Heart pounding, you checked the hallway one last time. Satisfied you were alone, you locked the office door and drew the blinds. The drive in your pocket, placed there by who the fuck knows, potentially held dangerous information. You knew the risks, but the need to expose it overrode your fear.
With trembling hands, you slipped the USB drive into the computer. The illicit drive pulsed with a faint, malevolent glow. The office was quiet, the late hour ensuring your solitude. A strange pull, a tingling sensation as data transferred, then—static.
[[A) Try to pull out the USB]]
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</center>You yanked the USB drive. A blinding static flared, white noise engulfing the room, then snapped off, leaving a ringing silence. The mundane fluorescent hum of the office air conditioning returned, a stark counterpoint to the vanished digital chaos. A shaky breath escaped you, but a gnawing unease remained.
[[Something Isn't Right]]
The code on the screen begins to twitch and convulse, a frantic dance of corrupted data. Nonsense characters flood the display, a jumbled mess of cryptic codes and fragmented messages. Suddenly, you hear numbers being choked out through bursts of static, a distorted, robotic voice counting down… or perhaps counting up. It’s impossible to tell.
From the corners of the static-filled screen, something begins to seep. It’s a viscous, black oil, oozing out like corrupted data made manifest. It pools on the keyboard, bubbling ominously. As you stare at it, mesmerized and horrified, the oil seems to jump and glitch, its coloring shifting rapidly through hues of red, blue, green, and yellow – a chaotic display reminiscent of an old CRT television flickering at 3 AM.
Before the oil can reach you, you lunge for the computer, desperate to shut it down. You frantically stab at the power button, but nothing happens. The screen continues its chaotic display, the oil continuing its slow, inexorable creep. Before you can try to a jolt of static electricity startles you. The oil makes contact with your fingers. It’s a strange sensation: tingly, yet heavy, like liquid metal. It sticks to your skin, pulling your fingers into the keyboard. The black ooze begins to twist and snake its way up your arms, a creeping, invasive presence that sends shivers down your spine.
Your heart races. You feel like a rabbit caught in the talons of a hawk, utterly helpless.
[[Pull Away]]
[[Accept your fate]] In a desperate attempt to escape, you burst up from your chair, trying to run, but the goop is stronger than your pull. It holds you fast, its grip tightening.
The distorted numbers from the computer grow louder and louder, merging with the static and the warped music into a cacophony of digital noise. Suddenly, a thick, black tendril bursts forth from the flashing computer screen, a claw of pure darkness reaching out into the real world. You feel it grasp around your neck, a cold, constricting pressure. An electric current surges through the tendril, sending jolts of agonizing pain through your body.
This is it, you gather the last bit of strength left in your body and try to force your left arm free from the ooze.
In a surge of adrenaline, you manage to break free from the goop that binds your arm. your left hand flying back in a desperate attempt to reach out for anything at all. But it’s too late. Another tendril erupts from the screen and pierces your outstretched hand, the pain searing and intense. A final tendril shoots out and impales you in the lower stomach, the electric shocks intensifying, coursing through your entire being.
Another, smaller tendril strikes you in the chest, just narrowly missing your heart. You cry out, a strangled gasp escaping your lips.
You are exhausted, there is nothing left to give. You no longer fight.
As the electric shocks continue to wrack your body, you feel an irresistible pull towards the computer screen, as if some unseen force is dragging you into its depths. The world around you begins to dissolve into visual snow, a blizzard of white noise that consumes your vision. The cacophony of digital sounds fades into a muffled hum. The pain, the fear, the feeling of being trapped… everything just… stops.
[[Wake up]] Panic sets in. You make a half-hearted attempt to rise from your chair, a weak struggle against the encroaching darkness, but the goop holds you fast. Now standing, you shift your wrists to hold yourself up, leaning in closer to the screen. What's the point? This company took everything. This... this is just the end. This is your retirement plan.
The distorted numbers from the computer grow louder and louder, merging with the static and the warped music into a cacophony of digital noise. Suddenly, a thick, black tendril bursts forth from the flashing computer screen, a claw of pure darkness reaching out into the real world. You feel it grasp around your neck, a cold, constricting pressure. You don't resist. An electric current surges through the tendril, sending jolts of agonizing pain through your body. You close your eyes, accepting the inevitable.
As you gasp in pain, a tendril pierces through your mouth, jerking you back and up off your feet. You could have spent your final moments screaming for help. It wouldn't have mattered. A coward like you deserved to be silenced.
Another, smaller tendril strikes you in the chest, just narrowly missing your heart. You offer no resistance. Another pierces your hand as it jerks back, and a final one impales your stomach. The electric shocks intensify, an agonizing current coursing through your entire being. You welcome it. Let it end.
As the electric shocks continue to wrack your body, you feel an irresistible pull towards the computer screen, as if some unseen force is dragging you into its depths. The world around you begins to dissolve into visual snow, a blizzard of white noise that consumes your vision. The cacophony of digital sounds fades into a muffled hum. The pain, the fear, the feeling of being trapped… everything just… stops.
Then, just as suddenly, the static clears. You gasp, your eyes snapping open. You're lying on the ruined carpet of the Headroom Solutions lobby, the shattered reception desk looming over you. The distorted 80s music still echoes through the space, but it's distant, muffled. The dried blood stains are still there, a chilling reminder of what you just experienced. You sit up, your neck throbbing, your body aching, your heart pounding in your chest. Was it all a dream? A hallucination? You look down at your hands. They're clean. No trace of the black oil remains. But the lingering terror in your heart tells you it was more than just a nightmare.
[[Wake up]]
You find yourself in a distorted version of Headroom Solutions lobby. The once-plush blue carpet is ripped and stained with dark, blood-like patches. The reception desk is shattered, papers and glass scattered across the floor.
The distorted 80s music echoed here, too, the cheerful melody twisted into a discordant, unsettling drone.
The wall art is defaced, the smiling faces in one large canvas twisted into grotesque datamoshed grins, streaked with the same dark, stuttering substance as the carpet stains. But the scene flickers, like a faulty monitor.
Shadows stretch and snap back, the air shimmers, and details glitch: cracks pixelate, stains shift through RGB hues, the muffled 80s music skips and loops, and the fused main doors momentarily vanish into static. It feels real – the aches, the pounding heart, the dust – yet these digital artifacts create a sense of unreality, as if you’re trapped in a broken computer game, where the digital and physical have disturbingly intertwined. The lobby is both a reminder of the nightmare and a fractured reflection of reality.
So what do you do, Jack?
[[Open the Main Doors]]
[[Examine the room]]
[[Search the Reception Desk]]You stare at the drive, lying innocently on your desk. It’s just a piece of plastic and metal, yet it holds the potential for either salvation or utter ruin. A cold dread settles over you. It’s a simple equation in your mind: either you get revenge, or your life isn't worth the effort. The thought is stark, brutal, but undeniably true. This isn't just about a job; it's about your dignity, your self-worth. It’s about not letting them win.
With a trembling hand, you pick up the USB drive. The cool plastic feels clammy against your skin. You hesitate for a moment, the image of that consultant’s smug face flashing before your eyes. Then, with a resolute clench of your jaw, you push the drive back into the computer’s port.
The static begins once more, a low hum that quickly escalates into a deafening roar. The screen flickers, displaying distorted images of corporate logos, binary code, and fleeting glimpses of something… else. Something dark and unsettling. You brace yourself, the familiar tingling sensation spreading through your body as the digital world begins to bleed into reality. This time, there’s no turning back.
[[There is no going back]] Then, just as suddenly, the static clears. You gasp, your eyes snapping open. You're lying on the ruined carpet of the Headroom Solutions lobby, the shattered reception desk looming over you. The distorted 80s music still echoes through the space, but it's distant, muffled. The dried blood stains are still there, a chilling reminder of what you just experienced. You sit up, your neck throbbing, your body aching, your heart pounding in your chest. Was it all a dream? A hallucination? You look down at your hands. They're clean. No trace of the black oil remains. But the lingering terror in your heart tells you it was more than just a nightmare. You gasp awake, disoriented, on the ruined carpet of the Headroom Solutions lobby.
[[The Lobby]] You try the main doors, but they're sealed, cold metal fused together. As you touch the handle, your hand flickers, the edges dissolving into pixelated fragments before reforming. You recoil, staring at your hand in horror. It's a glitch, a tear in the fabric of reality, a taste of what's to come.You try the main doors, but they're sealed, cold metal fused together. As you touch the handle, your hand flickers, the edges dissolving into pixelated fragments before reforming. You recoil, staring at your hand in horror. It's a glitch, a tear in the fabric of reality, a taste of what's to come.
[[The Lobby]]
[[Try Again]]
You decide to take a closer look at your surroundings. The black, blood-like stains on the carpet have a disturbing texture, almost oily, and shimmer with strange, metallic flecks that pulse with a faint, cold light. A faint draft, carrying a metallic tang, emanates from a partially open doorway on the far side of the lobby. The dripping binary code that partially concealed the doorway flickers and vanishes in a sudden burst of static, revealing the complete opening as if it had been inserted into the scene. The change is too abrupt, too clean. Is this a nightmare?
Back to [[The Lobby]]
Go to [[The Atrium]]The reception desk flickers in and out of focus, its form constantly shifting and distorting. One moment it's a solid object, the next it dissolves into a pixelated mess, revealing glimpses of a distorted, empty office space beyond. The scattered papers on the floor twitch and spasm, their text scrambling into illegible symbols. You try to focus on them, but your vision blurs, and the world seems to tilt. There’s nothing tangible to find here, just the unsettling feeling of being trapped in a corrupted reality.
Back to [[The Lobby]] You push through the partially open doorway and enter a large atrium, designed as a Roman garden. A distorted replica of the Pantheon looms above, its oculus replaced with a flickering, distorted image of an eye. The garden is overgrown with strange, thorny vines that pulse with a faint, bioluminescent light, and the air is heavy with a cloying, sweet scent that makes your stomach churn. Statues of Roman gods are scattered around, their faces melted and distorted, some weeping streams of some unfamiliar computer code.
[[examine the statues]]
You take a step back. Maybe it's all in your head. You try again. As you touch the now icy metal, your hand flickers again, the pixelation spreading up your arm. A jolt of pain shoots through you.
A distorted voice echoes through the lobby, chilling you to the bone. "Not that way, Jack."
For once in you're pathetic life, you listen.
[[The Lobby]] [[So it begins]] A small, cracked fountain sits at the center of the atrium, its basin filled with stagnant, dark water. Around this fountain, the three most prominent statues stand:
To the east, near a crumbling section of wall where fragments of a mosaic depicting a pastoral scene still cling, stands a statue with many eyes.
To the west, closer to a dilaplidated coffee kiosk, stands a statue with a lyre.
To the north, partially obscured by the overgrown vines, stands s statue with a spindle
Beyond these statues, the atrium stretches further, disappearing into shadow and static, hinting at more horrors within.
[[Look at The one With The Eyes]]
[[Look at the one with the Lyre]]
[[Look at the one With The Spindle]]
[[The Atrium]]The statue, an all-seeing giant of, is a truly disturbing sight. Hundreds of eyes, made of polished metal and what looks disturbingly like human eyeballs, cover his body, from his head to his toes. Some are open, staring blankly ahead with a chilling emptiness, while others are closed or weeping a viscous, black fluid that stains his stone skin like tar. The statue's pose is one of perpetual vigilance, his head slightly tilted as if constantly scanning the surroundings.
The metallic eyes occasionally flicker, reflecting the distorted light from the oculus above, making them seem almost alive. But it's not just reflections. Scattered amongst the fixed, metallic orbs are other eyes, clearly projected onto the stone surface. These digital projections dart around the room with unsettling speed, their pupils widening and contracting, tracking unseen movements. They flicker and distort, sometimes glitching into static or briefly displaying fragments of distorted images – fleeting glimpses of other parts of the building, or perhaps something far worse. The effect is deeply unsettling, as if Argus is not just seeing everything in the atrium, but also peering into other realities, other times.
You read the plaque, encribed it says A R G U S
[[examine the statues]] The statue of the god, a terrifying mockery, his face contorted in furious rage, mouth open in a soundless roar, revealing sharpened teeth. His eyes bulge with incandescent fury. A lyre of bone and twisted wire is clutched in his hands, its strings vibrating with unseen energy. A harsh light pulses from the soundbox, casting flickering shadows. Sections of his form glitch, replaced by static, screaming faces, or raw muscle and bone. Parts of the statue dissolve into fragmented, illegible text—a chaotic string of letters, numbers, and symbols, shifting in nonsensical patterns. This encoded gibberish appears around the lyre and his face, as if a hidden message is trying to break free.
You read the plaque, enscribbed it says " A p o l l o"
[[examine the statues]] The statue of the goddess, personification of inevitability, is carved from the same dark stone as the others in the atrium, yet there's something profoundly different about her presence. While the others are distorted parodies of classical forms, Ananke's form seems to resist definition altogether. Her silhouette is vaguely humanoid, but the details shift and waver as if viewed through heat haze or a faulty lens. The stone itself seems to writhe and pulse with an unseen energy, its surface occasionally rippling with subtle waves. She holds a large, spinning spindle, also carved from the dark stone, but the "thread" is something else entirely. It's a stream of shimmering, iridescent particles that drift and coalesce into ever-changing patterns, like a miniature galaxy contained within the atrium. The spindle rotates not in a predictable manner, but in erratic bursts, sometimes speeding up, sometimes slowing to a near standstill, as if time itself is bending around her. A low, resonant hum emanates from the statue, vibrating through the floor and into your very bones, a constant reminder of the relentless march of time.
You read the plaque, encribed it says " A N A N K E""
You reach out to touch the spindle. As your fingers brush against the stream of iridescent particles, a surge of raw digital energy shoots up your arm, a jolt of pure information flooding your senses. It’s a cold fire, burning not flesh, but thought. The world around you flickers, momentarily overwritten with lines of code, distorted faces, and fragmented memories. The effect is fleeting, receding almost as quickly as it arrives, leaving you shaken but seemingly unharmed. Flash Experimental. Might not work as expected.
[[Attempt to Grasp Spindle]]
[[examine the statues]] With a surge of effort, you manage to still the spindle.
o pain, no visions—just a creeping hollowness. A gnawing hunger takes root, a nameless craving. Knowledge…you need it, some hidden truth just beyond reach, a burning obsession. But it’s tangled with something else, a sickeningly sweet longing for… something. A face flickers at the edge of your awareness, a name a phantom whisper. You crave connection, but the object of your desire is a blank space, a void echoing with a lost intimacy. The hum intensifies, a thrumming deep within your bones, feeding the obsession, twisting it into something… else. The statue itself shimmers, its form dissolving into impossible angles, then snapping back, a mirror of the glitching in your own mind. An unfillable emptiness opens within you, cold and vast. The edges of your thoughts fray, like corrupted data. You yearn, but for what? For whom? The questions claw at you, unanswered, unanswerable.
[[examine the statues]] <!DOCTYPE html>
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Jack, this company has completely fucked you. The thought echoes in your mind, a bitter mantra you've repeated countless times in recent weeks. You're waiting for that pink slip which will be delivered with a condescending smile and a hollow "downsizing" spiel. The months of dedicated work, flushed down the drain like so much corporate waste. And then there was him… that slick, smarmy consultant, with his perfectly tailored suit, sharp eyes and his condescending tone. "Volunteering" for the "Talking Heads" experiment, he'd suggested, his words dripping with thinly veiled contempt. As if being a guinea pig for some half-baked AI project was a suitable consolation prize for losing your livelihood. How utterly belittling.
You're no fool, Jack. You know deep down you’re no hacker. You’re not some digital mastermind capable of crafting a revenge virus from scratch. You’d barely managed to navigate your job long enough. This drive you just found in the back pocket of your laptop bag might be the miracle you need. The thought of writing code makes your head spin. But… this drive. It’s your last chance. A desperate gamble, a final act of defiance against the corporate machine that’s chewed you up and spat you out.
[[Use that Spite]]