Phase Q/Tubeworks

The vanilla smell wafts through tubespace. As it rolls through, it echoes a visible wave of vibrations, and an audible sigh.

You somersault deftly through the air, observing how amid the seemingly nonsensical randomness of flying objects, imported Futuristas and Trads seem to trade blows. The same war in a new theater.

A lollypop twists through the air, next to a dozen filing cabinets, a spare part from an antique handgun, and some assembly of glowclouds and sparkling ghosts and ultrafoam.

Futurista armaments blaze through the ever-shifting volume, lighting up the sky in shades of magenta and cyan and hues unlike any you’ve seen before. Trad regiments march through the psychedelic space, somewhat chaotically, yet blasting apart wide gaps of terrain.

You imagine the gigantic golden key and disappear from the tubeworks. Materializing back in a suburban neighborhood, you ready yourself for what used to pass for normalcy.

On a quiet street adorned with shade trees, you walk down the sidewalk. In the quiet evening darkness, lights pour out of the houses. The streets are mostly quiet, with a few dogs barking.

Glancing in the front windows as you walk by houses, the contents surprise you. Families huddle around TVs, people lie down with laptops, an old man sits in a reclining chair reading a newspaper.

“Excuse me.” A somewhat bland-looking man, somewhat unpleasant, brushes up against you as he passes by. Do you recognize him?

Anyway, no time to lose. You sneak up beside one of the houses, and walk around back. There, you turn on your sensor.

“The Trads are going to win this war soon. It’s like Dwayne Rogers fighting a high school kid. There isn’t even a contest.”

“They’ll probably win, but at what cost? There are already thousands of young people who have been maimed or killed. And we don’t know how long this will go on.”

Wrong house.

Disgusted, you sneak back out to the sidewalk, and make your way through the winding streets of suburbia. When you’re in a small park, well away from where any of the residents are active, you pull out the electronic tab the Trad officer gave you.

Zang.

As soon as you activate the device, a portal opens in midair, letting you through into the tubeworks.

Zwap.

“Ah shit!” Caught between a laser fight, you take a glancing shot off your shoulder stump. It burns like lava.

Vwoom vwoom vwoom.

You picture the key again, and drop back into the material world.

Picking yourself up off the ground, you dust yourself off. Better figure out how to pick a smarter entry point.

You keep on walking, winding up in a gritty industrial neighborhood. Spraypaint caricatures proclaim the merits of the Trad position. Shadows slip by in the night. An eerie wind sends shivers through your spine.

Beep dwinkle toop.

You look around in confusion. There, on your shoe. Something’s hanging down off your shoelace. You bend over to brush it off. Lint? No, it climbs back up your shoe no sooner than you brushed it off. A flashing light dances on its face. The thing makes tiny electronic sounds. Marshmallow cream comes pouring out.

Phase Q: An interactive adventure.