Cicada Manor was not an imposing building. Three stories high, it stood crooked against the painted sky, its windows dark with grime. The wooden panels bubbled with peeling paint. The third floor was partially collapsed. Its blackened walls wore the memory of a long-ago fire.
Frances contemplated the sorry structure. If not for the sign nailed to the front door, he would have never thought it to be the cursed place that had imprisoned them for so long. The rusted lettering could however not be ignored. Cicada Manor Museum, it read. Someone had scratched, CLOSED, beneath in red paint.
The building was far smaller than reasonable given its maze-like interior. A menacing chill hung over the manor like a veil. It seeped into Frances' skin and made him shiver.
Frances's hand tightened over a metal key. It was the key the woman wearing Ann's face had left behind. He fit it into the old lock and was not surprised when it turned with a groaning click.
[Warning! Pivot stage ahead – game objective will be refreshed.
<selected> New objective: Discover the truth of Cicada Manor Museum.
Current objective: Fi̶̖̿ͣͭ̃͗̓̀̄ͥ̚͢n̴̬̦̦͍̱͖̝͓̗͑͋ͨ̓ͣ͐̓̿͛̉̈ͣ̋ͯ͘̕̚͘͞͠d̸̟̝̱̝̯͕͈͇̝̭̹̱͈͕͙͗̀̿̐̋̈̈́ͮ̿͐̃̓̎ͥ̕͜͡ͅ lo̸̢̫͉̼ͮ͌͑ͭͧͫ̃͂r̴̢̨̨͍̩̫̞̗̺̰̫͉̩͖͙̬͈̰̩̝͖͍̺͆́ͬ̏̉͆̂ͤ̾̀͗̇̊ͣͪ̚͞͞d̶͓̫̞͙͑̅̄ͯͯ͢͞ ợ̴̷̸̮͇͇̹̘̟͈̩͓̫͈͇̮́͐́ͫ͐͑ͯͦͧͯͤ̾̌̐͊ͫ̂̕͠f̶̢̛̤̜̬̭̯̜̺̫̬͍̬͙͉̼̙̈ͨ́̇́̀̅̓͌͂̕͘͘͢͟͡͠ c̢̧̬͖̫͙͚͉̘̉͑̂̾͑̈́̾̎̂ͫ̚͠͠i̜͇͑č̶̴̡̡̘̺̗͈̹̰͈̩͗̈́̑̇̔̀̈́̉̏̌̃̾͒͂̓͡a̸̛̖̰̙̣͓͈_̶̖̩̠͉͒̅̂d́ͯa̢̨̼̦ͫ͛ͦ͌ͬ̌̽ͥ͠͡_̯ m_̠̆͢a̡̢̙̩̹̮͎̠̞̟͚̞͎̥̽̾̌͂̄̓̇̂͐̀̈̽́͊͐̑͌ͦ́̆͜͜͞ͅn̴̸̗͚͇̗̘̫ͧ̌̐̌̅̓̕o̴̜̹̝ͧ_̸̡͕͗̌̊͒͗̓̈ͩ͞r̵͈̞̙͓̮ͬͪͣ_̝ͅ_̛̻͍̼̬͖̜̙̭͌͑ͩ͑̔̅͠
PROCEED?
YES - NO]
Frances snorted in disgust. The glitched text signified a source of corruption in the game. The current game objective was obviously no longer a viable way to solve the instance. There was no real choice to be made – only an opportunity to salvage a deeply distorted game.
Frances selected YES. A second prompt appeared immediately.
[Warning! Refreshing game objective will increase stage difficulty.
Sure to proceed?
YES – NO]
"Yes!" Frances snarled. What use were these warnings when the alternative was stumbling through a corrupted instance until death made wraiths of them all?
The door parted open. Frances stepped inside a cramped, dusty entryway. The door swung shut behind him with a groan. When Frances tried the handle, he found it locked. The key, too, had disappeared.
Frances examined the familiar space. The clutter that had greeted the players at the start of the game was absent from this version of the manor. The atrium was entirely bare save for a great grandfather clock and a smudged, gilded mirror.
And a painting.
A woman in a red dress peered down at Frances. Her features were faded and gray with dust, and starkly unfamiliar. Frances went as far as to brush the grime from the woman's face, but her countenance did not transform to match his expectations.
The woman looked nothing like Ann Sufort.
"What the hell is going on?" Frances muttered.
As he withdrew his hand, the painting suddenly slipped from its perch on the wall. It slammed against the floor before Frances could react, the frame splitting with a shriek. He recalled the sign that had accompanied the painting in the first iteration of the instance. Do not touch, it had read. He now knew the reason.
YOU ARE READING
Play of Shadows
Science FictionWhen hundreds of players are trapped in various virtual worlds, a team of elite gamers is assembled to save the day. However, not all of them are there to play the hero. *** The best virtual reality company in the world is concealing a scandal of bu...
