You are hesitant to explore the yard beyond the flower pot full of cigarette butts perched on the front steps, so you send the Strongman-sprite out to do it for you. He might as well make himself useful doing that, since he is still not providing any useful advice or information, much to your annoyance. So you provide him with your smartphone and instruct him on how to use the camera. Then you tell him not to come back until he has pictures of the house and the circle pattern in the sky from every conceivable angle, and preferably in close-up. You shut the door behind him and return to your desk in your study.

You tent your fingers, lean back in your chair, and stare at your papers for awhile.

This is what you have so far:

′WE ARE IN THE STARTING SPACE – WHERE DO WE GO NOW?′

Beneath that, a list of everybody′s glass item and how it was consumed.

Beneath that, scrawly reproductions of the circles over Greg′s, Jill′s, and your own houses.

Each circle is different, you note. Jill′s is like a flower drawn by a small child—with lumpy, loopy edges surrounding a smaller central circle. Greg′s is surrounded by spiky formations, like the blade of a circular saw. Your own is filled with dozens of overlapping loops and angles. Each circle is also a different color—yours is bright green, the same color as your sprite. Greg′s is a tasteful shade of golden-orange. Jill′s is dark red, almost the color of blood. You feel safe in assuming that Doctor Brinner also has his own circle revolving in the darkness above his house, though you do not know the color or the design of it. You wish you did, though—just for the sake of completion.

But you still don′t know what it all means.

You chew your thumbnail, frowning in thought as you stare at your papers. You wish it was as easy as proving the Ellis B Whitaker arson streak. At least in suspected arson or murder cases, you have specific markers to look for. Built-in hints, natural nudges in the right direction. It′s all right there in... well, not black and white, but you know what I mean. Everything everyone ever does provides something to trace, some way of divining the truth, the path forward. Not to mention there are helpful databases to search and compare similar instances of such incidents. You doubt there is such a thing for... this. Who would maintain them, anyway?

Just for curiosity′s sake, though, you throw ′sburb database guide tips faq′ into Google and see what it brings up.

The most useful thing that it brings up is a tutorial that is almost entirely impenetrable, even to your keen mind. You stare at it but your eyes glaze over after the first ten paragraphs. The respectably plain Courier New font is colored black, but oh, the prose it builds is so purple it′s nearly goddamn ultraviolet. You almost feel as though it′s burning your eyes as they they just kind of slide around the meaningless words upon words upon words. You try to force yourself to actually read it, but you don′t take away any new information; the author is at the same point you are, with no idea how to proceed. They just seemed to stop at a certain point, and there is nothing else. Perhaps their internet blinked out after being in space too long; you hope the same doesn′t happen to you, but it probably will, knowing your luck.

Before it has the chance to do so, you decide to consult Dr Brinner′s assistant. Like Sherlock Holmes, you do your best investigations when you have a Watson to elucidate to. Not to mention she seems like a decently sharp lady, with a firmer base of knowledge regarding computers and videogames. You can probably help each other considerably, if you just play your cards right.


- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

2B: pardon me, jill.

2B: but i find myself in need of your expertise.

DD: expertise on what

DD: ain′t got much expertise on anything but i guess i′ll try whatever it is

DD: less you want my beksinski lecture

2B: your what?

DD: nvm

2B: anyway, tell me – what do you know about computers? games? this game in particular?

DD: not much

2B: well, tell me anyway.

DD: sure ok

2B: tia.

DD: first of all i don′t know much about computers

DD: just the most bare bones basics

DD: as for games i don′t know much about them either

DD: unless it′s stuff like pokemon

DD: i′m pretty good at pokemon

DD: & as for this game

DD: don′t know much about this one either

2B: splendid.

DD: hey no need to be sarcastic 2b

2B: please, call me leo.

DD: k

DD: but i guess i′ll try to lay out a few concrete facts about this game

2B: ty.

DD: so like it′s a multiplayer game

DD: but not an mmo

DD: and you apparently plop machines down in other people′s houses hell if i know why tho

DD: oh shit dude i just realized something we all shoulda realized like ages ago

2B: oh? do tell.

DD: so like we dropped those machines into each other′s houses thinking they were going into a little pretendy house on the computer

DD: but they showed up in our real houses

DD: so i think

2B: that we can use the game′s interface to interact with the real world somehow?

DD: exactly

DD: you′re a sharp one leo

DD: (not sarcasm btw)

2B: now we′re getting somewhere.

2B: you′re quite clever yourself, jill.

2B: (i will note that that is not sarcasm, either.)

2B: now to what end do you think this is meant to be used?

DD: hell if i know man

2B: hmm.

2B: who deployed the machines in my house?

DD: the other guy i think

DD: officesquid dude

2B: ah. thank you, jill.

2B: please hold while i speak to him and conduct further experiments.

DD: k


- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering officeurchin1280 (OU)! –

2B: pardon me, greg.

2B: but you were the one who deployed the devices in my house, were you not?

OU: I think so! Did I break something?

2B: yes, several things, but i fear it no longer matters.

OU: Well, that′s a weight off my mind. I don′t think I could afford to compensate you, considering your expensive and admirable taste in finery!

2B: no, really, it′s fine.

2B: what i wanted was to ask you a favor, if i may.

OU: Sure, anything for a friend.

2B: find another machine and drop it in my house somewhere.

OU: O... kay? Why?

2B: please, i′m rather in a hurry.

OU: Lots of things to do, little time to do them in. I hear you!


You wait, but you don′t hear another heavy machine thumping down to land in your house. Not that you are eager to lose more of your valuables, but this is rather important. You wish to see to what extent another player is able to manipulate your environment. What they can add, what they can take away, what kinds of machines can be deployed. From there, you feel you can extrapolate more valuable information, and perhaps from there, you can figure out what the hell you′re supposed to be doing with this game.

It was never made clear to you, after all. Nor was it made clear to your colleagues. You can safely draw this conclusion based on the fact that not a single one of you seems to know what′s happening, why, how, or what you′re supposed to do next. You checked the email containing your download codes for further instructions, but it was frightfully sparse of anything, save for terse, almost robotic-sounding installation directions for the client and server copies of the game. No flavor text, no cleverly-written and enticing advertising copy to fill the blank white spaces, no message from the company about where to send your questions or complaints. Just less than five sentences about how to install the games.

You wonder what′s taking Greg so long. When you pull up your server-player interface, you can see a number of machines at your disposal. You would drop them yourself, but you don′t want to bother the good doctor with your investigations on top of everything else your unfortunate colleague has suffered today. He should be allowed as long as he needs to grieve, and when he′s feeling up to it, you can update him on everything you′ve learned in your investigation and get him up to speed. You don′t suppose you can change who you′re a server-player to, so you will have to serve as the guinea-pig instead.

After a few minutes, you hear a faint ratcheting noise from afar, followed by a small ′thunk!′ at the side of your house. You rise from your chair and carefully make your way to the office window, pushing it open and peering down, then up. A small smirk—the closest you can ever get to a smile, it seems—twitches at the corner of your lips. There has been a sudden new addition to your house, in the form of a wide white platform balanced precariously atop your small, squat one-story house.

Pesterchum pings cheerily, bearing another message from Greg.


- officeurchin1280 (OU) began pestering 2busy4this (2B)! –

OU: Hey! I couldn′t find another machine to drop without... I guess it′s some kind of game money? Anyway, we don′t have the supplies required to drop more machines.

OU: So I did something else.

2B: so i see.

2B: your assistance is appreciated.

OU: What kind of project are you working on?

2B: investigating.

2B: trying to figure out what we′re supposed to do here.

OU: By the looks of it? I think we′re supposed to build things.

OU: There are options for stairs and platforms. So... up we go?

2B: could very well be.

2B: up to the circles in the sky?

2B: do you think the circle is an exit, perhaps? that we will be free to leave if we build up to them?

OU: It would be nice, wouldn′t it?

OU: But I′m willing to bet money I don′t have that it will just lead to more trouble. Possibly worse trouble.

OU: It just seems too easy, you know? Here, players, slap some stuff on top of your house and you′re free to leave. Sorry about the massive hellstorm that just flattened your city and ruined your global ecosystem.

OU: Like, what would we return to?

2B: a fair statement, and not at all unfounded.

2B: i would like to withdraw my previous unfounded optimism.

OU: Already forgotten, my friend!

OU: Still... We don′t have much of a choice, do we?

OU: Pick your poison—either we sit and rot here in space, or we get up to the circle and see what′s on the other side.

2B: frankly, i′m sick and tired of looking at this blank space.

2B: so i guess we′ll build, shall we?

OU: That we shall!

OU: I shall relay this information to Jill forthwith. It′s time I met her anyway!

- officeurchin1280 ceased pestering 2busy4this! –


- officeurchin1280 (OU) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

OU: Hello, Jill!

DD: urchin

DD: i knew it was some kind of sea critter

OU: Ha ha! I′m not a sea critter, I′m merely a poor coffee-boy at a financial firm.

OU: I came to beg for my job with my hat in my hand and big brown puppydog eyes glittering upon my dirty face.

OU: But I won′t bore you with my life story! How are you, Miss Jill?

DD: well if we discount the annoying skeletal fairy thing following me around

DD: and being teleported to space

DD: other than that i′m cool

DD: how bout you urchin

OU: Similarly, I would be having a much better day if I hadn′t started playing this game.

OU: No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose!

OU: But now that we′re stuck here, we might as well play it to its fullest, right?

DD: yeah

DD: guess so anyway

OU: Anyway, Leo and I made a discovery! We′re supposed to build our houses. We think we′re meant to aim for the circle in the sky. So up we go!

DD: well i was due to get evicted from this dump anyway

DD: might as well take my revenge on the landlord

DD: mess up the whole slum by making it livable

DD: with stairs that don′t collapse underfoot

DD: maybe paint the place a color that won′t make your eyes bleed

DD: er well guess it′ll be dr b doing it whenever he feels better

DD: but don′t ruin my vicarious gloating huh

OU: Oh, I wasn′t about to.

OU: Personally, I′m quite looking forward to destroying my office.

OU: Or, well, I guess it will be you doing it, won′t it?

DD: why are you playing a game at work

DD: don′t you have coffee to fetch

OU: Oh, but it gets so dull! I thought I would liven up my belated lunch break.

DD: pfft excuses excuses

DD: slacker

DD: not like i got room talk tho i been ignoring my funeral home operations homework all night

OU: Not that I blame you! And not that it matters, come to think of it.

DD: true

OU: Anyway, you′re right. I do have coffee to make, so I′ll go make it now, if you don′t mind!

OU: Stay safe!

DD: will do

- officeurchin1280 ceased pestering DuskyDahlia! –


After you cease pestering Jill, you sit back in your magnificently-appointed office and sigh, puffing a stray lock of thick, curly black hair out of your eyes. The thousand-dollar computer chair parked under your antique fragrant cedar desk creaks and groans beneath your weight. Not for the first time, your finely-tailored Armani suit feels too tight and uncomfortable. You take your coat and red silk tie off and carelessly toss both items over the drooping potted palm tree in the corner, then clasp your hands behind your head and close your eyes.

You wish some of your valued underlings were still milling about downstairs, but you let them all go home early today. No real reason. It′s not a holiday or an important day to you. Sometimes you do things like that because you feel like it. You′re the boss, after all, and what you say goes. Isn′t that what your folks always tried to teach you? Hell, you′re just exercising your executive power. Dad would be proud. (Well, he wouldn′t, he would hate it, but whatever.) You sent around an email earlier—′who wants to go home early and have a full paid day?′ Of course everyone in the building took you up on that. Who wouldn′t? Half a day of work, full day of pay, home in time to help the kids with their homework. You even let the janitors go home early, and boy, were they happy about that. You′re happy they were happy.

So you′ve been sitting here alone, on the top floor of your own personal big black tower, fiddling around with your preposterously expensive top-of-the-line computer.

Occasionally you take a break to stare out of the windows that surround you, or to play around with that fancy office putting green that some long-ago investment prospect brought along to curry your favor. It fails to take your mind off of anything, but you feel like you′ve made a tiny bit of progress with your putting, which you have always found to be somewhat clumsy; it always costs you a lot of strokes on the rare occasions you actually have to go play a real game of golf. You always chalked it up to nerves.

You suppose you can still chalk it up to nerves, except this time, it isn′t due to petulant, childish selfishness over the outcome of a silly game. This time, it′s due to petulant, childish selfishness over the outcome of a horrible reality-breaking game that′s destroyed the world and taken you away to some strange, cold black void to be alone. You just can′t win, can you? You sent those folks home earlier, wanting to be totally alone with your thoughts for awhile. You figured they would have a good time while you stewed in a safe silence, but they′re all dead now, scorched to ash in the hell-storm. You saw little flashes of the red meteors descending before you managed to end up here in this cold black void.

Selfishly, you wish they could come back to keep you company. In a building this big—and this empty—the dead silence seems to echo off the high walls. It gets terribly unnerving. You hate a yes-man attitude, but at this point, you would be profoundly grateful just to hear someone speaking, even if it was unbearable bowing and scraping. ′Yes, Mr Navarro. No, Mr Navarro, you′re right. Here, Mr Navarro, your boots are looking a little dusty, let me lick them for awhile, maybe get that special favor I′ve been badgering you about for months.′

You wish you could talk to your fellow Serious Businessmen. Regardless of what your assistants say (sniffing disapprovingly all the way), they are your most real, true friends and amazing people, all of them. But as with your underlings and assistants, you know that, with the exception of FedoraFreak and 2busy4this, all of your Serious Business colleagues have been reduced to so much ash and dust in the ruins of Earth. And of those two remaining, FedoraFreak is grieving his family, and 2busy4this is busy conducting his investigation. Not that you would want to bother your friends with your selfish whining. You suppose you could contact FedoraFreak′s assistant again, but you don′t want to bother a complete stranger with your whining, either. You don′t know anything about her beyond her name and Pesterchum moniker, but you′re sure she has better things to do than listen to the poor little rich boy moan about how lonely he is.

And anyway, to them, you′re not the poor little rich boy in the big black tower overshadowing Los Angeles. You′re the poor downtrodden coffee-boy at a little mom-n-pop tax firm somewhere in Rialto. You don′t suppose you could reveal the lie to them at this point. They might be angry at you, thinking you are mocking them, or bitter, because you are so much richer than any of them and yet you′re still whining about it. You know that Leo and Dr Brinner are men of relatively humble means—an insurance man and a teacher—and Jill just told you that she lives in a slum. At the very least, if you told them, they might think you′re kind of a jerk. You suppose you are, because you′ve been lying to these fine, upstanding gents for years at this point. Not out of any malice—Lord, no. You just like the anonymity; you like that Leo and Dr Brinner and the other Serious Businessmen just treat you like a valued friend and peer, rather than a frightening and untouchable superior that must be avoided at all costs. You guess the charade ultimately doesn′t matter now (like so much else), but you′d still rather not divulge that and risk bitterness and alienation from your dear friends.

You sigh again and spin around in your expensive chair like a fidgety child. If he were here, your assistant would have scolded you for it. You almost wish he was. But you sent him out along with all of the other employees. Told him he deserved to have a great anniversary dinner with his husband tonight. He protested a little—a very duty-driven man, William is (or was)—but in the end, he took off to meet Jack at the French restaurant down the road. He was more like a nanny than anything else, always scolding you, but you still liked the guy okay, and you wish he was still around.

You suppose your beautiful angelic sprite should be floating about, too, but you have no idea where he is or what he′s doing. For all intents and purposes, he′s abandoned you, too. Just another day in the life of the Poor Little Rich Boy. Oh the tragedy. Oh the sorrow. Bluh bluh bluh.

There′s just you now...

shhk

shhk

BANG

...or maybe not?

There is a clatter from downstairs somewhere, so loud that you can hear it all the way up here.

That it might be bad news never crosses your mind at all, not even for a second. Instead, you think—you hope—it′s some straggler underling. Maybe some junior intern who decided to linger around the locker room to collect extra hours before clocking out for the day. Maybe it′s some incredibly dedicated janitor cleaning up the executive dining room after that long business luncheon they had earlier today. Or maybe it′s some guy down in accounting crunching those last few numbers.

You don′t know and you don′t care. You′re just happy to hear signs of life.

You launch yourself out of your chair and practically sprint through the enormous, heavy ebony doors that allow or deny entry into your cavernous office, careful to dodge the machines that Jill carelessly littered around the room. (To be fair, you didn′t take much care in deploying the machines in Leo′s place, either. After all, you thought it didn′t matter. You thought you were just dropping it into a pretend house on the computer, not his actual living quarters. Just like Jill probably thought this was some luxurious fantasy office you built out of pixels, not the miserable cave of an office in which you waste every waking hour.)

Much to your displeasure, your visitor is not some hard-working straggler, nor is it your beautiful angelic sprite wandering the halls.

It is a much stranger creature—a short, squat, toad-like thing, covered by a thick black shell of natural armor. The upper half of its scowling face is painted like a Day of the Dead sugar skull; its wide, toothy mouth is surrounded by tough insectoid mandibles, endlessly clicking and clacking away in the silence. His small, stubby hands are tipped with mean-looking claws. There is a dirty, crumpled fedora clumsily crammed onto its wide, lumpy head, and there is an impressive array of primitive but nonetheless deadly-looking weaponry wrapped around his stubby torso. Blank white eyes roll around and around, flicking from you to the ballroom to the ceiling and back and forth between the luxurious windows. He seems to be looking for something. You′re not sure what, but he′s sure made a mess of things looking for it. The executive ballroom has been totally trashed. Exquisite golden silk curtains reduced to shreds. Ornamental gilded cages crushed and tossed around like balled-up paper. The shining white-marble floor is scuffed and chipped to hell.

″I′m going to have to ask you to leave,″ you say stupidly, not knowing what else to say. You usually have speech-writers for this kind of thing. You also usually have security guards—one for every two floors, and at least two watching the security cameras at all time. But you let them go home too. Today is just not a very smart day for you. ″This office is closed for today. Come back tomorrow.″

It makes some high-pitched gurgling noises and darts towards you at a surprising rate of speed, considering its seemingly tubby figure. Its claws clench and stretch, almost catching the leg of your Armani trousers. You manage to hop out of the way just in time, grabbing around your pocket for your Strife Deck. You manage to produce the card that contains your four-iron golfclub. You hope it works okay in an actual fight. You primarily use the Strife Deck as a means of reducing your golf bag to a simple gym bag that holds towels and water bottles, while your clubs and other equipment are safely stored in your pocket. It′s much more convenient than lugging around a bag as big and as heavy as a high school football player.

The card morphs into your golfclub—you′re still not sure how all this Sylladex and Strife Specibus business works, but it works for you, so you won′t question it any further—and you take a swing at the creature. The metal clunks ineffectually against the creature′s carapace. It only seems to annoy him. He swipes at you again with those surprisingly vicious claws. You manage to shove him away by thrusting the golfclub into his chest. He gurgles again, annoyed, and flails wildly, trying to jump at you from the far end of the four-iron. You look around, trying to figure out what to do, and quickly jog backwards towards the wall, grabbing a lumpy scrap of shredded fabric from the curtains that once covered the enormous windows. You throw it over top of him, momentarily confusing him, and tackle him to the ground, wrestling him into the fabric like a cat in a burlap sack.

You don′t know what to do with the ruffian, nor do you know how long the improvised bag will last. Not long, with his wicked claws. So you jog to the kitchen in the far back of the ballroom, chuck the improvised bag inside, and slot a nearby mop into the door handles, jamming it shut and guaranteeing your safety.

...Or not.

As soon as you turn around, your feeling of accomplishment is immediately deflated when you see that the carapaced creature′s identical brothers have come to avenge him. There are three of them, cornering you in the back corridor of the ballroom. You squeak like a frightened mouse and swing your four-iron around wildly. It clonks one in the face, knocking out one sharp tooth and dislocating one of the twitching mandibles. His brothers turn to look at him momentarily, and you decide to book it, kicking them out of the way clumsily. One of them catches the hem of your trouser-leg, shredding it like newspaper, but for the moment, you are too concerned with your continued survival to fret about the state of your wardrobe.

You sprint back up the stairs to your office, pursued the entire way by an ever-growing mob of little carapaced toad-creatures. Some are dressed in the weird primitive armor that the first one wore; some wear simple yet brightly-colored circus costumes; some wear flowing white robes. One of the latter has his hand crushed and severed when you slam the heavy ebony doors shut. The white fabric of the robe tears and dangles loosely around the orphaned claw.

″Ah. The Imps have arrived, I see.″

The ethereal, ghostly voice of your sprite floats through the thick silence of your cavernous office. The creature itself glides in on the rays of the glowing fluorescent lights embedded in the tile ceiling, holding its hand up in a gesture of mercy.

″The what?″ you ask.

″The Imps. The first of many enemies that will seek you out. But do not fear, my child. All shall be well,″ he promises. You can′t even think of what to say to that hollow and thoughtless platitude; it seems like the kind of thing a guardian angel would say, exactly the kind of comfort you would have wanted earlier in the day. Considering the current circumstances, though, it just seems... insincere. Almost a little mean-spirited.

Out of respect for your treasured religious iconography, you don′t say anything petulant back to him, even if you dearly want to. Briefly, you reflect that whenever God hands you what you′ve spent ages begging for—in this case, blessed solitude, and time to reflect upon it—you always seem to get it, yet your immediate reaction is inevitably petulant sulking.

″I guess I really am kind of a jerk,″ you mumble to yourself. And a rotten lying ingrate—that, too. You can′t forget that. Poor little rich boy.

On the other side of the ebony door, the Imps are scratching and pounding, eager to make their way into your office and... what do they want with you, anyway?

″What do they want with me, anyway?″ you ask your angel-sprite.

″I am afraid that I do not know. Perhaps to kill you. Perhaps to simply capture you and bring you to their lord.″

″It′s probably best that we don′t find out!″ you say. ″How do we get them out?″

″That is your current task. A puzzle you must solve on your own. I am to take your direction and assist you... but I cannot give you direct answers, or complete your tasks for you. You are meant to grow with the challenges you face, and I cannot grow in your place.″ He gives you a beatific smile, raising his hand to show his permanent gesture of mercy. ″All shall be well, my son.″

″So you say, but looking at those Imps, I′m not so sure.″

″The Imps are but the first of your foes. If you cannot battle them and succeed, what hope do you have for the others?″

″I suppose that′s true.″ You lean on your four-iron like an old man on his cane. ″And I suppose the others need me... I think. I hope.″

″Of course they need you. Every aspirant is important, and vital to the completion of this arduous quest.″

At last, you do find yourself comforted by the angel-sprite′s words. Despite your lofty position at the very top of the company, you′ve never really felt important or valuable; hell, you′re little more than a figurehead sitting in an office, stamping papers, signing checks, and sometimes entertaining investment prospects. But you don′t make any decisions or take any action; in the end, that′s all up to the board. You have ultimate veto power, but you can′t do anything by yourself. Your shoes could easily be filled by a trained dog with the company′s rubber stamp tied to its paw. And—

Agh. The poor little rich boy rears his ugly head again, you think miserably.

On the heels of that thought, though, another, more hopeful voice pipes up, and you must confess that you picture good old FedoraFreak saying it, a broad smile lighting up his plain but kindly face. Greg, my good fellow, have you ever considered that perhaps you have been looking at this the wrong way? It′s just the kind of advice the man would give were the two of you conversing on Serious Business. He is always keen on helping the younger Serious Businessmen with their troubles; though you have never spoken of yours (not your real ones, anyway), you have seen him counsel others to great effect, even considering the clipped and fragmented manner of speech common to the users of the website.

Perhaps this illusory FedoraFreak is right.

Perhaps you have been approaching this from the wrong angle all along.

Perhaps you can finally leave the poor little rich boy behind. Because it doesn′t really matter now, does it? You aren′t Greg Navarro, heir to a truly enormous fortune and an international finance company of considerable reach and influence; you are just... Greg Navarro. You suppose you can be whoever you feel like being now. You′re not sure who that is, at the moment, but you suppose you have all the time in the world to ponder that.

In the meantime, you figure you can get some exercise. Practice your swing a little bit. After all, you′re on a Quest now. You never know when you′ll be called upon to rescue some fair damsels or dashing squires (what IS the male equivalent of a damsel, anyway? you′re sure they exist, but you′re not sure what to call them). So you should shape up!

″Gabriel?″ you say to the patiently-hovering sprite.

″Yes?″

″I... I think I′m ready to face the things. The Imps.″ You choke up on the grip of your four-iron a little. ″I know you can′t take care of them for me, but are you allowed to assist me? Even if it′s just to keep them from jumping on me all at once while I take a swing at them? Can you do that much?″

″Certainly.″ He gives you that beatific smile again, and you feel considerably comforted by it this time.

You flash a smile back at him, then raise the club, shifting yourself into position.

″Okay... it′s a difficult drive to the eighteenth hole. You′ve kept a great score so far, so don′t blow it with extra strokes. Make this one a powerful stroke, get the ball as close to the hole as possible...″ you mumble to yourself. It probably makes you look like you′re out of your mind, but it helps you concentrate on the game at hand and what must be done to win it.

Now, you feel, you are approaching it from the correct angle.

″Open the door. Please.″

The angel-sprite waves his hand, and the doors swing open to reveal a small army of Imps, all howling for your blood.