You must dig. You are alone. Naked and Hungry. She awaits you. In the darkest reaches of Bothrou-dum. Pick up your shovel. Your pickaxe. You have 1000 Days to live.
Tagline/Blurb: Earn your place in Task Force Vanguard. Your choices determine your fate. Failure is not an option.
><span class="mu-s">The year is 2003</span> >The president is some guy who really likes being on a ranch and wearing a cowboy hat. Some kind of Texan who speaks plainly and calmly, like he's talking to small children.
You are subordinate to the <span class="mu-s">Domestic Security Coordination Council</span>, a coordination of the Department of Defense, Department of Justice, Department of Homeland Security, and the Department of Health and Human Services. Your co-workers are Marines, Military Intelligence (Army, Defense), Special Agents (FBI), Detectives or CSI types (Justice), and Doctors/Corpsmen (Health, Marines)
The Homeland Security Advisory System has been set the threat level to <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">High (Orange)</span></span>; at least for the state of Colorado.
The situation in the Middle East is going, depending on the country or area, shocking and confusingly well, or shocking and confusingly terrible. The Department of Defense is strapped for resources and while there is an extensive modernization, all of the new "toys" are being handed to frontline infantry units. Thankfully, the crime level is low and the Department of Justice is well funded.
Your purpose, is to aid and assist <span class="mu-s">Task Force Vanguard</span>. TFV, is one of the most classified sections of the Executive Branch. You have little idea about their exact function, but you've heard that people you once looked up to or studied under were rotated into the organization. You also know that the organization's responsibilities outstrip it's current funding.
It's Friday night. You've got two ice-cold six-packs of spicebrew perspiring on the left side of your shirt. This weekend will be the same as every other weekend. Getting blackout drunk. Alone. In a one-room apartment in the shadiest corner of Coruscant. This is your life. It's just what you deserve.
"If you're having a party, I could come back later." A man emerges from the shadows of the disorientingly long hallway. He has on plain clothes but the rank badge below his left shoulder marks him as an Imperial officer. For a moment you think you're in trouble, but there's far too many rank tiles to bother with a lowly bureaucrat like yourself.
"What do you want?" you ask.
"To talk. In private. If you're expecting company..." He nods pointedly to the cans of spicebrew.
>"Piss off." >"Why not? Misery loves company." >"If this is about the Lera incident, I had nothing do with that." >Write-in
The world felt unreal, a dizzying descent into chaos. You were walking home from school, your mind preoccupied with trivial worries—homework, what to eat for dinner—when a drunken man staggered into your path. His glassy eyes locked on you, his movements unsteady but deliberate. You tried to sidestep him, but he lunged, grabbing your arm with surprising strength.
"Get off me!" you shouted, kicking and struggling against his grip. Despite your resistance, his sheer weight began to overpower you. Panic surged as you realized this wasn’t just a random assault; his gaze was wild, feral. He lunged for your neck—not to punch or grab, but to *bite.*
A blur of motion interrupted your terror. Uzuma, one of your classmates, appeared seemingly out of nowhere. With a fierce yell, he tackled the man, dragging him off you. Relief flooded you, but it was short-lived. The struggle turned gruesome as the man sank his teeth into Uzuma's arm, tearing into flesh.
"Run!" Uzuma shouted, his voice strained but urgent. Without thinking, you obeyed, adrenaline propelling your legs forward. Uzuma was right behind you, clutching his injured arm, but as you ran, his pace slowed. His breathing grew labored, guttural.
"Uzuma?" you called hesitantly, looking over your shoulder. To your horror, his face had twisted into something inhuman—his eyes glassy, his teeth bared in a snarl. He lunged at you with unnatural speed.
Heart pounding, you sprinted down the street, weaving through the chaos. The world had descended into madness. The once-familiar roads were now filled with grotesque creatures—people turned into monsters, their flesh mottled and decayed.
You darted into an alley, your chest heaving as you screamed, the sound echoing off the narrow walls. Just when you thought all hope was lost, a door creaked open beside you. A man, dressed head-to-toe in latex, peeked out. His appearance was bizarre—like he’d stepped out of some underground nightclub—but his wide, fearful eyes reflected your own terror.
"Get in!" he hissed, pulling you inside. You stumbled into a dimly lit stairwell and followed him down into what could only be described as a dungeon. Chains, whips, and all manner of equipment hung on the walls. You hesitated, thinking you’d traded one nightmare for another, but the man was oddly gentle. He stammered as he spoke, his voice nervous but kind.
"Stay quiet. They’ll hear us."
Before you could question him, the monsters broke through the door upstairs, their snarls echoing down the stairwell. The man’s face paled. "Follow me," he whispered, guiding you through a hidden exit. As you ascended into a building above, he lingered behind to secure the door.
"Go!" he shouted, but his words were cut short by a scream. You glanced back to see him overwhelmed, his body convulsing as the monsters bit into him.
The city of Astralor has long since fallen from grace. Its towering spires, once symbols of unmatched power and wealth, now loom over a decaying labyrinth of corruption, darkness, and despair. The elite indulge in their decadence within gilded halls, while the streets below fester with the forgotten, the damned, and the desperate. Beneath the glittering surface, there is no light, only shadow — and in that shadow, The Hollow Garden thrives.
The Hollow Garden is a brothel like no other. Here, the city’s most powerful men and women come not only to satisfy their desires but to bury their darkest secrets. And for Agna, a woman cursed with a strange gift, those secrets are what keep her alive.
Agna’s eyes do not see what others see; they peer into the soul. She can read the deepest desires, the unspoken fears, and the hidden truths of anyone she touches. This ability has made her both a prized possession and a prisoner to the city’s elite. The powerful come to her with their burdens, seeking release — but it is Agna who bears the weight of their sins, their shame, their hidden cruelties. It is a curse that leaves her cold, hollow, and disconnected from the world around her.
She plays her role, feigning a life of luxury and submission, but always with one foot poised to flee. There is no escape from Astralor, no way out of the prison she has been trapped in — until one evening, when everything changes.
A figure steps into The Hollow Garden. The Collector, they call him. His presence is unsettling, a chill in the air that clings to the skin. His eyes glint with knowledge and power far beyond that of any mortal. And he has a proposition for Agna. A dangerous proposition.
"Your gift is wasted here, Agna," he says, his voice smooth, cold — as if the words themselves are laced with poison. "I seek to bring down the corrupt rulers who have enslaved us all. But to do that, I need someone who can see beyond their masks. Someone who can guide me to their darkest secrets. You, Agna, are that someone."
> Join The Collector’s plan: Accept the Collector’s offer and use your gift to uncover the city’s most guarded secrets. > Refuse and escape: Walk away from the Collector’s proposition and attempt to flee Astralor. > Confront the Collector: Reject both rebellion and escape. Dig into your own past, uncovering the truth of your curse and the dark forces that have shaped your destiny.
You are still William trying to avoid burn scarring, being outnumbered, and trying to lead a simple teambuilding exercise against a very competent and angry division of firefighters.
At the top of the Shotgun Kiss, where the prisoners don’t see the light of day, a painting hangs on the wall. Trapped within its colors is the spirit of a horrified girl. A group of idiots wants to set her free. This is where you are.
With the former cultist (and active prisoner) Hubbard’s power to see spiritual potential, you were able to track down Agent Spooky in her spirit form, leading you to the Solitary Confinement part of the prison. Into an old dungeon cell to be more specific. Here, a prisoner is chained to the wall, poor guy is wearing a heavy iron mask, and is in a rough shape — but he’s far from the only suffering soul within these walls. Odetta’s cousin, Jaylene, is trapped within the painting by some type of curse. You have little to no clue why there’s a painting inside this cell, but it’s not the time to ask questions! There are more issues to be concerned with… Mr. Explosion-Earthquake man, aka, the other intruder is here! The person causing havoc through the prison who has nothing to do with the havoc that you and your friends have been causing! Your morally superior chaos!
Hubbard wants you to run away with the painting. Agent Spooky thinks you should handle this directly with the intruder, violently or not. And the prisoner… the prisoner weeps because you’re ignoring him. You’ll keep doing that. But what else?! Your options are limited!
From what you hear, the old guard is not in the best track to stop the interference. Very diplomatic old man, not very effective! Gotta think fast!
<span class="mu-s">What’s the plan now?!</span>
>You think diplomacy is failing because you’re not in charge. Talk to the Intruder, negotiate. You’re both intruders, you’re bound to have something in common. >Break the wall, and jump out of here with the painting in hand. Climb to the nearest window, the closest to the locker room where Aurora is waiting. >Even if you are unsure that the intruder is coming into this cell, prepare for a sneak attack in case it happens. >Write In.
You awaken to the silent hum of machinery and the steady glow of sterile lights that fill every corner of this strange, alien space. Metal walkways crisscross above and below, a network of endless conveyor belts and surveillance systems operated by your captors. Towering, grotesque figures, their flesh a sickly green hue, ooze with a slow, deliberate fluidity. Multiple bloodshot eyes blink in unison, casting a constant, watchful gaze across the vast chambers. These creatures wear space suits that are patchworks of bronze, copper, and chrome—complex machinery wired directly into their monstrous forms. Each suit bristles with countless mechanical arms, giving them an eerie sense of omnipresence and control, as though they can tend to a thousand tasks without breaking their unfaltering stare. (edited) [10:56 AM] You feel the cold weight of a chrome band encircling your wrist—a mark of your confinement here. Those around you bear the same bands, a bleak symbol of silent obedience enforced by an unseen power. You’ve heard the stories whispered among the other prisoners, stories of those who dared to question, resist, or tamper with the prison’s foreign architecture. They were met with a swift, merciless end. When the guards’ many eyes flare with a chilling, synchronized glow, the chrome bands activate. Screams echo, bodies contort, and in a matter of moments, defiance is met with decay—an agonizing transformation into a hollow, desiccated husk. The creatures show no remorse, no satisfaction, only a detached, mechanical precision. They are not here to study you or to torture you beyond the confines of this silent surveillance; they simply enforce.
This place is no ordinary prison. The boundaries of your cell are undefined, seemingly open, yet escape is a mirage. These beings, with their many eyes and tireless gaze, create an invisible barrier as strong as any wall. No one recalls how they arrived in this forsaken place, only that they are here, caught in a web woven by creatures who need neither rest nor relief. They do not seek to understand you or make you suffer.
In this cold, alien confinement, surrounded by unfamiliarity: Who are you?
