Your name is ''Miles Duende-Yasuhira'', and you are currently seated on your couch. You live in apartment ''109'' of ''The High'', located in ''The Limbs'' district of the ''Yukon Containment Zone''. You have just gotten home from work.
Your moth, Combs, is sitting on your lap.
Things are fine.
(click:"fine")[You are fine.]
(click:"You are fine.")[You are tired.]
(click:"tired")[[[You a|1]]]Suddenly, everything goes black.
You try to open your eyes, but it doesn't work.
You are Miles Duende.
You are [[drowning]].Which way do you swim?
up / down
(click:"down")[There is no going back.]
(click:"up")[There is no going forward.]
(click:"forward")[You cannot move.
This is not your story to [[tell]].]Surface broken.
You are not swimming.
You are not drowning.
Who are you?
Does it matter?
Static. Void. A lack of substance.
Nothing to imprint off of.
An empty [[shell]].''you just gonna sit there?''
what
''drop the formality''
''you're outside of their bounds now''
who are you
''does it matter''
i'd think so
(click:"i'd think so")[Blinding light.
You are at a bar.
You don't remember liking alcohol.
The bartender looks at you.
Not like much looking can be done with a static-filled television in place of a head, but you get the feeling they're looking at you.
''Sorry, I guess.''
"What're you sorry for?"
''Rippin' you from what you had.''
"It's fine. It would've come down everntually."
''Not like that. Don't be so pessimistic.''
"Why shouldn't I be?"
''Try looking at the positive. There's nothing to worry about anymore.''
"There's /nothing/."
''Fair point. I didn't mean to hurt you.''
"It's alright, I suppose."]