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 reach out across the air. Motors roar.

In residences and dormitories and makeshift labs, gangs of ruffians scream through, causing bloodshed and havoc, and leave with prisoners.

Lupak and Zank and Valbeena get torn to shreds.

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

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

Aside from the farm zealots, the main block of Trad forces has worn itself thin on the unforgiving zonnyxes. Their numbers depleted, morale sags. Large segments of the force disband. A handful of the toughest fighters get recruited into the farm forces, while many of the rest bleed back into the civilian population. What’s left after fighting badly against the Futuristas, and worse against the Zonnyxes, leaves a pitiful Trad 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 disbelief. General Markover surrenders to the ruffians. 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 ruffian with beaming smile to his leader.

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

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

He laughs.

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 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 longer-haired of the two pressing into the bed, the other one gets up, and walks over to her bag. She pulls out a strap-on, and goes to town. They both get off, screaming in pleasure.

You put away your night-vision goggles. 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.

“Fuckin’ Trad bitch!”

“Fuck you, Fyuchee!”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

A barrage of gunfire fills the room.

Phase Q: An interactive adventure.