Quain Watterson | 19 years old

I grew up in a small town that smelt of flowers. The wind was quiet, the skies were wide, and the people, though they weren't, felt small. I often feel the same.

Small, and perhaps too mundane for even a human existence.

> begin simulation_e001 “jailbreak”

The first thing you wonder when you wake up is this—

Why wasn’t I in one of those beds?

Though admittedly they don’t look any more inviting than the floor or this wirey chair. Your ass hurts, and you stand up, patting it with your hands before cracking your neck and back.

You fiddle with the poor excuse of wristwear on your arm for a while. It was certainly a downgrade from what you were used to. Plus a bit more constraining— and disconcerting, especially when you pull at it only to feel your skin, too, tug along with it.

You quickly decide you don’t like this place, looking about and taking in shallow breaths of the stuffy air. There’s a door, and you don’t know why, but you try the lever— nothing happens. You decide to wash your face, hoping that it will relax your nerves a bit.

It doesn’t.

And where a towel ought to be, you find a brief case with no lock and a sheet of paper inside. It’s perfectly pristine, the words printed out in standard times new roman font, 12 point, and you skim it.

This is all giving you a headache, partially because you’ve never been good at puzzles— this is a puzzle, right? It’s talking about digital roots, and numbers, and quite frankly, you’re just really confused. It’s crummy and cramped in here, and you want out, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve got much to work with, so you take the piece of paper and fold it up so that it shows what you think is the important stuff on the up-side for easy access.

But underneath where the paper had been in the brief case are three plastic keycards, a number printed in black on all three of them. You fan them in your free hand and then sift through them again and again, checking the front and back— nothing out of the ordinary.

You tilt your mouth under the faucet of the wash basin and swallow down some water before heading towards the door.

A big, bold, and brash 9 is labeled on it.

3 + 2 + 4 = 9

You sigh and slide the three keycards through the blinking card reader in quick succession. There’s an almost uproarious click, and oh— the air out here is no better. In a last minute impulse, you take the briefcase with you, shoving your keycards and the folded up piece of paper inside before walking out.

( 2 years ago) · Jun 12,2012 → 24 notes
Tagged: #WHOOPS

( 2 years ago) · Jun 12,2012 → 3 notes