idolpro | Aug. 21st, 2020

Aug. 21st, 2020

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Conservatory—the elevator is gone when you look back.

The room is flooded, knee-deep, a liquid that feels too thick and viscous to be water. It ripples and emits light, casting wavy shadows across the walls and glass dome above. Above the surface of the liquid, lotuses in hyper-real hues rise up from below, opening their blooms up to the unstable starry heavens. Water hyacinth and creeping jenny grow in thick tangled mats, encased in crystalline nets like razor wire, slicing away at all roots that try to reach out of their appointed area, sharp enough the slow drifting of the water is enough force to shear them away. These hang from above from translucent glass butterflies resting on the underside of the ceiling, the blown glass of their wings both fragile and monstrously large.

Topiary islands form in the room as the only dry land, occupied by figures made entirely of blooms and branches. Like the lotuses, they’re all reaching upwards, arms outstretched wide. They face inwards towards the center of the room, where a waterfall of water and crystals pelts down into a plunge pool, a sudden deep drop off into deep water.

There's something wrong with the garden, though, isn't there? You remember… you do, don't you? How the flowers bloomed in your own garden, after what you buried there, how the petals unfolded just this bright, this vibrant, how the vines grew just this thick. How when you showed your visitor the garden, they marveled, clapping in delight, and you were… happy. That even you could bring something good into the world—

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 :)"

Draped over one of the bright lotuses sits a locket.

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 (Locket). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone out of view of those you consider to be innocents). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.

There is one exit: West. ]

[ 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. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the ATM & Gashapon Hall—the elevator is gone when you look back.

A quiet, largely-empty and slightly musty hallway but for a handful of ATMs lined up next to a row of Imeeji Idol Productions gashapon machines that dispense stickers, photocards, and low-budget figurines of random idols. There's a promise of some special seasonal SSR figures that are… hm. Bloodstained, murderous, with missing limbs and eyes. That sure is a theme. Only 50 points a play!

It's quiet here, and you're familiar with quiet. You remember the long trek across the desert, with little companionship and fewer supplies. You remember when your sole traveling companion from those difficult, difficult years got a snake bite that turned septic, and how the rot spread, and spread, until there was only one last good thing you could do for them… and then you were alone.

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 :)"

Set on top of one of the ATMs is a stack of credit cards.

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 (Credit Card). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (to kill someone who is injured or who you deem to be suffering). 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 East. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Revitalization Treatment Center—the elevator is gone when you look back.

It has a clean, well-appointed lobby with comfortable plush couches and bright, natural lighting, and someone who greets you cheerfully when you come in, although apparently there’s a very long wait list for anyone who isn’t a VIP.

On the coffee tables scattered around are binders… each full of slipcovered profiles of young, beautiful people and their credentials and blood types. What kind of spa are they running here?

You can guess, at least… the scent of blood brings you back to that too-long moment, looking at your friend's face over the shaking barrel of your gun. Your parent at your shoulder steadying you, reminding you of the proper form… and that really, this is all your fault, but of course helping take care of each other is what family is for. And then you squeezed the trigger, and there was the smell of smoke and gunpowder and blood, and you felt ill—

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 :)"

On the table in the waiting room sits a pack of cards—marked ones, although not for any game you're familiar with.

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 (Stacked Deck). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after admitting vulnerability to them). 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator onto a Balcony—the elevator is gone when you look back.

It thrusts, unsupported, over the city like a pier over dark water, a wide promenade with no railing to keep you on the path. Shadow couples dangle their feet freely over the edge, holding hands. It would be so easy to step off, become part of the dance of the night sky stars and exist in the neon air freely for a bit before the ground calls you back for a reckoning. Or so it seems: those who attempt to jump or fly will find the hotel has done some unseen security here. You will fall and land straight back on the balcony where you leapt from, in an undignified heap, as injured as you should be from the height you fell. The freedom the balcony offers is only illusion, illusory as the rest of the freedom your “vacation” offers you. Even though you can roam this hotel freely, you’re still locked in.

And once again, everyone you can see out there with a hand to hold, with someone to be by their side when they need it… and what do you have? You remember—seeing them walk by like that, beneath umbrellas, in twos and threes and mores, while you huddled in the alleyway under a scrap of cardboard, with no one to give you any regard. You remember the fire burning in your heart—what you would do for anyone to hold onto, for a face to turn your way and not look immediately away—

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 bag of candy, sweet enough to make your teeth hurt, sits on a 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 (Bag of Candy). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who doesn't love you enough). 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. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Wedding Chapel—the elevator is gone when you look back.

The room is hot, in the buzz and swelter of the electric lights, orchestrated to draw the eye and draw you in. Neon crosses blaze blue and bright, marking off the pews like no-entry signs: this spectacle is one without an audience. The aisle is a silvery mirrored metal, a river that runs to the altar that too is ablaze with light. A mountain of candles both wax and battery-powered burn and flicker, like to consecrate this place against the dark or made in a simulacrum of true hell.

It feels like a mockery, a reminder of everything that's been taken from you—you remember, right? Your love, left to die in the streets, your home set ablaze, the temples of your gods toppled. The way you absorbed the hatred in their eyes, let it crystallize and harden your heart into pure resolve to someday, someday, turn the tables—

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 ring with a huge diamond (is that real? It can't be real, and yet—) sits in a luxurious velvet box.

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 (Diamond Ring). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after putting them in a hopeless situation). 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 East. ]

[ 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. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator onto the Stage—the elevator is gone when you look back.

This is a luxurious affair with a blue velvet curtain backdrop, an orchestra pit, a standing area, and then a whole box seating area with flying buttresses and an honestly breathtaking ceiling mural of heaven upon the clouds. All the fixtures are polished to sparkling, and despite the traditional stylings, it's lit by a number of modern fixtures that make the room feel like it's sparkling.

It's easy to feel drawn to the very center of the stage. It's where you belong, isn't it? The focal point of all eyes, all attention, all love—the hero's spot. You'd just have to ignore the faded, reddish stain on the wood.

There was another theater—one where you solemnly watched the briefing reel, as they told you what had happened to your predecessor on this mission, whose body was never found apart from his right hand, severed messily at the wrist. Where they told you in gruesome detail what could happen to not just you, but to entire populations, should you fail—that if the weapons your enemies want to unleash on the world are completed, those victims that find themselves immediately vaporized would be the lucky ones. How high the stakes truly are—and how much blood must be spilled to save the world—

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 :)"

At the foot of the stage rests a portable footlight lamp, shining brightly into your eyes—illuminating perhaps too much.

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 (Footlight). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after they help you). 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 East. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Honeymoon Suite—the elevator is gone when you look back.

A hot tub is the focal point of the room—a clear diamond shaped tub like the focal point of an engagement ring. The stilts that support it can pump in water or bubbles, and atop the tub, a heavy crystal lid hangs like a pendulum beneath the chandelier. It throws prisms all around the room, a pretty distraction from the fact that surely a bath-tub doesn’t need a lid. A couple’s bed has been made nearby, the linens and covers that surround it so fine that through the diaphanous layers any voyeur would still see the shapes bodies within might form. The silvery drawers and closet have translucent robes and nylon ropes available for guests to avail themselves to. Or, for the more practical, towels.

It brings you back to when you met them—the way your eyes met across a crowded room, and in the crush of music and noise and bodies, you still somehow found each other, as if drawn by magnets. The way you found your refuge there, and the way you just knew, instantaneously, without any words spoken—they would be the center of your world, and that you'd do anything for them—

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 pearl-handled folding knife with a swirled damascus steel blade sits on the bedside 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 (Switchblade). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill a rival for someone's affections, creating a rivalry if you must). 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. ]

[ You spill out of the elevator into the Bar—the elevator is gone when you look back.

It’s surprisingly quiet, here, with muted, upbeat jazz playing from speakers tucked away somewhere, and a bar long enough to give you some space. Curtained booths are set against the back wall for quiet dining or clandestine meetings. The specials menu gives a full array of… poison-themed cocktails?

At the other end of the room, a single spotlight shines on a raised stage, with a microphone, almost as if waiting for a show to begin.

What poor soul's going to perform? Not you—you do enough of that all day, every day, after all. After all, you learned early on that's how the game was played. You watched money change hands—quietly, discreetly—and despite how many late nights you'd pulled working on your case, it meant nothing in the face of whose wallet was biggest and who knew who in the circles of the rich and powerful. So to get what you wanted, you'd make yourself one of them, as long as you need to for it to serve your purpose—

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 polished, round pocket watch on a long, dangling chain, ticking rhythmically, rests on the bar.

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 (Hypnotist's Watch). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after helping them). 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. ]