((Okay, so starting with the PCs we currently have sheets for has been voted in 5-0. Everyone starts off in the area as described by the OP.
Please check your data is correctly listed in the second post of this topic.))
For some reason, you have the business cards for five different bars, why you would go to five different venues when you could just go get drunk at one escapes you, though judging by the blood on your clothes, getting kicked out for barfighting is probably a good bet. Still there's an awful lot of blood and dry wall, especially on your knuckles which last time you checked, batters and bruises people rather than making them bleed, apparently everywhere. Anyway, the five business cards are for, in no particular order,
Moonbeam Bar & Grill,
Epicure on 2+ith Street,
The Broken Elbow Lounge,
The Aleph Pub, and
Wormwood Cantina.
Rifling through your pockets, you find that you are in possession of, in addition to what you normally carry, a roll of barricade tape with black text against a yellow background, reading
CRIME SCENE - DO NOT ENTER. It seems to bear a closer resemblance in texture to duct tape than what you would expect from the real deal, so at the very least you're well assured that you didn't mug a cop. Okay you
probably didn't mug a cop, not for this roll of novelty duct tape at any rate.
You find that you were sleeping on a makeshift bed consisting of four enormous plush toys, each one the size of a child. Well, that's something. Two of them are teddy bears identical in appearance and coloration with matching scarves, one soft pink, the other pastel blue. Another is what appears to be a giant mochi ball with eyes and a mouth stitched on. The last one is in the form of a corgi. How did you even carry all of them? And why is the bear in the blue scarf heavier than the other three?
Your wallet's also lighter, though not as light as you'd expect, and for some reason you have ten twenty dollar bills of indeterminate origin. Indeterminate because you can't really make out any of the details on the notes. Even though you're holding them in your hands, right now, you can't make out any details at all. Not the colors, not the textures, not even their exact dimensions. All you know is that each is worth twenty credits of some sort of currency and that you can feel
something inside each. You're not sure what, or even what sort of sense you're using, but you feel them, and each one is different.
Well, it probably isn't too unusual for you to wake up with other people's phone numbers, but you've really outdone yourself this time. Thirty-four. You have thirty-four phone numbers written in your cute little notebook. One you don't recall buying. One that you'd probably use for something other than holding phone numbers. After all, who, in this day and age would do that? Phones come with inbuilt contacts lists after all. More strangely, though you instinctively recognize them as such, they don't actually look like phone numbers, they're just sequences of peculiar symbols, scrawled in handwriting that gets increasingly messy.
You could call them. Could. But you'll need to get your hands on a phone first. One that works. Because right now, instead of displaying the time and an unlock prompt, your phone's screen is filled with static. Judging by the fact that you have a calling card on you, it probably isn't too recent a problem either. The card in question is one of those ones used to operate payphones, however few still exist. This one has a Cinderella-inspired illustration featuring a pumpkin carriage. For some reason, it lacks any indicator of how much credit it's meant to have.
You awaken with a light hangover and black ink splattered all over your clothing. You have a revolver, one of those six shooters popularized by spaghetti westerns, silvery, save for the ink-stained barrel. Flicking it open to inspect the chamber, you see it is loaded with twelve rounds. You count them again. Twelve. You count the chambers. Six. You check a third time. Each bullet has its own chamber, yet there are definitely twice as many bullets as there are chambers. So much for the pigeon-hole principle.
On the ground next to you is a crumpled up newspaper, again, badly stained stained with far more ink than usual, obstructing most of the text. The masthead identifies it as
THE AGE and bears a coat of arms depicting a lion and a unicorn. Printed in smaller text in a region of blue, is the statement
PUBLISHED IN MELBOURNE SINCE 1854. What few articles you can see however, in between the ink stains and missing pages, gives you plenty of reason to doubt it came from anywhere near Australia. After all, last time you checked, there weren't skirmishes between
Curfew and
Taoist forces, whatever those are.
All of you have a key ring which isn't so much attached to something, so much as it is attached to the thin air right next to an object. In all cases, said object appears to be a small double helix formed of walnut wood which faintly glows with a corona of starlight that dances around them like a perpetual flame. All four of these objects are completely identical. Tags affixed to the rings simply read
Monolith Hotel.
And yes, everyone has their wallets, phones and watches. All the phones display white noise when turned on though, and the time on all the watches randomly change every second, sometimes even showing impossible times such as 82:94, yes even the analog watches.
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Topic: Overhang - Sorry (Read 30316 times)