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fu_chorus[There's definitely something off about the barrier.
In fact, there's something off about... everything.
Buildings seem out of focus. The ocean is perfectly still, and the water in the river is frozen in place.
Any red or green bracelets suddenly flicker, then disappear completely.
The loudspeaker crackles to life, this time not with a live voice, but a slightly distorted recording. The woman sounds like she might be reading off a script.]
Good evening, children.
If you are hearing this message, I offer you my congratulations. You have managed to survive your stay here despite all odds and obstacles thrown at you throughout your tenancy. Your resolve is to be applauded.
Let us cut to the chase.
You are no longer bound here. In a few hours, there won't even be a "here" to be bound to. I suggest you start gathering your belongings and saying your goodbyes immediately.
Failure to vacate the premises in a timely manner will not be tolerated. Consider this your immediate eviction notice. Begone and farewell.
[After a few long seconds of static, the loudspeaker switches off for the last time.
The barrier, once pearlescent and hot to the touch, seems soft and threadbare—more like a child's makeshift blanket fort than an impenetrable dome.
Along the edge are hundreds upon hundreds of faint archways, the shifting scenes on the other side vague and almost unrecognizable. For every universe, timeline, or country anyone who has ever set foot in Camp Fuck You Die has hailed from, there's a gateway meant to take them back.
You know which one is yours. You can't explain it, but you know somewhere deep down. You don't have to go home, but you have to go somewhere. And once you do, there's no coming back.
This is the end.]
In fact, there's something off about... everything.
Buildings seem out of focus. The ocean is perfectly still, and the water in the river is frozen in place.
Any red or green bracelets suddenly flicker, then disappear completely.
The loudspeaker crackles to life, this time not with a live voice, but a slightly distorted recording. The woman sounds like she might be reading off a script.]
Good evening, children.
If you are hearing this message, I offer you my congratulations. You have managed to survive your stay here despite all odds and obstacles thrown at you throughout your tenancy. Your resolve is to be applauded.
Let us cut to the chase.
You are no longer bound here. In a few hours, there won't even be a "here" to be bound to. I suggest you start gathering your belongings and saying your goodbyes immediately.
Failure to vacate the premises in a timely manner will not be tolerated. Consider this your immediate eviction notice. Begone and farewell.
[After a few long seconds of static, the loudspeaker switches off for the last time.
The barrier, once pearlescent and hot to the touch, seems soft and threadbare—more like a child's makeshift blanket fort than an impenetrable dome.
Along the edge are hundreds upon hundreds of faint archways, the shifting scenes on the other side vague and almost unrecognizable. For every universe, timeline, or country anyone who has ever set foot in Camp Fuck You Die has hailed from, there's a gateway meant to take them back.
You know which one is yours. You can't explain it, but you know somewhere deep down. You don't have to go home, but you have to go somewhere. And once you do, there's no coming back.
This is the end.]
