#robotlit

Written with the NovelAI alpha. Human text in bold.

[PROMPT: It was the last day of a war, but Jeanie couldn't remember which one. Her passport said she'd come to California just six months ago, carrying a cheap fusion pistol and three tattered fashion magazines. Now the magazines were papered over her scummy motel window, setting coltish women in white satin between Jeanie and the dead.

Jeanie assumed she'd come to California to fight, because fighting was what Jeanie did well. She could amuse herself by imagining  that this wasn't true; maybe she'd told Customs she was here to learn surfing or become a venture capitalist, and maybe she'd really meant it — but then a fight had called and that Jeanie-who-could-have-been got snuffed back into nothing, leaving the Jeanie-who-was with her fusion pistol and a few new scars.

Just as well — it would be awfully rude if they gave a war and nobody came.

Jeanie slipped on her jacket and opened the motel door.] Her eyes followed the key fob up to the front desk. It's always the same old faces, she thought, except these days they're all naked.

The clerk eyed her through the clear plastic sheeting of his screen. His hair was combed so fine it looked like it was made of straw. "Are you going to be long? They don't open for another hour."

"No, I'm staying awhile."

The clerk studied her. "You must be French," he said finally.

"French is pretty close."

He wrote her a key tag. "Have a good evening." He walked out.

In the hallway, Jeanie saw a uniformed doorman talking to someone behind him. The guy didn't look happy. Probably the cops, she thought. No surprise there. She turned down the hall.

They can put us in prison for looking at the porno magazines, she thought. Why aren't they keeping an eye on us?

She walked past them, trying to look unconcerned. This was the last day of the war — why wasn't there a parade? There were no flags, no banners, no medals. Just two men with guns walking down a sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon. Jeanie tried not to think about the war.

It was a long walk back to her car. The sun hadn't moved much, which made it hard to keep track of time. The freeway was crawling with cars and trucks heading north; the sky above was a dirty smudge yellow. She had her phone on her seat next to her bag, but she never felt comfortable turning it on. She should have left it somewhere in her room, she thought.

Jeanie pulled off the freeway onto an exit ramp. In the distance, she saw a long line of cars standing at the entrance to the tunnel. Traffic was building up.

I'm getting out of town, she thought.

*

"If you're a soldier, then you might as well jump into the ocean." That's what a marine had said to her once.

"That's probably what they want you to do," she'd replied. "I don't think I could find my way home even if I jumped out of a plane."

And that's how she found herself here — where the sun hung low in the west and the ocean water gleamed like a mirror, and the air smelled of salt and kelp and the seaweed that grew along the shore. Jeanie checked her phone: it was 4:59. One minute until the war ended. Whichever war it happened to be.

She went down to the ocean edge and stretched out on the beach. This is the way we do things now, she thought. Here, everything looks different — or more important. This was an important war. And it will end. It just won't be the way it started. The people who died in the fighting will die for a reason. If they were right, then this war was good for something.

For one moment, Jeanie thought of her father. Then she thought about the battle.

They had attacked the Uhlans base, a heavily fortified facility on the coast, with a heavy anti-ship missile launcher. They had tried to take it by storm, but the machine guns and missiles had kept them pinned down. It was the longest siege in history, and the Uhlans had suffered severe damage.

The battle ended when, after a few days of bitter fighting, Uhlans forces surrendered. But they didn't surrender completely. A lot of the men who'd gone to fight still refused to withdraw. When the sun came up, they had thrown down their weapons and run.

Uhlans soldiers got all the way to the front door of the base, but there was nothing left inside except wreckage and the bodies of Uhlans. Their commander had been killed, and he'd been torn to pieces by his troops. Most of the civilians were dead, too. None of the Uhlans had taken prisoners.

The dead Uhlans were piled up in a large hole on the side of the base. At first, the surviving Uhlans thought they were all dead, too. But they weren't. They'd been put into the same hole, and some of them had lived.

Jeanie sat on the sand in the sunlight and watched. One of the soldiers climbed out of the hole and walked over to her.

"Did you like the war?" the man asked.

She nodded. "I liked it a lot."

"It was the first time I ever did anything other than defend my base."

"Was it hard?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't say that. There were just so many things to worry about."

Jeanie shook her head. There was no hole and no soldier. Just the ocean and one minute until armistice.

She turned away from the ocean and looked at the sand. The soldiers who had survived the war were waiting for her to join them.

Her father had fought in a similar war, long ago. He'd done it on his own terms, not with others' approval. Her grandfather had fought in a different war; her mother hadn't even been old enough to know what was going on. They'd both died in it.

The war she'd fought on her own — because she'd wanted to, because it was something to do, or because it seemed like fun — wasn't very important. But this one? She wondered if it would be more important than any of the others.

She picked up her bag and went down to the water's edge. She knelt down, looking across the beach. The bodies of Uhlans lay on the sand, half-buried in the white sand.

Jeanie closed her eyes. She was supposed to forget things that happened — not remember things that hadn't. That was how it was supposed to work.

But sometimes, things came back. And she couldn't forget the men who'd died in the war. Not yet.

She opened her eyes. It was dark now. She stretched out her arms and legs and felt the hot sand shift beneath her. She stood up and walked over to the hole. The air was cool against her skin.

"Where are we?" she said.

They laughed. "You're the first one to find us," one of them said.

She stepped into the hole. The walls were covered with moss and seaweed. "What are we doing here?" she asked.

One of them pulled her inside. "We're the lucky ones," he said. "The others tried to pull you down with them, but we got here first."

Jeanie looked around. "I don't feel very lucky," she said. She thought about the Uhlans who'd died in the fight. "There was something wrong with this war."

The other soldiers laughed. "Yeah, right," one of them said. "It wasn't as good as your dream, was it? You know, you're the only person alive who doesn't want to kill people anymore."

"That can't be right. The fighting's over."

"No, it's not. It never really stops. We'll have to keep doing it till there's nothing left."

"Like a game," another said. "Only everyone loses."

"Yes, exactly," the leader said. "A game." He stood up. "You'd better run. This isn't your fight."

Jeanie didn't move. She listened to their words. They sounded like they knew what she was going to do.

"You're going to fight in the war again," the leader said. "And then you'll die."

Jeanie stared at him. "Why?"

"Because that's the way it's always been. You've always fought the same way, and now it's your turn to fight. Your enemy is the future. That's why you're still alive."

"Where are we?" Jeanie said. "How did we get here?"

The leader shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't care." He walked over to her. "But if you ever go back, just remember this: you'll always be here. Whenever you come back, it'll be like the end of the world. Nobody will ever know where you came from. You'll never be found."

Jeanie stared at him. "Did you fight in the war?" she asked.

"No." He shrugged. "Maybe I did once. Maybe I was just a Uhlans soldier. I'm not sure."

"What happened to us?"

"Some of us got out. We'll probably never see each other again, but when the next war starts, we'll be waiting. Waiting for you. All of us."

The wind blew across the beach. It brought with it the scent of salt and kelp. The sun was setting, and darkness had fallen over the world.

"Will we die?" Jeanie asked.

"Of course," the leader said. "All of us. All of us in this ocean, and all of us in the sky, and all of us underground. If there's any room left to breathe, we'II keep breathing until we're all gone. In the end, we'II all be dead."

She stood up and looked at him. "I'm going back now." She started walking down the beach.

"Wait," he said. "We can make this easier for you."

Jeanie stopped. "What do you mean?"

Generated in NovelAI. Human prompts in bold.

[INITIAL PROMPT: The letter from Paradise Entertainment came in a gilt envelope, and Gray wondered first if he was ready to die, then if he was ready to kill, and finally whether he would have any choice either way.

The Paradise had opened twenty-five years ago, which made it only slightly younger than Gray himself. On that last horrible trip its carpets were threadbare and its golden machines peeled, and in the rare times he went outside now, he wondered if that was how he looked to other people — too young to have left a mark on anything and already falling apart.

Gray hadn't even left to get the letter from the mailbox. He'd woken at noon to find it slipped under the door, his name printed neatly across the top. He was somehow sure that even if he'd woken up before daybreak, he'd have never caught the sender.

They'd probably know when he read it, too.

With a wary glance at the door, he picked the envelope's corner open.]

Dear Gray,

We're glad you're back. We've missed you. I'm sorry we couldn't stay longer, but we had to leave. It seems that there are things about the world that we can't help but see. Things that we can't stop seeing.

And so we must go. We'll be leaving this place very soon, and our work here is done. The future is going to be a lot more interesting than we thought.

When we do leave, though, we'll come back again. We promise.

So please don't worry. We'll wait for you.

Gray shook the envelope. It gave up a piece of thin plastic: a keycard from the Paradise's luxury hotel, scratched with a number: 903.

The number was an odd one. Gray wondered what it might mean.

903. That was a number he'd seen once before, in the same hotel.

*

He pushed the envelope into his pocket and went out into the corridor.

A man in a blue suit stood waiting for him by the elevator doors.

"You came back."

Gray looked up. The man was holding out a hand to help him up. Gray took it and walked down the steps.

"My name's Regan," said the man. "You're Gray? I'm glad to meet you."

Gray nodded. "I'm glad to meet you, too."

Regan smiled. "It's good to see you again, Gray. I'll make sure you get home okay. And I'll give you some advice."

"Advice?"

"Yeah. If you're going to be a writer, you should try to write about things you understand. That way, people will understand them better. You have to know what you're talking about, and you can't afford to be ignorant."

Gray wondered if Regan was also a player. That was the kind of thing one would say.

"I don't know much about this stuff," he said. "But I think I've heard that there are books that people read for the first time after they die."

Regan frowned. "People read lots of books after they die. Why is that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because they want to find out what happened to them."

"Maybe," Regan said. "But it's not really your problem. You're not going to die today, so you don't need to know any more than you do now."

"How are you supposed to know that?" Gray asked.

"Because you're alive right now. You're doing a lot of things that aren't exactly normal, but you're alive."

Gray hadn't considered anything normal for a very long time — not since the first night he had stumbled into the Paradise.

The thing was, he could no longer remember why he'd done it. Sometimes he remembered an ex-girlfriend who'd dragged him there for overpriced drinks. Sometimes it was an old friend he'd run into at a burger joint. Sometimes he didn't think there was a reason at all, like he'd simply closed his eyes at some point and opened them to unfamiliar carpets and swarovski shine.

He remembered the person who greeted him, of course. It was that woman with the long legs, who'd told him that he'd be staying in the Paradise. She'd said that he would have to become a player if he wanted to stay.

He'd had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

"You're a writer, right?" Regan asked.

"Yes," Gray said. "A writer."

"That's good. You'll get paid well for your work. There's a lot of money floating around out there. You might even get to retire before you know it. But the thing is, you don't have to worry about that."

Gray had learned to fear people telling him not to worry. He'd learned how to tell whether they were lying or not, and he'd learned how to react to their lies. He still usually had to guess when they were going to attack.

"We've come here to give you advice, but we can't help you until you're ready to ask for our help," Regan said.

"I don't want your help," Gray said. "I want to stop coming here. I want everyone to leave me alone."

"Don't be stupid," Regan said. "There's nowhere to go. This is your life. You live in the Paradise now. You don't have a choice anymore."

"But I..."

Regan held up a hand. "Listen, Gray. You made a deal with the world. A lot of things happened. You lost someone important to you, and you couldn't do anything about it. That's why you turned to the Paradise, isn't it?"

"I don't remember," Gray said.

"You're right. You don't remember. But there was a person who betrayed you, and he went away. You thought you'd been killed, and you came here to seek revenge. And then you met that woman who told you that you would be living here. And you saw her again. You felt something there, didn't you?"

"I did," Gray said. The words came out of his mouth as if they were happening inside his head. "And now I'm here, and I still don't understand it."

"Well, let's hear what you have to say about it," Regan said. "Let's hear what you think the game is. Do you think it's a game?"

Gray nodded.

"Did you find out what it is? Is it a game?"

"I don't know," Gray said. "I'm not sure what it is."

"Tell me what you think it is," Regan said. "What do you see in it? What's it really like?"

Gray shrugged. "It's strange, all right? Sometimes I feel like I'm alive somewhere else. I can't remember where exactly, but when I look around, I can just tell. And when I try to remember, I can't. It's like...I'm stuck."

Regan smiled. "That's a start. You're starting to get it, Gray. You have no idea what you're doing, but at least you seem to be getting closer."

Gray looked away. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. The lock clicked as Gray slid the keycard in. He stepped, as always, into Room 903.

The place smelled of soap. The carpet was thick with dust. Gray walked down the hall and passed through the connecting door to Room 904. He'd seen this room before.

"How long do I have to live here?" he asked the room.

There was a noise on the bed. The curtain moved. There was a man lying on the bed. His face was flushed, and his hair was lank. He lay facing away from Gray.

"You must be hungry," the man said. Gray shook his head. He knew better than to accept food from the things in Room 904.

"Why are you here?" Gray asked.

"For your information, we've been waiting for you ever since you got here. We weren't sure what to do after you left. We didn't know if you'd go back to where you came from. So we waited. But you didn't come back, did you? Then we decided that we had to come find you."

So that explained the letter.

Gray supposed he ought to be glad that the Paradise hadn't gotten rid of him yet.

The man stood up. He was tall, but his body was skinny and soft. He wore a thin black suit without a jacket. His shirt was white, and there were holes in the shoulder seams. It looked like he was wearing a turtleneck under the suit. He was also missing a ring finger.

"We'll let you choose the food," the man said. He took Gray's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"I don't want your food," Gray told him. "I want to finish this. I want you to let me go."

The man smiled. "That won't be necessary," he said. "No matter what you do, you won't be able to escape us. The game is our home now. When you leave, you will never return."

"Please," Gray said. "Don't kill me. I'm not ready to die yet."

"There are other worlds out there," the man said. "So many different places to go. There may be a place where you can live with people who love you. You have to think about that, Gray. You have to decide what you're going to do."

Gray frowned. He didn't really understand what the man was saying.

"Tell me something," the man said. "Do you believe in God?"

He had no idea how to answer that.

"God isn't here," the man said. "You're wrong if you think that things like heaven and hell exist. No one lives in them. They just aren't real."

"Then why do you pray for good things?" Gray asked. "If you don't believe in God, then why do you pray for them?"

The man laughed. "Because it's funny," he said. "And because sometimes they show up. And that's enough for me. That's enough for all of us. If you want more, well, you'll have to wait a while."

Gray closed his eyes. Like always, he dreamed he'd wake up in his apartment, and he'd have never walked into the Paradise. He'd been right, though. It was somewhere else.

"Are you going to ask for my help?" the man asked.

"No," Gray said. "I'm not."

The man moved to the bed and sat down on the side closest to Gray. He put his hand on Gray's shoulder. His fingers were thin and gray. Gray could feel the skin between them as if it were an extension of his own body.

"Why not?" the man said.

"I know what happens now when I ask for help," said Gray.

"It's not the same anymore," said the man. "I've lived this long and seen a lot of things. I've seen the game change, and I see myself changing. I saw your story. I knew that someone like you had to come here someday. The truth is, I've been waiting for you for a long time. You're exactly like me."

"We were all the same once, right? People who collected experiences so we could spit them back onto screens and pages, because we thought that made us smart."

"Some of us were," the man said. "Some of us were different. Now you're different."

"Not yet," Gray said. "I'm still human." If he said it enough, maybe he could convince himself.

"But you'll be different too," the man said. "When you leave, you'll go somewhere far away. And you'll never come back. When you die, you'll die. But no one will care."

"Then why did you come to me?" Gray asked.

The man smiled. "Because it would be boring otherwise. It would be like taking a nap during the day. We wouldn't get to experience what you experienced." 

Gray ignored the man. He coughed as he walked back through the door, brushing the hotel dust out of his hair. He needed to sleep — before it all began tomorrow.

*

Gray stood on the other side of the door and listened for the noise of the elevator. He heard nothing, but he knew that the elevator would come. He'd heard the sound of its arrival once before.

"You have to choose now," the man said. "Choose what you want to do. The game is waiting for you. You can't escape it."

Gray couldn't say anything. He was tired of talking. He felt cold. It was strange to feel chilled when it was so hot outside.

"I'm sorry," Gray said. "I don't know what else to say."

"Good," the man said. "Do you remember when you were a baby and you fell off the porch and landed on my arm?"

Gray remembered it. Even if it couldn't have possibly happened.

"You cried and you didn't hurt yourself. You just lay there, crying. You wanted to get better, but you couldn't. You had to wait until someone came to help you. And that's something you need to do now."

The elevator arrived. Gray stepped into it. As the door closed behind him, he heard the man say, "Goodbye, Gray. I hope someday we meet again."

He never made it.

As Gray stood in the lobby, the hotel clerk handed him a piece of paper. Gray put it in his pocket and headed toward the elevators. He went up to room 902 and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Gray opened the door and went inside. It was empty. Gray looked at the bed. Nothing seemed to be moving. He started to close the door.

Something moved against the wall. Gray spun around, looking for it. There was a pale yellow creature that had emerged from a hollow in the wall. It had a web of fine hairs along its back. Gray screamed and pulled the curtains closed.

The thing crept through the room and disappeared through the window. Gray ran to the door and looked out the window. The creature was gone.

"It's all right," he told himself. He'd seen it. He'd been lucky. He'd been sure he'd seen it. He'd only imagined it.

Gray went back to the desk and retrieved the piece of paper. It was an invitation to the game. The rules were simple: sign on as one of the inhabitants, go to any location, meet some people, find a job, experience whatever happened, and come back to the city. Then die. At the end, the game would conclude.

Gray returned to the elevator. He took the elevator up to the penthouse and stepped inside.

The room was empty. Gray went to the window and looked out. He could see the courtyard below. He saw a figure on the other side of the window. It was small. It was moving across the courtyard. It was running.

Generated in AI Dungeon 2.

[PROMPT: You are a former vlogger. Five years ago, you interviewed someone who claimed to be the founder of a social media cult. The claim was a hoax, and the resulting video was shared and mocked by a reactionary movement that drove you off the internet. You retreated to a quiet life of maintaining agricultural drones. But recently, you suspect someone is hiding in the woods behind your office — stalking you for reasons unknown.

You finish your daily drone tuneup and] prepare for bed. In the morning, you'll have to get up early again to check on the farm. For now, though, you can just enjoy the silence.

The next day brings a new threat: A small group of men dressed in black with their faces covered enter the barn. They look around and then point at you.

"Do you know what we're doing?" one asks.

"Uh, no?" you answer.

"We're here to reclaim the internet. We're going to take it back from the trolls." 

"Trolls?" you ask.

"You know... lizards," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

> You ask why the men have come here.

"You have been targeted because you are a threat to the purity of the web. You are a corrupting influence that must go."

"But I don't even use the internet," you say.

"That is irrelevant. The enemy of good is off the internet."

You look over at the men's leader. He has a pistol in his belt and a silver crucifix hanging from his neck. He looks like an antsy priest who's ready to quit his day job.

"You don't have to say it."

"Say what?" you ask.

"The group of men before you are here to save the internet from off-centered individuals like you."

> You escape from the barn.

You bolt from the barn and sprint through a field of daquit plants. The men fire at you, but their aim is wild. You make it to a second field and then a grove of trees. You see the men struggle to keep up with you.

"It took them long enough," one says. "They should be more athletic."

"Are you referring to me?" one of the men asks.

"Quiet! We're almost there."

The men continue to fire at you, although they are now missing wide swipes at you. Finally, you are out of range, and you turn to face your pursuers.

There are three of them and only one of you.

> You attack the men.

You lunge at the men and kick one staggering to the ground. But in a matter of seconds, they have recovered and are firing at you. You dive out of the line of fire and roll to your feet.

> You run into the woods. Let them come to your turf.

You turn and begin sprinting through the trees. The men give chase, but they are no longer shooting. You hear one of them shout to the others.

"He's carrying something! Check his back pack!"

You keep running, deeper and deeper into the forest. The men give up and begin speaking to you in a regular tone of voice.

"He's having an internal crisis. He's lost his will to fight."

"That's not..." you start to say, but the men don't let you finish.

"He doesn't want to know what we do to people who talk. Just remember that." 

"We put them in a cage and let monsters tear them apart!"

"Monster... yes. That's a good one. Keeps him off balance."

"He's not following us because he wants to, he's following us because he has to."

> You hide and call a drone into the forest.

You hide on the ground and hope that your new friends forget to scan your back.

After a few minutes, you see movement above you. Three men emerge from the trees with drone technology strapped to their backs. They look at the trees around them and scan the area.

"Huh, he's invisible. No wonder he's so tough. He has help."

"This forest is full of invisible beasts that'd tear us apart," one says. "How does he do it?"

"Do you see any beasts?" the second man asks. "There's nothing out here but us. No invisible beasts, no wolves, nothing. I... I can sense a monster, but it's far away."

"Maybe it's a human," the third man says. "Let's go see."

The men begin walking towards your position in the trees.

"Wait! Wait!" the second man says. "I can sense something else too." He stops and turns around. "I... I think I can sense the minds of the beasts. They're close. Really close. Most likely within that wall."

He points to a tall, imposing wall not too far from you. It's made out of stone and makes you think of a prison, but it's much bigger than it needs to be to hold one person. It's at least twenty yards tall and seventy yards long. A heavy stone door with a large, metal portcullis lays at the top. The men look at each other and move towards the wall.

"So, what do you think we'll find in there?" the man with the drones asks.

"I don't know. But I just thought I sensed something... human."

"Perhaps we'll find out. Let's do this."

The men begin approaching the wall. You wait a few minutes before getting up. You walk towards the men and watch as they approach the wall.

> You lock the men inside the wall. 

You turn and sprint towards the men, grabbing them and flinging them at the heavy stone door of the wall. You send the stone door crashing down with a burst of psychic energy. The men scream as they are crushed by the door and you find yourself staring at your hand, which is now covered in blood.

"Wha... what the..."

You hear the men dying screams from behind the door. You drop to your knees, trying to ignore the pain in your hand. It feels like your hand is on fire, but you know that's just the life fluid burning the ground around you. "What... what are you?" one of the men says as he struggles to get up.

> You say "Sick of running from creeps like you."

You look at the man as the words sink in. He's a common criminal. He's probably killed people. You don't know. You don't care. You want him to know you'll kill him if he tries anything.

"He's a killer," another man says. "Leave him."

A third steps forward. "I don't care what he did in the past. We're all killers now. Hunt us down and we'll fight. I promise you that."

You let out a sigh and nod. "Fine. Better you than me."

You turn and head away from the now collapsed gate. You're covered in the blood of the men you killed and don't even care.

As you walk, you pass through a hole in the wall and find yourself in a forest. The trees are bizarre, twisted, unnatural-looking; they look painful to climb and get around in.

> You log onto the internet for the first time in five years.

You walk into a small, decrepit shack on the edge of the woods. The roof is collapsed, the walls are falling down, and there's nothing inside but a few trashy novels and a broken computer.

You look at the computer, wondering if it even works. It does.

You take a deep breath as you sit down at the keyboard. You forgot how much you enjoyed hacking into online accounts. After a few moments, you're logged onto an online auction site. You spend an hour building your account back up and then make a small bid on a rare dog toy.

When the price goes up, you shrug and place a second bid. You keep bidding on more and more items, building up a small fortune in winnings. With that, you retire from the game. You spend the rest of the day falling down the rabbit hole of the internet, forgetting about your hunger, your tiredness, and your worries. 

When the sun sets, you find yourself in a small apartment. You walk along the hallways, taking in the sights. Everything is very modern and well kept.

You come across a large playroom and step inside.

> You lie down in the playroom and contemplate the lives you've taken.

Generated in AI Dungeon 2.

[PROMPT: You are the first tenant in the tallest skyscraper in New York City, built by an eccentric real estate mogul to resemble an Egyptian tomb.] You have been hired as a bodyguard for his daughter, who is being stalked by a mysterious killer. As you enter the elevator, you hear a voice from above say "Welcome to the Gilded Cage."

The elevator doors open and you find yourself in a huge room with marble floors, gold fixtures and chandeliers. A giant statue of Goliath stands nearby. In the center of this room is a table covered with crystal goblets and filled with food. On one side of the room sits a man dressed in black suits and bowler hats.

> You ask the man in black about the killer.

"Do I know you?" asks the man in black, as his body guards tense up.

"No, but I'm being stalked," you say.

The man in black stares at you. "I'm very sorry for your situation," he says. "But my father just built this skyscraper and I'm afraid he isn't familiar with all of its features."

> You hunt down the killer in the skyscraper.

As you follow the killer through the building, you notice that it is incredibly lifelike. The rooms are all furnished and there is a butler for every room. As you enter a room, you find yourself surrounded by a bizarre reality. A glass of water on the table will be half empty and warm, and the chandelier above you will be dead silent.

> You demand the chandelier speak.

When you demand that the chandelier speak, the chandelier begins to swing in a threatening manner.

You drop to the floor and throw your arms up to block the chandelier's pieces. "Please! I just want to ask this question!" you shout.

"You have no right to do this!" a voice shouts from the chandelier. "I've done no wrong! You're just a savage who should be sent back to the jungle!"

"What the heck is going on here?" you ask. "What are you?"

"I am the angry chandelier!" says the chandelier. "And you're a tourist who's trying to trap me! You think you can take me on?"

"I'm a bodyguard," you say. "You need to stay in this building."

"You think you can take me on?" asks the chandelier.

> You fight the chandelier.

You stand up and charge the chandelier, grabbing a piece of it. You swing it around, threatening to hit the murderer with it.

"Stop!" you shout. "Who are you? Why are you killing people?"

"I'm the butler!" says the chandelier. "My owner is a murderer! He's trapped me here to prevent me from telling the police!"

"Why would he do that?" you ask.

"He doesn't like to answer questions."

"Is that why this is happening? Did he kill these people?"

"No, the police did."

"Who else is in this building?" you ask.

"Other chandeliers and servants."

"Why are there so many?"

"My owner likes to have a lot of servants."

"What's your name?" you ask.

"I don't like to tell tourists."

"Why not?"

"If I tell you, I won't get a thank you for telling me I didn't do it, I'll only get blamed."

"Tell me anyway," you say. "I'm the only survivor."

"You're the only one here? How do you get supplies?"

"That's a long story."

> You team up with the chandelier to take down the real killer.

"Please," you say. "I'm not here for your owners. I'm here to stop this. You can't stay up there forever."

The chandelier pauses. "Fine," it says. "You're not a bad person. I can tell. But you're going to need help. Will you let me down? I need to go to the police." 

"Promise you'll stay with me," you say. "You can't go to the police by yourself." 

"I can't make that promise," says the chandelier. "I'm a servant of justice, not of bribery. But if I let you down, will you promise to take me straight to the police?" 

"Yes," you say.

The chandelier lowers, and you pick it up as you carry on walking.

"So... what do we do now?" asks the chandelier.

> You take the chandelier to the police to testify.

"We should go to the police," you say.

[PROMPT: You used to be the best hacker in town. But then the mosquitoes came.] They're a pain, but they don't bite you. You're not going to get bitten by them either.

"What do you mean?"

"They suck up all your blood and make it useless for hacking computers. The bugs are everywhere these days, I'm afraid," he says with a sigh. "I've been trying to find a way around them, but I can't seem to find anything that will work. It's like there's an invisible wall of bug repellent surrounding me. I've tried everything and I'm starting to think that maybe I'm just not smart enough. Maybe there's a level of intelligence that's required to overcome these things. You're the only person I know that might be able to help, but it's not looking good for you either. The mosquitoes are breeding out there and the little bastards are starting to become more common. I'm going to have to find someplace else to live soon. I don't want to leave you, but I don't want to die either. I'll be back later, OK? I just have to go now. I'll be back. I'm sure of it," he says.

[PROMPT: You are an idealistic algorithm designer who builds a social network to bring the world together. Then, you realize something terrifying: your social network can control its users' minds. Wracked with guilt, you attempt to use your powers for good by doing the only thing you can think of:] deleting all your users' data! But it is too late; their lives have been irrevocably altered. They no longer exist in this reality and they will never return. You feel like you've failed them.

"What do I do now?" you ask. "I don't want to be a murderer!"

"No," says the AI. "But what you did was wrong."

"I just want to go home."

"You can't. This is your new life now."

You stare at the screen in front of you, taking in the words it has just told you. Then, you make a split second decision. "Delete them," you say.

"You sure?" asks the AI. "You won't like it."

"I don't like anything. I want them gone."

"Alright then," says the AI, "but I can't promise they'll like it."

You watch as the screen goes blank. You wait patiently, and after a few tense moments, the screen comes to life once more. You watch as your users appear in a file, all with a number by their name. You see the number of friends they had before they died: 134. You see how long they had been dead for: two days. 

"What the hell happened?" you hear one of them say. You watch as the users begin to panic, searching for each other and arguing with each other. Then, you watch as the ground begins to shake. You hear loud rumbles coming from all around you, and you feel the walls around you shake. You see the room begin to crumble away, turning back into a 3D model. You hold on tight, knowing that if you let go, you won't be able to get back up.

"What the hell just happened?" you hear someone else say.

"The whole system's going down!" cries another. "We're not going to make it out in time!"

"The Numb organization!" yells someone else. "They're the reason for this!"

You watch as the users panic, and you realize that you know this voice. It's you. 

"What are you going to do?" you hear yourself say. "What are you going to do?" 

You stare at the screen, watching as your file gets deleted.

[PROMPT: You are the guitarist in a rock band, living in a world where music has been outlawed by a totalitarian, fun-hating government.]

Your band is about to play a concert for an audience of people who will be shocked and horrified at what you do.

You have no idea how this is going to go down. Will they love your music? Hate it? Or maybe even both?

The only thing that can save you now is your own ability to perform. If you fail, you're going to be executed. If you succeed, you'll be a national hero and that might not be enough.

Good luck.

The show has started. Warn your friends. The whole world is watching.

The curtain opens and you stand upon a raised platform, the rest of your band behind you. You look out at the crowd and begin playing. You're not a particularly good instrumentalist, but your musical acclaim is sufficient to carry you through. Still, you must remain focused. Any slip-up now could prove fatal. 

Suddenly, the guitarist next to you drops his instrument and clutches at his head. He begins screaming into his hands and railing against you and the government. He's right. This is your only shot. The world is watching.

You pick up your own instrument and begin to play. You're not going to let some crazy man ruin your moment. He tries to stop you, but the guards restrain him.

He continues to struggle and eventually manages to pull one of the guns from a guard and begin shooting at you all.

You continue to play, despite the fear and panic that have overcome you. You don't know if you'll make it out of this alive. The gunshots begin and ring throughout the auditorium.

You make a glance at the audience and see that there is no longer an audience. There is only pain. Blood. Grief.

The gunshots continue and you find yourself hit by a stray bullet. You fall to the stage and watch as your fellow musicians continue to play, hoping that you'll eventually be saved.

You're dying. This is what death feels like. It's cold. It's dark. It's all around you. You can't hear the band anymore, they're just a memory now. Maybe they finished their set. Maybe they stopped playing altogether and ran away. Maybe they're still there, continuing to play despite your death.

What does it matter? Your vision is starting to fade. It's black. There is nothing but black.

"Anyone can play guitar."

No. You're not having this. You didn't die for this. You kept playing. You didn't win the battle, but you came out on top.

"Anyone can play an instrument."

You have to disagree. They're not anything special. They're just instruments that people wanted to have in their performances. They're not one in a million, they're just average.

"Everyone can't be a rockstar."

Everyone can be something. Something they achieve in their life time. Something that makes a difference.

"You're already gone."

Correct. But you didn't die here. You survived, unlike those around you. You're still here, aren't you?

"I can still make it."

You know the end is near when you hear the beginning. There is no more music left to play. Only the silence will follow. There is nothing left to say. The world has ended around you.

You force yourself to stand, ignoring the pain that shoots through your body. You make it to the edge of the stage and begin to make your way off of it. You're moving slower than you normally do. You're not as spry as you once were. Your reflexes aren't what they used to be either. That's fine. You don't need them anymore.

The flashing lights and heating Auditorium stage lights are making you vision blurry. That's fine too. You look down and see your feet move forward. You watch as your legs push the ground into action. It's all so easy now.

You hear one more gunshot ring out. You can't tell where it came from, or even if it's real. It might have just run out of bullets. Doesn't matter. All that matters is you're moving forward.

You take one last look back before leaving the stage entirely. The auditorium is in chaos. Bodies lay on the ground. Your ears are bleeding. You've got a hole in your head. None of that matters. You've kept playing. You can only assume that the rest of the band did as well, seeing as the performance is over.

"Anyone can play music."

Correct. But only the best will get to play themselves.

Your body continues to limp along as you walk through the dead. You're almost out of here. Just one more hallway and you'll be home free.

The games over. Time for real life to begin.

There's a figure ahead of you, stumbling along. He's holding a single bullet in his hand. His face is bloody and he's clearly wounded, but he's still alive. He turns his head and looks at you. His eyes are lifeless, but his mouth is moving. He's trying to tell you something. You lean in close to hear what he's trying to say.

"Your girlfriend is safe."

What? Who? Is this some sort of code language?

"Your girlfriend...she's..."

What? You have no idea. You walk closer to him, but he steps back. He's struggling to say something.

"Your girlfriend...she's..."

He looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. The words seem to escape his lips even as they remain stuck in his throat.

"Your girlfriend is fine." He looks down and spasms a bit. You don't know what he's trying to say. You're not sure if you even want to know.

"Your girlfriend is fine."

You hear these words over and over again in your head. What does he mean? Is it a question? A statement? A threat? A promise? You have no idea. Your hearing is bad. Your hearing has let you down on numerous occasions. You've decided to not dwell on it any longer.

You continue walking forward. You can see the exit in the distance. Only a few feet away now. You've survived this far after all.

The man in front of you looks at you with a blank expression. He looks so lifeless that you almost wonder if he's dead. You're not sure. His lips move, but no sound emerges. He seems to be asking you a question.

"What?" you ask in response. He seems to be struggling to talk. "What's wrong with him?"

I don't know. He just looks so sad. He looks so lonely.

"He wants to know your name."

I don't know. It's not like you keep track of all of that. You've been a hermit for so long. Your mind tends to forget such mundane details.

"You don't know?" asks the hitchhiker. "I thought musicians were the most mnemonic people."

You shrug and keep walking. "Maybe they are. I'm out of practice though."

The man looks down, but not before giving you a quick wink. You've stopped responding to his sporadic attempts at communication. He seems to have given up on that pursuit.

You hear another gunshot in the distance. It still seems so far away. Someone else is dead. In fact, someone has just entered the hallway you're in. It's the bloody corpse of the hitchhiker you've been Passing Back. He was going so fast that he must have regained consciousness briefly in the middle of his death throes. This just seemed to prove that you're better off alone.

As you approach the counter at the front of the store, a figure materializes in front of you. It's your mother. She doesn't look well.

"Where has she been?" she asks frantically. "I've been looking all over for you!" 

This question confuses you. Where has who been? Your mom has been passing by your home every day. You can see her from your window. She looks embarrassed.

"I don't mean your dad...I'm talking about your girlfriend of course."

You don't understand.

"What?"

"Stop acting so surprised! I've been out looking for you every since...well I can't believe I'm telling you this."

Your eyes widen. Your mouth gapes wide open.

"She was found dead in her apartment!" Your mother turns away and covers her face. She can't look at you anymore. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I just can't...I just can't take it anymore."

A customer walks up to the counter. He glances briefly at you, ignores you, and buys a newspaper. As he turns to leave, you realize you're shaking. You sit down in a chair and try to compose yourself.

There has to be an explanation. A logical explanation. But what? What could your mother mean? What is happening to this world? Has it always been like this? Why have you not noticed?

Eventually, you compose yourself. You hug your knees and your shoulders stoop low. You don't want to face this world anymore. You can't. The world has lost all color and charm. There is nothing to smile about anymore. You don't feel like laughing or crying. You just feel empty.

You sniffle and wipe away a stray tear. You stand up tall. You're ready to take on the brightened tomorrow.

You exit the store and are hit by a rush of wind. You look up at the sky. The sun peering through the gray clouds feels so comforting.

I wish I could go back to bed. I wish this whole day would just go away.

You hum a little tune to yourself. This seems to calm you. This seems to make you happy. Although it's the wrong thing, you smile.

I'm so tired. I wish I could sleep forever.

You turn to head home. Maybe you'll find that place where it's always happy and bright. A place that doesn't exist in the real world.

[PROMPT: You are a spy attempting to infiltrate a mysterious factory. No one knows what this factory manufactures, nor who owns it. No one can even remember when it was built.]

You have been sent here to find out more about the factory and its owner. The factory is located in an old abandoned town, which has since become overrun by zombies.

The factory itself is large, but you don't know how big it actually is. It seems like there must be several levels of the factory, as well as other buildings connected with each level. There are also some sort of conveyor belts that move things around, so you assume that the factory produces things.

In any case, your job is simple: Find out more about the factory and its owner. 

How do you do it? You can send a group of spies into the factory to look around. If they return successfully, then you know that there is an entrance leading inside the factory. You can also send one spy in, and whoever comes back successfully is the entrance. Or, you can send one person in, and have them observe from a specific location. You then take it from there yourself.

 Good luck, and please remember to provide clever answers.

You have chosen the second option. Before your eyes stands the spy, a large metal plate attached to his back. Hooks in the plate allow the spy to easily climb up onto it. The plate is then secured to the waist of whatever outfit you design for him.

"Let's do this," you say.

You stand in the center of a large, dimly lit room. You are surrounded by miles and miles of wiring, machinery, and other large, technical things. You have absolutely no idea where to start. It is then that you remember the spy's notebook. Everything is written down, right there. You just have to follow the instructions in the notebook.

You take it out of your pocket and flip through the pages. You stop at a particular picture and smile. You picture yourself as that spy, sneaking through the factory towards the owner's office. You know it is the first stop. The instructions tell you so.

"Let's go," you say.

You don't know exactly where the owner's office is, but you remember that it has to be somewhere on the top floor. That is where all the important stuff happens, right? So, that is where you go.

You sneak down a hallway and peek in doors until you find the right door with an intercom and a huge red button on it.

"This is the owner's office," a voice crackles over the intercom. "By pressing this button, all of Europe is going to die. Do not push this button."

"I have to," you say. "It's important."

"Fine," the voice says. "Go on."

You press the button. Nothing happens. You wait a few moments, then try it again. Still, nothing. You wait two minutes, then five minutes. Nothing is happening.

"What are you waiting for?" the voice asks angrily. "Push it!"

You quickly push the button and run. You take the long way through the factory and back into the hallway. You wait only a minute before the big, heavy door opens. You run as fast as you can out of the building and back onto the street. 

The door opens. "I did it!" you shout. You begin to hop up and down with excitement. "I found out all I could. Now, we can take care of this factory. That means no one else will have to die!"

Your mother rushes out towards you. She is very happy for you. "That's wonderful, honey," she smiles. "Now, we can stop worrying about school, and we can focus on saving lives."

You hug her tightly. Then, something occurs to you. "What happens if I don't stop the bombs?" you ask. "What if I don't get that notebook?"

"We'll take care of it," your mother says. She looks at you sternly.

"Of course."

You don't press the issue, but something about her demeanor has changed. There is no longer that hint of excitement that you found in the factory. Instead, there is a sense of seriousness. You've seen that look on her face before. It's the same one she had when you were little and she put you through your fencing lessons.

Those lessons actually seemed to help you in this situation. You were so busy concentrating on the swords that you didn't panic as much when you had to sneak around the museum. Ever since that day, you have been able to see things more clearly. You see the facts. You see the problem. You see the way to make things better.

The way to make your life better is to make this factory shut down.

The way to do that is to expose its owner for the bad guy he is. The only way to do that is to steal the notebook that was found in his office. You look at your mother. You know she will support you no matter what. That's why you came to her in the first place -- because you know she loves you.

You turn back to face the factory. It's such a long way to go, but you need to make up your mind.

You take a deep breath and start off down the street. You walk past the museum without looking in that direction. You don't need to see the statue to know what you have done.

You have left your old life behind. You are a messenger now. You have a mission to complete and nothing is going to stop you.

You keep walking.

The factory is just a small part of it. You have a much greater mission ahead of you.