The clock strikes twelve. The gong of the grandfather clock in the foyer tolls out the time in slightly unnecessarily obnoxious loud noises. The ambiance of this old mansion demands respect, care, awe --
Okay, no, wait, why are you even in this stupid dusty house?
No reasons are forthcoming, because everyone knows that people just end up in places like this sometimes. That's just how the narrative device works. The hows and the whys don't matter -- all that matters is that you're all here, so you'd better get cracking and start exploring, because it's not like you can leave yet.
Or ever, maybe.
 Good day, sirs and madams. Might I interest you in a nice glass of blood...y mary?
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PHASE I [ 02 15 ] All you see is white. The crash of thunder hits your ears next, punctuated by the piercing pitch of white noise in the background. After a few blinks, your vision comes back to you. Oh good, glad that you’ve joined us in the land of the living. Unlike the nondescript corpse at your feet – it looks like… a butler? Oh dear. You’ve already killed Murder Suspect Number One in most situations. How terribly ironic.
After all, who could’ve killed him but you? You might not remember, but there is definitely a murder weapon in your hand. It’s probably a knife or a poisoned glass of wine or-
Wait, is that a toaster? A full on toaster? Or maybe it’s a taser. Maybe you bludgeoned this poor guy with an entire encyclopedia. Either way, it looks like your murder weapon is a little unconventional, whether it’s a stranger’s pair of underwear or a hair curler. Are you really supposed to believe you committed a murder with these? (Yes.)
That said in the next second the double doors will be opening up. It’s pretty clear you’re not alone. Think quick!
PHASE II [ 0600 ] Exploring more around the compound, you’ll find plenty of those tall, oil portraits of people hung around the walls. When you start walking, they’re all strangers. However by the time that you feel like you’re wandering around for an hour, two hours, they might start looking a little bit more… familiar? Mom? Is that you?
You don’t have time to think about that, though. You were clearly framed! You don't’ have a motive for killing some random NPC –
“Or do you?” a portrait will ask.
Oh. Holy shit. Well it’d just be rude to leave, right? Whether you stick around for conversation or not, you’ll find that was just the beginning. The portraits are going to start grilling you. Welcome to CERES Central’s Roast of You. What was your motive? Don’t you know you should respect the servants? How would you feel if you were caught like that? Careful turning your back on them though, because if you ignore them for too long, the subjects in the portraits may just reach out and snatch you to join them in their portrait world.
At that point, the only way to get out is to swap places with some other poor, unsuspecting soul wandering around.
PHASE III [ 1045 ] You know what makes me hungry? Murder.
What’s the point of making a mansion this big anyway? Who’s even here? Either way, whether you’re looking for the kitchen to make a fine post-homicide sandwich or just trying to escape, you’ll eventually make it to a stairwell. The most finicky stairwell ever. Is that a trail of bloody footprints leading up the steps? What? No. Stop it, just climb.
Or well – don’t climb too quickly now. The staircases apparently have a mind of their own, swapping from one doorway to another. You definitely haven’t seen this before. It would seem that these stairs might even be interested in keeping you in a circle forever, no concern for whether or not you’re hungry or, god forbid, need to use the restroom.
However the portraits in the stairwell will provide a little tip: “The stairs are gossips, you know. Why don’t you tell us a little something about yourself? Make it good!”
Weirdly enough, sound advice – that is, if you’re interested in shouting out your most embarrassing secrets into the void so a mansion can keep talking shit about you. Oh well. Your alternative is just being a stair golem. There are worse fates.
PHASE IV [ 1430 ] This hall is oddly quiet.
Well, until you hear it – the soft sniffles coming from down the hall, the broken sobs. It sounds like someone’s crying. For one reason or another, your footsteps take you forward – there’s really no point in going back now after all, right? Yet as you continue to walk… walk… walk… the crying becomes louder and louder. More desperate, more despaired. In time, it’s clear that this person is wailing, screaming, “How could this happen?!”
Within the span of a breath, all the lights in the hallway go out, leaving you in pitch black.
It occurs to you then that you hear a second set of steps. When did you stop walking? A cold chill runs down your spine and you find yourself running then, despite the fact that it feels like this pitch black hallway goes on forever. The other footsteps pick up, remind you that you’re not alone. No, certainly not.
Best hope that you find some assistance soon – otherwise it looks like the Butler Association is going to ignite some righteous vigilante justice on your ass.
BONUS [ why o'clock ] You’re in the grand ballroom now, ready to present your case. Armed with a cob pipe (don’t smoke inside, it’s rude), a detective hat, and a single spotlight aimed right at you, you now have to explain how you came to the conclusion about the True Killer that is Obviously Not You. Rather, it’ll just be the character of whoever tags into this prompt – yes, you are suddenly so very sure that they’re the ones who are the ultimate mastermind of this entire game and… you’re just going to have to bullshit the reason why even if you know virtually nothing about them. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, you know?
Sorry about that.
Should you actually provide enough of a compelling case or they take pity on you, having a villainous breakdown for the sake of the plot, you’ll be awarded with a coupon that’ll give you three free scoops at your local ice cream parlor! (Note: you must buy the first two scoops in order to qualify.) Of course, if you’re not able to nail them down as the killer, you are obviously the killer yourself (citation needed).
From there, you’ll be dragged off to face your punishment: for six grueling hours you will be tickled mercilessly.
[ Remember to apply proper warnings on threads with sensitive or inappropriate material and do let a mod know if your thread careens off into maiming or canoodling so we can lock the log. ] |
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pritchard | deus ex: hr
>> PHASE II
>> WILDCARD
phase II
The spastic movement of the painting trying to pull him into the frame mop first catches her attention, and without thinking she reaches out and grabs the collar of his jacket, yanking him back with a strength to rival the artwork's. It's not enough to free him entirely- Korra grunts as the painting suddenly pulls back.]
Uh, don't panic! I can help! [She grabs his shoulders and pulls, but the stupid picture isn't giving up without a fight. Oh no.] Just stay calm!
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But the painting's enough of a match for the two of them. From this angle, Korra should be able to see that the portrait is of a (now soggy and bloodied) douchebag in sunglasses, and that the arms what're giving her so much trouble are shiny black metal and not especially human-looking.]
"Don't panic?" Do I sound like I'm panicking?! [Well. Yeah? But honestly this is kind of par for the course for Pritchard.
Having the support behind him gives him the opportunity to pretend like his muscles are anything but ineffectual, and so he puts all his strength into one vicious tug... But despite the valiant effort, the blood-slicked mop handle finally slips from his grasp, sending the both of them flying backwards into the wall behind them.]
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The metal arms explain how a painting can successfully play a game of tug-of-war with two other people via a mop, but it's not enough to distract Korra (well, okay, it is kind of cool). She digs her feet into the floor and is about to give another hard tug when the man suddenly loses his grip on the map and before she knows it she's hitting the opposite wall with a loud grunt. The impact sends a few frames rattling, but Korra ignores their jeers, rubbing the back of her head.]
... Why didn't you just let go of the mop in the first place?
[She can't exactly judge. She carried around the gaudy statue for several rooms before realizing she didn't need it.]
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Touching fingers to the back of his and checking for blood (his blood) and muttering vague swears under his breath, Pritchard gets to his feet. He rolls his eyes in response.] You say that like it's a bad thing. [And with surprising courtesy, he offers a hand to help pull Korra back to her feet.]
And you– [As soon as she's standing (with his help or not) Pritchard turns on her. Admittedly, he's not doing a great job of convincing anyone that he isn't panicking.] If you haven't noticed yet, there's a killer on the loose. Or who knows! Maybe there're killers on the loose. [Sweeping an arm in the painting's direction:] Either way, that mop is my only weapon!
[Or, well, it was his only weapon. It doesn't exactly help the man in the portrait appear any more intimidating than he already does, but he certainly looks more capable of killing someone with a mop handle than Pritchard ever did. There is a sort of "just try and take it back from me" look about his stony-faced expression.]
twoooo
[Hell is apparently inhabited by this big guy, looking awfully like a shadow in black hat and cloak until he reaches out from under that cloak to grab under the shaft of the mop and yank. It's likely not enough to dislodge the mop from the painting's grabby hands, but it knocks it against the frame; Chibi grunts at the impact. Pritchard might get dislodged from the mop, though!]
[If Pritchard looks, he'll see a wry smile on his new companion's face as he says:] A word of wisdom-- [because everyone ought to take his words of wisdom--] ViViD is designed to get to you.
[Apparently, it worked. (It's been working on Chibi, too - the portraits have almost been giving him guilt - but like hell he will say that.)]
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I hadn't noticed. [But everything about his body language and tone, dripping with sarcasm, says otherwise.
The painting, a portrait of a snappily-dressed older gentleman with a metal arm, speaks up.] Knew you'd always had it in you, son. I only hire people who'd kill for me if I asked 'em to–
That says more about you than it does about me, doesn't it? [Snaps Pritchard almost instantly, shaking his head immediately afterwards and throwing up his arms exasperatedly. What the hell is he doing, talking to this thing like it's actually David Sarif?
Pritchard casts a glance in his cloaked assistant's direction, one hand on a hip and the other motioning impatiently at the painting.] Well, Confucius, lay some more wisdom on the masses. Will it shut up if I let it have the mop?
[Pritchard says "I," although… Chibi's the only one holding onto it right now. So really, it's more his decision.]
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['People who'd kill for me if I asked 'em to' - that is awfully morbid. The guy would fit right in with the rest of CERES, Chibi thinks. The other part of him thinks it is even sadder, for this ponytailed fellow, that it is his boss showing up as the important figure.]
It will shut up if you walk away. That is, assuming these paintings do not follow us. [Chibi turns to walk away, but looks behind him after a step to beckon Pritchard to follow.] It is not the real... Whoever that might be, as I am sure you've gathered.
[Though one can never be sure...!]
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Pritchard's two seconds away from tearing into Chibi for letting his only line of defense get sucked into a talking painting of his boss, but… His curiosity gets the better of him. Sounds like there are some answers to be had here. At the very least, this guy seems more comfortable navigating the mansion than he is, and Pritchard is more than fine letting him lead for now (looking back over his shoulder every couple of seconds to make sure that the paintings aren't somehow following them!)
Sarif, in the meantime, props up the bloody mop alongside a display of baseballs in his office behind him like some sort of trophy. He wins this one.]
Why put so much effort into "getting to us," if we're supposed to be helping these people's cause? [Assuming, for a moment, that this isn't actually just some strange fever dream of his (brought on by a bad combination of coffee, energy drinks, and stress.) He'd still be back in the parlor with the butler's corpse if he'd stopped to consider every possible explanation for what's going on.]
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[I see you cannot solve this, either, brother, one of the paintings jeers, deep and rumbly. Chibi whips around to face the source of the noise: a black dragon, with a white beard and eyes glazed with cataracts, sits in the middle of the frame. Just like you ran from the end of the--]
[Chibi knocks on the frame, heaves a heavy sigh, mutters it's not real. It never is.] In any case, as I was saying. [Let's just... Walk away from that.] CERES isn't exactly... Benign.
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He jerks a thumb back behind him, in the direction of the now-silenced canvas.] Now, would you like me to just pretend like I didn't see that, or…?
[Because what that was was a fucking dragon. With a beard, no less.
Like, it's just… There are limits to what he can put up with in a single day, and most of his tolerance got exhausted in the first five minutes since he found himself here. If his new companion is going to turn out to be a loony who thinks he's got magical animal companions, Pritchard kind of wants to know sooner rather than later. Preferably before the guy flips out on him or whatever.]
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[It's not real, he reminds himself mentally, with an easy wave of his hand for Pritchard's benefit.]
What we know of CERES' function, as of now, is twenty kinds of complicated, but-- [Chibi clicks his tongue, wondering how to phrase it] --They told you about the Flamines, yes? Really strange masked fellows, but CERES had a contract with them, ostensibly to destroy worlds in exchange for payment.
[Dryly, the eye-roll not on his face but thick in his voice:] So. There are politics. And so I am not surprised by the peril involved in these simulations.
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Besides, his odd new friend appears to be a wealth of far more interesting tidbits of information than that.]
Ah, well. There was this powerpoint presentation... [Pritchard trails off and sighs, folding his arms. See, people tell him he's "just being paranoid" all the time– but it's hard to justify not being that way when it pays off so often... Like it's doing right now.
Still, these are bold claims– and none of it is information he dug up himself. So naturally, it's suspect. Pritchard gives Chibi a skeptical look.] Who exactly is "we," and how did you find all this out? I can't imagine any of this is info they put on their brochures.
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The barest touch, the right cut-- [he snaps his fingers, like he's crunching the invisible yarn between his fingers] --and they unravel. You might be surprised how many stupid missteps a group can make, if you look. Of course, I hope that is truer of CERES than our little ragtag group from other worlds, here.
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[Because while that answer's full of sentiment (this guy's full of something, that's for sure) there's not exactly much substance there, is there? Arms still folded, Pritchard arches a brow.]
Believe me, I'll be looking once I get the chance. [Once he's out of this stupid simulation and has something more than a mop (RIP mop) and a few lines of poetry to work with.] Do copies of these alleged contracts exist? Any other sort of documentation? Hopefully you're implying our [air quotes!] "little ragtag group" meets the barest standards of competency, here?
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and i quote you: "oh god, here goes"
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I
As for the mopping man.....well, she's seen people do crazier things out of stress. She's not even being accusatory at the moment, more putting her hands on the man's shoulders to push him back from the body a little, speaking with a Swiss accent.]
Sir, please, find a place to sit down.
[If he fainted and collapsed, he could end up hurt too. Yes, definitely guiding him to a chair.]
Are you feeling okay? Dizzy at all?
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[What the hell is he doing? Did he honestly think that stunt was going to work? Letting himself be steered over to one of the more comfortable-looking chairs in the parlor, Pritchard half-tosses, half-lets the mop just clatter to the floor in disgust.]
No– well– maybe a little. [It kind of hits him all at once then, the enormity of what's going on: the powerpoint presentation, worlds ending(??), the mansion, the corpse in the room. On top of what he'd been dealing with prior to being here, it's all a bit much– and if he didn't feel dizzy before, he certainly does now.]
Look. I didn't… Do any of that. [He motions vaguely in the direction of the dead body, still pooling blood on the rug over there. It's amazing, really, how well his brain had skipped over all the grisly details in his moment of panic before– but now that he's sitting down and actually able to look at the corpse and take it all in…
Pritchard looks away, feeling a little sick. Deep breaths.] ...You're a doctor?
[Even if her outfit says "cosplayer," her manner says otherwise.]
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[The second question could be answered a little later. First, just a quick check of the body just to confirm that yes, it was dead.
I am a doctor and medic, yes. You may call me Dr. Zeigler. Or Angela, if you please. This may be a difficult question to answer but do you feel odd or different in any way? Considering the circumstances, I would imagine you're experiencing some kind of shock so take a few deep breathes and slowly think about what's happening. A checklist...so you can orient yourself and have a clear head.
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Dr. Ziegler. [A nod.] Francis Pritchard– Frank.
"Shock." Yeah, you could call it that. [Anyone who knows Pritchard well enough also knows that the easiest way to tell if everything's normal is if he's being a sarcastic ass. So, making progress! At her suggestion, he takes a couple of deep breaths before continuing.] Well, if I've got this right: the universe has been destroyed, I'm apparently what's left of it– but I'm code, somehow? And now it's up to me to stop this all from happening in the first place, and–
[He cuts himself off, bringing a hand to his face and massaging his temples. In spite of himself, he laughs. More of a derisive snort.] Feels like bad science fiction. Anyway, after all that I'm now in the middle of a goddamned murder mystery. That guy [pointing at the body] is a corpse, and… Does that just about cover everything?
[It occurs to him, now, that maybe Ziegler had sat through the same powerpoint he did. Which makes her another victim of all this, just like him? His tone's all acid and irony, but the look he shoots her is more questioning than anything else.]
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[She would take a seat but, instead, she rips a curtain off the wall to cover the body. With that trial taken care of, the does sit down, leaning forward in her own chair. The mechanical wings on her suit weren't exactly comfortable to lean back on.]
You could say that yes, we are kidnapped. However, believing the information they feed us would be a mistake.
[She felt the chair before looking around the room once. No, she definitely didn't get behind that story in the slightest.]
This could be a simulation or computer program. There are ways to make them seem rather real. But data? [No, she laughs lightly.] As much research as I've done, I can safely say there is no way to turn a human being into lines of code. So let's look at things in a more realistic fashion.
The universe is still existing, we are functioning human beings, and we have simply been kidnapped by an organization or power that has other ideas for us.
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Well, obviously. [Added swiftly, as if he hadn't just been talking about universes and whatnot being destroyed like he actually believed it.
But no, she's right. And, paranoid as he is, Pritchard has no trouble believing that someone out there has a reason to kidnap him and use him for God-knows-what; honestly, the more relevant question is who out of his long list of likely candidates has actually gone and done it now.]
Though they picked a hell of a time to do it, didn't they? [Of course she knows what he's talking about. Clearly she's augmented (he notes, casting a glance over those wings of hers) though he can't say he's seen those particular designs before. But – whether or not she'd been unfortunate enough to get the new biochip – if she's a doctor, one way or another she's had to deal with the massacre the news stations are already starting to call the "Aug Incident."
Miraculously, not having a corpse in open display a few feet away does do his nerves some good, and by now Pritchard sounds almost rational. He leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in lieu of anything else to do.] You're with WHO then, I assume? Or maybe from LIMB? What could these people possibly want with a physician and a cybersecurity specialist that they couldn't just tell us about, without all the theatrics?
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[She honestly doesn't but, then again, the power structure in her world is also starting to fall apart. A few more incidents and who knows how society would end up collapsing...once again.]
WHO? No, not at all. Though I have never heard of LIMB. There are reasons people would want me, as a former member of Overwatch, but I was working in Iraq before this. The 'theatrics', as you say, do make little sense.
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He leans back far in his seat, idly running a hand back through his hair – just something he tends to do when presented with a puzzle like this one.]
Well, I've never heard of an "Overwatch." Are we talking special forces, or something? [Like, should he not know what Overwatch is? Does she have to kill him now that she's mentioned it?]
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[Which leads her to thinking. But outside of medical science, she doesn't have too much she can apply to the problem.]
According to your expression, I should know of this organization. To me, if you have not heard of Overwatch, you would have had to been out of touch with society for over a decade. It's a long story but yes, you could consider them a type of international special forces.
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A sudden, overwhelming need to just get up and do something grabs hold of him, and he gets up out of his seat and paces restlessly over to one of the picture windows. It's pitch black out there– an unnatural night, like the world just suddenly ends once he tries and looks out further than a few dozen yards. He immediately regrets trying at all.
Unnerved, he looks back around at Ziegler.] Like you said, a simulation. More advanced than any I've ever seen, but I suppose it's not totally beyond the realm of the possible. [Pritchard motions at her, wings and all.] You're augmented, aren't you? They must be interfering with our biochips somehow, overstimulating the parts of our brains responsible for memory, which could explain…
[He throws up his hands, suddenly frustrated. Is it obvious he's spitballing?] I don't know! I'm not a neuroscientist.
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