A small group awakens in a small room, no bigger than ten feet wide. Each member is lying on the floor, with both hands shackled to the wall by padlocked chains. They are all wearing their most usual outfits, with nothing missing from their person, though each has a painful headache and varying degrees of amnesia -- The typist is a small, mousy woman in her 30's, the laborer is a skinny, tired-looking man in his 30's, and the musician is a balding, long-haired old man in his 60's. None remember their names. All of them remember what they have done. The Typist has a purse. The Laborer has a small wound on his forehead, which is bleeding slightly. Each member of the group has woken up, expressed shock and fear at their surroundings, and have -- at least slightly -- come to grips with their situation. A few minutes of silence have since passed as each member collects themselves.

The floor is hidden by what must be several dozen filthy carpets and the walls appear to be brick painted a sickly yellow, covered in a thin layer of indistinguishable filth. A single lightbulb hangs from a short wire from the ceiling a few feet above. There are no windows of any kind.

The Musician was the first to awake from his stupor, and so it felt only right that he should be the first to speak.

"I don't mean to die in some house of horrors. I coulda broken these cuffs like nothing back in the day." The musician said, thrashing and twisting his arms in an attempt to break free from the wall. After a few moments of puffing, it became clear that he was making no progress. He felt uncomfortably inadequate in front of the woman in his presence, and began to pull from the wall once more, this time slower and with more of a concerted effort at breaking the hinge on the wall.

>Attack

The Laborer watched silently as the old man tried to escape his chains. A futile attempt.
“Gotta die someday.” He said, sitting as comfortably as the chains would allow to watch the old man’s further attempts to break his bonds. “May as well be here.”
His hands were shaky. He told himself it was fear; it was more likely alcohol withdrawal. He couldn’t remember the last time he drank. He couldn’t remember much of anything at all. Shouldn’t that concern him?

He could remember the act that he surmised lead to this predicament; he cursed that that particular memory remained fresh and verdant when even his own name escaped him.

He lifted a hand to wipe the blood from where it was beginning to trickle past his brow and into his eye; with no towels or tissues or anything except the filthy floors and walls and his fellow prisoners, he opted to wipe his palm on his trousers. In doing so, he brushed his hands over some unexpected items in his pocket; cigarettes and a lighter. Immediately he lifted one of both to his mouth, lighting up and taking a long, smooth drag. The weight of the lighter felt good in his hands and the smoke of the cigarette felt good in his lungs. He pocketed the lighter again, letting the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth while he puffed on it.

His fingers began walking the edge of the carpeting, looking for a hold. Maybe they could tear the whole thing up. Use it as…something. Fuel? Blanketing? He couldn’t tell what time it was, but it might get cold later. Hell, tearing up carpet would at be something to do, rather than tug fruitlessly at chains. Even if the old man broke his, then what?

The lightbulb hummed steadily away above them, an arbiter of timelessness.

>Explore

The Typist observed the old man and the smoker in silent contempt. Neither the noisy thrashing nor the smoke were doing her splitting headache any favors. Why the younger man even had enough slack to his chains to light a cigarette, she couldn't begin to guess-- both herself and the old man were shackled tightly to the wall, hands hanging above their heads. Already beginning to lose feeling in her stiff arms, the typist scanned the room desperately for any sign of a way out of the chains. Alas, everything more than a few inches away from her face was a blur, and the typist remembered that she wasn't wearing her glasses. Hoping they were in her purse which, miraculously, was still hanging off her shoulder-- but realizing, with a twinge of panic, that it wouldn't matter if she couldn't free her hands-- the typist kicked off one of her black penny loafers and started to feel around blindly with her foot.

The carpets were repugnant. Even without her vision, the typist could tell she was allowing her skin to come into contact with a dozen different varieties of filth. But she kept going. The typist suspected that whoever had brought her here, they didn't want her to just die in this room. She had a feeling someone was trying to punish her.

There had to be a key.

>Collect

>Attack
Failed. Try as he might, the Musician seems to lack the strength to properly attack his chains and has temporarily Tired himself. If he continues, he may succeed, but he may Exhaust himself. If he continues twice, he may succeed, but he will damage himself either way.

>Explore
Succeeded. The Laborer's chains seem the loosest, allowing him to just barely reach the wall's base and peel through some of the edges of carpeting and grime. He quickly finds that the group is sitting on a layer of firm, wet soil, with no floor but carpeting underneath. He continues digging, gnashing against stones and soil with his fingernails like a rat. With a few minutes of idle fingering through the dirt, he unearths a Rotten Baseball, a Hunk of Knotted Roots, and a Scrap of Rotten Cardboard. His hands are now Raw. If he continues, he may succeed, but his hands may become Cut. If he continues twice, he may succeed, but he will damage himself either way. His four pockets provide him Four Inventory Slots to start with. The Rotten Baseball and Hunk of Knotted Roots will take up 1 Slot each if taken, the Scrap of Rotten Cardboard does not take up item slots.

>Collect
Succeeded. The Typist takes some time to think, feeling around blindly. Where there's a lock, there's a key. More thinking, before it dawns on her. The problem is practically a bad riddle. Where do you hide your spare key? She is only able to wedge her foot underneath the topmost rug, but it is all she needs as she snakes her bare foot through the slimy dampness and to the rug's center. You hide it under a mat. She finds a Rusty Key for her efforts. It does not take up item slots.

Slimy, disgusting crap, but better than nothing. The Laborer hefts the Hunk of Knotted Roots in his hand, considering how best to use what amounts to little more than kindling.

The cigarette hangs in his mouth, nearly burnt out, as he watches the old man fail once more to make any proper headway on loosing his chains. He would laugh, were he not tired, his head pounding, drips of blood still trickling down his forehead. Instead he looked over at the woman, who was scrabbling around half-blind with her bare foot. Equally bizarre, but then he'd just been scrabbling in the dirt like some filthy rodent for nothing more than slimy tinder and a rotten relic of modern americana.

Besides, the woman found the single most promising development of their short waking experience thus far; a small key, rusted but solid in its antiquated construction.

Something in seeing that key jostled the Laborer and sparked a new-born zeal for survival in him. He looked at the old man, puffing after his exertion, and then at his own chains; the significant difference in slack between his and his co-convict's chains afforded him more leverage.
He wondered if there was a way to heat the chains and weaken the metal. Perhaps then, they may become more amenable to bending and breaking?
>Examine

The Typist hesitantly wriggled her bare toes under the rug, almost immediately recoiling in disgust. This one was noticeably damp, and upon closer inspection, spotted with mold. She inhaled a shaky breath of stale air, and then plunged back in. The underside of the rug clung to her skin, cold and oily, but she had to go further. Reaching as far as she could stretch from her chains, the typist thought for a moment that she would find nothing-- and then, finally, the bottom of her foot brushed up against something small, something metal. Her heart leaping in her chest, she frantically grasped at it, grabbing hold of its rounded edge with her toes. She started to pull it out, ever so carefully, when she became aware of an alarming sensation:

Something was moving.

The typist yanked her foot back, but not before six swift legs scaled her ankle, and dashed up her leg. She flung the roach off in one violent jerk, and five more flooded out from under the rug, disappearing into the shadowy corners of the room. The sound of their chitinous legs scuttling atop the rugs rang cacophonously in her aching head, and her breaths were wheezing out between tightly clenched teeth. But she had the key.

Suddenly aware of the men in her company staring, the typist shuddered and feebly announced, "I found a key." Eager to be free of her chains, she wasted no time in reaffirming her grip on it, and slowly lifted her foot up to her cuffed hands. All those years at the office in front of a keyboard had not made her more flexible, and the muscles in her thigh bitterly protested as she stretched her leg up over her head-- but after a few moments of awkward maneuvering, she could just barely grasp the end of the rusted key. She angled it in the direction of the padlock, her wrist bent uncomfortably but her hand steady and firm, and with a twist and a soft click, the cuffs clattered to the ground.

The newly freed woman took a moment to rub her sore, tingling wrists, before turning to the old man next to her. She felt a pang of pity at his feeble escape attempt earlier, and hoped that all of their locks were the same. She approached the old man's cuffs with the rusty key.

>Assist

The Musician was sweating now, and no better off for it. He sighed, leaning back and trying to recall how he got into this mess in the first place. He remembered waking up, but what of the rest of his life? Judging by the wrinkles he felt in his skin, there must have been a lot of living. He cast his sad gaze at the floor, trying to reach back in his memory when the woman piped up about a key. Just my luck, the Musician thought to himself. It's a woman helping me out of this. He felt a twinge of disdain for her pity, and looked away trying to trace any mental steps back as she tested the key on his chains. It made him feel like a bum collecting change, or a little boy who couldn't bear to see a shot.

>Recollect

>Assist
Succeeded. There is a heavy metal click from somewhere inside the Musician's cuff, and he is freed as well. The Typist takes a few frantic steps to the Laborer and frees him in the same fashion. For at least a full second, she is able to breathe a sigh of relief, and perhaps, if she was brave enough to even conceive of it, hope. She fishes her glasses from her purse and the world, though dark, becomes clearer to her.

The Typist has gained access to her Purse. Her two pockets allow her Two Inventory Slots to start with, her Purse grants her an additional Four Inventory Slots as long as she does not lose it.

>Recollect
Succeeded. "Thanks, those were killing my wrists" The Musician said to the Typist. This isn't the first time you've said that, the Musician thought to himself. 1988. Either Los Angeles, Vegas, or maybe even Miami. One of those palm tree cocaine cities. Gil sprung him from jail and tried to talk him into something on the drive back to the hotel. Maybe the bible, or AA meetings, or that green tea he was always raving about. He would have to think about it for longer to remember the fine details. But now wasn't the time to recollect on Gil. Gil is dead, he somehow recalled. I'm going to live.

>Examine
Succeeded. The Laborer runs his fingers along the chains confining his wrists as The Typist begins to free herself. Something oddly familiar about the teardrop shape of the chain's links awakens a blurry recollection through his pain, like a memory projected onto a puddle of oil. Then it hit him. Cattle Chains. He had put chains like these around the neck of a big steer once. What's more, he had seen these types of chains being repaired at a forge. "They coat 'em in Zinc to keep 'em from rusting." George said to him, muffled by his ringing headache. "Only thing is, Zinc needs to get real, real hot before it'll give, so," he continued, "You gotta burn 'em good and long." The Laborer finished George's line aloud, realizing only as it left his mouth. The futility of the plan stung less with his cuffs being unlocked with a loud click, but the memory was of little comfort.

The Laborer has successfully recognized Standard Cattle Chains. If he breaks them off the wall, they will take up 1 Inventory Slot.

"You gotta burn 'em good and long." The Laborer whispered to himself, drawing an odd look from the woman as she approached with the key and unlocked his cuffs. He gave a quiet thanks, and then returned to the chain. Lot of uses for a chain like that; whoever had put them in here clearly meant for them to get out - the very presence of the key confirmed that - but if they had good intentions then none of them would be here in the first place. Couldn't hurt to have something to defend himself with, if, when, the need arose.

They were very firmly bolted to the wall though, and after watching the old man's attempt to break his, the Laborer didn't much fancy his own chances at this particular juncture.

He'd return to the chains. For now, though, free from his binds, he had the opportunity to pore over the room they were in, especially the entrance.

>Explore

In his freedom, the Musician began to pace. He wore the sort of pointy heeled boots that a Beatle might have worn sixty years ago, which squelched into the rugs with each step.

"I'm freakin' out, man." The old man said to no one in particular.

There was no visible exit anywhere in the room, and claustrophobia quickly replaced the helplessness of being chained. There was no visible exit, and the room felt more and more like a tomb to the Musician as time passed. Four walls surrounded the group, the squelching rugs and small hole in the ground at their feet, and the hanging lightbulb above them. No doors anywhere, as evidenced by the Musician running his fingers along the wall, and as far as they could see, nothing but filth beneath them. He began to run his fingers on the edge of the ceiling, looking for anything, but to no avail. He began to feel like a rat trying to escape a trap, feebly jumping up and scrabbling at his surroundings, and sat down again, burying his head in his hands. If not the ceiling, then, perhaps, they hadn't checked the floor enough. He began to peel back rugs.

>Explore

With everyone now freed from their chains, the Typist turned her attention to the small purse hanging off her shoulder. She ran her fingers lightly over the soft brown leather, allowing herself a moment to wonder for the first time since awakening why she couldn't remember even her own name, let alone how she had gotten into this predicament. She hoped that maybe something in the purse would stir her memory, but found no revelations inside- only, to her immense relief, her pair of wire framed glasses. She lifted them to her eyes, and the gray haze surrounding her finally came into focus. The relief was tempered by revulsion as she was now able to see the grimy room in all its disgusting detail, and a quick scan of the cramped space revealed no apparent doors or windows. The typist was far past ready to move on from this oppressive room, and it seemed the others felt the same. Not wanting to spend a second longer here, she joined the men in their frantic search for an exit.

Where was the way out?

>Explore

>Explore
>Explore
>Explore

Succeeded. The trio spends only a minute in a panicked search -- scrabbling to feel out a hidden exit on the walls, or unearth some secret cellar door from beneath the rotting rugs -- before slowing to a more concerted scan of the room. There is nothing beneath them, save for cold, wet earth and bits of buried detritus. Nothing to their sides but cold, hard brick. Nothing above them but the ceiling, which had no convenient cracks or hidden handles, and lastly, the hanging lightbulb. It is The Laborer, the first to give search and the first to calm down, to finally give the lightbulb further notice. Something is off about its cord, he realizes. It is far too thick for a simple wire. He reaches up and wraps a hand around the cord as a jolt of trepidation shoots through his veins. With a hesitant pull, the room is thrown into sudden darkness, the feeble bulb extinguishing with an almost inaudible electric hiss. In the inky void, the trio's breaths mingled in the silence.

As their eyes strained against the darkness, an unexpected transformation began. The cord, now taut in the laborer's grip, resisted his pull, its fibers groaning against his growing efforts. A slow, reverberating creak resonated through the room, like the reluctant stirring of gears and wood. With a shuddering release, a section of ceiling above them yawned open, releasing a gust of cold air into the stagnant warmth as a ladder slowly unfolded to the ground. The cord had been rigged to a pull-down ladder's rope, installed into the ceiling of whatever room they had inhabited, its seam hidden by a thin, crumbling layer of plaster. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Laborer remembered a similar rope set-up once leading him to an attic.

With cautious steps, the trio climbed one by one.

As they entered, they exchanged awestruck looks, eyes widening as the realization dawned upon them – the trio had certainly been underground in the room they had been chained in, and were almost certainly underground still.

The room they enter is a bunker of some sort, perhaps three times the size of the quarters they had been chained up in, though cramped with survival tools -- walls lined with shelves bearing row after row of canned rations standing sentinel beside kegs of water and packages of medicine, each whispering the faint promise of safety. There is a large map on one wall, a pneumatic door on another, and a cot beneath an American flag on the third. The walls, ceiling, and floor appear to be made of metal, and there are no windows. There is a pair of boltcutters leaned on the cot, and a first-aid kit on the wall by the pneumatic door.

"What the fuck..." The Laborer whispered to himself as the ceiling pulled itself away and a ladder opened the way out of their dingy, would-be cell. He thought of an attic, somewhere in the murky past, of ascending into musty darkness in search of something, or to hide something away forever.

Thoughts and hazy memories ceased when he witnessed the sheer bounty available in this room, though. Rations, water, medical supplies; more than enough for the three of them to gorge themselves. There were two things that caught his eye though - the boltcutters, resting innocently against the singular cot, and the first-aid kit on the wall. The boltcutters would be perfect to loose those sturdy chains from their cell beneath, in preparation for a circumstance somehow even more dire than their present one; the first aid kit he sought for the bandages and gauze safeguarded within, able to definitively stymie the wound on his head that still persistently drip-dripped blood across his brow.

He looked at his co-convicts, registering at once that the three of them were neither safe nor in immediate danger; this room seemed to be a purposeful respite, a preparation area for them to steel themselves against whatever awaited them through that door. The laborer was assured in his own mind now that this was some elaborate punishment, but to what end, in recompense for what crime? In his belly he felt a spark of something both frighteningly alien and comfortingly familiar; feral, desperate indignation at his present condition, and in that feeling was the decision to seek his own punishment against whoever had put him here.

First things first, though. He moved to the first aid kit, cracking it open in search of something to patch his head with. Then it was boltcutters and retrieving the chains from the cell below. He was already thinking of various ways they could apply misery unto his mysterious captor.

>Collect

The Typist blinked a few times, feeling overwhelmed and somehow, even more disoriented at the revelation that they we were currently underground. Until now, the immediate shock, fear, and confusion of being chained to the wall and having no memory of getting there had distracted her from noticing what the stale air and floor made of soil had meant about their position. As this awareness settled in, the typist felt a painful tightening in her chest. This feeling of being trapped and confused was uncomfortably familiar. It's the lack of windows, she realized. Not being able to tell what time of day it is makes short work of anyone's sanity. But why did she know that? Alas, that was all the typist could conjure up from her murky memory.

Trying to shake off this building anxiety, the typist surveyed the new room, eyes glancing over cans and boxes and sacks of whatnots. She didn't spare these a second thought. Her gaze stopped on the map. She wanted desperately to know where the hell she was in the world. More than that, she wanted to get out, now. The typist made a beeline for the map.

>Collect

"Fuck this." The Musician says with a sigh, walking alongside the Laborer on his way to the boltcutters. Not quite so filled with resolve as his companion, the Musician sits down on the cot slowly, cracking his lower back with a twist and settling into a laying recline.

"I'm done. I'll stay here. I'm too old for this shit." He instinctively fishes a bottle-opener keychain from his right pocket and a small orange bottle of pills from his left. If the others were watching his face, they would see small tears welling up in his eyes. He sits up abruptly, unsatisfied with the comfort of the cot, and looks around the shelves, unscrewing his bottle and popping a pair of pills into his mouth before placing the little orange bottle back in his pocket. After a moment's search, he finds a sixpack of Logger's Lager and pulls one out, opening it with the bottle opener and washing down his pills before returning to lay on the cot, placing his beer on the floor. He turns over to face the wall, crossing his arms.

"I'll just die here, I think." He mutters, trying to nestle himself into a comfortable position.

He turns back around, reaching down and grabbing his Logger's Lager for another swig, when he is gripped by a sudden terror.

"Take a load off, get comfortable." A voice in his mind that is not his own says. He drops the bottle in his panic and it shatters against the hard floor. He lets out a yelp of terror, and attempts to push himself further back into the wall than his physical presence will allow.

"I'm freakin' out, man. I'm sorry." His tears are now more visible.

"Let's crack a couple open, baby."

"Jeez, I'm freakin' out. I don't think anybody should be drinking. Aw, Christ."

The Musician turns over in the cot again, trying to feebly wrap himself with the wool blanket and shut his eyes to the fear gripping him.

>Escape

>Escape
Failed. The Musician fails to escape into his dreams or any sort of happy place, and appears to be trying to mask quiet crying. He has lost 1 Sanity, and now has 9/10 Sanity.

>Collect
Succeeded. The Laborer makes a beeline for the boltcutters, lifting them with a grunt and stopping by the medicine kit as if shopping at a familiar corner store. It takes him only a few seconds to locate an antibacterial, smear it on his forehead, and wrap a headband of protective gauze over his wound. Sheer survival is the familiarity, he realizes in the back of his mind as he silently makes his way back into their underground cell. Whatever I am, I'm a survivor.

With a tight squeeze of the boltcutters, he snaps the would-be tools of his own entrapment from the wall, and picks the Standard Cattle Chains off the floor to feel their heft. He gives them a mean swing, and they audibly cut through the still air of the cellar. He smiles for the first time since he has woken up, and makes his way back up the ladder, chains in tow, into the warm light of the bunker.

The Laborer's Health is now 8/10. The Standard Cattle Chains are now in his Inventory. He has 1 Inventory Slot remaining.

>Collect
Succeeded. The Typist finds that the map is labeled "GORHAM ISLAND, MAINE, EST. 1901", and is scattered with tiny red dots. She doesn't remember where she's from, but she knows it's definitely not Maine. She feels a distinct revulsion, realizing how many miles she must have been moved as she slept, how long that period must have been, and how far she must be from wherever home is. On the north-westernmost tip of the island there is a large yellow dot, and on the south-easternmost corner, a bridge off the island. There were a great many dots and roads between her and her new goal, but it felt good to have a goal, nonetheless.

The Labourer kept a firm grip on the length of chain as he climbed back up out of their initial cell, the weight and sturdiness of them a comforting anchor in these otherwise disturbing circumstances. As he climbs back up, he hears glass breaking above him, and he flies back into the bunker-room.

On the cot, the old man, once so filled with fervour as to rip his own chains off the wall, now weeps quietly, engaged in a quiet dialogue with himself and the shattered glass of a dropped bottle scattered about beneath him. The Labourer isn't sure whether to pity the man or scorn him, but in either case he's distracted by the fragance of the stale lager and the sight of five remaining bottles.
"Speak for yourself." He mutters back, grabbing a bottle for himself and pilfering the bottle opener out of the old man's hands, taking a deep pull and feeling a nasty satisfaction blossom in the back of his brain. A guilty, black gremlin, that says I know I shouldn't, but I know I have to. Half the bottle gone in one go, he pulls his lips away from the neck with some reluctance, instead opting to examine the map with the woman.

It reveals lots and very little, simultaneously. They're on an island - in an island? - and there are, apparently, several key points of interest, or at least that's as much as he can deduce by the various dots scattered about the map. The yellow one - at the north-west tip - is either the most important of all or, guessing from what little context is available, potentially a lighthouse and nothing more. Despite having a map, he felt somehow even more confused about their whereabouts.

Another idea struck him. Was the yellow them? He considered everything so far; the cell below - the key, hidden but poorly-enough to be found quickly - the pull-cord disguised in the lightbulb, leading them up here to some kind of supply room. Supplies for what? For the journey ahead of him. If the yellow was their current location, then they were at the furthest point of the island from the bridge, which seemed to be the only way off and back to civilisation. It almost made sense - like this was some kind of sick game, and they were being tested. You made it this far, let's see how much further you can manage.

He felt that spark of angered survival instinct again. He flexed his grip around the chains in his hand. He looked again around the room at the supplies, before his gaze finally settled on the door.

"Alright." He said, finishing the beer. "If anything's safe to eat, then let's eat. Then, let's see what's behind this door."

>Explore (try and open the door)