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Deus Ex Machina - God from the Machine


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You are an Orc Hunter and your name is Tednugent. You feel this is an exceptionally clever name, but nobody ever seems to get the joke. You have a Cat for a pet, his name is Scratchfever. You feel this is also an exceptionally clever name. Nobody ever gets this joke, either.

You are level 80. Scratchfever is also level 80.

You do not remember how you came to be logged out in Razor Hill, but the place looks deserted. There are no NPCs in sight and your Track Humanoids, which is currently active, is turning up completely blank.

Scratchfever seems agitated. His Happiness is getting low and you don’t have any Meat or Fish to feed him.

You have only 500 bullets left for your gun.

To the north is the road to Orgrimmar, it travels along the base of a short, narrow, red stone canyon.

To the south is that little Troll village you never remember the name of.

To the east is Razor Hill’s large central building.

To the west is a primitive stamped-earth path leading out into the red rock desert of Durotar.




What a dull day, as usual. A wave of boredom sweeps through you as you lean back in your office chair to stretch out your arms and take your attention off of the holo-screen. Your days are filled with this kind of thing. Wake up, Eat, Read. What it is that you're reading hardly ever matters, but it seems like today an ancient fantasy "Choose your own Adventure" type story has taken your fancy.

Now that you're thinking about it, everything you read is fantasy, isn't it?

Ignoring the wave of dizziness that hits you as the blood starts to rush back to your head you wobbly get up from your chair to look around.

Four padded walls and a ceiling, all covered in an almost blinding white and only broken up by a solid iron door. This is your home. This has always been your home. It's not exactly like it's horrible. There is a place to sleep, a small shower, your desk which supports a computer that is your only source of entertainment, and a small armoire that hold several sets of gray jumpsuits. All the furniture has a fine oak finishing. Other than all that, however, there's little to note. You've often fantasized about one day putting up a poster or two to liven the place up but the only thing preventing that was posters to actually put up. That would be because...

You're locked in here

That's the way it has always been, you quietly mourn to yourself. It's been almost a year since you've 'Woken up', and it's just as dull as the first day. The first month probably was the most interesting. The sobbing, the plans of escape, the pleading to the invisible eye in the sky. It was a lot of drama. Well, at least there is some satisfaction in yelling out of the small hole in the door that occasionally opens up to provide three square meals of...Gray goo. Really fighting the power, aren't you?

You move over to the bed, taking a seat on the side, resting your eyes from that damn screen. Three hundred or so days, and you've not made the thing once. You rub your head, running your fingers through your short black hair in deep thought. It's hard to recall what happened 'before'. You remember basic things, like how to talk and what two plus two is, but your distant past seems to be locked within the three hundred and sixty five days you have spent here. Anything behind that is a painful haze, and sticks pins in your brain just to think about. The term "Rat in a Cage" comes to mind, but you can't quite remember the tune.

And how do you feel about all of this? It's really hard to say. A mixture of rage, regret, and sorrow are probably the most immediate. But you don't even know what's out there to begin with? Staying positive is what has kept you from smearing shit on the walls, so keeping a lax carefree attitude is key. If you were on a TV show, you'd probably be the Foremost Expert on Boredom and How to survive not talking to anyone. The closest thing you have to a companion is a connection to the public Ethernet, but even then you can't quite reach anything like a forum or a chat room. Some firewall thrown up, or something, by whoever has you in here. Strolling joyfully through imprisonment. Sounds kind of dumb when you think about it. But all you have to do is thinking, you guess.

The feeling of eyes watching you has never once left your mind.

You're locked in a padded white room with nothing but a computer and whatever you can find in your desk drawers. Everything is bolted to the ground. You're wearing a gray jumpsuit and have never seen your own face to put a description down as to what you look like. And, above all, you feel Tragically Bored.

What will you do now, on the sullen first anniversary of your 'Waking up'?

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Why is it that after all this time you've never thought to knock on the door?

Well, I suppose you have, sort of. Does pounding count as knocking?

Getting up from your seat on the bed, you shamble over to the heavy iron door. Looking now, it's more than just cast iron. It's reinforced like a blast door and has more plating than most tanks. You cough into your hand, as if getting some invisible attention, and deliver a sharp wrap on the door and wait patiently.

Five minutes have passed. Nothing has happened.

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Having had been staring at this wall now for an entire hour, it suddenly comes to you attention that time is actually moving and you immediately snap back awake. ROSSD is a common condition for you, and you've more than once found yourself falling asleep while standing up. The fact that you pass out as often as you do is more than enough explanation as to 'where' exactly you are. With all the evidence, you must be..

...In Space...

You feel silly for just staring at a wall though, so you go back to reading what you had on the computer. It's painfully obvious that nothing interesting is going to happen today.

But, as you reach for the mouse to scroll down, your room begins to flush a bright color of red as small concealed lights from the ceiling have popped out and a PAINFULLY loud alarm begins to klaxon. An unidentifiable voice seems to be reading off a list in a robotic voice. Covering your ears, you look around warily. What the hell? Is the place being bombed? Shit, on the ground! You duck under the desk and wait patiently, eyes closed. Tednug and Scrachfever is /not/ the story you want to be stuck in the middle of before you die!

Minutes pass. The lights in the room shoot back up into the ceiling and the alarms have stopped. Every /looks/ to be okay now. Standing up from under the desk you take a moment to look around. Suddenly, the heavy metal door seems to hiss at you as a number of small clicking sounds vibrate through the room. The door stops as well, and all the while you're looking at it, it slides up slowly into the door-frame. The way is open.

You're staring down a dark and ominous hallway. The only thing you can make out from the passage seems to be a light at the end of this deathly tunnel. You're standing in your now dreary room and staring down your one chance of freedom. What do you do?

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