The Interview

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Exvind, Jan 9, 2012.

  1. (This is largely a conceptual project based on the COYAs and MUDs of old. It really is a chance for you to really explore your characters, whether they be from a certain Mythos, or series, or even if you make one up on the spot. Every player who joins will be given a separate number, and largely kept from the other players except for key moments. So, please, enjoy the show.)

    Waking up in a strange place is always an uncomfortable experience. Waking up in a strange place with a headache and no memory of how you arrived in said place, is worse.

    You are in a white room. True white, with not even the faintest smudge or layer of dust to be found. It is a fairly large room, with no features - not even a door. You've found yourself sitting in a chair that feels, for all intents and purposes, that it was made for you. At first glance, it would appear to be a simple, indistinguishable white metal office chair, but it is molded to fit your back in that one perfect position, making it strangely comfortable. The table you wake up facing is an extension of the room - fused to the ground seamlessly, like a quasi-organic piece of art. Above the table, attached to the ceiling in the same 'organic' fashion, casting a dully, incandescent glow with strange, shifting shadows.

    You are not alone.

    Sitting opposite you, is a man in a black suit. He's older, and seems vaguely familiar to you, like a forgotten memory. Every time you try to get a bead on his features, you notice something different. All you can say for certain is that he is older, and it looks like a smile is a foreign concept to him, if the lines on his face are anything to go by. He's waiting. Watching you. His fingers are folded together while his arms rest on the table. He hasn't blinked yet. You're not sure if he ever will. He waits only for you to really open your eyes before speaking. His voice is familiar too. Maybe you've heard him speak somewhere before, perhaps he reminds you of your father. It doesn't much matter.

    "Before you ask, no, we're not going to hurt you. Nor are you the only one. In rooms identical to this one, others are waking up, and being told just what I am telling you. This is your Interview. I will be asking you some questions, and you are to answer them. At the end of the interview, we'll do some considering, and then you'll be free to go."

    He leans back in his seat, and the light brightens, casting away some of the shadows, before a number appears on the wall, glowing a bright, almost neon green. The Man in the Suit glances to it, and nods, though for all your effort, you cannot make out what the number is, though you are certain it is a number. Its name simply eludes you.

    "Welcome to your Interview."
     
  2. Olga's attention was focused on the lips of the man who was speaking, mesmerized. The words he spoke acted like a verbal sedative, easing her body which was aching and tense just moments earlier. There was something distinctive about the way he spoke. Like a mother reading her beloved child a bedtime story to lull the kid to sleep and keep away the monsters in the closest. But surely the man was no mother--a father perhaps, and she had no recollection of her father ever reading to her. In fact, she had no recollection at all whether he even existed.

    How did I come about into this world? That thought lingered in her head, even after the man finished speaking. If anything, the man's words had triggered an immense desire to want to stay and see the 'interview' through, as if she belonged in the very room; she couldn't shake that uncanny feeling. All she knew was that she didn't want to fight this, whatever this was.

    She pushed back the last of her fears and apprehensions for why she was in such a place. Such a clean, white room. The man had said so himself that all she needed to do was answer some questions. Perhaps he could help her answer some questions of her own.

    "I'm ready," Olga said, and felt the weight of her body pressing firmly against the chair as her anticipation grew.
     
  3. The Man nodded once, simply, before reaching under the table and producing an equally simple manilla folder -- the sort used in professional filing. There was writing on the front, but illegible given the angle. As the man slowly unwound the bindings of the folder, he spoke again, the preliminary.

    "Your number for this Interview is 17. I will have to ask that you answer all questions truthfully with the assurances that no man, woman, child, or other sentient will ever learn what transpires in this room."

    It was a statement. Not a threat, but not precisely anything reassuring for one in Olga's position. The unspoken message was fairly obvious - 'You're not leaving here until this is over.' But, then, not all are so overtly pessimistic. The Man finally opened the folder, and spread out a few sheets of paper. Only the writing on them helped distinguish them from the table they sat on.

    "Please state your name, age, residence, and birthplace, Number 17."
     
  4. She waited earnestly as she watched the man took out a manilla folder from under the table. She wondered what else could be under there. She wondered, but nothing came to mind. Soon enough, the man began to speak.

    He told her her number. 17. She tried to think of the significance of that number, but it was impossible to make any connections, not with the majority of her memory somehow missing, if that was even the right word to describe her current state of amnesia. Which is exactly why she needed to follow through with this interview.

    "My name is Olga Sum-" She paused mid-sentence. That's not right, my name is Olga Busch. She crossed her hands over her lap and began twiddling with her fingers. That's when she noticed the wedding ring on it's respective finger. That's right, I'm married, but to who? She tried to recall the man who she had married, something, anything, a face, a hand, a touch. Nothing. And so she continued, "My name is Olga Summerton, I'm 28, and... I'm pretty certain my birthday is August 9th, but I don't recall where I currently live or where I was born. I'm sorry."

    The apology was more towards herself than to them an before her.

    "May I answer it later, when I remember?"