An empty soda can.
A pill bottle. The pill bottle is open. In the pill bottle are:
Twenty-two red pills.
:
The can clatters to the hard floor and rolls to rest next to the trash can.
:
In the trash can is a dried, bloody washcloth, a snapped ballpoint pen (black), and five empty pill bottles.
The pen has bled into the washcloth, the black mixing with the red.
:
Your bedroom.
The lamp on the nightstand is on (providing light).
There is a locked door to the hall to the west, and a closed door to the bathroom is to the east.
An old computer sits on a table against the wall. On the computer table are empty soda cans, a pizza box, and even more drifts of papers and books. In front of the table is a chair.
There is a phone on the computer table. A red light, indicating a message, is flashing.
:
Your bedroom. (In the chair)
You are now sitting in the chair.
The computer table is covered in papers, pages torn from books, and unopened envelopes, all with marks similar to the pages layering the floor and walls.
Every one of the papers on the desk has been carefully arranged so the marks make a continuous path across the pages and even onto the stained cardboard interior of the pizza box, the same arrow and box pattern repeating, always at right angles.
The keyboard is in front of you, and the computer screen is at eye level.
The computer screen is on.
There is something written on the screen.
:
Do you wish to Restore, Restart, or Quit?
:
Name of Restored Game:
:
Restored.
Warren shivered again and gripped the crowbar.
He should feel scared. But he wasn’t. He had to keep going. He had spent years mapping its chambers, testing each route, going ever onward. But this place…It was falling apart. Whatever was wrong here, he would fix it. He was near the end, he could feel it.
He clutched the crowbar tighter.
:
Warren strained to listen, but heard nothing from the blackness ahead.
But he was more certain than ever there was a space ahead, a room—and a room meant enough space to swing a crowbar freely. He felt a rush of warmth at the thought, and his heart thudded tightly in his chest, harder, faster. A smile crawled to his lips as he raised the crowbar.
Whatever stood in his way, he was going to kill it.
:
The narrow tunnel walls fell away to the sides as Warren entered the chamber and drew himself up from his crouch to a ready stance.
He swung his small light quickly around the room, his crowbar gripped tightly.
Warren was sure the noise had come from here, but the room was empty.
:
The walls were crumbling brick, each brick framed by hollow black lines where the mortar had cracked away, leading like steps down to the broken concrete of the floor, where the surface became a mass of ragged, perpendicular cracks.
Almost on instinct, Warren caught himself following the lines of the wall and floor where they led—all to the opposite side of the room, where the concrete and brick fell away into a wall of blackness…into what seemed an even larger space.
He could feel the chill from the opening, but his body fought off the shiver, his heart beating even faster to drive heat to his limbs. He had come too far to turn back, had spent too long down here.
Had the thing gotten behind him somehow?
He risked a glance over his shoulder at the tunnel he’d just left, stabbing it with the light.
As he did, Warren heard the scraping of feet behind him as the thing rushed from the darkness of the maw.
:
(With the crowbar)
With a rush of adrenaline, Warren rolled to the side, and the thing hissed as its talons tore at empty air. The penlight fell to the floor and rolled across the ground.
Laughing triumphantly, Warren gripped the crowbar high with both hands and swung down at where he imagined the thing’s head would be.
There was a sickening crunch, like an eggshell cracking, and the thing crumpled to the ground.
:
(With the crowbar)
Warren brought the crowbar down again and again, covering it with black ichor. His laughter possessed him as he smashed at the thing repeatedly in the darkness, his crowbar finding solid body wherever it landed.
When he found his breath catching, he stepped back. The floor was slick, and he almost fell.
:
Warren picked up the penlight and shone it on the thing.
Where he had struck, there was only black ichor spilling across the floor, slowly filling the cracks in the concrete around him.
:
Warren looked for any solid remains, but found none—only the ichor that ran across the dirty floor like spilled ink. He gave a last, nervous laugh. His hands were clenched white around the crowbar.
Ichor dripped down the shaft and coated his hands. He didn’t care. He’d never felt more alive. This was the last obstacle, he was sure of it.
It had to be.
:
Saved.
:
Warren, his resolve strengthened by his victory, gripped the crowbar as he advanced on the only exit from the chamber. The depth of the maw grew as he approached.
He felt the same chill as before, stronger, and this time, he found he could not shake it off. His heart felt dull in his chest, slow, as if trying to hold him back.
His steps slowed as his heartbeat slowed, then stopped dead as he reached the edge. His light found no walls in the space ahead…at least none the light could reach.
The brick walls, even the concrete floor…all fell away into darkness.
:
As he studied the floor, the ichor from the thing rolled through the jagged veins of the floor toward the maw, as if drawn to it. As it touched the edge of the darkness, the two bled together seamlessly.
The cold was sharper now, and he drew the jacket around him.
He had crossed countless chambers and tunnels, had mapped them, move by move. He had spent years down here, exploring. But he had never encountered anything like this.
As before, he felt a wrongness well up within him, but this time was different: he could not go back.
This was the only path left to him if he wanted to continue.
Yet he could not move his feet, and stood rooted, afraid, facing the only exit.
:
Game exited. You have scored 0 points.
Do you wish to Restore, Restart, or Quit?
:
Are you sure you want to Quit? (Y = Affirmative)
:
Do you wish to Restore, Restart, or Quit?
:
You are standing. You feel dizzy.
It is difficult to catch your breath. Your chest feels tight.
The room is colder than before.
:
You close your eyes and try to steady yourself but your chest continues to shake.
Your heart feels tight, like a fist.
You are trembling. Your throat is dry.
:
Your bedroom.
The lamp on the nightstand is on (providing light).
There is a locked door to the hall to the west, and a closed door to the bathroom is to the east.
An old computer sits on a table against the wall. On the computer table are empty soda cans, a pizza box, and even more drifts of papers and books. In front of the table is a chair.
There is a phone on the computer table. A red light, indicating a message, is flashing.
:
You pick the phone off the cradle.
There is small click and a gender-neutral voice states, “You have one new message.”
:
You hear nothing.
:
I don’t understand the word “playt.”
:
The answering machine comes to life. The same gender-neutral voice as before speaks.
“First message.”
:
There is only silence.
:
There is only silence. The machine recorded something, but there are no words.
:
“Warren.”
:
“The next time you go below, you will never return.”
:
The voice is your own.
:
You can’t do that with the phone.
:
(With fist)
You hit the phone and knock it from the table, scattering the papers around it and breaking the carefully drawn lines bridging the pages.
The phone falls to the floor. The message light is dark.
Your hands are shaking.
:
You are hallucinating, warm, and your hands are shaking. You are naked.
You are carrying:
An empty soda can.
A pill bottle. The pill bottle is open. In the pill bottle are:
Twenty-two red pills.
:
You aren’t holding them.
:
You have the pill.
You notice your hands are shaking.
:
How many pills do you want?
:
The pills have a bitter taste.
You try to choke them down, but they burn your tongue and lodge in your throat.
:
With effort, you swallow all the pills. Your head spins.
You begin to feel nauseous.
:
Your bedroom. (In the chair)
You are now sitting in the chair.
The papers, once carefully arranged, are now a mass of broken lines that break at the edge of the pages, going nowhere.
The keyboard is in front of you, and the computer screen is at eye level.
The computer screen is black.
:
The computer and the monitor do not look like they’ve worked for a long time. There is no heat coming from them, and the fans are silent, just as they were before.
Dust covers the top of the monitor but the letters on the keyboard have worn away from use.
:
The computer screen is black.
:
Time passes…
You feel a rush of warmth, stronger than before.
You can feel your heart beating fast.
:
Your bedroom. (In the chair)
You are sitting in the chair in front of the computer table.
The papers, once carefully placed, are now a mass of broken lines that break at the edge of the pages, going nowhere.
They seem to bleed off the table and onto the floor, crossing the lines on the papers there and up onto the walls.
The keyboard is in front of you, and the computer screen is at eye level.
There is something written brightly on the screen, so bright it hurts your eyes.
:
I don’t understand “redscreen.”
:
Do you wish to Restore, Restart, or Quit?
:
Name of Restored Game:
:
Restored.
Warren looked for any solid remains, but found none—only the ichor that ran across the dirty floor like spilled ink. He had the urge to laugh, but it died in his throat. His hands clenched around the crowbar slowly relaxed. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but he wasn’t afraid.
Ichor coated his hands. This was the last obstacle, he was sure of it.
It had to be.
:
Warren turned to the maw. He didn’t raise his light; instead, he simply stared into the blackness. There was no sound, not even the whisper of his breathing.
There had to be something beyond, but Warren felt apprehension begin to seep into him. He had come all this way. His heart hammered, harder, in his chest.
There had to have been a reason.
:
He continued to stare into the darkness ahead of him. There was nothing there.
He fought the urge to look back the way he had come. He had lost his map. Retracing his steps, finding his way back…It would take too long. He was lost.
:
Warren advanced toward the maw and stopped at the edge. Ichor pooled around his feet, rising from the cracks in tandem with the pounding in his chest.
Don’t, Warren begged.
I don’t have to do this. I can go back. Back to my room.
I can piece it all together again.
:
Warren’s hand trembled.
He felt a rush of warmth.
Then, almost against his will, his body fell into darkness.
* * *
Chris Avellone is the creative director of Obsidian Entertainment. He started his career at Interplay’s Black Isle Studios division, and he’s worked on a whole menagerie of RPGs throughout his career, including Planescape: Torment, Fallout 2, the Icewind Dale series, Dark Alliance, Knights of the Old Republic II, Neverwinter Nights 2: Mask of the Betrayer, Alpha Protocol, Fallout: New Vegas, FNV DLC: Dead Money, Old World Blues, and Lonesome Road. He just finished working on inXile’s Wasteland 2, the Legend of Grimrock movie treatment, and the FTL: Advanced Edition, and is currently doing joint work on Obsidian’s Kickstarter RPG, Pillars of Eternity, and inXile’s Torment: Tides of Numenera. His story was inspired by the fine Infocom game The Lurking Horror, one of the first games to ever frighten him.
SAVE ME PLZ
David Barr Kirtley
Meg hadn’t heard from Devon in four months, and she realized that she missed him. So on a whim she tossed her sword and scabbard into the backseat of her car and drove over to campus to visit him.
She’d always thought that she and Devon would be one of those couples who really did stay friends afterward. They’d been close for so long, and things hadn’t ended that badly. Actually, the whole incident seemed pretty silly to her now. Still, she’d been telling herself that the split had been for the best—with her working full-time and him still an undergrad. It was like they were in two different worlds. She’d been busy with work, and he’d always been careless about answering email, and now somehow four months had passed without a word.
She parked in the shadow of his dorm, then grabbed her sword and strapped it to her jeans. She approached his building. A spider, dog-sized, iridescent, rappelled toward her, its thorned limbs plucking the air. She dropped a hand to the hilt of her sword. The spider wisely withdrew, back to its webbed lair amid the eaves.
She had no key card, so she waited for someone to open the door. She checked her reflection. Eyes large, hips slender, ears a bit tapered at the tips. She looked fine. (Though she’d never be a match for the imaginary elf-maid Leena.)
Finally someone exited, an unfamiliar brown-haired girl. Meg caught the door and passed into the lobby. She climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Devon’s door. She knocked.
His roommate, Brant, answered, looking half-asleep or maybe stoned. “Hey, Meg,” Brant mumbled—casually, as if he’d just seen her yesterday. “How’s the real world?”
“Like college,” she said, “but with less art history. Is Devon here?”
“Devon?” Brant seemed confused. “Oh. You don’t know.” He hesitated. “He dropped out.”
> “What?” She was startled.
“Just packed up and left. Weeks ago. He said it didn’t matter anymore. He was playing that game all the time.” Brant didn’t need to say which game. Least of all to her. “He said he found something huge. In the game. Then he went away.”
“Went away where? Is he all right?”
Brant shrugged. “I don’t know, Meg. He didn’t tell me. You could email him, I guess. Or try to find him online. He’s always playing that game.” Brant shook his head. “And I mean always.”
—
Meg strode to her car. She chucked her sword in back, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door.
Devon was the smartest guy she’d ever met, and the stupidest. How could he drop out with just one year left? Sadly, she wasn’t all that surprised.
She’d met him at an off-campus party her junior year. They’d ended up on the same couch. Before long he was on his third beer and telling her, “I didn’t even want to go to college. My parents insisted. I had a whole other plan.”
She said, “Which was?”
“To be a prince.” He gave a grandiose shrug. “I think I’d make a pretty good prince.” He noted her skeptical expression, and added, “But not prince of like, England. I’m not greedy. Prince of Monaco would be fine. Wait, is that even a country?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good,” he declared, thumping his beer on the end table. “Prince of Monaco. Or if that’s taken…”
“Liechtenstein,” she suggested.
“Liechtenstein, great!” he agreed, pointing. “Or Trinadad and Tobago.”
She shook her head. “It’s not a monarchy. No princes.”
“No princes?” He feigned outrage. “Well, screw them then. Liechtenstein it is.”
After that she noticed him everywhere. He seldom went to class or did coursework, so he was always out somewhere—joking with friends in the dining hall, pacing around the pond, or sitting under a tree in the central quad, doodling. His carefree independence was oddly endearing, especially to her, who was always so conscientious, though later his indifference to school worried her. She’d ask, “What’ll you do after you graduate?”
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