Phase Q/Confusion

In the city, the rough farmers run wild. With sophisticated weaponry and untrammeled viciousness, they streak through the alleys and streets, sewing mayhem.

Hyperchains whip against skulls, invisible knives dig into flesh, lasers cut through the air. Motors roar.

In residences and dormitories and makeshift labs, gangs of ruffians scream through the night, carrying bloodshed and havoc, and leaving with prisoners.

Lupak and Zank and Valbeena get torn to shreds.

Flowriser strongholds fall. After a few months, the formerly raging revolution has diminished to only a handful of hardened defensive zones.

“They’re on the brink of defeat,” beams Mrs. President, proudly.

Aside from the farm zealots, though, the main block of Triad forces has worn itself thin on the unforgiving Zonnyxes. With their numbers depleted, morale sags. Large segments of the force disband. A handful of the toughest fighters get recruited into the elite farm forces, while many of the rest bleed back into the civilian population. What’s left after fighting badly against the Flowrisers, and worse against the Zonnyxes, leaves a pitiful main Triad force.

Not failing to miss an opportunity, a group of farm ruffians enter the presidential Command HQ.

“This is ours.”

“What?!” Mr. and Mrs. President look around, and at each other, in shocked disbelief. General Markov surrenders to the Brutes. So do most of the other top officers. One shoots himself in the face.

“Well, Bonk, looks like you’re the new president,” says a smiling ruffian to his leader.

The new president sits down in the official chair, and looks about with a sense of pride on his face.

“Send out an announcement,” he says. “New king. New Rules. New Game.”

He laughs.

Meanwhile, in a hotel in the neighborhood, two women sit down together on a bed. One pulls out a briefcase, and opens it. The other looks in, and gasps.

The woman with the briefcase has short hair, and a slim muscular build. The other woman has long, straight hair, and a more traditionally feminine figure.

The longhair whispers something to the shorthair, who then smiles, a gleam in her eye.

They lean closer in, now holding each other. The one with the briefcase lays it down, and pulls the other woman down on the bed beside her. They kiss, rubbing each other’s bodies. Clothing comes flying off.

With the shorter-haired of the two pressing into the bed, the rounder woman gets up, and walks over to her bag. She pulls out a lovestick, and goes to town. They both get off, screaming in pleasure.

You put away your night-vision goggles. Connecting with your bug. What does the audio say?

“Here’s the key. Don’t lose it.”

“Thanks babe. We’ll keep it safe.”

“And you?”

The conversation drifts off. You start to think of what you’ll do next. Vague memories of the tubeworks float through your head.

FWEW!

A flash of light goes off in the hotel room. You jam your headphones back on.

“Darkin’ Triad snitch!”

“Dark you, Fyuchee!”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

A barrage of gunfire fills the room.

• Transport to the country.
• Transport to the garden.

Phase Q: An interactive adventure.