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Betrayal 3: sensitIV
[ You spill out of the elevator into the Photoshoot Studio—the elevator is gone when you look back.
It's a huge room, and… so white it practically feels prismatic and glowing, from wall to wall, with a large drape of backdrop covering one end of the room to make it as formless and featureless as possible. A sea of endless possibility… or maybe a discomfiting void. But here, you can be anyone a photographer cares to dress you up as. A rack of rental costumes sits behind the camera, out of sight but key to putting together the illusion. Sequins and beads glitter under the bright light, like they’re so ready to be photographed that the flash bulbs of cameras are already going off.
There's a small vanity area with makeup—both conventional and with some exciting options, like full metallic body paint—and a mirror, for getting ready for your close-up. And as you walk around, the lighting rigs across the ceiling seem to… follow you? It's no surprise, right? After all, you're the star of the show while you're here, and everything in this room seems to focus on you.
You almost expect the white here to be spattered with red, and your clothes as well—like when your friend turned to you, with a strange expression, axe in their hand. They smiled a terrible, wrong smile, and said to hold still, as you backed up, arms raised, looking for some means of escape, something to help you. And then, the solid thing your hand found purchase on, in your time of need—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A friendship bracelet hangs loosely from your wrist.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Friendship Bracelet). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone who attacks you first). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the South. ]
It's a huge room, and… so white it practically feels prismatic and glowing, from wall to wall, with a large drape of backdrop covering one end of the room to make it as formless and featureless as possible. A sea of endless possibility… or maybe a discomfiting void. But here, you can be anyone a photographer cares to dress you up as. A rack of rental costumes sits behind the camera, out of sight but key to putting together the illusion. Sequins and beads glitter under the bright light, like they’re so ready to be photographed that the flash bulbs of cameras are already going off.
There's a small vanity area with makeup—both conventional and with some exciting options, like full metallic body paint—and a mirror, for getting ready for your close-up. And as you walk around, the lighting rigs across the ceiling seem to… follow you? It's no surprise, right? After all, you're the star of the show while you're here, and everything in this room seems to focus on you.
You almost expect the white here to be spattered with red, and your clothes as well—like when your friend turned to you, with a strange expression, axe in their hand. They smiled a terrible, wrong smile, and said to hold still, as you backed up, arms raised, looking for some means of escape, something to help you. And then, the solid thing your hand found purchase on, in your time of need—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A friendship bracelet hangs loosely from your wrist.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Friendship Bracelet). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone who attacks you first). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the South. ]
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