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future is now
[ You spill out of the elevator into the library—the elevator is gone when you look back.
In the library shelves form labyrinth corridors of books, between which are heaped precarious piles of paperbacks. Leather wing-back chairs provide privacy around the crackling fireplace at the back—if someone was sitting in one, you'd never be able to tell until you circled the full way around to the front to see. Expensive looking paintings line the walls, and you'd expect the shelves to be laden with rare editions. However, there's hardly any hardbacks at all, most everything is cheap spy novels and erotica. No accounting for taste, really.
The library has been disturbed though—something is missing from it. Through the books, through the stacks, notes have been removed, pages torn out. Aching wells up in your throat, the raw urge to scream, to exclaim some truth about the knowledge missing but it's just not there. Your mind has been scrubbed clean just like these shelves have, of whatever truth you can't recall—though, that's for the better, isn't it? Better not to know, than to meet that fate again comes the thought twinned with another one: how dare they bury your knowledge from you. You feel this distantly, in some distant and uncertain corner of your mind—but you probably don't want to linger too long on the thought that you have more materials around than they did. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, though, it will overwhelm you.
A book sits open on the counter, not all the pages torn out: some are empty, and a scant few are filled out with deductions.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (accuse your victim of their crimes with recorded evidence before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (book). 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: South. ]
In the library shelves form labyrinth corridors of books, between which are heaped precarious piles of paperbacks. Leather wing-back chairs provide privacy around the crackling fireplace at the back—if someone was sitting in one, you'd never be able to tell until you circled the full way around to the front to see. Expensive looking paintings line the walls, and you'd expect the shelves to be laden with rare editions. However, there's hardly any hardbacks at all, most everything is cheap spy novels and erotica. No accounting for taste, really.
The library has been disturbed though—something is missing from it. Through the books, through the stacks, notes have been removed, pages torn out. Aching wells up in your throat, the raw urge to scream, to exclaim some truth about the knowledge missing but it's just not there. Your mind has been scrubbed clean just like these shelves have, of whatever truth you can't recall—though, that's for the better, isn't it? Better not to know, than to meet that fate again comes the thought twinned with another one: how dare they bury your knowledge from you. You feel this distantly, in some distant and uncertain corner of your mind—but you probably don't want to linger too long on the thought that you have more materials around than they did. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, though, it will overwhelm you.
A book sits open on the counter, not all the pages torn out: some are empty, and a scant few are filled out with deductions.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (accuse your victim of their crimes with recorded evidence before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (book). 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: South. ]
no subject
no subject
Did Duality manage to patch you up?
no subject
Are you okay? Do you need anything to help . . . ?
no subject
no subject
no subject
[Gets up and reaches out to take her hand again]
no subject
[Taking his hand, getting up with him.]
...Thank you.
[For everything.]
no subject
He certainly hasn't done anything in the House worth thanking.
Two people he cared about got stabbed. Had to kill the stabbers - who he also cared about]
...
Sure.