The smoke from the coffeemaker winds its way upward, spreading across the ceiling carvings and into the smoke detector. The detector’s little green eye begins blinking a furious red. The room is…humming? It’s coming from under the floor. The windows rattle in their antique frames.
An electronic voice sounds out over the ruckus. “BOOOOP! Hazardous condition detected. Initiating automated evacuation response. Standby.”
>z
The humming turns into an industrial-grade rhythmic pounding, shaking the room like a carnival ride. Fragile items are bonzai-ing off every shelf.
After one particularly powerful BOOM from the floor, everything in the immediate vicinity of the desk, including you, drops straight down into darkness.
***
“You should run for President.”
It’s a weekly refrain, but she puts gusto into each time, with a look on her face. Like she’s inventing the internet.
Jennifer likes to pie you way up into the sky; that’s what you pay her for. Plus all the campaign strategeritizing and such. The typical translation you hear is “Hey Rick, I think you’re a swell boss.” But this time there’s a fervent layer to her frosting. Like she’s Al Gore inventing the Internet.
She lays some financials down on your desk like a royal flush. She tells you that the special interest group planets have aligned over your precious little head. Says your record of flawless, inspired, visionary, etc. leadership is like a loaded howitzer aimed at the White House. You always liked the way she talked. Lots of weapon metaphors. Super hot.
You remember the minute you finally decided: it was right after she said, “It’s time, Richard. You’ve dicked around with destiny long enough. It’s time to climb the fucking pyramid.”
The dust clears and you scramble to your feet. Through the gloom you read a moldy, World War II-looking sign that reads
You and your desk have landed in a concrete room, reinforced like crazy with arched Eiffel tower-esque girders. Rows of old ’70s reel-to-reel computer towers crowd the room just beyond the desk platform, like little munchkins welcoming you to Oz. Metal rungs set into one of the girders lead back up to the Oval Office above.
Looks like somebody has Shawshanked their way through a jackhammered hole to the east.
>x computers
These things haven’t been in working condition for a long time. Cool-looking though. Retro.
>x sign
The sign reads
Doomsday Chamber: Auxiliary Executive Command Facility
Built July 17, 1815. Renovated November 5, 1949.
>e
You climb through the rubble and through the hole.
The excavation from the Doomsday Chamber has poked a hole into the side of a perfectly cylindrical stone tunnel, a good two stories high. An iron rail set into the tunnel at waist-height leads off to north into the gloom. A series of medieval-looking torches are mounted over your head up at the tunnel’s equator.
A thin trickle of cool muddy water snakes down the tunnel, ruining your sweet Day One shoeshine.
>x torches
Little tubes connect the torches to the wall. Must be gas-powered.
>x water
It’s muddy and gross.
>s
A rusty metal grating blocks your path.
>n
You follow the trickle of water for a good half mile down the tunnel.
The tunnel and railing end abruptly here, water trickling over the lip of the tunnel down into a dark void. You can’t see a damn thing out there beyond the tunnel, but the acoustics give you the sense that it’s a really, really large space.
There’s a frayed piece of rope tied to the end of the railing, dangling down about two feet down over the edge.
>climb d rope
There’s only two feet of rope. Not really enough to climb, unless you’re a Smurf.
>x rope
The moisture and overall grossness of this tunnel have decomposed the rope to a half-rope, half-rope mush state. Yuck.
It’s tied to the end of the railing, dangling down about two feet down over the edge.
>tie cord to rope
The rope is too mushy to tie anything to it.
>tie cord to railing
You tie the extension cord to the railing.
>climb down cord
Here goes nothing. The cord stretches a bit as it takes your weight, but it holds. You climb down the full length of the cord, maybe ten feet and hang there.
Down in the gloom, another…oh I’d say…eight feet? there might be a floor. Pretty sure. Hard to say, actually.
>d
You’ll have to jump for it.
>d
(letting go of the extension cord)
You hit the stone floor hard, kicking up an ass load of dust.
Dusty Platform
Light from the tunnel above barely makes it down here, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Inches of ancient dust covers the floor like a shag rug. The rug of air from your landing revealed a crater of weathered stone beneath your feet.
There’s a dead guy here, lying face down.
Something large looms over to the north.
>x dust
There’s nothing in the dust except more of the stone floor.
>x body
You gingerly turn the body over. Hey! It’s Dan Quayle! You always wondered what happened to that guy. His legs are completely shattered into bite-sized pieces.
>get bone
You take one of the little bone pieces. A nice little keepsake. You could probably get fifty bucks for this on eBay.
>g
Meh. One piece is enough.
>x bone piece
A baby carrot-sized jaggedy piece of Dan Quayle. One end is kinda pointy.
>n
Big Chair
Concentric rings of stone rise out of the dust and darkness, leading up to a giant stone chair.
>x chair
It’s like the Lincoln Memorial without the Lincoln. Not as fancy with the carving though. More of the Stonehenge vibe.
>u
Finding little handholds and gaps in the stonework, you climb up onto the chair seat.