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Betrayal 3: future is now
[ You spill out of the elevator into the VR Experience Room—the elevator is gone when you look back.
The room is all chrome and polish and sleek interfaces. A series of brightly lit, splashy screens advertise a wide variety of experiences you can step into—from space adventures to wilderness safaris to being a mage or an action hero or a romantic ingenue.
Signs warn that you have waived your right to hold them accountable should anything happen here, they are not liable for any health conditions that may have been pre-existing or caused by the experience, by being here you have already agreed that should you go into cardiac arrest from a simulation, the business is not liable. Today, they've readied a special experience. Alongside the warnings and waivers, there's advertisements for those entering: You can spend a day in the life of your favorite Imeeji Idol! Step into the experience of a harrowing game, or even experience some of their memories first-hand… and learn what it's like to be one of Tokyo-D's guiding lights.
Something about the brightly-flashing futuristic lights puts you in mind of alarms—you remember this, don't you? Standing in the hallway, dumbstruck, as the klaxons blared and the warning lights strobed red—how could this happen? Who could have messed up this badly? Not you, but suddenly it was your problem, because you're in charge here. You worked hard for this responsibility. And if it's not perfectly resolved, it'll be your ass getting indentured back to the company at the bottom after the lawsuit takes everything you have and more—
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 book sits open on the desk—a bookie's register of bets, listing a staggering array of names, amounts, results, odds for anything up to and as specific as your individual death.
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 (Bookie's Register). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who isn't playing the game or taking things seriously). 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 West. ]
The room is all chrome and polish and sleek interfaces. A series of brightly lit, splashy screens advertise a wide variety of experiences you can step into—from space adventures to wilderness safaris to being a mage or an action hero or a romantic ingenue.
Signs warn that you have waived your right to hold them accountable should anything happen here, they are not liable for any health conditions that may have been pre-existing or caused by the experience, by being here you have already agreed that should you go into cardiac arrest from a simulation, the business is not liable. Today, they've readied a special experience. Alongside the warnings and waivers, there's advertisements for those entering: You can spend a day in the life of your favorite Imeeji Idol! Step into the experience of a harrowing game, or even experience some of their memories first-hand… and learn what it's like to be one of Tokyo-D's guiding lights.
Something about the brightly-flashing futuristic lights puts you in mind of alarms—you remember this, don't you? Standing in the hallway, dumbstruck, as the klaxons blared and the warning lights strobed red—how could this happen? Who could have messed up this badly? Not you, but suddenly it was your problem, because you're in charge here. You worked hard for this responsibility. And if it's not perfectly resolved, it'll be your ass getting indentured back to the company at the bottom after the lawsuit takes everything you have and more—
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 book sits open on the desk—a bookie's register of bets, listing a staggering array of names, amounts, results, odds for anything up to and as specific as your individual death.
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 (Bookie's Register). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who isn't playing the game or taking things seriously). 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 West. ]
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