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Betrayal 3: Heart Soldier Senshi
[ You spill out of the elevator into the Game Show Studio—the elevator is gone when you look back.
Dead front and center is a Challenge Wheel, brightly colored and labeled: Tetris, Pit, Obstacle, Mountain. Behind the wheel there’s four doors, each that opens up to the area used for the aforementioned challenge. The Tetris room gleams with spikes on the walls, each of the panels segmented as to slide around: challengers are meant to arrange themselves to fit into the gaps between to survive with as little pincushioning as possible the bright plastic placard near the door explains. The Pit room drops to a pit beneath, littered with brightly colored weaponry, meant for duels. In the ceiling glows what appears to be a Twister spinner: specifying the color of the weapon, and where you’re meant to injure. The Obstacle room is an obstacle course, relying on parkour. The door to the mountain room is ajar, slightly off its hinges. Behind it, whatever the mountain was, it is no longer. The room is heaped in scraps, smelling of burnt rubber and chemicals, plastic charred and melted into shapeless puddles around the room.
This devastation triggers something in your mind, like a memory—you remember holding your friend's cooling body in your arms, their eyes closing for the final time. You couldn't bring yourself to care about the destruction surrounding you, the aftermath of the battle—all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and bawl, sinking to your knees, unable to carry on. If they were gone, what else in the world mattered? They'd been your strength, your solace, your light—
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 :)"
There's a box of playbills stacked to the side—with the faces of everyone's favorites from Imeeji Idol Productions on the cover, of course!
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 (Playbill). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (Kill someone who tries to hurt or undermine your friendships). 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 North. ]
Dead front and center is a Challenge Wheel, brightly colored and labeled: Tetris, Pit, Obstacle, Mountain. Behind the wheel there’s four doors, each that opens up to the area used for the aforementioned challenge. The Tetris room gleams with spikes on the walls, each of the panels segmented as to slide around: challengers are meant to arrange themselves to fit into the gaps between to survive with as little pincushioning as possible the bright plastic placard near the door explains. The Pit room drops to a pit beneath, littered with brightly colored weaponry, meant for duels. In the ceiling glows what appears to be a Twister spinner: specifying the color of the weapon, and where you’re meant to injure. The Obstacle room is an obstacle course, relying on parkour. The door to the mountain room is ajar, slightly off its hinges. Behind it, whatever the mountain was, it is no longer. The room is heaped in scraps, smelling of burnt rubber and chemicals, plastic charred and melted into shapeless puddles around the room.
This devastation triggers something in your mind, like a memory—you remember holding your friend's cooling body in your arms, their eyes closing for the final time. You couldn't bring yourself to care about the destruction surrounding you, the aftermath of the battle—all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and bawl, sinking to your knees, unable to carry on. If they were gone, what else in the world mattered? They'd been your strength, your solace, your light—
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 :)"
There's a box of playbills stacked to the side—with the faces of everyone's favorites from Imeeji Idol Productions on the cover, of course!
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 (Playbill). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (Kill someone who tries to hurt or undermine your friendships). 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 North. ]
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