Jubal Early clicks, and tiles shatter downward.

"You know," he says, "a man makes the wise choice in this game, there ain't a guarantee he'll do well. You're as like to profit off random choice as reason and sense. That seem right to you?"

The terrified game designer shakes his bloodsplattered head.

The hall is marble and gold. It reflects; it turns everything back. Lets nothing in. The gilt-framed paintings on its wall hang crooked. He settles one straight.

He is in his choir suit, freshly washed and crisp with pressing. The fabric is so clear a white it seems to glow.

Mors stupebit et natura,
Death and nature shall be stunnedCum resurget ( Read more... )

Slotting the doorknob into the door of his room, Jubal quickly slips inside to get a quick look around. It's sparse. Which he was expecting. A room built for a purpose. A good room ( Read more... )