Noise Lights: A Text Adventure- Sweet and Sour Victory

Looking at this poor, misshapen creature (the parts that don't look like you, of course), you feel a twinge of pity. As he claws at the floor beneath you, desperately trying to unsnag his feet from the broken window and its sil, face screeching, gnashing, and dribbling searing hot motor-oil mere centimeters from yours, you see in it's freakish, bare-muscled headlight eyes, a confused innocence that shows it does not understand what it does. It's not his fault that he's a nightmarish abomination that only desires to kill everything around it. He's a victim of circumstance. His barely sentient feral state is probably the result of bad parenting. They would have to be exceedingly bad parents to let him make those immature and completely misinformed car noises for this long, and lord knows that are plenty of parents who do that. He is clearly not responsible for his own actions, it wouldn't be right to strike back at him. Who's to say that you have to strike back, anyway? That's just the man pounding down on your mind with his messages of violence and conformity. Well, you certainly aren't going to let those ivory tower gargoyles tell you what to do, this Other-other-you needs help. This creature's, no, this Person’s hatred for all living things and burning desire to kill them is just a desperate plea for attention. You will start the revolution! You will not indulge the whims of the so-called man or his government, you will not hit back with the intention to smite this defenseless, innocent being. You will take him by the hand and lead not just him, but the whole world into a new age. It all starts here.
While the Other-other-you is occupied with furiously clawing at the ground in an attempt to unhook himself from the large shards of jagged glass piercing deep into his shoes, you decidedly don't attack his helpless personage suspended only a hair's breadth above you.

You: “Please, stop this. There's no need to fight. We can talk this out.”

Your words go unheeded as the Other-other-you continues his struggle, showing off his vulnerable underbelly completely exposed to the weapons you have in each hand as he does so. Having gone past the first step on the road to recovery through compassion, you decide to go straight to the heart of the matter and shoot the problem where it hurts.

You: “Look, I recognize the signs. You're upset. You're upset at yourself and the world around you, but you need to understand where that pain comes from. I understand that your parents didn't make enough time for you and left you with a lot of baggage. I know that every time they said, 'we tried our best,' they were lying through their filthy, uncaring teeth, and that in a just world they would be here instead of you, but you can't let your anger color what you think of other people. I'm not your parents (as far as I know), and neither is anyone else. You need to let go and move on with your life.”

The Other-other-you doesn't appear to be listening. You hear the floor behind you splinter as he digs his fingers into the wood, finally getting a strong hold. He stops struggling and begins one, long pull. You hear a sickening tearing sound come from where he's caught on the glass of the broken window. His currently helpless state and lack of extreme movement allows you to see a pattern of burn spots and oil stains on his shirt that, for a brief second, almost look like a target. Obviously you aren't getting through. You decide to bring out the big guns and try being relatable.

You: “You probably don't believe me right now when I tell you this, but I really, truly do understand what you're going through. A few years ago, I used to be a horrific meat-covered, mechanical parody of life just like you. It was hell, especially going through high school. Everyone judged me just on my appearance and refused to see the beauty I had inside. No one would even sit next to me on the bus, and I was always the last one to get a partner in dance class. My hellish, nightmare appearance made getting a job nearly impossible, but you know what I did? I sat down and really took a look at what I saw in the mirror. What did I see? I didn't see a disgusting, ugly freak that has no right to walk on the grassy fields of God's green earth. I saw me. I saw a person I was proud to be. I saw that I shouldn't be ashamed over what I was and who I am. If I thought I was a grotesque wretch of rotten meat held together only by the strands of my own filth, then so would everyone else. And then, something amazing happened. With that realization, my inner beauty began to show on the outside. My malformed car-wreck of a face changed to be the sculpted, ruggedly roguish features of the lovable scoundrel you see before you. In the end, it doesn't matter what other people think of you, it matters what you think of you. And most importantly, what's here, in your heart.”

You tap the barrel of your gun against his chest to emphasize his heart, and as you decidedly don't pull the trigger, a single tear rolls down your cheek at the beauty of your own mostly made up words. Truly, you are a wonderful and selfless person.
Your reflection on your own humanitarianism is interrupted by a single loud and final ripping sound as the Other-other-you falls forward, finally landing completely on top of you. You manage to keep a hold of the still-dangerous-but-not-really-a-gun gun and the mallet in your hands as he flails wildly, trying to scramble off of you into a better attacking position. Sizzling, hot oil sprays from the gashes on the Other-other-you's pants and shoes, burning both you and leaving marks on the floor.



His actions are still clearly aggressive, although his words are still mumbles of faux car noises, so a fight certainly looks like the direction this encounter is heading. You're not entirely convinced that your words haven't had any effect, though. If they brought tears to your eyes then they will most definitely bring tears to the eyes of anyone else. Metaphorical tears, you're pretty sure the gaping burnt holes with unseen flashing light bulbs surrounded by exposed muscle the Other-other-you has instead of eyes don't actually contain tear ducts.
After the Other-other-you scrambles to the other end of the room, he jumps up to his feat. Gouts of steaming oil spurt from the gashes on his legs and shoes only to pool at his feet. His lack of conventional eyes make it difficult to tell exactly where he is looking, but the Other-other-you appears to be staring at the weapons you have in both of your hands. Despite that you are still on your back with your knees against the wall, he is right to be wary of you while you're armed, as, according to you, you are a whirlwind of death with any weapon. Still, you're not quite sure you want to engage in a fight just yet. You're a little committed to this talk-it-out angle you've thought up. It would be a major credit to your negotiation skills, not to mention a big feather in your cap, if you actually manage to talk this stupid thing down.
You quickly struggle to your feet, making sure to avoid all the broken glass lying around, and reassess the situation. The Other-other-you is on the other end of the room, which isn't that far considering this shack is smaller on the inside and the outside was pretty small to begin with, eyeing you up in a way that you wish it didn't; a very blood-thirsty air from top to bottom. He appears to be keeping his distance, most likely he is being wary of the two weapons you have in your hands. It's a good thing you have those out, they'll allow you to keep him at arms length, and having weapons is usually helpful in speeding peace-talks along to a “mutually” satisfactory outcome. With his back against the wall, the Other-other-you begins pacing from side to side. While only briefly, several times he breaks eye contact with you to glance around the inside of the shack, for what specifically, you aren't immediately sure. Suddenly, he stops mid-glance. He even stops puttering out his inane car noises, and, for a few moments, the entire shack is quiet with the only sound heard being the fake-sprinkler-rain on the roof of the shack. Before you have a chance to react, he lunges forward straight at you only to come to a complete halt halfway across the room. The Other-other-you's unprovoked lunge cases you to back into the wall in surprise and instinctively pull the trigger of the not-gun in your hand. The flag and poll pops harmlessly out of the barrel.
At first, you're not exactly sure why the Other-other-you stopped, until you see where he's standing. With his legs spread out and his feet on opposite sides of the opening, he is standing directly above the portal trap door. It takes a moment before it dawns on you, since the outside worlds has apparently ceased to exist and been replaced by a big concrete box, the only way to escape or go anywhere is through the portal-doors that he is now standing directly above and below. With a big bow-legged stance, the Other-other-you stands there menacingly, daring you to step forward. Well, you're certainly not going to play his game. For the greater good and the good of your ego, you will find a peaceful resolution to this situation.



The friendly, relatable but authoritative tone you used earlier didn't work out so well. Perhaps presenting yourself as a peer is provoking a complex that causes him to dominate those he perceives as equals? That series of words might be the case, as you've briefly read them in a magazine before. It might be worthwhile to try implanting an emotional investment towards making peace with you. Since the Other-other-you isn't willing to help himself, perhaps he can be bent around towards the idea of helping you instead. Exactly how you'll accomplish that, you're uncertain of. Even if you can't turn him over to your side completely, it would still be something if you can distract him enough to make a break for it. Is there something similar that you've done before that you can fall back on? Maybe with the right amount of emotional manipulation you could- Wait, that's it! You get an idea.
Without letting go of the mallet, you run your hand through your hair in an attempt to slick it back. It doesn't work. You take a step forward and put on a more sultry air, shifting your hips seductively as you do so. You look the Other-other-you straight in his headlight covered non-eyes and do that thing with your eyebrows. You know, the thing; the sexy thing. You also give a little wink for good measure. Not a full wink, just a little one. You don't close your eye completely, you don't want to come on too strong, after all. With a light lick to your lips you speak.

You: “You know, earlier when you were dragging yourself through shards of broken glass without any concern for your own well being, it really struck me on the amount of dedication to getting a job done that must take. I like that, it shows a good level of… Commitment.”

You lean forward and accentuate every syllable of “commitment” in as breathy a provocative tone you can muster. You begin tracing the tiny flagpole sticking out of the barrel of your not-real-gun around your chest; your lack of pecks, a six-pack, or muscles of any kind is irrelevant. Your clothes are wet, and that's all that matters. You shift your weight from on leg to the other to continue your risqué display when a thought occurs to you. Should you really be trying to seduce someone who has been made to look like you, gross machine parts notwithstanding, on a very deep level? You really can't think of a reason not to. Anyone should be so lucky to land a catch like you, even you. You are quite the keeper, and that's a fact.

You: “I also couldn't help but notice how strong you are. The way you dug your fingers into the wood enough for it to splinter shows a lot of raw power. I bet you'd be great to have around the house. Yard work on a hot, sunny day without your shirt on. I bet your neighbors are so jealous. You're not married, are you? I don't see a ring.”

You hold up your hand and wiggle your ring finger playfully.

You: “And what's this? I don't have one either. Fancy that.”

You drop down to one knee and look up at the Other-other-you. Your eyes open wide and sparkle as you look up to the object of your desire with obvious need drawn across your face and dripping from every word.

You: “What am I doing? There's no sense beating around the bush. What I'm trying to say is… I love you. Each moment that's ticked by during the few seconds we've known each other have felt like entire lifetimes where I've been completely, madly in love with you. Perhaps I've always loved you and just never knew it until now. My entire life, since I first gazed up at the moon to watch its sorrowful journey across the night sky, I've felt incomplete. An empty feeling like there was a massive part of my soul that was just never there. Now that I look at you, I feel complete. I feel like I've finally found my other half. Please, will you do me the honor of being mine, for now and forever?”

You extend your hand out in a friendly, loving manner, beckoning him to take it. You do not put down your fake-gun, however. You're hoping that the friendly gesture combined with pointing a gun at him might help move things along.
The Other-other-you stands there. His expression changes from psychotic, gleeful bloodlust to one of confusion and mild disgust. Well then, there's no accounting for taste. Those were some of your best lines too.

You're actually at a loss for what to do now. Neither one of your negotiation or seduction techniques worked, and the fact that this twisted meat-metal mockery is now silently judging you has taken too much wind out of your sails to try again. What can you try next: bribery, begging, blackmail? You could just fight him. The Other-you was actually fairly easy to dispatch and this Other-other-you shouldn't be too difficult to deal with either, but then that would defeat the entire purpose of trying to negotiate/sexy-times your way out of the conflict. It wouldn't sit well with you yo just give up like that. Your ego would never forgive you. This train of thought is interrupted by the sound of a series of faint thuds coming from above. As they get louder and closer, the thudding becomes interspersed with electronic, buzzy yelling. The Other-other-you looks up just in time to see a blur of sparking wires and flashing light bulbs as the Other-you crashes directly into him, knocking him off his feet. The Other-other-you and the Other-you immediately become a tangled mess of wild sparks, black exhaust, spurting oil, electronic screaming, fake car noises, muffled engine sounds, and tangled limbs. The two of them slip through the trapdoor and hit each one as they continue to tumble downwards. The loud “katunk-kathunk” of their descent can be heard mixed with exchanges of accusatory screeching between the two. The sound slowly fades away as they become too distant to hear.
That's not exactly how you were expecting things to go, but you decide to chalk this up as a success for your little impromptu therapy session anyway. You probably deserve some form of degree for this. You might even want to consider opening up a psychiatry clinic, there's good money to be made there.
You dust yourself off and begin winding the tiny flagpole back into the fake gun as you consider your next course of action. Now that those little whirlwinds of activity are over, you have time again to examine your surroundings. There's not that much to see inside the one and only room this shack has, with the exception of the new addition of a broken window and broken glass on the floor, things are pretty much the same. Actually, you're not sure if it's accurate to describe this as the shack's only room. The ceiling and floor trapdoors are now undeniably confirmed to be portals after seeing the Other-you's round trip, but it took him a while to get back. How many rooms and how many portal-doors are there? Also, the solid concrete box surrounding everything outside is a matter of concern. You are completely positive this should be the place you first entered the shack from, but now the outside world has been replaced with a hastily slapped together backdrop. It is very worrying that your easiest and most obvious exit is no longer available to you.


Player Statistics:



Non-Cannon Bonus Scene:

You take a step back and avert your eyes from the window. Your head feels like it’s spinning in a smoggy cloud as a result of staring down that infinite tunnel of shack rooms and windows. It was like looking down one of those never ending corridors you get when you point two mirrors at each other. You did theorize earlier that the portal-doors may be mirror based in nature, that could- no, no. That’s stupid. Everything here is stupid. Everything in the whole WORLD is stupid! Not only is all this portal bull-malarkey broken, but it can’t even be broken in a consistent way! Is the shack bigger on the inside? NOPE! It’s smaller. Are you in the woods? NOPE! You’re in a concrete box. Actually- NOPE! You’re in an escherine nightmare of the most disappointingly constructed shacks in the history of architecture. Someone has to be doing this on purpose. Someone is yanking your chain. Someone found out about the magnificent purpose the Noise Lights chose you for and is messing with you out of petulant jealousy. You quickly glance over your shoulder, half expecting your brother to be standing there doing that wheezing laugh of his, just like he always does. You’ve never actually seen or heard him laugh once in your life, but you know he does it behind your back.
As you glance around over your shoulder, instead of your brother, you see another eternal tunnel of shack rooms and windows out of the window directly behind you. You quickly turn away as your head starts buzzing as a result, only to be looking out the first window you were already facing to begin with. You cover your face as your head begins pounding and occipital lobe starts to go numb. “Son of a damn it!”
Okay, okay. Calm down. You’re here for a reason and you can’t get hung up on every little obstacle that jumps in your way. Your mission was very clearly stated that you go do something in a shack. It doesn’t get more cut and dry than that. You just need to search the shack until you find that very clearly outlined something you need to do. These never-ending conga lines worth of rooms just adds a little-teeny-weeny bit of extra searching you have to do. There’s likely more infinite horizontal room tunnels on every level of the infinite vertical room tunnel stretching up and down the trapdoors above and below you. That’s, like what, infinity to the infinite power? That’s just infinity. You know math. In your book, infinity is not a big number.
If you’re ever going to get this done, you need to actually get started. There is a distinct chance that these portal-tunnels loop back around into each other, but since you didn’t see yourself in the brief glances you had, you assume that it’s a fair ways away. However, that would get you away from the never ending tumble path of Motor-Joe and Mr. Sparkums. You can deal with them later, preferably when they’re both living masses of bruised flesh and dented metal. One won’t be able to fight back, and to the other, you will appear as a guardian angel descending from the heavens to aid him in his time of need. That will make it all the easier to win over his heart and claim the vast fortune that you feel very strongly he has. Still, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to just blunder forward with no direction or way of marking a path. You could end up aimlessly wandering up, down, and sideways forever, if you’re not careful. Let’s see; you descended from your starting point by one level and you’re about to go (using the front door to the outside as a reference) left out the side window. That’s not hard to remember, but the number of rooms you travel through will get really big really fast. You need to write this down. You need a map.
What can you use to make a map? You quickly rummage through your inventory. What do you have here? A can, some pennies and coupons, an eCodex, paper, a book, a fake-gun, and some other junk.

Codex: “The Softmind Software^tm brand eCodex has detected that you are in need of a map. Do you require assistance in downloading the newest map or map making applica-”

You: “No. Shut-up.”

Paper; the paper will definitely be helpful. You pull the document out of your inventory and hold it in your hand. The single sheet of legalese is perfectly folded and shaped to be a pocket sized map, and the book in your inventory contains plenty of pages if you need more. Granted, the legalese document and the book are already covered and filled with writing, but that won’t be a problem if you can write your map in a color distinguishable from the preexisting black text. Uh-oh, writing. You don’t have anything to write with.


You stare at the folded legalese document for a few moments more; the gears of your mind desperately trying to churn out a resolution to this progress halting desert island you’ve been trapped on. You were doing so well too. Normally you’re a master when it comes to the intricate steps on the stairway to problem solving. You need a map: you can make a map. A map needs paper and a writing implement: you have paper, but no implement. You look at the window, then back at the paper.
You’re going to have to find another avenue to resolve this problem. You’ve already decided to use paper and/or a writing tool, but since all you have is paper, that’ll have to do. A lesser person would lower themselves by abandoning a dead-end and think of another solution, but you are happy to say that you posses a mote more integrity than those spineless jellyrolls who bow to the blind, idiot goddess Pragmatism. You will stick with the paper, it’s a matter of pride now.
You focus your gaze on the worm-eaten wall immediately to the right of the window. Another possible way of making a map or something vaguely similar to a map, would be leaving distinguishable marks behind to mark where you’ve been and leave an easy path to follow back. You take the legalese paper and rub it against the wall. Not even a scratch; so much for that idea. You turn your attention back to the window itself. The paper is too soft to leave marks on wood, no matter how rotten and full of holes that wood may be. You gently tug on the paper a few times, testing it’s thickness; it makes a dull “thrump-thrump” sound as you think.
Surely there are other ways of leaving marks. You glance up and down at the window, making sure to focus on the window and not the endless tunnel beyond, and take in the cracked, dirty panes, the crooked muntins, the splintered casing, and crumbling sill. You quickly tuck the legalese paper back in your inventory, and undo the window’s lock. You then put your hands on the sash and push upwards. Very, VERY surprisingly, the window slides open effortlessly. It doesn’t jam and you don’t have to brute force it; the window just slides open. It isn’t too loose either, when you take your hands off the sash, it stays open. You tap it a few times and it still doesn’t slide shut on its own. The only way the window will close is if you close it yourself. It functions exactly as an ideal window should. Perhaps the stiles were simply so ashamed of the rest of the window they decided to try extra hard to compensate. You experimentally slide the window closed and shut several times before leaving it open and taking a step back. You put your hand on your chin thoughtfully. Leaving each window you go through open would be a good way of marking your path. For each time you go either up or down, you’d know because only one window would be open. To find out if you went up or down, you’d only need to glace through the trapdoors until you see a room with a window open. You’d need to make sure you don't use a trapdoor twice in a row to prevent having to go up or down too many time to find your path again. That could get you hopelessly lost. There is a chance that your doppelgangers might try something similar and open windows during a search for you, but you’re confident enough those two are thoroughly trapped in their self-made tumble-hell. You let go of your chin and frown. The only problem with this plan is that it doesn’t necessarily involve paper. You’ve already made up your mind that your plan to proceed must involve paper, lest you surrender your integrity and intellect and take on the life of a waffling flip-flopper.
You take the legalese document out of your inventory again. You glance between it and the window. You lay the paper flat on the palm of your hand and use it to grab hold of the window sash, like how you’d use a potholder to grab something hot, and slide the window closed and then open again. No, this doesn’t feel right. You just don’t have that sense of satisfaction you normally get when you solve a difficult puzzle. The paper needs to be an integral part of the process, it needs to be the driving force of what makes the plan a smashing success. Hmmm…
A spark of inspiration hits you. You slide the window shut again. Yes, this is perfect. You wrap the paper around your hand, imagining yourself as a fighter putting tape on his fists before a match. You hold your fist in the air and wind up. You stare at the window dead-on and smirk. No need to pat yourself on the back, you already know there’s no problem you can’t solve. Classic Joe, as always. You muster up your strength and send a mighty swing forward. Your blow shatters the glass panes and splinters the muntins with a satisfy cacophony of destruction.
In a split second, it’s all over. The window is destroyed, and your path is marked. There is nothing stopping you from your victorious march forward to conquer the unknown.
You pull your hand back. The legalese document is now stained red and plastered to your skin. It seems that your hand and arm are covered in cuts and gashes that are alarmingly spurting blood in sync with your heartbeat.

You are about to begin applying pressure to the cut areas on your arm when a thought goes ringing through your head. You rest your hands on your hips and roll your eyes. A dark red stain begins dripping down your pant leg. Look, you’ve been over this. In order to make a map or leave marks on the walls, you need something to write with. What are you going to do without a pen, dummy? Dip an invisible quill into the air and write with that? Maybe you can use your spit! You’ve got good aim. Why, if you can find your way back outside and drink some of that chemically treated water, you can even use your own p-

Oh. Oh-yeah.
Blood has a red color that is distinct from the already existing text covering the paper in your inventory. You can write with that.
You pull the legalese document out of your inventory and hold it in front of you. You quickly pull it away from your cut arm. The heavy spurts of blood would stain the whole paper, it’ll be too risky to write with your slashed-up hand. You’re going to have to be creative about this.
You put the paper on the ground and get down on your knees. You dip the index finger of your non-cut hand in one of the puddles of blood accumulating around you and draw a red box and write a little number one in the middle. You then draw another box next to it and write a little number two in the middle of that one. There you go. Actual progress.
When you get back up on your feet with your new map in your non-bleeding hand, you glance over to the left window. Well, it would be best to be thorough. Safety nets are always good to have. You walk over to the window and begin to write with your bleeding hand. You don’t need to worry as much about staining the wall. More’s the better, it will make the mark easier to see. You draw a large arrow pointing at a box to show that this is a window you went in, and on the other side you’ll draw an arrow pointing away from a box to show that was a window you came out of.

This whirlwind of progress is actually starting to make you feel a little giddy, a little light headed too. Looking at those marks you made causes a number of feelings to cascade through your skull. You actually don’t want to let go of the feeling of progress you’re making just yet. That intoxicating feeling of succeeding despite all odds as you stand on a mountain of your broken and battered foes; the feeling is so potent it’s making your vision unfocused. Not to mention that, for some reason, staring at these bloody markings on the wall is giving you distant pangs of nostalgia. There is an undeniable urge to add to them, make them grow. You’ve already exhausted the available possibilities for practical markings, you can only mark that you’ve gone through this specific window in so many ways before it becomes irritatingly redundant. You’re going to need to be creative here, exceedingly so. More than you’re used to. These walls demand to be painted.

[YOU HAVE EXCHANGED THE ACTIVE ABILITY “HONEYED VINEGAR” WITH “PSEUDOSMARTS”. YOU MAY CHANGE YOUR ABILITIES ONCE MORE THIS IN-GAME DAY.]

You sit down in a spreading pool of your own blood, close your eyes, and concentrate. That wispy feeling of nostalgia, you grab onto it as one would try and grasp the coattails of the fleeing wind. Where does it take you? You need to know about markings. Are there markings there?
You hear a distant approaching “kathunk-kathunk” noise coupled with muffled screeching and fake car sounds.
Are there markings were the nostalgia is trying to take you? Kind of. There, somewhere off to the side, there’s a hint. You let go of the coattails, it beckons you to follow, but you let it disappear with the fleeing wind as it runs into the void. You wade through the murk of your own distant memories. There’s a dark light spastically twitching at the end of a side-reversed hallway. You push past the un-light and it bursts like a dolomite bubble. There's something about markings in there, you’re sure of it. There is a room. You remember a dark room. You also remember hearing a smashing, pounding noise.
The faint “kathunk-ing” grows ever closer. The electronic and motorized screeching gets louder, but it’s easy to tune it out.
You couldn’t see it, you were hiding under the covers in your bed, but you knew what the smashing sound was. On the opposite end of the hall, your brother was holding a door shut while something on the other side slammed against it trying to get through. You pulled the covers tighter around your head and curled into a ball, the nearly air-tight seal you created made it hard to breath despite the effort of your terrified, choked breaths. Then you heard it: small, creaking footsteps, barely audible, yet they somehow overpowered the struggle you knew was taking place down the hall. The steps quietly creaked into your room, stopping for the telltale click of your door closing. Within moments, the steps had reached the side of your bed and paused. The sanctuary beneath your blanket became as ice cold as a freezer. There were whispers in your ear. Whispers in something that wasn’t a voice. In your mind’s eye, you saw. You saw so many things: a thousand bolts scurrying out of a rust covered tractor, like ants from an anthill; a man with no jaw and hooks for legs pouring stain remover into both eyes, he was trying to sing; tunnels of impossible dimensions forking and weaving through each other, passing through their own walls like ghostly lampreys, and filled with screaming voices none could hear; and a ticking clock made out of pipes and teeth sitting on a railroad, with every second, two trains grew nearer to collision. Finally, whatever was standing by your bed, you saw through its eyes. Its view was near the ceiling, and yet you still heard its whispers in your ear. The wallpaper on your walls, they looked like they were going rancid, rotting like old food. When there was nothing left of the paper but slime covered shreds faintly clinging to the wall, that’s when you saw the markings. Horrible things, wild in their shape, completely devoid of meaning to you. They appeared as if they were stains in the drywall, growing out of the gypsum like so many hunks of black mold. They danced on the wall, their every jagged shape and undulating movement radiated a poisonous concoction of malevolence and disease. They had begun dripping down from the walls and snaked through the shagged carpet towards your bed.
The “kathunk-kathunk” is so close now, you can hear the buzzing screams echoing loudly above.
Your eyes snap open. Those are just the marks you need. You smile wide and blood begins dripping down your chin. Your teeth have been reduced to crunchy stubs and loose splinters, an unfortunate result of you grinding your teeth during your inner journey; unfortunate but manageable, thank goodness. As you stand up, you blink the last few drops of blood out of your shot eyes and sniff a few times to get the heavy, metallic scent out of your red dripping nose. Your head feels light and almost empty as you stumble towards the wall. For some reason, you can’t seem to walk in a straight line anymore. Both of your hands glisten red as they are currently coated in what you would currently describe as the finest paint. You set to work immediately and start scrawling on the wall with your bare fingers. You mimic the marks you saw in your memory as best as you can. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. The jagged, curved runes drip on the wall with playful, sadistic glee.
There is a loud screech and the sound of splintering wood as your two flesh-mechanical doppelgangers fall from the trapdoor above. Seeing you, they clumsily spread their limbs out in a desperate attempt to stop their descent. They crash onto the sides of the trapdoor in the floor, they almost fall through, but manage to grab hold. There is a brief consensus of victorious screech-mumbling as they regain their purchase and start pulling themselves up.
Ah! Your friends are here. Your very good, good, good friends. They have stuff similar to blood. Maybe they would like to join you? It’s a good team building exercise, and team building exercises build beautifully, eternal, never-ending friendships. You should look at them, it’s polite to look, but you don’t want to stop painting the wall even for a second. You begin to crane your neck as far as you can to greet them. There us a heavy pop and your head begins lolling to one side. You can see them out of the corner of your eyes, but when you attempt to speak, all that comes out of your mouth is a gurgling mess. It takes only a glance at you and what you’re doing to convince your look-a-likes to let go and keep falling. Their loss.
It’s getting hard to breath now. Every labored breath comes out in weak bubbling gasps with barely any strength to pull them back in. The walls look a little different now. They’ve gone from dark wood to light cloth. A little spongy too. It’s actually easier to write on, the cloth soaks it all in quicker than the wood did. The steadily weakening movements of your arm cause the straps and buckles hanging from your sleeves to sway and jingle. Were they always like that? Weren’t you wearing a worn out jacket? It doesn’t matter, the pounding on the door is getting louder, but they can’t get in. You fixed the door so now it only opens for you. You can’t stand up straight anymore. Your legs give out and you fall backwards. Your landing is cushioned by the padded floor. You don’t feel a thing. You stare up at the flickering light bulb in the ceiling, the only source of light for your tiny, tiny room. Your vision is fading, but you can still see what’s happening. What you were hoping for, what you were gunning for. The marks and scrawls on the walls begin dripping all the way to the floor. Their slithering motions meld into each other, creating distant shapes on the wall's surfaces that move closer. Dark figures ooze out of the padding and slowly gather around you. You can’t make out any of the details with your failing eyes, they’re just darkness. They crowd into each other as they circle you. Their shadows cover the light above, shielding you from it. That’s all you wannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

[ER///23.R47//OR.000926_fAllowMend=nothing////_1554.84//_U753/./R9N0t//34_a110W3D//]

You died, ya weirdo.

[RELOAD]

You experimentally slide the window closed and shut several times before leaving it open and taking a step back. You put your hand on your chin thoughtfully and pause. Deja vu. What were you doing? You wanted to go through this window, and… Something about paper? It’s a little hazy. You also vaguely recall wanting to take a nap in a pillow fort, or something like that.
You hear a close and still approaching “kathunk-kathunk” noise coupled with muffled screeching and fake car sounds.
Oh great, THOSE guys. They’re back faster than you thought they’d be. How did they get so close without you noticing? Well, at any rate, It’d be a good idea to get out of sight for right now. You don’t think they’re quite softened up enough just yet, and you really just don’t quite feel like dealing with them right now. Still, the fact that the machinations of all this portal garbage seems so erratic and inconsistent makes you nervous. You think it would be best to make this next step carefully. You crawled through the portal trapdoor above just fine, but that was before even the windows became infinite portals too. The rules keep changing, so you’ll play it safe. You step forward and tentatively scoot your pinky finger just barely through the window’s opening. So far so good. Your pinky is past the threshold and in the next room and nothing happens. You experimentally put your arm through and wave it around a few times. You’re perfectly fine. Alright then, time to get moving.
There is a loud crack, as you turn your head, you see the car-you and wire-you come tumbling through the trapdoor. The wire-you sees you and makes a desperate grapple for the floor as he begins to fall through the second trapdoor on the ground. His chest hits the wood hard and makes a dull thudding sound. A crooked smile forms on his sparking, misshapen face as he begins to pull himself up, only to be thwarted when car-you falls on top of him, sending them both tumbling down the endless series of trapdoors below yet again. You blink a few times. Well, so much for that. You look back to the window and notice something different. The room beyond appears to be upside down. Also, there is a dark red stain dripping off the windowsill. The entire portion of your arm that you had sticking through the window is missing, from the elbow down.

You: “What the hell?!”

You: “oh, you Mother Fu-”

None of that now.
You stare in disbelief as your precious crimson life-liquid cascades from your newly created temporal nub. Too late do you realize that… That the portal slice-erminates… When it… Alright, how about we skip the purple prose for now. In a nutshell, you bleed to death. Again.

[RELOAD]

You hear a very close and very quickly approaching “kathunk-kathunk” noise coupled with angrily impatient muffled screeching and fake car sounds.
Oh crap, THOSE guys. They’re back much faster than you thought they’d be. How could they be so close? The portal tower-thing looked so deep before. If they’re back this quickly, they’re nowhere near softened up enough for you to deal with them. You need to book it out of view. You jump through the open window directly in front of you and turn to slam it shut. As you bring the window sash down, you hear a loud crack when you see wire-you and car-you come careening down from the trapdoor in the ceiling. You and wire-you briefly lock eyes, or whatever those horrible light bulb things he has instead are, but its broken when his chest hits the floor. It makes an odd dull, thudding sound, like he has something stashed under his shirt. You remember that sound along with something hard and flat you felt when you kicked him earlier. You don’t have long to dwell on this, the moment his chest hits the ground, the view you see through the window changes. You see yet another identical shack room, only this one is upside down. You quickly glance over your shoulder at the other window. The view from that window shows a dirty, wooden floor with a trapdoor in the center. This situation just keeps getting more complicated. Also, more stupid.


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