![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Betrayal 3: BAD END=DEAD END
[ You spill out of the elevator into the Capsule Hotel—the elevator is gone when you look back.
Cold cyan streaks through claustrophobic hallways, narrow enough two people couldn’t pass each other without turning sideways. Every last bit of space that could be used as a hotel pod has been. There is no world in which this layout would pass muster with the fire department. But for some the risks are worth taking: on the roulette wheel, on the slots, and with your own safety.
The capsules themselves are sparse. Some have shut the plexiglass sides to their units, and you can see dark shapes moving or still from within. In Tokyo-D, it’s difficult to tell if that’s a privacy effect of the glass, or if that’s all the people inside look like. Some heads turn to follow you as you pass—and some pods that were open slam shut, wanting no part in the violence you’re sure to be wreaking or have wrought against you.
The way those heads turn to look at you but don't approach, the way some others turn away—you remember the condescending brush-off, when you came with your grievance, how they spat on you and left you to be pushed away and kicked down by their bodyguards. This was power—power to make your narrative the only one, to make all complaints vanish—and even then, with a boot on your face, you knew that someday you'd have it for yourself or die trying—
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 pair of sleek sunglasses with mirrored lenses sit on a side table.
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 (Sunglasses). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone you feel is undeserving to take what they have). 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. ]
Cold cyan streaks through claustrophobic hallways, narrow enough two people couldn’t pass each other without turning sideways. Every last bit of space that could be used as a hotel pod has been. There is no world in which this layout would pass muster with the fire department. But for some the risks are worth taking: on the roulette wheel, on the slots, and with your own safety.
The capsules themselves are sparse. Some have shut the plexiglass sides to their units, and you can see dark shapes moving or still from within. In Tokyo-D, it’s difficult to tell if that’s a privacy effect of the glass, or if that’s all the people inside look like. Some heads turn to follow you as you pass—and some pods that were open slam shut, wanting no part in the violence you’re sure to be wreaking or have wrought against you.
The way those heads turn to look at you but don't approach, the way some others turn away—you remember the condescending brush-off, when you came with your grievance, how they spat on you and left you to be pushed away and kicked down by their bodyguards. This was power—power to make your narrative the only one, to make all complaints vanish—and even then, with a boot on your face, you knew that someday you'd have it for yourself or die trying—
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 pair of sleek sunglasses with mirrored lenses sit on a side table.
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 (Sunglasses). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone you feel is undeserving to take what they have). 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. ]
Page 1 of 2