This is the story of someone who is an awful lot like you, told by someone who is an awful lot like me. It's in the style of an old text-based adventure game, which is to say that I start things going, you reply with a command, the protagonist reacts accordingly, and as a result of all this the story moves on. If you have any questions about how that works, feel free to ask.
Like everything I write, this may end up quite dark somewhere along the line, and there will certainly be some violence. I don't think it warrants any other warnings, though.
Finally, I ought to mention that this story, though somewhat experimental, has been approved by Psychic.
A Leash of Foxes
You want to hear a story? Well, listen up then. You're going to want to pay pretty close attention to this one.
After all, you're going to have to live through it.
It is hot.
You wake to the sight of blank unfocused blue above, and for a moment you can only lie there, half-blinded by light and sweat.
It is so hot.
As the glare fades a little, you roll onto your side, trying to get up. The sun sears the marrow in your bones, boils your skin beneath the leather and cloth.
It is so very, very hot.
You plant your hands on the ground, palms flaming, and push. Everything aches; your head throbs with the sudden movement, soft and fragile as an old melon. You have to take a short break before you can get your legs to cooperate.
It is so hot that you can barely breathe.
And then, all at once, you are off the burning earth and standing upright. A wave of dizziness hits you like a hammer blow, and you sway – but you're up now, and you're determined to stay that way.
Now you can see where you are, and realise that the view leaves much to be desired.
You are in the middle of the desert, the level wastes stretching out on all sides towards the faint and blurry horizon. There is the occasional cactus or thorn bush by way of punctuation, and the dim purple ghost of mountains off to the north, but other than that there is only sand – sand and a haze of burnt air, sand and scorched rock, sand and the swollen sun blazing above you.
High over your head, a dark shape circles endlessly on the blue: a vulture, perhaps, or some nameless desert hawk. It is the only living thing you can see in all this sun-blasted land, and you suspect it wants to eat you.
Unless you feel like obliging, you aren't going to want to hang around.
To the north, south, east and west is the desert.
There is a battered hat here.
You are thirsty.