You can set up dialog options to pop up upon clicking a link or button, which allows you to share information with the player without adding a new passage to the player's history or changing the state of the game. In order to do this, you need to set up the Dialog box, tell it what passage contains the content you want to display, and optionally, add a title. {{{Dialog.setup("Dialog Box Title");}}} {{{Dialog.wiki(Story.get("PassageName").processText());}}} {{{Dialog.open();}}} Any of these commands can be used in the default layout as well as StoryInterface - if you want extra save buttons, back buttons etc. <<back "Return">> <<link "Settings">><<script>>UI.settings();<</script>><</link>> <<button "Saves">><<script>>UI.saves();<</script>><</button>>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 100%;'>\ ''//Lonely Loser Survivor's Club//'' \ </div> $afullname Friendship: $afriendship Romance: $aromance $zfullname Friendship: $zfriendship Romance: $zromance $cfullname Friendship: $cfriendship Romance: $cromance $vfullname Friendship: $vfriendship $xfullname Friendship: $xfriendship Romance: $xromance $dfullname Friendship: $dfriendship Romance: $dromance

Marinating in your own misery for a bit, you close your eyes and fight against a wave of nausea. You //hate// throwing up, and somehow you know that it won’t make you feel better, anyway. At half past 10, you drag yourself out of bed. You can’t hear your roommate, Freya, puttering around her room. The thin walls of your apartment are only nice when you’re figuring out how much social interaction you’re about to be forced into. Freya’s bubbly personality makes your teeth hurt sometimes, but she’s one of the best friends you’ve ever had. You’ve never met someone so //happy//. She bounces between friend groups, between boyfriends, an energizer bunny social butterfly. “Freya? Frey?” Weird. Freya’s a morning person, and she hates sleeping anywhere but her own bed. Your bare feet pad softly as you look for her in the small living room and kitchen. Your unspoken question is answered with a note on the fridge. It’s nestled in between a photo of the two of you and a whiteboard with the WIFI password. SILLYGEESE1989 and a hand drawn rock-on emoji. //Gone to brunch with Scarlett! I’ll bring you back your favorite. Kisses!- Freya ♡︎♡︎♡︎// You smile at her thoughtfulness and the promise of a late breakfast. Your headache can’t wait for her, as much as you want to. <div class="choice">[[Next|windy]]</div>

You have half a mind to text your sister. The Autumn air reminds you of your older sibling. When you were younger and easier to corral, Elisa would drag you and Viktor to seasonal events and have you join her in the festivities. Bobbing for apples, corn mazes, haunted hayrides. Fond memories, fading with time. You don’t text Elisa. Walking into the cafe, you find out you’re not the only one feeling like death warmed over. A chorus of groans echo as the door swings open and the bell rattles in sync with your headache. Middle Ground’s coffee shop is situated right next to your university campus, so it isn’t abnormal to see people your age nursing hangovers with frappuccinos on a Sunday morning. But still. //Everyone?// Did you miss a block party? <div class="choice">[[“Sorry, everyone.”|friendly][$friendly +=5, $genuine +=3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Well that isn’t a very warm welcome.”.|funny][$friendly +=3, $genuine -=5]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You raise your voice.“Good morning!”|mean][$friendly -=5, $genuine -=3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ignore them.|ignore][$friendly -=3, $genuine +=2]]</div>

You hold up a hand. “My bad.” Your apology is mostly ignored, but no one seems to be glaring in your direction. One girl smiles at you from her spot in one of the comfy armchairs. Her hair is cut into a choppy bob and dyed neon green. Heavy eyeliner, emphasis on the heavy. Accessories include multiple chains and combat boots. You grin back at her, wondering if you could pull off such a bold look. <div class="choice">[[Next|describe cafe]]</div>

You ignore the pain behind your eyes in favor of being an asshole. “Gooooood morning everyone!” You get a few scalding glances for your efforts, but for the most part, everyone is pretty out of it. An elderly woman leaving the cafe gives you a disappointed frown. You give her a winning grin; feigning ignorance. <div class="choice">[[Next|describe cafe]]</div>

“I wasn’t expecting you to roll out the red carpet, but that wasn’t a very warm welcome.” You get a couple pained laughs. The appreciation for your humor comes from two guys that look like their trust fund is their primary banking account, so maybe you should save your jokes. <div class="choice">[[Next|describe cafe]]</div>

Middle Ground’s aesthetic is earth tones. Beige walls, hickory countertops, white oak flooring. Floor to ceiling windows on one side of the cafe make it seem larger than it is. The hanging overhead lights are on, unnecessary with the amount of natural light in the room. The seating is subtly uncomfortable. The seats themselves are fine, but the chair backing puts you at risk for early spine realignment surgery. Freya suspects that they don’t want people hogging the tables all day. You think they’re just cheap. The staff are overworked and underpaid millennials. The pricing is ludicrous, the wait times the same, but the coffee is pretty good. As you wait in line, you pick a piece of hair off your hoodie. <div class="choice">[[It isn't yours.|buzzcut][$mcHair="Buzzcut"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It isn't yours; your hair is pretty good at staying under your hijab.|hijab][$mcHair ="wrapped under a hijab"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It's yours.|hair]]</div>

It’s Freya’s. Three long blonde hairs fall from your fingers. Your roommate is a hugger, and it isn’t the first time she’s left her locks behind on your clothing. Your own hair is cut short. It tickles as you run your hand over your buzz cut. You did the big chop the summer between high school and college. You needed a change, and what better way to celebrate your newfound independence? <div class="choice">[[Next|couple]]</div> <<set $buzzcut to true>>

How you manage to wrangle it into shape every morning is beyond you. Nevertheless, years of practice means your locks sit neatly under your hijab. The hair belongs to Freya.Three long blonde hairs fall from your fingers. Your roommate is a hugger, and it isn’t the first time she’s left her hair behind on your clothing. //“You’re worse than a golden retriever! In response, Freya makes a barking noise and puts her hands together in a begging-puppy pose.// <div class="choice">[[Next|couple]]</div> <<set $hijab to true>>

Of course, it’s yours. You find pieces of your hair everywhere. At least your hairline is intact. Small blessings. You watch the strands fall from your fingers. Your hair is <div class="choice">[[Long|style][$hlength="long"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Shoulder-length|style][$hlength="shoulder-length"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Short|style][$hlength="short"]]</div> <<set $hijab to false>> <<set $buzzcut to false>>

“Stupid fucking internet isn’t working.” A young woman grumbles from the table closest to you. She’s sat by the large window, but the sun only seems to irritate her as she glares at her laptop. Her partner snickers. “Have you tried restarting your computer? Want me to get some rice?” “Fuck you.” She puts her hands up in a mock surrender. “Easy, babe. You’re not the only one. I have like, no cell service.” You check your own phone. You don’t have good service either. Even in the city, your cheap phone plan isn’t known for widespread coverage. What does catch your attention is the time. 10:30. Wasn’t it 10:30 twenty minutes ago? Movement out the corner of your eye catches your attention. It's a black fly, narrowly avoiding the swatting hands of other patrons. <div class="choice">[[Next|gender]]</div>

Pulling out your phone, you scroll through your list of contacts and click on Elisa’s. Her contact photo enlarges. It’s been the same since 9th grade. You, brace-faced and chubby cheeked. Her, all grown up, having been too cool for her younger siblings for years now. She was stunning even then. You two were never going to look alike, but still. Must be nice to be the favorite of parental genetics, whoever those parents may be. Your thumb hovers over the call button. It’s early on a Sunday, she might be sleeping. Or at church. Or trying to wrangle Luke and Liliana into eating a breakfast that isn’t cereal. Or she might not answer. You press down before you can think twice about it. Your phone disconnects from the call not five seconds later. You frown and try again. You know she hasn’t blocked your number; you spoke to her a few weeks ago. To test it, you try Freya. Same result. Your roommate’s cheerful voicemail greets you instead of her. Okay then, not a you-problem. You pocket your phone once you’re at the front of the line. The barista greets you; his name tag reads “Aaron”. He’s shaggy haired and green-eyed. On the shorter side. You think you’ve seen him lingering around South Campus, smoking joints with his friends. Actually, now that you think about it, Aaron’s offered you a hit at a frat party. He looks as exhausted as you feel. He holds the side of his head and grimaces before forcing a smile. “Welcome to Middle Ground. What can I get for you?” “Um, I’ll take a medium salted caramel cold brew with whipped cream. Thanks.” Your smile feels just as forced as your headache seems to amplify. Aaron flinches and squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment. <div class="choice">[[“Do you have a student ID, sir?”|name][$pronouns to "He/Him"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Do you have a student ID, miss?”|name][$pronouns to "She/Her"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Do you have a student ID?”|name][$pronouns to "They/Them"]]</div>

You glance at your ID before you hand your card to the barista. You don’t look too different compared to freshman year, and you’re on the fence as to whether that’s a good thing or not. Your name is accompanied by a photo, laminated and stamped with your university logo. <<textbox "$mcName" "Please enter your first name.">> <<textbox "$mcLastName" "Please enter your last name.">> <<link 'Click here to confirm your name.' 'invasion start'>><</link>> <<if $pronouns is 'She/Her'>> <<set $heshe to 'she'>> <<set $HeShe to 'She'>> <<set $hisher to 'her'>> <<set $HisHer to 'Her'>> <<set $himher to 'her'>> <<set $HimHer to 'Her'>> <<set $hishers to 'hers'>> <<set $himselfherself to 'herself'>> <<set $manwoman to 'woman'>> <<elseif $pronouns is 'He/Him'>> <<set $heshe to 'he'>> <<set $HeShe to 'He'>> <<set $hisher to 'his'>> <<set $HisHer to 'His'>> <<set $himher to 'him'>> <<set $hishers to 'his'>> <<set $HisHers to 'His'>> <<set $himselfherself to 'himself'>> <<set $manwoman to 'man'>> <<elseif $pronouns is 'They/Them'>> <<set $heshe to 'they'>> <<set $HeShe to 'They'>> <<set $hisher to 'theirs'>> <<set $HisHer to 'Theirs'>> <<set $himher to 'them'>> <<set $hishers to 'theirs'>> <<set $HisHers to 'Theirs'>> <<set $himselfherself to 'themselves'>> <<set $manwoman to 'person'>> <</if>>

Aaron tells you your total and you slip your ID back into the slot behind your phone, exchanging it for your credit card. As soon as the card leaves your hands, you’re biting back a groan of pain, so engrossed in your own discomfort that you don’t pay attention to people around you doing the same. That ache has crossed the line into agony. The ringing in your ears becomes an orchestra of noise. You double over and fall to your knees, hands over your ears. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a few others fall to the floor as well. The barista remains upright, but he looks pale. You think you heard the sound of your credit card bouncing off the tile. Before either of you can speak, an earthquake begins. Except, that doesn’t make any sense, because you’re far from any fault lines. The ground shakes anyway, //violently//. The room goes dark. More than that; the world does. It’s disorienting to be plunged into darkness while your body remains aware that it is daytime. <div class="choice">[[Next|lights]]</div>

Lights explode around you. The warm overhead light fixtures become projectiles of broken glass. Windows shatter. No, not shatter. They’re blown out with force. Instinctively, you cover your face to prevent the glass from ripping into your flesh. You aren’t as quick on the draw as you’d hope. The force of one laceration carves out a gash above your eye, while other smaller cuts decorate your face and hands. Blood pours from the wound. You yelp as it runs down your face and makes itself at home in your eyes and mouth. Kneeling over, you spit blood onto the tile. You can spit all you’d like; it continues to flow and flood every open orifice. It puddles on the cafe’s white floor. Stuffing one hand inside the sleeve of your hoodie, you press the fabric to the wound on your forehead. You gasp at the excruciating feeling of compression and try not to panic at the blood soaking your clothing. You don’t alieviate the pressure. <<if $hijab is false>> Blood dyes your hair crimson as you smear it around in your attempt to staunch the flow. You don’t want to think about how many times you’ll have to wash your hair after…whatever this is. <<elseif $hijab is true>> Blood stains your hijab, and in your dizzy, dissociated state, you mourn the loss of your favorite headscarf. This’ll never come out in the wash. <</if>> <div class="choice">[[Next|cafe loss]]</div>

Screams of varying cadences reach your ears. Some high pitched and terrified. Others pained, low, guttal. The blood roars in your ears. //“Eun-Sook. Eun- Eun-”// The woman with no internet sobs, bloody and broken over the body of her partner with no cell service. She’s bleeding heavily from her neck, her lover’s efforts to save her futile. A groan echoes from behind you. It’s Aaron, wheezing out his last couple breaths. In the rumbling, the large fridge had toppled over and crushed him beneath it. Like you, he spits blood. Unlike you, this blood is from his lungs. Stumbling to your feet and standing on trembling legs, you use your one good eye to navigate out of the coffee shop. Broken glass crunches under your feet as you put one foot in front of the other. Hoodie still pressed to your skin, you feel the blood slowly begin to dry. You don’t know where you’ll go in this state, but you can’t stay here. Where the cafe was an example of chaos, outside of it is //cataclysmic//. You can barely see two steps ahead of you because of the //massive fucking..thing// above you. You can’t get a good look at anything but the underside of it. It stretches so far and wide that the entire city, maybe even half the state, is cloaked in darkness. It would remind you of a void or a black hole if it weren’t for the searchlights that are uniformly scattered around the thing’s underbelly. Beams of artificial light rain from within, throwing small sections of the city into disarray. You might prefer the darkness, because what you see in the light is the stuff of nightmares. People run to, from, and around all sides. They topple over each other in the dark, shoving by in an attempt to get somewhere safe. Shock causes you to pull your hand from your head wound. You hiss as it starts bleeding again, but it isn’t nearly as much as before. The wave of people moving against you causes you to move too. You aren’t sure what it is you’re afraid of. The collective panic makes fear seize your muscles, adrenaline working overtime. You find out soon enough. <div class="choice">[[Next|monster]]</div>

It’s a monstrous thing the size of a school bus. Its wingspan stretches from one skyscraper to another; it has to fold the wings back to devour the humans below it. The wings resemble black leaves that have been chewed by caterpillars, but the creature flies just fine. As those searchlights light up the shadows, you see the monster in front of you isn’t the only one of its kind. Its mouth parts to show two rows of razor sharp teeth, blood and gore painting them red and pink. Spiked scales move in time with its breathing. Four tentacles act as legs; the fifth is thick and in the shape of a tail. Bright red eyes are framed by raised slots of metal. You can’t tell if the top of their head has antennae or horns. It's more mammal than insect, and more lizard than mammal. You watch, frozen, as it bites the head off an old woman and tosses it to the side. No, they’re not here to eat, not here for sustenance. They’re here to //kill.// The creature turns its massive head, and this is where you start to run. You have numbers on your side, as morbid as it sounds. The city’s large population is moving at once. It reminds you of those wave pools you used to love as a kid. Those had less bodily fluids, if you could believe it. <div class="choice">[[Next|text freya]]</div>

Police and fire-truck sirens blare. People try their best to part for the approaching emergency vehicles, but panic makes people stupid. You jump as some asshole in a sports car nearly runs you over in their haste to avoid traffic. “Aliens! Dude, they’re fucking aliens!” No. No no no, //no//. It’s the most logical illogical answer. You worry about Freya. Scarlett lives about a 20 minute subway ride from your apartment. If they’re staying local for brunch, that means she’d be over an hour walk from home. A pointless fact that jumpstarts your nerves. In a stupid, hysterical move, you grab your phone again. Your shaking fingers fly across the keys with a series of typos. Not bothering to correct it, you hit send and watch as your message to Freya goes undelivered. Shit. <div class="choice">[[Next|annabelle]]</div>

How is your hair styled? <div class="choice">[[straight|color][$hstyle="straight"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[wavy|color][$hstyle="wavy"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[curly|color][$hstyle="curly"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[tightly coiled|color][$hstyle="tightly coiled"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[afro|color][$hstyle="in an afro"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[bun|color][$hstyle="in a bun"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[box braids|color][$hstyle="in box braids"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[pixie cut|color][$hstyle="in a pixie cut"]]</div>

What color is your hair? <div class="choice">[[Black|couple][$hcolor="black"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Light Brown|couple][$hcolor="light brown"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Dark Brown|couple][$hcolor="dark brown"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Blonde|couple][$hcolor="blonde"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Red|couple][$hcolor="red"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Blue|couple][$hcolor="blue"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Pink|couple][$hcolor="pink"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Green|couple][$hcolor="green"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[White|couple][$hcolor="white"]]</div> <<link 'Click here to confirm your hair.' 'couple'>><</link>>

Someone half your size runs into you. It’s a little girl; she can’t be older than 11. She’s tripping over her own two feet as her father drags her along. He doesn’t look back, but she does. Her bright green eyes are everywhere. You don’t think she’s seen a dead body before, or knows what her insides look like when they’re outside. She hasn’t seen the worst of humanity, where people push each other into death to save themselves. While her father pulls her with a grip on one wrist, in the other hand she clutches a doll. It’s petite and perfect, frayed doll hair blowing in the wind. Your eyes flint upwards to see that you’re on 96th street, a few doors down from the overpriced jewelry store Freya liked her various boyfriends to frequent. Likes. Not liked. You can’t think in past tense. Not yet. Not when you’re in danger of becoming a passing thought, yourself. The glass shatters outwards as someone is thrown through it. People scream in surprise, you included. The man that crashed through the shop window lays in a growing pool of blood, groaning in pain. His left eye is gouged out, dangling from his skull. //“H-help me. Please-.”// Your next scream is trapped in your throat as one of those winged creatures appears from the inside of the store and continues to tear into the man’s flesh. He gurgles and chokes on blood, feeble cries of pain vibrating his vocal cords. <div class="choice">[[Next|move]]</div>

“Move. Move- //move!//” The backwards scuffle of your shoes against the pavement is loud in your ears. Without thinking, you lunge for the girl’s arm. Her father’s head whips around to find the source of the movement. He relaxes only slightly when he meets your eyes. Yanking the little girl along, you and her father duck into an alleyway. The other end of it doesn’t look any more promising than where you just came from. Turn around, you die. Move forward….you //may// die. Panic sits heavy in your chest. When you inhale, it feels like shards of glass are carving up your lungs. //Not now.// You can //not// fucking panic right now. <div class="choice">[["We need to hide."|hide][$deduction +=10]]</div> <div class="choice">[["We need a weapon."|fight][$combat +=10]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Say nothing.|say nothing][$friendly -=3, $genuine +=2]]</div>

//“You’ve barely touched your food.” I can’t see the shadow, but I can hear it. “You should try to enjoy yourself. This world is ours. I made it just for you.” I believe it. I sit with my back to the waif, legs crossed at the ankle and metal cuff adorning the base of one arm, one leg. My own special design, they’d said. The cuff on my arm is permanent, at least to me, connecting to the one on my ankle to prevent full mobility. The one on my ankle is switched out from room to room. Both scrape against my skin and cause angry welts in the waking world. The doctors believe I do it to myself. I’ve given up on explaining it to them; who would believe the things I see behind my eyelids? I’d ask my keeper for some relief, but I don’t want that thing touching me any more than necessary. Not that they do all that often. Still, I don’t want to ask. They’re more content to watch me and talk; I’m more content to listen. And scheme. And survive the night. And try not to hurl. In my nightmares, they make me eat. “Would you like more wine?” My plate is a quarter of the way done; it irks the shadow when I eat too quickly or too slowly. I’m used to such treatment. In the institute, I gave up on refusing food early on. Turns out I am one of the weak not meant for hunger strikes. By the third day of starving, I was scarfing down everything the nurses put in front of me. It wasn’t the hunger that won in the end. I waited and wished to die, disappointed when I woke up the next day. Over time, my appetite has lessened. I’m now a bony, malnourished thing. What is lunch or dinner, when your days are all the same? They jump right to tube feeding now. My nose itches with a phantom tickle.// <div class="choice">[[Next|Dream]]</div>

//I know better than to ignore the shadow’s question, so I nod and shove another piece of sirloin into my mouth to keep from screaming. It tastes expensive. Begrudgingly delicious. I’d rather swallow sandpaper. I should tell it I’m a vegetarian, just to fuck with them. They’d know I’m lying, though. I’ve wondered what it gets out of watching me. I think it likes the back of my neck, the sharp curve of my jaw. My eyes. It doesn’t touch me, but I know it wants to. There's a faint buzzing sound in my ear. There always is. As if the room were alive. I tense as they come up behind me. The shadow is in the vague shape of a human form, but I can’t be imagining the heat coming off them. Oppressive. Suffocating. I can smell the cologne the shadow has soaked themselves in. I would recognize it until my dying breath. When it’d asked me to pick one, I should have picked a scent that repulsed me, kept me from warming to them. No, I picked one I liked. I find myself preferring it over the stink of the real world, the sterile scent of my assigned bedroom and the device they strap me into to keep me from digging canyons in my flesh. I know what stockholm syndrome is. The next time they speak, the words brush my ear. Truth be told, I need a haircut. “Your mind is mine. I can taste your deteriorating sanity.” It’s so close. They’re doing it on purpose. I swallow. “They don’t believe you. But I do. You never have to hide yourself from me.” It’s gone as quickly as the shadow came, back to its corner of the room. Always watching me. Always hungry. “Now, where was I?” I give myself three measured breaths before continuing my meal. The shadow is one of routine, every night we perform for each other in this way. They are the director, producer, stagehand, and crew. I am the puppet. The pitiful understudy, always playing catch-up. Luckily, I’m a fast learner. I know my lines. I’ve spent my entire life being imprisoned in my own mind. When I lay my head down to sleep, I no longer fight my fate. “Let’s play a game. What am I?” The stitches holding the skin of my calf together burn. You can never be more than what you are. It’s what I want to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue, the sharp retort and the smidge of control I can take back. What is it exactly? A monster? A demon? A man-made nightmare from my subconscious?// <div class="choice">[[Next|Dream End]]</div>

//I shake my head at the question. “Easier question. What are you?” I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am, either. My father thinks I’m insane. My mother thinks I have the devil in me. I don’t disagree with them. “I know my purpose. I’ve studied its history, worshiped at its altar.” A breath, for show because that thing doesn’t need to breathe. I feel its eyes crawl over me. “I know you the way a heart knows the body it beats in. When it is time, you will understand.” I can’t stop the question from spilling from my lips. “Time for what?” I haven’t breathed; the room sizzles with a charged tension. When the shadow speaks again, it’s lightning in the middle of a storm. My question goes unanswered; the shadow answers their own. “What are you, if not mine?”// <div class="choice">[[Next|Wake Up]]</div>

Toeing your shoes on, you scribble a note back to Freya and head out. You pass Ms. Melody from Apartment B12. She gives you a wave and holds up a bag of produce she’d plucked from the community garden. You’re surprised the city’s pollution hasn’t made it radioactive; the pies she makes are delicious. As you descend the steps exiting your apartment building, you wonder if the sun has always been this bright. You hold a hand up to your face and contemplate running back inside for sunglasses. It’s windier than usual, so much so that the hood of your sweatshirt flies back and falls onto your shoulders. The wind alone isn’t a cause for concern, it’s the leaves. Fall is settling in. Red, orange, and yellow leaves swirl around your legs and crunch beneath your feet. Not that there’s many trees around. There’s only one large source of foliage in the city, and that’s a good 15 miles away. //Did the wind blow these leaves all the way over here?// Something in your ear is ringing. <div class="choice">[[Next|enter cafe]]</div>

Do they expect you to fall to your knees and beg for forgiveness? Were you supposed to materialize through the door? You ignore their groans and move towards the counter. One of the baristas look amused at your nonchalance. <div class="choice">[[Next|describe cafe]]</div>

“We need to hide.” “Hide where?” The father says, keeping his voice low. “I’m open to ideas, but things are looking pretty grim from where I’m standing.” Your eyes dart towards a small dumpster near your end of the alleyway. It looks well-used with just barely enough room to fit the three of you. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet]]</div>

You keep your mouth shut. There’s no point in wasting your energy talking and debating hypothetical ways to die. Your eyes dart towards a small dumpster near your end of the alleyway. It looks well-used with just barely enough room to fit the three of you. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet]]</div>

“We should distract one of them somehow. Get a hold on one of their weapons.” Her father nods. “I agree with you. I did 10 years in the army; I know my way around a gun. But then what? We take out a few of them. What about whatever the hell that thing is above us?” You don’t have a response to his question. Your body twitches with pent up energy and adrenaline. You need to do //something//. Your eyes dart towards a small dumpster near your end of the alleyway. It looks well-used with just barely enough room to fit the three of you. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet]]</div>

“My name is Matthew, by the way.” Alright, we’re doing introductions now. “This is Annabelle.” Annabelle gives you a toothy grin, which you try to return. Her little hand is still clasped in yours, the doll between you digging lines into your palm. “$mcName. Nice to meet you.” Matthew snorts. “Could be nicer.” Can’t argue with that. The three of you keep moving forward on slow, cautious feet. You keep an eye on that dumpster, calculating with each step how many it would take to jump back and run for it. You are ten steps past your hiding spot when the three of you come to a stop. At the other end of the alleyway, about twenty steps in front of you, three armored aliens come into view. They raise their weapons to shoot something, or someone, around the corner and out of your line of sight. Your heart just about stops in your chest. You can’t see their facial features through the sleek black armor, if they have any. The armor is thick and obscures the true shape of their bodies, but you can tell that they’re tall. Multiple thin, metal covered arms extend from their thoracic cavity like spider legs. Your brain stutters at the idea that those arms may be real and not a biomechanic. It’s too late to do anything else but hide. You can’t run with a monster waiting for you on the other side. You can’t fight. Three against two, with both of you worried about the kid? You’d be dead before you can blink. <div class="choice">[[Next|triad]]</div>

“Behind us.” You whisper, not taking your eyes away from the trio. Annabelle ducks behind you two. “The dumpster. If we move quickly enough, we can all fit. It'll be tight, but we don’t have a choice.” Matthew looks back between the dumpster and you, then down to Annabelle. His face hardens. “No. We can’t just hide and wait for them to come pick us off. I’m not going out like that.” He begins to untangle himself from his daughter. “Take her with you and go. I’ll distract them. Fucking-” He cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his face and looking at Annabelle with tears in his eyes. “Go with $mcName, Annie. $HeShe will keep you safe.” <div class="choice">[[Next|bad plan]]</div>

There’s no time to argue with that god-awful plan. You feel sick to your stomach as you fight to pull Annabelle with you towards the dumpster. Ten steps. Nine. Eight. Seven. Matthew rips his eyes away from you with one final look of determination. You scoop Annabelle up as best you can, but she’s stronger than she looks. Six. Five. Four. //“Daddy!”// Annabelle rips herself from your arms, the blood from your body getting on her pristine blue dress as she lunges for her father. “Annabelle, no!” Matthew hisses her name, eyes going wide in alarm. Three. You keep moving backwards as your fragile plan falls apart. Annabelle’s cry alerts the triad of aliens. They turn, one by one, to look down the narrow alleyway. Two. One. You have to save yourself. You jump through the dumpster’s side door and close it behind you. Your heart pounds in your chest cavity. You could vomit; you could cry. Staying as still as your trembling form can, you listen. You listen for sounds of a struggle, but there is none of that. Annabelle’s wails and Matthew’s frantic yelling is snuffed out by two bullets, cracking through the air in quick succession. Your body lurches at each. Tears saturate the blood on your face and drip tinted crimson onto your hoodie. It happens that quickly. You wait for the aliens to rip the small door off its hinges and execute you too. A quick, virtually painless death. More than you deserve for the way you failed Matthew and his daughter. Those things don’t notice you. You can hear the crunch of their shoes against the pavement and the wet, sticky smear of blood. <div class="choice">[[Next|listening]]</div>

//“Ve’lo. e rapak’i saveen. Ta’colo vacci. Jaenil ei wa'bessvi.”// You can’t stop trembling. You’re afraid you’re shaking the dumpster with the force of it. One hand over your mouth, you force your nose closed so you won’t gag at the rank stench. Rotten food soils your pants and the bottom of your hoodie. The hand over your face doubles as a way to muffle your sobs. You can’t hear them anymore. You strain your ears to listen once again. You can hear sounds of violence, but nothing close to you. Moving slowly, you crack open the dumpster door, wincing at the screech it makes. Poking your head out, you look to one side, the other, and upwards. Nothing. Trying not to hyperventilate, you climb out of the dumpster and try to get your bearings. You can’t, no, you //refuse// to look at the two bodies to your left. Two gunshots, two bullet wounds, two twin pools of blood. You didn’t know them, but you feel like you did. //You tried to save them. You fucking tried.// You’re trying to remember the city’s layout by memory. Your apartment is in the direction that everyone else is running from. Out of the question. So where the fuck can you go? Your sister’s place is on the other side of the city. Bile rises in your throat at the thought of Elisa, her husband, and her small children. Small like the one that died clinging to her father. Think. Think. //Think.// <div class="choice">[[Next|phone]]</div>

Between one second and the next, your hip is alight. You scream in anguish, hands moving frantically to locate the source of the pain. Patting your side only makes the fire explode on contact. Your screams are strangled, //panicked.// No one pays you any mind, not monster nor alien or human. Around you, terror mixes like wet paint. Your phone exploded in your pocket. The smell of burnt flesh would make you gag if you had enough air in your lungs to heave. With shaking hands, you sob as you try to remove the device from your pants. The fire spreads and flames continue to lick your skin with searing, open mouthed kisses. Fuck the pants. You whimper, tears blurring your vision as you pull your pants down to your ankles and fall backwards. You kick wildly. Your shoes cause your pants to bunch, so you rip them off too. Your skin is raw, ravaged by fire. You watch the skin of your right hip bubble and redden. You press your face into your gross hoodie and let out a full-bodied scream. Your hands fare only slightly better. The palms are swollen and blistered. Adrenaline keeps you from passing out, but your face and hair is caked with dry blood, your clothing soaked with it. You smell putrid. You’re in your underwear, barefoot, sitting on your ass in a dirty alleyway with second degree burns. //Fuck this.// The wet sound of death reminds you that you need to keep moving. <div class="choice">[[Next|where to]]</div>

The world isn’t any less scary from above. From your vantage point, you get a better look at the people that have been terrorizing the city. Maybe even the world. Without their armor, they’re plucked straight from a macabre painting. Tall, gangly, and gaunt, their ghastly appearances are amplified with the way they seem to glide across the ground. Those arms you thought could be biomechanical are flesh, or some grotesque version of it. They’re tentacle like, extending from their back and seeming to have a mind of their own. You think of Medusa’s snakes and shiver. It’s darker up here; beacons of light will flash before prioritizing the ground below. It’s not a haphazard array of light; you can tell they’re looking for something. It’s methodical. It also means that you need to not be seen. The journey to the roof is faster than you expected. These buildings are newer, meaning the fire escape isn’t as rusted as the one at your place. Instead, the fire escape is newly painted with a glossy finish. The apartments themselves are a mixture of red brick and a muddy brown. Fans still sit in the windows as the Autumn season hasn’t quite shaken off the summer heat. You scurry up to the roof in record timing, the adrenaline making your movements frantic. The burn on your hip stings at the stretch of your muscles. Your swollen and blistered hands leak pus around the extra pressure. You army-crawl your way across the grey roof; only getting up to duck behind air conditioner units. The searchlights scan the roof once every 3 minutes. You count in your head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. You play it safe and scramble to hide at 2 minutes and 45 seconds. The sound of your clothing scraping against the rooftop makes you want to itch. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. <div class="choice">[[Next|roof acid]]</div>

You’re on 110th street. There’s one place you can go, possibly the only one. Javier Garcia owns the bodega on 112th. In a big city with no work experience, he was the only person who would hire you in the summer between sophomore and junior year. Javier knew you since your first week as a freshman. Your friendship blossomed during finals week, when Freya was throwing parties every other night, the library was packed, and you needed a quiet place to study. He’d offered his office, and you accepted it graciously. When your rent increased, Javier didn’t blink before starting your training on the spot. He has a son your age. Javier went away to visit him for the week. And thank fuck, he showed you where he keeps the spare key. Knowing where to go and knowing how to get there are not the same thing. You have two options. The first is to take this to higher ground. The fire escape should lead up to the rooftop, and most of the apartment buildings are so close together that you can hop across each with relative ease. Problem is, the higher up you are, the closer you are to the //thing// in the sky. Second option is staying on the ground. It would usually take you less than 10 minutes to walk from here to the shop, but there is nothing “usual” about this. You’re more comfortable with the route, but most of the things down here want to kill you. You hear a curt scream cut through the white noise in your head. You think you can see blood splatter around the corner. You need to make a decision. //Now//. <div class="choice">[[Go to higher ground.|roof][$impulsive +=5, $deduction +=3, $alien +=3, $mcprologuewound= "arm"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Stay low.|ground][$impulsive -=5, $deduction +=3, $alien +=3, $mcprologuewound="leg"]]</div>

A direct route is best. You know the area, and you know how to get out of there if need be. Shuffling around the corner, you keep close to the buildings and triple check possible escape routes. The initial storm seems to have passed; whoever is still on the street is being picked off one by one. This isn’t good news, as you hoped to have more distractions running around. It’s scary how fear makes you think. It’s instinct to drop to the ground when four aliens appear from an alleyway. They’re far enough away from you that you can duck down unnoticed, but you’re in the middle of the sidewalk with little to cover you but cars. If they walk a quarter of a block in your direction, they’d see you. So you have to keep moving. On your hands and knees, you crawl. Broken glass makes itself at home in every part of you that touches the ground. You wince at every crumble of glass under your body, both from the pain and for the sound it makes. Your swollen, blistered hands leak pus around the shards. You can hear the aliens conversing with one another. Though you can’t understand what they’re saying, one is clearly the leader. They speak in an authoritative manner, while the others chirp acknowledgements of their orders. You stop moving each time there is a break in conversation. Then, the leader of the small group speaks, loudly. //“Wavlanou.”// <div class="choice">[[Next|ground acid]]</div>

You miscount about halfway across the roof. You think you’re at 2 minutes and 34 seconds, but the searchlight lighting up the area around you says otherwise. You cry out in surprise, scraping your palms in your rush to move. Compared to how the rest of your body looks, it’s a small wound. You sprint. You try to. You can’t tell if it’s the lack of air in your lungs or the second degree burns that are slowing you down. The bright flash of light hurts your eyes. You wince and throw your arms above your head. The searchlight continues its path as if you don't exist. Your heart races as you make it across another apartment building. One more to go. And then, it starts to rain. Lightly enough that you could ignore it if your perception wasn’t cranked up to 11. No, that can’t be right. The ship above you would prevent any and everything from the sky. This is coming from //inside// the ship. And it fucking hurts. It’s acid. <div class="choice">[[Next|descend]]</div>

You yelp and instinctively wipe at your body. The small, almost invisible droplets sear your skin where they land. Waterdrop bee stings. You frantically rip off your hoodie to tie it around your head and partially cover your face. You haul ass across the last rooftop and make sure the ground is clear before making your descent down the fire escape. The rain doesn’t last more than three minutes, but it makes the fire escape slippery. You almost lose your footing a couple times. A couple times too many, actually. While descending the last few feet, you slip. On the way down, you slice your arm open on an exposed piece of metal. Your body tries to fight the inevitable, flailing as you plummet toward the ground. You land flat on your back. You don’t have enough oxygen to scream in pain; you can only wheeze and convulse on the wet ground. There’s pressure on your skull and you’re seeing double. A concussion. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic. Whoever is still on the street is being picked off one by one. Those ghoulish aliens seem to prefer long distance combat, as they keep their distance and use their guns for assassination. As you force yourself to get up, you don’t think everyone has multiplied in the last 20 minutes, which means the concussion must be gnarly. Stumbling to your feet once again, you cautiously hobble around the corner. <div class="choice">[[Next|outside bodega]]</div>

It starts to rain. Lightly enough that you could ignore it if your perception wasn’t cranked up to 11. No, that can’t be right. The ship above you would prevent any and everything from the sky. This is coming from //inside// the ship. And it fucking hurts. It’s acid. You stifle a scream and instinctively wipe at your body. The small, almost invisible droplets sear your skin where they land. Waterdrop bee stings. You’re lucky that you aren’t the only one making noise; the rain seems to have drawn out the few remaining survivors onto the streets. A woman stumbles onto the sidewalk ahead of you. Her bright wave of red hair moves like a dancing flame. You’re mesmerized watching her turn. The scalding bites of rain on your own body are temporarily forgotten. It takes her a second to realize that the rain burns. She screams at the top of her lungs and begins to pat herself as if she were on fire. You understand, but you need her to //shut the fuck up// before she gets you both killed. It’s too late. You watch the woman look up with wide, terrified eyes. You know the aliens have spotted her, and if you don’t get out of there, you’ll be dead too. <div class="choice">[[Next|car]]</div>

You see a car nearby with a bit of wiggle room underneath. You haul ass over to and under it. Your earlier burns protest the quick movements, but adrenaline helps you ignore it. Wiggling your way to safety, you watch as the leader shoots the woman in the head. One shot, one bang, one body hitting the ground. From your position under the car, you get a better look at the people that have been terrorizing the city. Maybe even the world. Without their armor, they’re plucked straight from a macabre painting. Tall, gangly, and gaunt, their ghastly appearances are amplified with the way they seem to glide across the ground. Those arms you thought could be biomechanical are flesh, or some grotesque version of it. They’re tentacle like, extending from their back and seeming to have a mind of their own. You think of Medusa’s snakes and shiver. The rain stops. It couldn’t have rained for more than three minutes, but your exposed flesh sizzles with angry little boils. One of the flying creatures appears and lands in the middle of the street. It tilts its head at the leader in the form of a bow. //“Bahk-ti. Gavo. Se’shum va’palna.”// The monster tilts its head from one side to another while the alien speaks, like it’s listening to them. Orders received, the creature flies away, wings blowing with a force that causes several car alarms to go off. This includes the one above you. You cover your ears against the deafening symphony of noise. You can’t curl into a ball; there’s no space for you to move. You press your face into the asphalt and beg for it to end. Silence. There’s no noise; none, zero, zilch. It’s like someone hit the pause button on the chaos around you. You can’t hear the aliens; the car alarms have been shut off. It’s eerie. You take advantage of the lull, scrambling out from under the car. You should’ve moved a bit slower, because you slice your fucking leg open on a piece of metal you hadn’t noticed in the dark. //“Fuck!”// You cry out, slamming your fist onto the pavement. Dragging your body the rest of the way, you roll over on your back and try to breathe. You can feel the wound bleeding sluggishly. Luckily, you aren’t far from your destination. Hobbling for another half a block, the silence you had been blessed with has been lost. Screams echo anew as you get closer to the shop. You’re practically tripping over yourself to get there. Your vision blurs at the edges. <div class="choice">[[Next|outside bodega]]</div>

Javier’s bodega. It’s not much from the outside, but you’ve never been happier to see the faded shop sign. //The Back Nine Grocery and Deli.// It’s situated snug between a playground and one of the best pizza places in the city. The red brick is missing in some places, worn and weathered in others. The shop is locked down tight to deter shoplifters or squatters who have the same idea you do. You smear blood across the exterior as you move toward the unassuming back entrance to Javier’s office. There’s no one around. Blood and guts, but not the people they belong to. Javier hadn’t moved the key. It’s taped to the underside of a loose brick. You’re still bleeding steadily, and you press a hand to the new wound. You drop the key twice while fumbling for the lock. You’re swimming in pain and the blood loss is worsening by the second. <div class="choice">[[Next|office]]</div>

Javier’s office is in one word: grey. Grey walls, grey concrete flooring. Grey storage lockers, grey desk and grey folding chair. If the room wasn’t damp and didn’t make your nose wrinkle, you’d call it sterile. The lockers sit on the far side of the room, next to it a small sink. The clock on the wall makes a melodic //tick tick tick//, a metronome that sounds muted in your damaged ears. Close the door, lock it. Lean against it and catch your breath. You do these things in order. Blood smears everything your body touches. You can’t tell which wound is bleeding the most. The rain left your skin bright red and decorated with tiny, stinging welts. On shaking legs, you push the metal desk up against the door. Your body screams in protest as your adrenaline fades and exhaustion replaces it. Stumbling, you cross the room and open the large locker. You shove aside coats, the lockbox, spare clothes, movements becoming frantic because //where the fuck is it?// The first aid kit is a small, pathetic thing that sits at the bottom of your old boss’ storage locker. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do for now. Your hands shake as you fumble to open it. Slick, wet blood gets in the way. You drop the bandages a few times before you manage to rip the package open with your teeth. The metallic taste of your blood makes your stomach turn. One of your arms give out. The bandages, now open, go spilling onto the floor. You sob in pain and frustration as you crouch down and gather them. Leaning against the locker, you beat your hand against your chest as you cry. Your breathing is agonized and rapid. Your fingers lack dexterity, but you’re able to crack open the antiseptic. <<if $mcprologuewound is "arm">> You gnaw on your foul smelling, dirty hoodie to keep your scream from echoing. Calling it a sting would be disingenuous. No, this is an excruciating burn. You flail your arm, the action futile. The movement does little to cool your skin. <<elseif $mcprologuewound is "leg">> You gnaw on your foul smelling, dirty hoodie to keep your scream from echoing. Calling it a sting would be disingenuous. No, this is an excruciating burn. You flail your leg like the pretty, dead redhead from earlier, the movement doing little to cool your skin. <</if>> <div class="choice">[[Next|panic]]</div>

Tears, spit, and snot mix with the blood on your face and dribble off your chin. The hoodie parting your lips allows for some of the concoction to drip inside your mouth, making you gag. You’re crying too hard to care. The antiseptic bottle is long gone, having been thrown halfway across the room once the searing pain registered in your nervous system. The gash bubbles, a clear indicator that it was filthy. With trembling fingers, you begin to wrap your wound. Each press against it means you have to take twenty seconds to sob and blink through a haze of tears and pain before starting again. Blood washes your vision. The analogue clock on the wall tells you that it’s taken thirty minutes to patch yourself up. Your burn from earlier throbs anew, hip pulsing in time with your pulse. The blistering has gotten worse, and the wound looks angry. Your bare feet ache; broken glass is embedded in the soles. Your toenails are cracked, and your fingernails aren’t looking any better. You’ve lost so much blood. You’re fucking //terrified//. As soon as the last piece of tape meets the bandage, you lose the battle with the nausea that’s ebbed and flowed the last hour. The hoodie falls from your mouth as you lean over and heave. Last night’s dinner and bile pool on the office floor. The stench makes you gag again. You’re too exhausted to move as it slowly creeps towards where you sit. Once your stomach is empty, you continue to heave until you’re breathless. You’re sweating. Your head hurts and you’re covered in something sticky. <div class="choice">[[Next|prologue end]]</div>

It’s blood. Blood that used to belong to you. The smell of bile makes your nose wrinkle. Tear ducts dry, your vision dips into black as you stare into the bright fluorescent lights of Javier’s office. They look like tiny UFOs. //But aliens aren’t real.// For a moment, you wonder how your dream partner is doing. You think of their scarred skin and wish you knew what they looked like. What they're doing right now. //“What am I?" “What are you, if not mine?”// You think you hear sirens in the distance. Or maybe that’s your damaged inner ear ringing a sweet, seductive lullaby. Hallucinating and delirious, you fall into oblivion. <div class="choice">[[Next|Chapter 1]]</div>

Thank you for playing //Memento Mori// Chapter 1! As of August 25,2023, I am working on Chapter 2. You can follow my tumblr account, ''starlightandetherealshadows'', for updates on this IF's development. ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ All my love, //Cheye//

<div align='center' style='font-size: 150%;'>\ ☾. ''PROLOGUE'' ☾. \ </div> //“I am like a small creature swallowed whole by a monster, she thought, and the monster feels my tiny little movements inside.” ― Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House// <div class="choice">[[Next|Start]]</div>

<div align='center' style='font-size: 150%;'>\ ☾.Chapter 1: The Devil on your Shoulder, The Stranger in your Head. ☾. \ </div> //"So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."-T.S Elliot// <div class="choice">[[Next|dance dream]]</div>

//“Hello, pet.” I inhale, exhale. Cold air infiltrates my lungs; the methodical process of exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide. Pulmonary ventilation and perfusion. A delicate balance between alveolar air and the blood of my pulmonary capillaries. I feel chilled, inside and out. There are ice particles in my oxygen. If I didn’t have demons running rampant in my head, if I didn’t see shadows in blinding daylight, I think I could’ve gone to medical school. Made something out of my mind. Instead, I’m what keeps doctors in business. The forever patient. “Do you know where you are?” Tonight’s nightmare takes place in Paris. My rosa homme fits like a glove; the fabric soft against my brown skin and emaciated body. The color matches my eyes. It's been a while since I looked like this, but my nightmares know no timeframe. They shift reality as they see fit. Madame Marie Dupon ran us ragged, ran us broken and feral and craving her approval. Weigh-ins for breakfast on Wednesday. Six miles for supper on Sunday. We were animals; we were kept. We may have danced in a chapel, but we were far from holy. Years have passed since I’ve danced for Madame and made myself small in her image, but I can’t quite lose her voice. Her favorite quotes echo. “Qui craint de souffrir, il souffre déjà de ce qu’il craint.” She would say. Le Fontaine. Despite the blood stained, ghastly bodies that inhabited the space, Madame Dupon’s studio is a work of art. The outlandishly tall, curved ceilings are covered in renaissance paintings and gold accents. Ornate columns frame massive windows. Chandeliers hang low and threatening, but they’re captivating at the same time. The floors are polished twice a day, usually by those who couldn’t pull their miniscule weight. Like every reimagining the shadow creates, the room is awash with a foggy, navy blue haze. The ever-present buzzing, like the rapid fluttering of insect wings, no longer makes me cringe. The academy was- is beautiful.// <div class="choice">[[Next|dance dream 2]]</div>

//The way the shadow stares, I know it thinks the same of me. My posture is appalling. It has been ever since I suffered a stress fracture in my spine. It hurts to stand all the way upright; my 6’3 frame is less imposing when I’m trying to disappear. My feet should be aligned with my knees, my insteps lifted to form the proper arch. My pelvic bone, fractured from too many attempts to loosen my restraints, is no longer level and square. “Do you miss your family?” The change in direction surprises me. My stance falters with my confusion. I allow a beat of silence to determine whether that was rhetorical or not. The shadow’s matching silence tells me it wasn’t. My voice is hoarse. “Yeah.” Liar. I hadn’t spoken to my parents in years. It knows this. They don’t call me on it; it must be in a good mood. The shadow remains behind me, committing my flesh to memory. Mother used to chastise me for my bad posture, when she was tolerant enough of me to visit and I was coherent enough to be paraded around the visitor’s center. I used to be one of the best. Now? No matter the location, I am obsolete. Madame used to say that there is nothing of value less than perfection. Without perfection, you are nothing. She called me “little bird”. From nowhere, music begins to play. Swan Lake, Act III. The coda; two dancers, a pas de deux. Then, the Black Swan. Flawless, untouchable, ethereal. 32 fouetté turns. The shadow has been generous and granted me my pointe shoes. The movements are muscle memory; I don’t need to stretch. In this nightmare of my dreams, I am enough as I am. “You are everything and more, as you are mine.” My breath hitches. It’s involuntary. I try to cover it with a snarl, but the question is genuine. “And just how long am I stuck here with you?” There's a pause. The thought of the shadow thinking, contemplating me makes my skin crawl. “Forever. And when that forever is over, I will create a new one.” The bile that rises should burn, but like the rest of me, my throat is numb. “La vie est un beau rêve, mais ne vous réveillez pas.” Mother loved that one. Life is a beautiful dream, but don’t wake up. // <div class="choice">[[Next|dance dream 3]]</div>

//“Go on, my pet. Dance for me.” I balance evenly, planted on my relevé foot and using that to center myself. I kick sideways, swinging my left leg to the side and building momentum before tucking in. First position, passé en relevé, plié et développé front, à la seconde. Let my left arm fly out with my left leg, the two tethered together on a string. Core tight, hips down, chest up and open. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE. UP.// <div class="choice">[[Next|dance dream end]]</div>

You wake up with a gasp, fighting to shake off your shared dream. Your nose drips a slow stream of blood from your nostrils down to your slack mouth. You roll over to your side and spit it onto the floor. It isn’t the first time that you’ve woken up to a nosebleed, and it won’t be the last. The scent of blood and the taste of it in your mouth still makes you gag. Reaching over for the wadded rolls of toilet paper on your nightstand, you press tissues into your nostrils. Bloodied spit dribbles from your mouth as you try to breathe. Sweat drenched sheets slide against your body. You scratch at your itching scabs; now you’re bleeding from more places than one. It takes only five minutes for the dreams to fade into the deep corners of your memory. You'll know that you've had a nightmare, but you can't unearth the details. Sometimes you wake up and think “this is it.” This is the day that you press down, press deep, and drown in a pool of red. Sometimes, you wish you would stumble upon your sister’s body, so you can join her. You want the freedom to die, but you don’t want to take it. You want it to be given to you. It’s a very sick way to live. //Fuck.// <div class="choice">[[Next|no cry]]</div>

You refuse to cry. You press a fist to your chest and bear down on your sternum. The pain distracts you from the tears welling in your eyes. Some days, the really bad ones, you don’t get out of bed. You lay back on your moldy mattress and stare at the dilapidated ceiling. You sing the lullabies your mama liked, ignoring how your voice was tremulous and hoarse. This is during the day. At night, you’d cry out for both mom and mama, sorry for every harsh word you didn’t mean, for every rebellious thing you did as a know-it-all teenager and as a stubborn adult. Curling into a ball, the fist to your chest isn’t enough. The sob forces its way through, and soon enough, you’re screaming into your bloody, wet pillow. You wail hard enough to hyperventilate. You wipe snot and stray blood clots onto the arm of your sweatshirt. When you sleep, you’re either freezing or overheating. No in-between. No comfort to be found. Sometimes, you think your sadness will consume you. When you have no tears left and your nose has run dry, you slide your body to the corner of the bed. Pressing tender feet to the ground, you stretch your body and listen for the telltale crack of bones. You give yourself a moment to breathe through the pain of being alive. Your leg shakes with pent-up, frustrated energy. When you can’t get any sadder, you get angry. <div class="choice">[[Next|bathroom]]</div>

Putting one foot in front of the other, you walk into the bathroom. The water and electricity works, but only sometimes. It’s spotty, as if whoever is hooking it up doesn’t want to draw too much attention to the fact that it's working. You don’t turn the lights on. Even though it’s midday, there are no windows in the bathroom. A slice of heaven for mold and bacteria, but not unheard of for city apartments. Regardless, you aren’t keen on seeing the state of your appearance. Not like you’ll be running into anyone else anytime soon. Your “shower” is a bucket of overused water. You have half a bar of soap left that you’ve been rationing. Bathing isn’t an everyday occurrence; it’s more a “three times a week” luxury. The water only works once a week, on Wednesdays. So you fill five buckets. One for bathing, one for the toilet, one for washing your face and brushing your teeth, one for cooking, and one to freeze. You fill your stomach, too. Your dehydrated body sings every Wednesday, when you drink enough water to almost make you sick. Today is Monday. A shower day. You undress quickly and toss the clothes in a small corner by the sink. The first of every month is laundry day. Grabbing the small bar of soap, you sit in the bathtub and begin to wash. You’re frugal with the lathering, focusing more on using the old washcloth to scrub your skin raw. Injuries old and new protest the rough treatment. You ignore the stinging. You also ignore the itching of your scalp. The dandruff is gnarly, but hair washing is reserved for the first Friday of every month. Water is precious; there is no need to waste it. Routine and regulation is the only thing you have left. It keeps you alive, much as you want to die. <div class="choice">[[Next|outfit]]</div>

After two years, you still have to be careful when stepping out of the tub. It was only, what, two months ago that you tripped and nearly cracked your head open? You have some pride, that isn’t the way you want to go out. Butt-ass naked in a gross, crumbling apartment. Drying yourself quickly, you note that you have less water left than you’d like. In the time you’ve been here, whoever turns the water on has only missed one Wednesday. You almost died that week, delirious and trying to survive off of a singular plastic water bottle. You have a very limited reserve; those two weeks without really tested your patience. And your sanity. Still, you worry that there will come a time where the water won’t come on again. Then what? You’ll have to go looking for more. You’ll have to leave. If you leave, you won’t be coming back. You’ll either find a new home, or die out there. Isn’t it pathetic, to be picky about how you want to die? You brush your teeth, no toothpaste. You ran out of that a week ago. Washing your face is a quick process. Running a comb through matted hair, you give up halfway through. You haven’t been able to give yourself a haircut in over a year. The rusty pair of scissors hidden in Javier’s kitchen cabinets did little to help you. Wrapping the damp towel around you, you walk back into the bedroom and get dressed. <div class="choice">[[Style isn’t dead. You put on a pair of well-worn jeans and a form fitting crop top. You tie a plaid button down around your waist. Sliding on your favorite necklace, you put on a pair of black fingerless gloves.|backpack][$mcoutfit to "stylish"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You prioritize comfort above all else. Leggings, a t-shirt, and a hoodie is all you need. You throw on a baseball cap to keep the sun out of your eyes.|backpack][$mcoutfit to "comfort"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’re practical. You put on cargo pants with plenty of pockets. A white tank top is paired with a windbreaker jacket. No jewlery. Can’t risk getting it caught on anything.|backpack][$mcoutfit to "practical"]]</div>

Though held together by duct tape and hope, your backpack has stood the test of time. Grabbing it from its spot beside the bedroom door, you scan the room to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything. The wallpaper is a hideous floral pattern, and the carpet is no better. Javier’s wife must’ve picked it out. You’d met her exactly once. Her name was Catalina. It was her and Javier’s 30th wedding anniversary, and your boss trusted you with the store for the evening. She was a sweet woman. You hope wherever Javier’s family is, they’re together. Closing the bedroom door behind you, you make your way down the hallway. You pass photographs of ghosts. Javier and Catalina. Their son, their niece and nephew. Their parents. Multiple generations to mourn. And mourn you do. It would be difficult not to, when you’re living in a haunted house. Two years of this, and how many more? You slam your backpack on the mahogany kitchen table, not flinching when it rattles. Looking through the matching cabinets, you already know that they’re nearly empty. All that you have left is some trail mix, crackers, and canned beans. You’ll have to make a supply run today. You knew that when you went to bed last night, but the morning reminder is unwelcome. You hate leaving the house; the sun is too bright. Too //normal// while you’re suffocating. <div class="choice">[[Next|break in]]</div>

Your hideout at Javier’s store seemed too good to be true, and it was. Not a month after the invasion, other survivors had broken into the store and raided it. You were upstairs in Javier’s apartment. You could hear the sounds of theft and desperation. In that moment, you were grateful that you had the forethought to move most of what you needed upstairs. When you slowly entered Javier’s store the next day, it was nearly empty. Everything had been taken; even the magazines. You never returned to your shared apartment with Freya. Too many memories, too many bodies, too many injuries to make the trip safe. Instead, you woke up in a puddle of your own vomit and blood. Fearful, you’d remembered that Javier’s apartment was directly above the store, accessible from the back office’s staircase. You had a few options for getting into the place. In the end, you chose <div class="choice">[[to open it by force.|force][$combat +=5, $impulse +=3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[to pick the lock.|pick lock][$science +=5, $impulse -=3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[to try and find the key.|find key][$deduction +=5, $impulse -=3]]</div>

You were too exhausted to fiddle with locks or look for the key. You used your last remaining bits of strength to kick the door in. Luckily, the lock was weak, and you were able to repair it using a toolbox Javier kept underneath the kitchen sink. You were marginally embarrassed a week later, when you found the key taped to the underside of the planter. <div class="choice">[[Next|still dreaming]]</div>

Your youth was full of rebellion. You’re more ashamed of it in adulthood, but it has its uses. You know how to pick a lock. Finding a bobby pin on the shop counter, you inserted it into the doorknob and swept the tool both clockwise and counterclockwise until you met resistance. Apply a bit of pressure and boom. Door unlocked. You were marginally embarrassed a week later, when you found the key taped to the underside of the planter. <div class="choice">[[Next|still dreaming]]</div>

You were exhausted, but not so much so that you would try to use force to open the door. You had no clue how to pick locks, or if this type of door would be able to be lockpicked. You focus all your remaining energy and put it towards finding the key. You crossed your fingers in the hopes that Javier kept that key in this hallway and not somewhere in the shop. You did a little happy dance in your head when you found the key taped to the underside of the planter. <div class="choice">[[Next|still dreaming]]</div>

You slept for 11 hours, but you’re still exhausted. The dreams haven’t stopped. Like your bathing routines, each night is predictable. You close your eyes and wake up in another person’s body. It’s the same person every night. You don’t see their face, but you feel them. You’re in their head. You see what they see, feel what they feel. You don’t know their name or their gender. But you know //them//. Some nights, you’re seeing their past. They relive memories with a present eye. Other nights, you witness a tortured soul pay their dues to whatever shadow feasts on their pain. Neither your dream partner nor the shadow seems to know that you’re trespassing. You aren’t looking forward to the day they find out. When you aren’t traversing in your dream partner’s nightmares, you’re having dreams of your own. You see the faces of your mothers, of Elisa and Viktor, of Matthew and Annabelle, of Freya. People you’ve failed that day. Sometimes, you prefer dreamwalking. That’s a guilt-ridden thought. You wonder what Dr.Singh would say about that. <div class="choice">[[Next|eye color]]</div>

You grab some crackers to soothe your stomach. You allow yourself a few sips from your water bottle, noting that your throat tickles. Fucking hell, you’d better not be getting ill. Your immune system is in the shitter as it is. You have to remember to see if the pharmacy has anything left. Shrugging your backpack over your shoulders, you begin to make your way to the front door. You move quickly to avoid looking into the small foyer mirror. You aren’t fast enough, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection. What you see, you can’t ignore. //Choose your eye color.// <div class="choice">[[dark brown|mirror][$mceyecolor="dark brown"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[light brown|mirror][$mceyecolor="light brown"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[blue|mirror][$mceyecolor="blue"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[green|mirror][$mceyecolor="green"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[grey|mirror][$mceyecolor="grey"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[hazel|mirror][$mceyecolor="hazel"]]</div>

Your $mceyecolor eyes are dull, lifeless like the bodies decomposing on the paved roads into and out of the city. Dark circles, mouth set in a permanent frown. Small, raised scars are scattered across your forehead, cheeks, and chin. Splatters of dry blood that the dark bathroom let you miss while you washed your face. You look feral. A mockery of a human, grotesque remains wearing ill-fitted flesh. Your reflection shatters as you put a fist through the glass. The pain doesn’t register. Brushing the glass and blood from your knuckles, you pull on Javier’s heavy boots. They don’t fit perfectly, but they aren’t loose enough to make you trip. Securing a few knives and your weapon, you lock Javier’s door behind you. <div class="choice">[[Next|abandon]]</div>

For the most part, the city is abandoned. Nature has begun its descent on the empty streets. Green grass sprouts in between cement cracks, and foliage slowly creeps up the sides of apartment buildings. Bones are haphazardly scattered between stalled cars; the remains crunch under your heavy boots. The stench of death never left, though the bodies are long decomposed. With much of Earth’s population dead or scrapping for life, whatever creatures linger must be hungry. Or bored. Sometimes you’ll see a flash of long, blonde hair, and your heart will stop. You’ll rush over, hands shaking but needing to be //sure//. And you’ll turn the body over or brush the hair from her face. You breathe a sigh of anguished relief when the features don’t match up to your technicolor memory. You look for Freya in every pretty dead girl. The supermarket you’re looking for is situated below an old factory building. It’s a twenty minute walk from Javier’s shop and located a mile from the main train station. You’ve been there a few times, but you’ve seldom left the apartment in the last few months. You’ve crossed paths with the flying creatures a few times since the day of the invasion, but you haven’t seen even a glimpse of the tall, gaunt aliens that accompanied them. From the time you woke up in Javier’s office, it was quiet. The massive ship that lingered above the city was gone, and all that remained was the decreased and the struggling survivors. <div class="choice">[[You feel a deep, ugly hatred towards them|hatred][$mcalienreaction="hatred"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You hate them, but they fascinate you.|fascination][$mcalienreaction="fascination"]]</div>

They disgust you, from their appearance to their actions. They took everything from you. Everything you hold dear, every bit of your potential, destroyed. Snuffed out in a matter of hours. You don’t want to hear their reasoning or their excuses. There is nothing they could say to quell the fire that burns in your blood. To die by your hand, that is the only justice you’ll accept. The thought of Annabelle makes those tears reappear. It’s a heavy feeling, hating something you can’t see. <div class="choice">[[Next|stupid leaf]]</div>

Your curiosity leaves a sick feeling in your gut. Put one of those things in front of you, and you’d want to kill them slowly, make them suffer. But you also want to ask them “why.” Why did they do this to you, to everyone? Why did they choose Earth of all planets? Why did they have no mercy, not even for the children? After that, then they’ll die by your hand. The thought of Annabelle makes those tears reappear. It’s a heavy feeling, hating something you can’t see. <div class="choice">[[Next|stupid leaf]]</div>

As you walk with careful steps and diligent eyes, leaves crunch under your feet. It’s a warm October day, but the leaves have begun to change color and fall. Now, you’re closer to the park. The sight of leaves makes you panic, just a bit. Trauma response, as Dr. Singh would say. A marker of the worst day of your life. It’s just a stupid leaf. It makes your heart race and your breathing go shallow. You quicken your pace to get inside as quickly as possible. You don’t like being out in the open, alone and vulnerable. //East Camden Market// is rundown, and not from the apocalypse. It was never the pinnacle of infrastructure, but the supermarket had the most diverse food options in the city. The prices were cheap enough to be affordable, but not so cheap that you question what you’re eating. Elisa used to turn her nose up at places like this. At least Freya liked slumming it with you. One of the sliding doors is open. The first time you came here. you were a bit surprised that the glass hasn’t shattered with all the ruckus. Considering what part of the city you’re in, the glass might be stronger than it looks. You enter on cautious feet. From what little you know, those monsters are den animals; they like to settle in dark, sheltered places like these. Your hearing hasn’t been the best after the invasion, but you crouch down low and listen. Nothing. <div class="choice">[[Next|stock up]]</div>

You move slowly, wincing when you accidentally crunch on small pieces of glass. You chastise yourself for not watching where you step. If hunger doesn’t kill you, any monster within a mile radius sure will. The market is barren. This would be the first and primary source of resources for people when everything went to hell. It’s a one stop shop. Food, toiletries, medicine, clothes, supplies. Empty aisles and vacant shelves. You’ll have to get creative. Grabbing a lone broom from the cleaning product aisle, you go to the section with non-perishable food items. Keeping your eyes and ears on your surroundings, you lay flat on your stomach and look underneath and between the shelves. Bingo. Using your broom, you drag canned goods and other foods that have fallen in the fight for resources. Some look a little worse for wear, but a hungry stomach can’t complain. You manage to scrape together three cans of vegetables, a jar of peanut butter, pack of granola bars, three packs of dried fruit, and three bottles of water. You even manage to scrounge up some chocolate bars and a can of soda, as a treat. Satisfied with your food haul, you use your macgyver skills on the toiletry section. You have slightly less luck here; you get a travel sized tube of toothpaste, one stick of deodorant, and two more bars of soap. <div class="choice">[[Next|sudden sound]]</div>

Reorganizing your bag to evenly distribute the weight, you’re contemplating pushing your luck for a few pairs of underwear when you hear a sound. Shit. Any sound is a bad sound when you’re the only human in the surrounding area. Slowly placing your backpack on your shoulders, you make sure your boots are tied, secure, and ready to run. You keep your breathing even in an attempt to calm your heartbeat. You don’t hear anything else. That isn’t a comfort; the more sound it makes, the easier it is to pinpoint its location in the store. You can’t avoid something you can’t see. There is no “trying” to survive. Either you do, or you don’t. Straightening from your crouched position, you try to remember the various exit routes you noticed on your way to this back section. You also unsheathe your weapon. Just in case. <div class="choice">[[You favor a singular handgun. It’s light, easy to load, and you can multitask with the other hand. You don’t know what you’re about to be running from, but you can never be too careful. |run][$mcweapon to "a singular handgun"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You prefer using two handguns, one in each hand. It allows you to shoot at multiple targets, but it also tampers with your ability to balance yourself while running. You have a sinking feeling that you’ll need your body at equilibrium, so you keep one gun holsered and unsheathe the other.|run][$mcweapon to "two handguns, one in each hand"]]</div>

You don’t know which direction to head in. You take three steps to your left. One, two, thre- A monster appears. They leap over the shelving unit and launch themselves at you. With a panicked yell, you jolt into action. Narrowly avoiding the crunch of their teeth, you sprint down the aisle and around the corner. The creature slams into the opposite aisle. The shelves create a domino effect. The creature ignores the sounds of aisles slamming into each other; it snarls and continues the chase. You duck and dodge around fallen debris, collapsed aisles, and clothing racks. The monster is less dexterious, crashing through your every avoided obstacle. You’re running for your fucking life, but you know you shouldn’t be able to outrun it. It’s slower than it should be. The aliens must have left the monsters to die off, now that they’ve served their purpose. They must feel secure enough not to need their pet monsters. You hate them so fiercly, it may consume you. You race through the market, grateful that you took the time to fit everything neatly in your bag. You don’t have time to worry about any other creatures, the one hot on your heels is enough. The creature scrambles behind you on weak legs. You wonder why it doesn’t fly. The ceiling is low, but not low enough that it would completely hinder the thing. <div class="choice">[[Next|ready to shoot]]</div>

You can’t run forever. You jump over a cashier’s desk and nearly break an ankle. The skin of your right hip tugs with each quick movement. The burn healed, but it left behind tightened skin that fights against the turn of your pelvic joints. Adrenaline holds back the worst of the pain, but it isn’t fucking pleasent. Cocking your gun, you plan. You’re close enough to the exit where you can duck behind one of the closed doors and shoot the creature as it moves through the open one. You just have to hope that it chooses the obvious path rather than ramming into the glass door. It looks strong, but the monster is massive //and// strong. If you miscalculate, you’re dead. Next question, where do you aim? You aren’t completely sure of the creature’s anatomy. Your knowledge of mammals tells you that the heart should be on the left side of the creature's chest, but that would require you to get under the creature. Not happening. That leaves the brain. The monster’s head is covered in metal armor. The only part exposed to the outside world is the creature’s bright red eyes. <div class="choice">[[You get lucky with each successful shot.|lucky][$combat -=5, $mcshootingability="lucky"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You're something of a sharpshooter.|sharpshooter][$combat +=5,$mshootingability="sharpshooter"]]</div>

You’re no sharpshooter. You’ve only used your gun a handful of times, each time more traumatizing than the last. You’ve never been a fighter. Disagreements on the playground were resolved with your wit and charm, not your fists. Talking your way out of trouble doesn’t work with these monsters. Though you hate using them, Javier had a few guns stashed between the apartment and behind the cash register. For intruders and such. You found ammo, too. It took you several tries to load it correctly, and you nearly shot yourself in the foot. From then on, stealth was your friend, and the weapons were your backup. You’re on plan “backup”, now. While running, you check to make sure your gun is loaded. It slows you down, and you trip over a stray can. You right yourself just in time. Sprinting to the exit, you duck around the closed glass and prepare yourself. Your heart races, and your grip on the gun is shaky. Line up the shot. Don’t hesitate. Shoot. The moment the creature’s head appears around the open door, you’re aiming for one of its huge, red eyes. Just as it opens its mouth to bite you, you’re firing. The recoil makes the bones in your wrist hum. Thank your lucky stars, you didn’t miss. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet c]]</div>

Not to brag, but you’re pretty damn good with a gun. Before all this, you hadn’t seen a gun in real life. Javier had a few stashed between the apartment and behind the cash register. For intruders and such. You’re lucky to have found ammo, too. Your practice was in real life; the first time you shot the gun was the first time you almost died. You remember the experience vividly. The crack of the gunshot, the recoil making you flinch, the dreadful thought of “if I miss, I’m going to die.” You didn’t miss, and so you live. While running, you check to make sure your gun is loaded. It slows you down, and you trip over a stray can. You right yourself just in time. Sprinting to the exit, you duck around the closed glass and prepare yourself. Your heart races, but your grip on the gun is secure. Line up the shot. Don’t hesitate. Shoot. The moment the creature’s head appears around the open door, you’re aiming for one of its huge, red eyes. Just as it opens its mouth to bite you, you’re firing. The recoil makes the bones in your wrist hum. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet c]]</div>

Blood and brain matter splatters on your face and clothing. Wiping it from your face with disgust, you note that the color is closer to black than crimson. Picking bits of gore from your shirt, you move backwards and keep your eyes on the dying monster. Just as it’s taking its last breath, you trip on the ledge between the sidewalk and the street. You expect to fall on your ass. Instead, you fall into someone. “Woah, easy there tiger.” A human’s breath brushes the shell of your ear. They sound amused, even as you begin to flail in their grip. They stopped you from falling, but they let you go easily. You spin around, hands raised. <div class="choice">[[It's a redheaded man.|c intro][$cfullname to 'Chase Quinn', $cname to 'Chase',$cheshe to 'he',$cHeShe to 'He', $chimher to 'him',$cHimHer to 'Him',$chisher to 'his',$cHisHer to 'His',$chishers to 'his',$cHisHers to 'His', $chimselfherself to 'himself',$cmanwoman to 'man',$cboygirl to 'boy',$clooks to 'handsome']]</div> <div class="choice">[[It's a redheaded woman.|c intro][$cfullname to 'Cecelia Quinn', $cname to 'Cecelia',$cheshe to 'she',$cHeShe to 'She', $chimher to 'her',$cHimHer to 'Her',$chisher to 'her',$cHisHer to 'Her',$chishers to 'hers',$cHisHers to 'Hers', $chimselfherself to 'herself',$cmanwoman to 'woman',$cboygirl to 'girl',$clooks to 'pretty']]</div>

It’s a $cmanwoman. $cHeShe's average height with an average build. A $clooks $cboygirl next door. Freckles decorate $chisher face and arms like constellations. Green eyes give you a once-over. Not in the way that makes your skin crawl, but in a way that makes you believe $cheshe’s checking for injuries. $cHeShe’s wearing light brown pants and a patchwork jean jacket. Underneath it, there’s a white t shirt with a cartoon frog on it. It says “MILF: man I love frogs.” $cHeShe has checkered white and blue vans. $cHisHer curly red hair moves with the wind as $cheshe rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. $cHeShe raises $chisher hands when $cheshe sees the expression on your face. “I come in peace.” $cHeShe laughs at $chisher own joke. You haven’t spoken to another person in two years. The words feel big in your mouth, awkward and imposing. So you keep it shut. You lower your fists but keep your stance defensive. Your glare doesn’t falter $chisher good mood. “I heard the commotion and thought I’d come give you a hand.” $cHeShe peers past you at the mass of dying monster, thin lips tightening at the sight. “Looks like you’ve got it covered.” The redhead grins when $cheshe turns back to you. “The name’s $cname. $cname Quinn.” $cHeShe holds out a freckled hand, expecting you to shake it. <div class="choice">[["Hesitantly shake " +$chisher+" hand."|shake][$friendly +=5, $impulse +=3, $passive +=3,$cfriendship +=1]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Glare at " +$chisher+" hand and ignore it."|ignore hand][$friendly -=5, $impulse -=3,$passive -=3,$cfriendship -=1]]</div>

You slowly, hesitantly bring your hand up to shake $chishers. You’re aware of the calloused, rough touch of your palms. You haven’t had much time for manicures. $cname doesn’t seem to mind, shaking your hand eagerly and beaming. Your moms did raise you to have manners. “I’m $mcName.” <div class="choice">[[Next|stink]]</div>

You stare at $cname’s hand like it’s going to bite you. You glare at it, and at $chimher. You don’t know $chimher and you sure as hell don’t trust $chimher. You don’t have the best self-preservation, but you’re not an idiot. However, your moms did raise you to have //some// manners. “I’m $mcName.” <div class="choice">[[Next|stink]]</div>

$cname repeats your name back to you, as if seeing how it feels. “So.” $cHeShe kicks a pebble and watches it hit a stray soda can. “You must be pretty competent to have survived on your own for such a long time.” $cHisHer question makes you freeze. “You looked at my hand like it was invented yesterday. And your social skills are severely lacking.” “Plus.” $cname leans a bit closer and takes an exaggerated whiff. “You smell like someone who hasn’t had another person around to tell them that they’re ripe.” Offended, and more than a little embarrassed, you take several quick steps backwards. You bathe the best you can. $cHeShe has not a clue what you’ve been through- “But there’s a silver lining.” $cname continues, still smiling, “that makes it easier for me to offer you to come back with me to our little ragtag group of survivors.” Your brain struggles to process $chisher words; your face is burning. “What?” “A proper shower, a semi-warm meal, a roof that isn’t shitty. The works! Just for the evening, if ya want.” You think of every horror movie you’ve ever seen; you think of cannibals and human sacrifices. Religious fanatics and cult leaders. You would be a goddamn idiot to accept an offer like this. The decline is on the tip of your tongue. <div class="choice">[[Next|accept c offer]]</div>

You can’t get it to move past your lips. You think about going back to Javier’s apartment and seeing ghosts seated around the kitchen table. Another night grappling with depression. You think about the consuming loneliness and your fractured, fragile sanity. “How many of you?” As if it matters. Two against one, six against one. You’d be fucked either way. “Five. Del’s cookin tonight. God help us all.” Five is mangagable. For all your pessimism, you can outrun them. As long as you take a few out before you get to running. For the first time in two years, you’d like to sleep without the dead. You clench your fist, eyes shut. You don’t want to regret this. “One night. Don’t eat me.” $cname’s delighted laughter rings between your ears. <div class="choice">[[Next|c talk]]</div>

$cname is a chatterbox. You don’t necessarily mind. $cHeShe reminds you of Freya. Besides, you need a moment to warm up to a reciprocated conversation. In the meantime, you listen to $chisher rambling and nod along. The two of you walk along a two lane highway. It’s one of the only straight shots out of the city, so abandoned vehicles are everywhere. It’s amusing to see luxury sports cars next to every-man vehicles. Lamborguinis and Honda Civics. Ferraris and Jeeps. We’re all equal, when we’re faced with death. Here, there are less bodies than in the city. More plants. $cname kicks every stray pebble $cheshe finds, grinning when you kick them back $chisher way. “I was in the city for a soccer tournament when shit hit the fan. We were in the middle of a game, actually. Thought the power went out in the stadium. Nope, just an alien invasion.” “Professional?” You don’t really want to think about that day. What else is there to talk about? There are only two stories: before and after. $cname’s tone turns wistful. “Nah, college. I was studying economics my first year, but between you and me, I wasn’t never a bookworm. I probably would’ve been on academic probation if I got to finish a semester.” “You were 18?” “17. I was a baby.” $cHeShe huffs out a laugh. “Acted like it too. My old man used to say-“ $cname cuts $chimselfherself off, goes quiet. $cHeShe looks away, as if there’s something interesting in the distance other than debris and grass. <div class="choice">[[“I’m sure they’re out there looking for you.”|c family looking][$optimistic +=5, $friendly +=3, $genuine +=3,$cfriendship +=1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It’s okay to miss your family.”|miss c family][$friendly +=5,$cfriendship +=1, $genuine +=3 ]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Family can be complicated.”|c fam complicated][$optimistic -=3, $friendly +=3, $cfriendship -=1]]</div>

You can empathize with $cname. At least, you think you can. Your relationship with your moms are friendly but hollow, all but cordial in nature. You existed in the same space and you know that they loved you, but you’d put down money to bet that they couldn’t name your favorite bands, or your favorite ice cream flavor. Or your college major. You didn’t leave home on the best of terms that summer. $cHeShe gives you a sad smile. “Miss. Yea, I guess that’s a word for it.” There’s more to that story, but you don’t want to push $chimher. <div class="choice">[[Next|major]]</div>

You can’t pretend to know the inner workings of $cname’s family dynamic. If you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t have the mental energy to care right now, either. The expression $cheshe’s wearing tells you enough. You can recognize complex relationships when you see them. You remember the knockdown, drag-out fights you and Elisa used to have. You’d spit poison, she’d spit acid. The two of you knew how to hit each other where it hurts. Despite this, you wish she was here. Elisa was one of the few people that knew you, honestly, truly knew you, and still found love in her heart. While you’re in your own head, $cname acknowledges your lackluster attempt at comfort. “Complicated is right.” <div class="choice">[[Next|major]]</div>

As far as platitudes go, it’s a weak one. Both of you know that the chance of survival is slim. Even now, after the initial storm has passed, there aren’t enough resources to go around. If $chisher family wasn’t killed in the initial invasion, then they’d have to have enough food, water, and viable shelter. They know that $cname was in the city. They would’ve come looking for $chimher. Your attempts to comfort $chimher sound flat to your own ears, but $cname thanks you with a sad smile. <div class="choice">[[Next|major]]</div>

$cHeShe shakes $chisher head. “Anyways. I miss college. S’ a stupid thing to be worried about, but still.” "You lost time that you can’t get back. We all did.” You kick another rock, harder this time. It hits a car door. “I was a junior.” “Yeah? What major?” <div class="choice">[[Biology|set major][$mcmajor="biology",$medical +=30, $science +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Engineering|set major][$mcmajor="engineering",$science +=30, $deduction +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Political Science|set major][$mcmajor="political science",$charisma +=30, $deduction +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Fine Arts|set major][$mcmajor="fine arts",$deduction +=30, $combat +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Criminal Justice|set major][$mcmajor="criminal justice",$combat +=30, $medical +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Astronomy|set major][$mcmajor="astronomy",$alien +=30, $science +=15]]</div>

“That’s dope. Did you like it?” You give that question some genuine thought. “I did. I liked being in school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.” $cname snorts. “That makes two of us.” “Guess we don’t have to worry about that now.” $cHeShe nods, and you’re both silent for a couple minutes. After two years of solitude, you find yourself wishing $cheshe would keep talking. It’s nice to hear someone else’s voice. “How did you meet everyone?” “Hm?” $cname was lost in thought. “Oh, I was the fourth person to join them. Bout a year ago. Moiarty caught me trying to steal their car. Called me a dumbass, showed me how to do it correctly, and made me drive 'em back to the safehouse. Ayana let me stick around. I’ve been with them ever since. Delphine came along six months ago.” $cname skips a step and rushes the next words. “She’s an alien, by the way.” You stop moving. And breathing. “She’s a what?” Before your nervous system can go into overdrive, $cname attempts to placate you. “Not one of them!” $cname holds $chisher hands out to stop you from bolting. “She’s from a different planet. Del was hanging out on Earth for a good chunk of change before the aliens from Nion 8 fucked everything up.” “Nion 8? Another planet? What was she doing on Earth?” You feel only marginally better. There’s too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends. Aliens from other planets? There’s more of them? How many? Your voice is shrill. “How can you trust her?” $cname shrugs. “That’s where she says they’re from.” $cHeShe levels you with a serious look. “Delphine’s not like the others. She’s a good friend, and she knows more about those invaders than any human does. Earth is just as much her home as it is ours. Hell, she’s been here longer than either of us have been alive.” <div class="choice">[[Next|can trust d?]]</div>

You take a second to digest this information. Fucking hell- you don’t want to sound…//prejudiced// or whatever. Aliens exist. Okay. You’ve been able to accept that over the last few years. Aliens existing and having been on Earth undetected? That’s a harder pill to swallow. How many aliens have you encountered without knowing it? Has your life always been in danger? Have they always been watching, //waiting//? $cname grants you your private freak-out. Next time $cheshe speaks, it’s soft. “I know it's a lot to take in. Delphine wasn’t on the best terms with us either. It took months, but now-” $cname catches your eye. “I trust her with my life, $mcName.” //But can you trust her with yours?// “She doesn’t mind answering questions about her home planet. Not sure how much she can tell you about Nion 8, though. She’s a succubus.” You blink at $chimher. You even give $chimher ten seconds of silence to rectify whatever the fuck $cheshe just said. $cname gives you a knowing look. “Yea, it’s exactly what you think it is. Does it freak us out a little? Totally, but like I said, she’s cool.” Right. <div class="choice">[[Next|the others?]]</div>

Against your better instincts and faced with the prospect of never ending loneliness, you keep walking. $cname is surprised, but scrambles to fall back in step. You scratch at the scabs on your arm. “What about the others?” “You know, I don’t know the full story; Moiarty came with-“ $cHeShe cuts himself off again. “Actually, it wouldn’t be my place to tell even if I did know how everything went down. Zero and Ayana are the other two. All of us are human except Del.” “Zero?” “Yeah! Real chill guy.” “Like the number?” $cname grins. “It’s also a verb.” Your hip hurts like a bitch. You try and fail to breathe through it. “Let’s take a break.” $cname spares you the embarrassment of having to ask. You ease yourself down on the ground and extend your legs outwards. Laying on your back, you throw an arm over your eyes to block out the sun. The burnt skin on your hip aches. “Scar contracture?” You blink at $chimher. “Excuse me?” $cname shrugs. “I don’t know. Some shit Ayana said. It’s when a wound doesn’t heal properly and the skin around the scar tissue tightens. Can prevent you from moving without pain if the injury is near a joint. She’s such a nerd. Ayana can take a look at that, if you want?” “I’m fine.” You’re not fine. Your leg fucking hurts. “Ah, a sucker for punishment. I recognize a kindred spirit.” $cname tilts $chisher head back and relishes the sun, eyes closed. It’s a serene moment, all things considered. <div class="choice">[["Staring is rude, but you can’t help but be transfixed by " +$chimher+"."|flirt stare c][$cromance +=1]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Watching " +$cname+" lounge in the sun, you’re taken aback by how relaxed " +$cheshe+" is."|friend c breathe][$cfriendship +=1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Look away.|ignore c][$friendly -=3]]</div>

You watch the rise and fall of $chisher chest. Strong, even breaths. It prompts you to try to match your breathing with $chisher. You can squash those butterflies later, but for now, you let them flutter. You let yourself get lost in the sun kissing $chisher red curls and the sweep of eyelashes against $chisher cheekbones. After a minute, your breaths sync. You feel the knot in your stomach ease. Your eyes begin to close. “Feel better?” They fly back open. “You-“ You narrow your eyes at $chimher. “You were doing that on purpose?” “Mhm.” $cname hasn’t moved from $chisher relaxed position on the grass. “All of us, the survivors, you know, we got a lot of shit going on up here.” $cHeShe taps $chisher head. “You pick up a lot of different coping mechanisms. Some better than others.” You nod, unsure how to respond to that. <div class="choice">[[Next|altruistic]]</div>

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. It makes hope bubble somewhere deep in your chest. That bubble is burst by your pessimism. Your family and friends are dead and dying, what makes you think you deserve to be happy? To be carefree and at ease when the world burns around you? //Selfish//. Your breathing goes haywire. “If you match your breathing to mine, it’ll make the pain go away faster.” $cname taps $chisher head. “Physically and emotionally.” For emphasis, $cname begins to breathe a bit deeper, louder. The sound of $chisher strong, even breaths makes it easy for you to follow suit. $cname waits for you to calm down before $cheshe speaks again. “All of us, the survivors, you know, we got a lot of shit going on. You pick up a lot of different coping mechanisms. Some better than others.” You nod, unsure how to respond to that. <div class="choice">[[Next|altruistic]]</div>

Not wanting to be caught staring, you look away from $cname and try to fix your own breathing. You’re unsuccessful, which causes you to begin to hyperventilate. Your hip injury flares. “Try to sync your breathing with mine.” $cHeShe whispers. Eyes squeezed shut, you reply through gritted teeth. “What?” “Match my breaths. It’ll help.” For emphasis, $cname begins to breathe a bit deeper, louder. The sound of $chisher strong, even breaths makes it easy for you to follow suit. $cname waits for you to calm down before $cheshe speaks again. “All of us, the survivors, you know, we got a lot of shit going on up here.” $cHeShe taps $chisher head. “You pick up a lot of different coping mechanisms. Some better than others.” You nod, unsure how to respond to that. <div class="choice">[[Next|altruistic]]</div>

Feeling a little embarrassed about your almost-breakdown, you try to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Do I really stink?” Nice, $mcName. Real fuckin'smooth. $cname chuckles. “Nah, you smell fine.” $cHeShe brushes dust off $chisher pants before leveling you with a serious look. “While we’re here, though, I think this is a good time to tell you that my reasons for approaching you aren’t totally innocent.” You’re scrambling backwards, hip protesting the sudden movement. Panic makes it hard to breathe as you calculate your ability to fight $chimher off. Could you kill $chimher? <div class="choice">[[You can, and you will if you have to.|can kill c][$friendly -=10,$merciful -=10, $cautious -=10, $optimistic -=5,$cfriendship -=1 ]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You know in your heart that you couldn’t.|couldn't kill c][$optimistic -=5, $friendly +=5, $merciful +=10, $cautious +=10,$cfriendship +=1]]</div>

You know in your heart that you couldn’t. You’ve killed monsters in the night out of necessity. You’ve never killed another human, and you don’t plan to start today. That doesn’t mean you won’t put up a damn good fight. You steel yourself, and wish you hadn’t sheathed your weapons. <div class="choice">[[Next|c apology]]</div>

You can, and you will if you have to. Humanity be damned, you’ll kill them all. There is no Heaven when you’re already in Hell. To protect yourself, you’d do things that you feel ashamed about. You steel yourself for a fight and wish you hadn’t sheathed your weapons. <div class="choice">[[Next|c apology]]</div>

“I didn’t mean it like that! Shit, my bad. I screwed up the wording.” $cname takes a few steps back to give you more space. “Ah, fuck it. I’ll cut to the point. We’re looking to join the rebel group, and you should tag along.” You’re too busy easing your pounding heartbeat to comprehend what $cheshe’s saying. Rebel group? What? $cname reads the incredulity on your face and makes a frustrated noise. $cHeShe runs a hand through $chisher curls and looks away. “I’m not good at this whole pitch. You should talk to Ayana; she’s much better at it.” “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.” You sniffle. This day is so weird. //Would you rather be alone?// “Like I said. Don’t eat me.” <div class="choice">[[Next|reach base]]</div>

It’s sunset when you reach your destination. You allow yourself to linger behind $cname as the two of you approach his safehouse. Calling it a house would be generous. Vines have taken over much of the two story, single-family home. The majority of the windows have been boarded up, though you can’t tell if that was before or after the invasion. There are a few cars scattered in the yard. They appear to have been stripped of important parts, the empty shells now home to whatever plants or critters have taken up residence. The home’s blue paint is chipping in some areas and absent in others. A couple of flies buzz past your ear. You swat at them. <div class="choice">[[A tattooed young man stands by the entrance.|gender v][$vfullname to 'Vincent Moiarty', $vname to 'Vincent',$vnickname to 'Vince',$vheshe to 'he',$vHeShe to 'He', $vhimher to 'him',$vHimHer to 'Him',$vhisher to 'his',$vHisHer to 'His',$vhishers to 'vis',$vHisHers to 'His', $vhimselfherself to 'himself',$vmanwoman to 'man',$vboygirl to 'boy',$vlooks to 'handsome']]</div> <div class="choice">[[A tattooed young woman stands by the entrance.|gender v][$vfullname to 'Veronica Moiarty', $vnickname to 'Ronnie', $vname to 'Veronica',$vheshe to 'she',$vHeShe to 'She', $vhimher to 'her',$vHimHer to 'Her',$vhisher to 'her',$vHisHer to 'Her',$vhishers to 'hers',$vHisHers to 'Hers', $vhimselfherself to 'herself',$vmanwoman to 'woman',$vboygirl to 'girl',$vlooks to 'goregous']]</div>

$vHisHer voice is deep, husky. “Great. Just what we need, another idiot.” $cname frowns. “Who’s the first one?” “I’m lookin at ‘em.” $cHeShe gasps. “Hey!” The $vmanwoman smirks at $cname’s indignance. “You tell Ayana that you’re bringing home a stray? You know how she feels about those.” $vHeShe walks down the steps and meets you halfway. $vHisHer stride is lazy, even in those heavy combat boots, like $vheshe’d rather be doing anything else. “Ayana is a very understanding and level-headed woman. She won’t mind.” $cname is unaffected by $chisher friend’s mocking tone. “$mcName, this is $vname. $vHeShe's a bit of a prick.” $vname ignores $cname’s introduction. “Sure, until you hand her another mouth to feed.” $vHeShe gives you a once-over. $vHisHer eyes are a startling light green. “You look like shit. Did $cname find you in a sewer?” Your mouth drops open. “Dude!” “What? I wouldn't kick them out of bed, but I'd have them shower first. Don't wanna catch something flesh-eating." Your mouth closes and opens again as you try to decide what to say to defend yourself. “You're so suave, $vname. Really, everyday you amaze me.” “If Slack-Jaw over there can’t pull $hisher weight, Ayana is gonna send $hisher right back where $heshe came from.” Slack-Jaw? //Fucker//. “Hey!” You step around $cname and stand directly in front of $vname. “Watch your fucking mouth. I can handle myself.” “Really? Well-” The $vmanwoman’s head cocks to the side. A mischievous, evil grin replaces $vhisher scowl. “Let’s find out.” There’s a gun in your face. “$vname! Put the fuckin’ gun down, ya maniac!” <div class="choice">[[Next|v test]]</div>

<<if $combat gte 45>> <<set $vfriendship +=1>> It’s instinct. Your right arm flies up to punch $vhimher. In the chest, the throat, the face. You don’t know. But your arm swings and, damn, it connects. “Holy shit.” You have to agree with $cname. $vname hisses as you crack alongside $vhisher jaw. Stumbling to the side, $vhisher surprise lasts all of three seconds before $vheshe’s laughing. Spitting a bit of blood on the ground, $vname tucks $vhisher gun back in its holster. A smirk is the only warning you get before $vheshe’s slamming $vhisher right hand into your ribcage. You gasp in pain and release $vhisher left wrist. $vname maneuvers to throw you over $vhisher shoulder. You slam into the ground, crying out in pain. “$vname! What the fuck?” $vHeShe’s up and off of you between your pained wheezes. You’re still on the ground, struggling to figure out what just happened. Rolling $vhisher eyes, $vname grabs the back of your shirt and yanks you up on your feet. Momentarily, you’re baffled at how strong $vheshe is. To your surprise, $vname grins. “Not bad. You need better aim, though.” You sputter and gasp. “Are you serious?” “Does it look like I’m joking?” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if you want to wrestle again. I fight dirty, if you think you can handle it." <<elseif $science gte 35>> <<set $vfriendship +=1>> You don’t know what you’re doing, but you can take a guess. You move quickly and grab $vhisher arm at the wrist, attempting to spin the gun away from $vhimher. $vname lets $vhisher arm go slack, setting off alarm bells in your head. $vHeShe lets you twist $vhisher hand to the right, but that’s where $vhisher generosity ends. A smirk is the only warning you get before $vheshe’s slamming $vhisher right hand into your ribcage. You gasp in pain and release $vhisher left wrist. $vname maneuvers to throw you over $vhisher shoulder. You slam into the ground, crying out in pain. “$vname! What the fuck?” $vHeShe’s up and off of you between your pained wheezes. Spinning the gun around in $vhisher hand, $vname returns it to $vhisher holster. You’re still on the ground, struggling to figure out what just happened. Rolling $vhisher eyes, $vname grabs the back of your shirt and yanks you up on your feet. Momentarily, you’re baffled at how strong $vheshe is. $vname grins at you, to your surprise. “Not bad. Your technique is sloppy, but nothing unworkable.” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if you want to wrestle again. I fight dirty, if you think you can handle it." <<else>> <<set $vfriendship -=1>> You can’t help your reaction. You flinch violently and move to cover your head. You jump backwards in an attempt to get some space between you and $vhimher. You see more than hear $vname scoff as the blood roars in your ears. “See? Fuckin' useless under pressure. $HeShe’ll get us killed.” $vHeShe reholsers $vhisher gun and glares at you. $cname comes to your defense. “Maybe combat isn’t $hisher strong suit. So what? It isn’t mine either. $HeShe has other talents.” $vname barks out a laugh. You see a flash of something silver in $vhisher mouth. “Like what? Balloon animals?” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if your 'other talents' might be of my interest." <</if>> <div class="choice">[[Next|a meet]]</div>

A woman’s voice interrupts $vname’s criticisms. “Are you two //trying// to alert every monster in the tristate area? We can skip a few steps and start setting off fireworks instead.” The woman that had spoken moves on light feet as she descends the steps. When she sees you between $cname and $vname, she looks exasperated. “Make it you three. Quinn, you brought back another mouth to feed?” //Told you.// $vname mouths to $cname, who bats $chisher eyelashes at the woman and gives her sad puppy eyes. “Don’t be mad, Doc.” Doc. This must be Ayana. Beautiful and intense were the first two words to come to mind. She looked to be Native American, with high cheekbones, brown skin, and long, dark hair. Three vertical lines are tattooed on her chin, each of a different length. She’s dressed in grey pleated pants and a burgundy turtleneck. A blazer completes her academic style. You can imagine her on a medical school’s campus. Brown eyes survey each of you in turn; you involuntarily flush under her assessment. “Ayana, this is $mcName. $mcName, meet our esteemed Doctor.” “I’m not a doctor anymore; you know that.” <div class="choice">[[Next|a go with][$afullname to 'Ayana Tsosie']]</div>

Ayana gives $vname an unimpressed look. “You point a gun at $himher? Seriously?” $vname gives her a shit eating grin. “Maybe it was loaded. Maybe it wasn’t. I’m off-duty now.” $vHeShe gives her a little bow. “If you need me, don’t call me.” $vHeShe heads inside without so much as a backwards glance. Ayana rolls her shoulders back. You notice that she favors her right side, using that side to turn toward the source of noise. “Quinn, can you let the others know we’ll join them in an hour or so?” “Sure thing, boss.” Ayana sighs. “Please, don’t call me that.” $cname salutes. “Yes, my supreme overlord.” $cHeShe winks at you before moving around Ayana to go inside. She looks apologetic. “I’m sorry about all of that. Just ignore Moiarty. $vHeShe can be a jerk.” You scoff. “Yeah. So I’ve been told.” A smile plays at the corner of Ayana’s lips as she turns and leads you inside. The safehouse is well used. The group must have been here for quite a while. There’s a pile of bags by the door in various colors and sizes. The shoe-rack is neatly organized; it must be Ayana’s doing, you can’t imagine $cname caring where $cheshe throws $chimher shoes. You can hear a conversation happening farther back in the house. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but you can hear the growl of $vname’s voice and the light, animated sound of $cname’s. Though the exterior leaves much to be desired, the home’s interior is better maintained. An oak staircase divides the house in half. Ayana leads you down one corridor. The hallways are narrow, but not uncomfortably so. The walls are painted a dark grey and complemented with the light brown flooring. Ayana’s footsteps are sure, while yours ring out hesitantly. While walking, you pass a closet, a bedroom, and a small bathroom. You catch only a glimpse at the inside of those rooms. At the end of the hallway, there’s an office. Ayana lets you enter first. <div class="choice">[[Next|office with a]]</div>

The first word that comes to mind is “dusty”. Your nose tickles. You’re fighting off a sneeze as you take in the space. The dark mahogany desk is massive. It looks a bit out of place; the ornate design contrasts the simpler accents and decor. A standard office chair sits behind it, while two armchairs are in front, angled towards the desk. The dark brown walls match the floors. It isn’t ugly, but the room could use some more lighting. You sneeze. More lighting //and// a good scrub. “Bless you.” Ayana brushes some papers to the side and hops on the desk. She ignores the papers that flutter to the floor, waving away your raised eyebrow. She takes off her jacket and tosses it over the office chair behind her. Her turtleneck is short sleeved. “None of this is mine.” She sniffs with distaste. “Whoever lived here was a bit of a slob.” You eye what must be more than 2 years of cobwebs in the corner. “A bit?” She smiles. “I was trying to be polite.” “Sit down.” Ayana gestures to the armchair in front of the desk. One of the only other clean areas of the room. You’ve been walking for most of the day. Your hip hurts and your feet need to rest. Plopping yourself down in the chair, you breathe a sigh of relief. “Comfortable?” Ayana’s voice takes you out of your blissful state of //finally sitting the fuck down.// “More than I thought I’d be.” <div class="choice">[[Next|a arms]]</div>

Your attention is drawn to Ayana’s arms, muscular and flexing as she clenched and unclenched her fist on the desk. “I wanted to explain what we’re doing here.” She cracks her neck. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re being forced into some grandiose revolution plan. Quinn doesn’t have the, hm, gift of the gab, as $cheshe’d say.” “$cHeShe’s nice.” You mean it. $cHeShe’s a bit..much. But $cheshe has the energy of a golden retriever. It’s less annoying than it should be. She grins. “Yeah, $cheshe’s a sweetheart. $cHeShe’s a little shit, though. Did $cheshe tell you that you stink?” You were looking at the cracked sides of the desk when her question registered. Your head snaps to look at her. “That depends. Do I actually stink?” “No.” “Then yeah, $cheshe did say that.” Ayana giggles. The sound juxtaposes her serious demeanor. It doesn’t last, though. Her face is quickly wiped of expression, settling into a fiery look of intent. “You can ask people what they’ve lost. And most of them would say ‘everything’. I don’t disagree. I just- I think-” Ayana looks away from you with a shine to her eyes “I think it’s more than that. After that invasion, I lost myself. I had nothing and I couldn’t find a silver lining. I’ve never been an optimist. But-.” She shifts her weight. “I thought a lot about death in that first year. Monsters and mayhem, sure, but what if I took a handful of sleeping pills and chased it with vodka? What if I walked up the tallest mountain I could find and stepped off the ledge? What if I accidentally-on purpose fell asleep in the bathtub and drowned? I scared myself.” Everything she says doesn’t just hit close to home; it rams through the front door. Thoughts you haven’t been able to vocalize are being validated by this near-stranger. What’s death when you have nothing to live for? Emotion sits heavy in a lump lodged in your throat. You try to swallow around it. //How long has it been since you’ve felt understood?// If Ayana notices you grappling with your emotions, she doesn’t comment on it. “And the others? How’d they end up here with you?” Ayana leans back. “You can ask them yourself. Those aren’t my stories to tell. There aren’t many survivors, but there’s more than you’d think. Through word of mouth, we’ve been told that there’s a rebel group that wants to overthrow the Nion 8 invaders. That’s where Delphine says they’re from. Humans may be sparse, but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the aliens don’t seem to want us wiped out entirely. They destroyed our civilizations and then…left us alone.” <div class="choice">[[Next|convince to join]]</div>

To your own ears, your voice sounds far away. “I haven’t seen any of them since that day.” She nods. “Exactly. They’ve established their own societies and left us to die off. I recklessly chase death sometimes, but I want it to be on my own terms. This is the first time I’ve felt something close to hope. We don’t have an elaborate plan of justice or revenge. The rebel group is said to be out west, near South Canaan. We don't know what their plan is, either. We may die on the way to LICENTIA. We may get there and there’s nothing but rubble. I don’t know. But $cname wouldn’t have brought you here if $cheshe didn’t think you could handle it. There’s power in numbers and a balance of strengths and weaknesses.” Your silence stretches for a few minutes. You pick at the skin of your nails, collecting your thoughts. This whole situation is so outlandishly bizarre. You’ve been living what is essentially the same day for 730 days. Your Groundhog Day from Hell. Now, a group of people your age are providing a way out. Companionship. The opportunity for closure. A semblance of control over your life. “You want me to join you?” “Want is a strong word, considering I met you thirty minutes ago. It’s more of an offer, contingent on you having some sort of valuable skill set. We’re all pretty ordinary people.” “Valuable skill-set?” “Anything you could contribute to the group to help us survive and aid LICENTIA, should they accept it.” A cult without the cult. That’s a new one. “And you aren’t sure if they’re going to accept our help?” //Using “our” already. You must be really lonely.// Ayana looks amused as she leans forward, hands braced firmly on the desk. “$mcName, if you keep repeating everything I say back to me, this is going to be a very dull conversation.” A hysterical laugh bubbles in your throat. You swallow it back down. This is a suicide mission. If you go out there, with no true confirmation that this rebel group exists, you’d be an idiot. A dead idiot when the monsters get a hold of you. And yet, Ayana seems so sure of herself. She’s pitched this plan before; you can tell she believes in it. The honesty and confidence in her disposition, and the hope that you can get a semblance of your life back makes you think “yes”. The fear of being alone again makes you say it out loud. //What motivates you?// <div class="choice">[[Revenge.|revenge][$mcmotivation to 'revenge', $friendly -=10,$merciful -=15, $cautious -=10, $optimistic -=10 ]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Closure for your family.|family][$mcmotivation to 'family', $friendly +=10,$merciful -=10, $cautious -=10, $optimistic -=5 ]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Having a purpose in life.|purpose][$mcmotivation to 'purpose', $merciful +=10, $cautious +=10, $optimistic +=15]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Stability would be nice.|stability][$mcmotivation to 'stability', $friendly +=10,$merciful +=10, $cautious +=10, $optimistic +=15 ]]</div>

It’s vengeance you crave. You can feel the hatred stirring in your gut, scalding you from the inside out. You want them all dead. Your mind has never been far from violence. It concerned your moms and Elisa, and rightfully so. In grade school, you solved problems with your fists. In college, some foul smelling frat boy had groped Freya, so you tased him in the balls. Your fights with Elisa were vicious because you never learned how far is too far. Anger is easy. It embraces you better than any lover could. The cracking of bone under your knuckles, the heat of inflicted pain running hot in your veins. You’re tried to curb your temper over the years, but it’s always simmered under the surface. You’ve managed to maintain appearances. You went to therapy and listened to Dr.Singh blather on about anger management and breathing exercises. You’ve had a lot of time to hurt, and rage, and envision retribution. The thought of watching those monsters wither away under the force of your gun, your blade, makes you smile. You try to hide your reaction from Ayana; she’s watching you closely. You wipe the growing grin off your face and give her a stiff nod. “I’m in. They need to pay for what they did to the world.” To //you//. “Excellent.” Ayana’s smile is contagious. “We can work with that.” <div class="choice">[[Next|meet z and d]]</div>

You need closure. You’ve never been to South Canaan. But, if your memory serves you correctly, your family home is somewhere between here and there. If anyone in your family is still alive, it is likely they would have hunkered down and made use of your mom’s abundant stockpile. By the time you’d left for college, Elisa had long since left the house. She didn’t bother to visit while working towards her own career advancement. The more time that passed between visits, the more awkward it became. Holidays with Elisa were apologetic text messages and lackluster cards. You’d call her the day of, whining about her leaving you with your moms and Viktor. Viktor is a sweet thing, but he was the baby of the family and therefore spent more time up your moms’ asses than not. Like you did your parents, you love Viktor, but you can’t connect with him. That doesn’t matter, though. You’d give anything to be misunderstood by your family again. Every conversation taken for granted, every wish to //get out of this fucking house// pales in comparison to this soul sucking loneliness you’ve experienced. If your family is long gone, dead or otherwise, at least you won’t be alone anymore. “I’m in. If my family’s alive, they’ll be between the city and South Canaan. I want to find them.” “Excellent.” Ayana’s smile is contagious. “We can work with that.” <div class="choice">[[Next|meet z and d]]</div>

You’ve never felt more aimless. Your days are one in the same, a blend of barely surviving and barely living. A goal can help you focus your waning energy into something productive. The productivity in question would be getting your life back. Or, what little potential it still has. As a kid, you were god awful at sitting still. You were always a flurry of movement, always chasing the next adventure. This is the most stagnant you’ve been your entire life. It makes you itch. No news is good news, and the same can be said for “life-threatening encounters disguised as relief from boredom.” That doesn’t mean you don’t long for a purpose. You want a routine that means something. You need a tangible path. For better or for worse, at least you fucking lived. “I’m in. I need to be reminded why I’m alive.” “Excellent.” Ayana’s smile is contagious. “We can work with that.” <div class="choice">[[Next|meet z and d]]</div>

Hot showers, warm meals, a mold-less bed. You aren’t interested in a revolution. You’ve seen too much, lost too much, to want to gamble with your fate. However, you're not naive. You know that while Rome wasn’t built in a day, neither was usurping the equivalent of an alien empire. You could wait for others to take the lead on such a task. You can go back to the apartment, yours or Javier’s. You can go another year, or two, or ten without seeing another human. And one day in between, someone else will turn your world upside down again, this time restoring order to Earth. You might lose your mind by the time that happens. Or off yourself. Or die of natural and extraterrestrial causes. Not a chance. “I’m in. For the running water and companionship. I’m no martyr.” “Excellent.” Ayana’s smile is contagious. “We can work with that.” <div class="choice">[[Next|meet z and d]]</div>

The unofficial leader brings you to an open kitchen and dining room. It’s situated on the other side of the staircase. The light colored wood theme continues. The dining room table is circular. Four chairs sit around it, though only two people are using them. The kitchen has a white refrigerator and other outdated appliances. There’s no decor on the counters or the center island. The granite is white. It’s kinda ugly. When you step across the threshold, four pairs of eyes look in your direction. Two you recognize, two you don’t. “Hey, $mcName! We were waiting for you guys.” At $cname’s prompting, you move to take a seat next to $chimher and place your backpack on the ground next to you. You feel like the new kid in school. “Let’s get those introductions out of the way before Ayana begins her speech. You already met me and $vname, so I’ll skip that.” $cname points to the young man sitting across from you. "This is Zero. The beauty next to him is Delphine.” Zero sits cross legged in a dining chair, hunched over with his hands in his pockets. He’s pretty. He's tall, brown skinned and with dark curly hair that threatens to fall into his eyes. Blue eyes, long eyelashes. A deep, jagged scar runs through his left eyebrow and over his eye. You're vagualy surprised he isn't blind. He wears a knitted, light pink sweater and loose denim jeans. You catch a glimpse of his white converse; you’re too far away to make out the various doodles and drawings that decorate them. The dark circles under his eyes are something fierce. He sits eerily still. No finger tap, no leg twitch. Zero’s still like a statue. Or a corpse. In a glaring juxtaposition, Delphine is a fairytale of animation. You have to blink a few times to make sure you’re seeing her correctly. She’s perched on the island counter, one long leg crossed over the other. Light gray skin would tell you that she’s not human, but the bright pink eyes also give that away. Long lilac hair frames bejeweled cheekbones. You can’t tell if the gemstones are part of her skin, or her aesthetic. You don't know how she gets anything done in that outfit, but maybe people that attractive don’t need to be productive. Her tight, white crop top accentuates her chest. She wears boot-cut jeans that ride low on her hips and allows lacy underwear to peek out. Is she wearing.. //heeled wedges//? <div class="choice">[[Next|plan discuss][$zfullname to 'Zero Chevalier',[$dfullname to 'Delphine']]]</div>

She catches you staring and winks. “Be careful around her. She bites.” Delphine flashes a fanged smile. “Only if you want me to, honey.” $vname snorts. “Cause //that// line hasn’t been used before.” “You’re so jealous of me, it’s adorable.” $vname’s standing behind Zero and slightly to his right, arms crossed against $vhisher chest as $vheshe leans $vhisher weight against the island. $vHisHer posture screams boredom, but $vhisher eyes are sharp. When Delphine turns her attention back to her nails, $vname throws a pen at her. She yelps. You’d think she’d throw something of similar size back, but Delphine picks up a heavy coaster. Ayana intervenes before someone causes a concussion. “Enough. Let’s get started so we can all have dinner and get a good night’s rest.” Everyone quits their banter; $vname grumbles under $vhisher breath. “I’ve had enough of living in fear. I know I’m not the only one.” You’re taken aback by the intensity of Ayana’s presence. “The planet is dying, and we're going with it. These aliens have slaughtered billions of us, and for what? They hide away in their cities and use our resources, while we starve and fight amongst ourselves.” “Did you practice this in a mirror?” “$cname, shut up.” “What? I’m just saying!” “LICENTIA is our last chance to save what little of humanity remains. I don’t know what they’re planning, but I can’t sit around and wait to die. I want in on whatever they’re up to. You all have told me you’re with me on this.” Ayana looks directly at you. Her gaze makes you shift your weight. “I forgot to ask you earlier. Have you heard anything about the rebel group before today?” Everyone turns to look at you. “I-uh.” You’re flustered. “I haven’t seen anyone in two years, so..” “We can tell.” $vname’s insult only makes your face burn hotter. You snap at $vhimher. “Do your parents even like you?" $cname laughs; Delphine giggles. “Oh, I like $himher already!” <div class="choice">[[Next|discuss plan]]</div>

Ayana takes a breath and looks down at the map. “Nevermind then. We leave in three days. That’ll give us enough time to stock up on supplies and weapons. We need to finalize our route and establish our contingency plans in case things go left.” “A likely scenario.” $vname interjects. Ayana ignores $vhimher. “LICENTIA is said to have established their base underground, about 1,500 miles west from here.” $cname whistles. “Goddamn.” “We don’t have fuel, so we’ll have to head out on foot. Ideally, we’ll find shelter for the night. Not so ideally, we camp out under the stars.” “And hope one of those monsters doesn’t start gnawing on our faces.” “Yes, thank you Delphine. Tomorrow we’ll stock up. Wednesday we’ll finish route mapping. Thursday is for final checks and last minute changes. Friday we leave in the early morning. Now, if everyone’s done voicing their burning opinions, I’m going to assign preparatory tasks.” “Um.” You don’t raise your hand, but it does twitch at your side. “I need to go back to my apartment. Both the old one and the place I’m at now. There’s some stuff I need to pick up.” “How far is that from here?” You calculate the distance in your head. “About an hour and a half. The route is pretty straightforward. I should be back within a few hours.” Ayana frowns, eyebrows furrowed. “One of us should go with you-” You can't control the bite to your tone. “I can do it myself.” You have had //enough// of being underestimated today. You know Ayana doesn’t mean to be patronizing, but between this and $vname’s “test”, you’re irritated. Delphine huffs. “Ooo, touchy. Aya is right, honey. You’re with us now; we don’t let anyone go that far from home without a buddy.” $cname chimes in. “You’ve been on your own this whole time; we don’t think you’re incapable of protecting yourself if shit goes left. Still, we like to partner up.” <div class="choice">[[Next|z coming with]]</div>

“//Fine//. Then who’s coming with me?” “Me.” It’s a soft, raspy voice you haven’t heard yet. Zero’s shifted and drawn his knees up to his chest. His hands are no longer in his pockets, but resting on his knees. Long, thin fingers end in nails coated with chipped black polish. Across the front and back of his palms are stained red, blue green, and yellow. Though he changed positions, you hardly see him move. His breaths are shallow but even. There’s something familiar about him. You stare at Zero for a second, trying to place him in your memory. You’re interrupted by $vname. "Make sure $mcName picks up a loofah in this lifetime." The retort leaves your lips before you can really think about it. "Keep commenting on my shower habits, and I'll start thinking you want to help." You thought that would shut $vhimher up, but the smirk on $vhisher face only widens. "Tempting." Delphine makes an exaggerated gagging noise. "It isn't a new arrival if $vname isn't trying to fuck them." "I don't remember you complaining. Actually, from what I remember-" “I need something to throw up in. Quick, someone hand me the jacket $cname is wearing.” “What the-?” $cname looks genuinely offended, holding protective hands over $chimselfherself. “It’s hideous, darling. Consider this mercy.” $cname begins to defend $chimselfherself, but Ayana steps in. “Everyone has their roles. $mcName and Chevalier will visit their apartment and the pharmacy, Quinn and Delphine will gather any last minute survival supplies, and Moiarty and I will focus on weapons and route planning.” “Aren’t you forgetting something?” The doctor freezes. “You and I will figure something out. We can discuss it after dinner.” She shoots Delphine a look. “Which Delphine will be cooking tonight, in case she’d forgotten.” Delphine groans. “You humans and your basic needs. I thought maybe you could go one night without food just to spare me from having to cook it.” Despite her protests, she hops off the counter on graceful feet. Long hair swishing, she moves around the island and begins pulling ingredients out of the shabby looking fridge. This meeting must be over. “Dinner is in an hour! Don’t be late, or Chase gets your portion.” “Everyone take your time! Feel free to have a nap. No rush!” $vname pulls $cname into a headlock, roughing up $chisher hair a bit before letting $chimher go. $cname then smacks $vname on the arm and darts away before $vheshe can retaliate. Zero stands up next. $vname says something to him, but Zero pays $vhimher no mind, following closely behind $cname. <div class="choice">[[Next|hallways with z]]</div>

You rush out of the room to catch up to Zero. He hears you behind him, coming to a stop in the dimly lit-hallway. Zero leans against one wall and lets you approach. “Hello.” His voice, though a bit hoarse, is melodic. He has an accent. “Have we met before?” Zero’s eyebrows knit together as his eyes scan your face. From this close distance, you can see that his eyes are a midnight shade of blue. Save for the scar on his eye, his brown skin is unblemished. He’s curled into himself even when standing, like he wants to disappear. “No-” “Before the invasion.” You interrupt him. Zero flinches a bit at your insistent tone. He //feels// familiar. He blinks at you, owlishly. You’re surprised there isn’t a gust of wind born from the flutter of Zero’s eyelashes. “I don't remember. I’m sorry.” Zero gives you an indecipherable look, “Are you alright?” Now, it’s your turn to blink. “What?” He cocks his head to the side. “The gun.” “You heard all that?” One side of his lips quirk upwards. “Are you two enjoying your tea party?” A low, irritated voice breaks up your conversation. You take a step backwards, but Zero stays where he is. $vname glowers at the two of you. You glare back at $vhimher. “Have you run out of people to torment for the day? You came to see if we’d like to volunteer?” //Lots of “us” and “we” coming from you today. Relax.// $vname’s scowl is replaced by a slow, seductive smile. “Torture someone long enough, $mcName, they start to like it.” Zero frowns, brows furrowed in confusion. You raise an eyebrow; the double entendre isn’t lost on you. Without a word to $vname, he turns to leave, but $vname's hand flies out to grab Zero's arm. "Stop being mad at me." $vname's tone is agitated. "Are you seriously throwing a hissy fit over this?" $vheshe hisses. "You're worse than a fucking girl." Zero tries to shrug off $vname's touch. "Let go." "No." $vname's petulance is accentuated by $vhimher tugging Zero closer. The taller man allows himself to be pulled, jaw clenched. "You're ignoring me, and it's pissing me off." Shaking his head, Zero rips his arm out of $vname's grip. "We'll talk later." Cheeks a bit pink, he shoves his hands back into his pockets. Zero gives you a nod before walking away on quiet feet. Your eyes stay on him as he disappears around the corner. //You know him.// You look at $vname. $vHisHer expression rapidly shifts between irate and genuine dismay. When $vname catches you staring, $vheshe snarls. “Move your ass. There’s something Ayana wants to show you.” <div class="choice">[[Next|banter with d and c]]</div>

$vname leads you outside and around the back of the house. You have half a mind to ask if $vheshe’s planning to shoot you for real this time, but you don’t want to give $vhimher any ideas. $vHeShe lights up another cigarette. “Don’t tell Zero I’m smoking before dinner.” $vHeShe says around a mouthful of smoke. “I don’t need any more shit from him tonight.” You might tell Zero anyway, just to fuck with $vname. Delphine stands at the entrance to a cellar. The tall, beautiful woman reminds you of a comic book hero. Or villain. She glows under the night sky; engravings in her skin swirl and emit a light pink hue. Her hair shimmers as she rolls her head from side to side. Sensing $vname’s sour mood, Delphine’s expression goes mischievous. “Trouble in paradise?” “Fuck off. He’s pissed that I pulled a gun on our houseguest.” $vHeShe rolls $vhisher eyes. “I don’t see the problem. They’re still alive, aren’t they?” You don't think that's the real reason Zero and $vname are arguing, but you're not in the mood to deal with the backlash of mentioning that little detail. “Hm, ain’t he a doll? Lookin after $cname’s protégé.” You roll your eyes. “Can you stop talking about me like I’m not standing here?” At least Delphine looks apologetic. Her southern accent is strong. “Sorry, sugar.” $vname just blows smoke in your direction. “Are we going inside, or are we enjoying the stars?” Delphine moves close to you and whispers conspiratorially. “Let’s wake up extra early on Friday and leave $vhimher behind. How long do you think $vheshe’d last?” <div class="choice">[[Join Delphine in her banter.|joke with d][$friendly +=5,$dfriendship +=1, $optimistic +=3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Scoff and ignore her attempts at banter.|ignore d][$optimistic -=3, $friendly -=5, $dfriendship -=1]]</div>

The cellar is damp. A single lightbulb bulb hangs from half-finished rafters. White brick is dirt stained and chipped. The concrete floors are multiple colors, from mold or paint, you aren’t sure. That isn’t what makes your breath catch in your throat. $vname and Delphine lead you down the cellar steps into the room below. Three pairs of footsteps echo on the staircase, loud in the hollow space. Ayana stands to the side. She doesn’t look in your direction as you descend. Her eyes are trained on the figure bundled on the concrete floor. It’s an alien. Not one like Delphine, but one that you see playing at the edges of the nightmares that actually belong to you. One of those ghoulish, gaunt creatures you imagine stabbing your blade into, over and over again until they’re as unrecognizable as your reflection. <div class="choice">[[The alien is a man.|see x chain][$xfullname to 'Xaveed from Nion 8', $xname to 'Xaveed',$xheshe to 'he',$xHeShe to 'He',$xhimher to 'him',$xHimHer to 'Him',$xhisher to 'his',$xHisHer to 'His',$xhishers to 'his',$xHisHers to 'His', $xhimselfherself to 'himself',$xmanwoman to 'man',$xboygirl to 'boy',$xlooks to 'handsome']]</div> <div class="choice">[[The alien is a woman.|see x chain][$xfullname to 'Xaeks from Nion 8', $xname to 'Xaeks',$xheshe to 'she',$xHeShe to 'She',$xhimher to 'her',$xHimHer to 'Her',$xhisher to 'her',$xHisHer to 'Her',$xhishers to 'hers',$xHisHers to 'Hers',$xhimselfherself to 'herself',$xmanwoman to 'woman',$xboygirl to 'girl',$xlooks to 'beautiful']]</div>

The alien is bound and gagged. $xHeShe's out of $xhisher armor, thin body wrapped in chains and attached to the floor. The alien's tentacles hang limp, each one wrapped in a different chain and stuck to another. A few are bleeding. //Matthew, Annabelle, Freya, Elisa, Vikor, Mom, Mama, Luke, Liliana// You left your knife upstairs; you wish you brought it with you. The alien glares at you four with all the hatred in the world. “Wha-.” Your pulse stutters. In excitement, in fear. “What the hell is this?” $vname moves around you. $vHeShe walks with heavy steps, the alien watching $vhisher movements. $vname grabs a fistful of hair and yanks the ghoulish figure backwards. The creature makes a pained sound around the gag. $xhisher neck is now exposed, vulnerable. <<if $mcalienreaction is 'hatred'>> You don’t stop the smile that speads across your face. You’re almost giddy with it. <<elseif $mcalienreaction is 'fascination'>> You’re pleased to see $xhimher bound, but all that goes through your whirling mind are questions. Some you want to ask $xhimher, others you want to figure out for yourself. //Frankenstein’s pet alien.// <</if>> In the mass of restraints, $xheshe look almost human. You know better. You know what $xheshe's capable of. It’s satisfying to see $xhimher squirm. “//This.//” $vname smiles, all teeth. “This is cargo.” <div class="choice">[[Next|thank you]]</div>

Cigarette in hand, $vheshe puffs rings of smoke while $vheshe scans the perimeter. When $vhisher eyes land on you, they’re cold and disinterested. $vHeShe’s gorgeous. You haven’t been around many exceedingly attractive people, but your eyes work well enough to recognize one. With black hair, the $vmanwoman’s eyebrows help $vhisher face achieve a natural scowl. Silver earrings dangle from both ears, moving in the breeze like wind chimes. $vHeShe’s dressed like he’s better suited for a rock concert than an apocalypse. You can’t see which necklaces $vheshe’s wearing, but the three chains are visible until they disappear under $vhisher shredded band t-shirt. $vHeShe wears black jeans and has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of $vhisher head. With a raised eyebrow in your direction, $vheshe extinguishes $vhisher cigarette on the bannister. With $vhisher left arm now within your line of vision, you notice that said arm is covered in tattoos, from shoulder to fingertips. The ink is less plentiful on $vhisher right arm. <div class="choice">[[Next|meet v]]</div>

You lean away from Delphine. You don't know when your wires got crossed, but she needs to know that you don't trust her. Were you supposed to take everyone's word for it? The people you met a couple hours ago? Yea, right. Delphine frowns at the nasty glare you direct her way. $vname snickers. One of the cellar doors is cracked open, but you notice six locks adorning the other. //Are they keeping something out, or keeping it in?// <div class="choice">[[Next|meet x]]</div>

You whisper back, just as obnoxiously. “I’d give $vhimher a week. Maybe two if $vheshe gives up an arm. Not $vhisher left hand, though. $vHeShe’ll need that on lonelier nights.” She busts out laughing, much to $vname’s exasperation. One of the cellar doors is cracked open, but you notice six locks adorning the other. //Are they keeping something out, or keeping it in?// <div class="choice">[[Next|meet x]]</div>

<<if $combat gte 45>>\ <<set $vfriendship +=1>> It’s instinct. Your right arm flies up to punch $vhimher. In the chest, the throat, the face. You don’t know. But your arm swings and, damn, it connects. “Holy shit.” You have to agree with $cname. $vname hisses as you crack alongside $vhisher jaw. Stumbling to the side, $vhisher surprise lasts all of three seconds before $vheshe’s laughing. Spitting a bit of blood on the ground, $vname tucks $vhisher gun back in its holster. A smirk is the only warning you get before $vheshe’s slamming $vhisher right hand into your ribcage. You gasp in pain and release $vhisher left wrist. $vname maneuvers to throw you over $vhisher shoulder. You slam into the ground, crying out in pain. “$vname! What the fuck?” $vHeShe’s up and off of you between your pained wheezes. You’re still on the ground, struggling to figure out what just happened. Rolling $vhisher eyes, $vname grabs the back of your shirt and yanks you up on your feet. Momentarily, you’re baffled at how strong $vheshe is. To your surprrise, $vname grins. “Not bad. You need better aim, though.” You sputter and gasp. “Are you serious?” “Does it look like I’m joking?” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if you want to wrestle again. I fight dirty, if you think you can handle it." <</if>>\ <<if $science gte 45>>\ <<set $vfriendship +=1>> You don’t know what you’re doing, but you can take a guess. You move quickly and grab $vhisher arm at the wrist, attempting to spin the gun away from $vhimher. $vname lets $vhisher arm go slack, setting off alarm bells in your head. $vHeShe lets you twist $vhisher hand to the right, but that’s where $vhisher generosity ends. A smirk is the only warning you get before $vheshe’s slamming $vhisher right hand into your ribcage. You gasp in pain and release $vhisher left wrist. $vname maneuvers to throw you over $vhisher shoulder. You slam into the ground, crying out in pain. “$vname! What the fuck?” $vHeShe’s up and off of you between your pained wheezes. Spinning the gun around in $vhisher hand, $vname returns it to $vhisher holster. You’re still on the ground, struggling to figure out what just happened. Rolling $vhisher eyes, $vname grabs the back of your shirt and yanks you up on your feet. Momentarily, you’re baffled at how strong $vheshe is. $vname grins at you, to your surprise. “Not bad. Your technique is sloppy, but nothing unworkable.” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if you want to wrestle again. I fight dirty, if you think you can handle it." <<else>>\ <<set $vfriendship -=1>> You can’t help your reaction. You flinch violently and move to cover your head. You jump backwards in an attempt to get some space between you and $vhimher. You see more than hear $vname scoff as the blood roars in your ears. “See? Fuckin' useless under pressure. $HeShe’ll get us killed.” $vHeShe reholsers $vhisher gun and glares at you. $cname comes to your defense. “Maybe combat isn’t $hisher strong suit. So what? It isn’t mine either. $HeShe has other talents.” $vname barks out a laugh. You see a flash of something silver in $vhisher mouth. “Like what? Balloon animals?” $vname looks you up and down once again. This time, it's through hooded eyes. It's a leer that has the tips of your ears turning red. "You let me know if your 'other talents' might be of my interest." <</if>>\