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The bell tolls. 1... 2... 3... 3 for you? No, 3 for number acts thus far taken. 1, for Meowrage. 2, for Syb. 3, well we'll just have to see. You hear it chime as your hand engulfs the doorknob. It startles you, you thought there weren't any clocks nearby, but you suppose it isn't predicted about anything in the events thus taken. For that matter, we can't even be sure that any of this actually happened. I mean, this did happen, but in relation to the rest of the story we can only speculate for now.
It was cold, the knob as your hand ate it. The sensation of winters breaking nominal lessons. It contrasts to the knob you first tried all those pages ago. Whose embers evoke a silent, unfelt wince. This feeling, of a spherical chill, makes you want to run around and throw the aforementioned sphere at some unwitty prick, thus sparking retaliation.
A twist so pungent that no words can begin to approach it, perhaps, Vegan, may answer that confusion. A Vegan twist, to a question as old as time. Wheels or Doors? Whose purpose is as enigmatic as this own. Blowing out of proportions, this story begins to ask of the reader, not of do you like this, or, would you want more, but of who is the best girl, and whose side are you on. All answers arbitrary and meaningless. All feeling arbitrary and empty.
You open the door with hope. With Determination. With love. With Hate. With life. With Death. And most of all, with broken chains.
You enter a room that smells of gin. The chemicals of a life unyearned fill your nostrils. Sights of Red, Yellow, and Green Signals cover the walls. A desk sits at the end of the room, atop it, some large device. Behind it, the man behind it all.
He begins to speak.
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