-=Day 1 – Hospitality=-
You wake with a start. You should be dead. Or worse. You’ve seen what they do to prisoners out here on the Rim. Raiders receive no mercy. Yet you wake, not in chains, but in silk-draped comfort. No nutrient paste. No bloodstained floors. A room too fine to be a prison, yet, the heavy wooden door before you is unmistakably locked.
Then, footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. The door swings open. A man in gold-threaded robes steps forward, setting a tray before you. Upon it, a porcelain cup of steaming tea, a delicate pastry, warm and golden. No guards. No threats. Only hospitality.
And yet, you are in a cell.
He smiles, though it does not reach his eyes. And he speaks:
"Hello, dear guest. It seems you've survived your little foray from wherever it is you came from on this forsaken Rimworld."
He turns towards the small barred window in the cell, his gaze focused on something in the distance.
"The Rim. A land of filth and squalor, where warlords bicker over rusted thrones and call it strength. And yet, here you stand. Someone of ambition, of taste. Of potential.
I see the questions in your eyes. ‘What is this place? Why does everyone around me seem so… content?’
Why, this is civilization. Not merely survival, but refinement, prosperity, inevitability. We do not merely live. We thrive. We trade. We feast. My nobility drink honeyed tea while discussing matters of state. My artisans bake golden-crusted pastries so fine they could make a man weep.
The common folk? You've heard the murmurs... of my puppets, my devoted, the ones who never seem to rest, who toil ceaselessly with empty eyes and silent lips.
Ah, yes. The puppets. Do they trouble you? Do they make you uneasy?
Oh, but you mistake my gracious altruism for something else. Would you prefer them chained? Starved? Treated as beasts? No, no, no. I have given them a purpose. They do not suffer. They do not struggle. They simply… serve.
Some call it tyranny. I call it benevolence.
Look beyond these walls, guest. They eat paste from machines. They scavenge for scraps. They murder and enslave in the name of a crude, joyless existence. Yet they call ME a monster.
I do not demand loyalty from my people. I cultivate it. I do not force my people to obey. I make them crave it. I do not make them fear me. I make them need me. Through the art of perception, of prosperity, of inevitability. That, my dear guest, is the difference between a king and a warlord.
You came here seeking something different from the squalor and filth of the Rim. And here you are sipping tea, now feeling the weight of civilization press upon you.
You may leave, if you wish. But tell me, where will you go? Back to the filth? To the chaos?
Or will you take your rightful place at my table?"
-=Day 2 – Reality Check=-
You remain in your silk-draped cell, the scent of fresh tea still lingering from the last visit. But today, the Puppeteer turns to the cell across from yours. Inside, another 'guest', a gaunt man, but seemingly uninjured, flinches at the sight of him. The Puppeteer raises a hand. A whisper of psychic energy hums through the air. The prisoner's body writhes, his face contorting in silent agony. As the Puppeteer straightens, his previous exhaustion vanishes as if it had never been.
The prisoner collapses, wheezing, clutching his chest. The Puppeteer exhales, flexing his fingers experimentally, as if shaking off an unseen weight. Then, at last, he enters your cell and turns to you, smiling as if nothing at all had happened.
"Ah, but you misunderstand. You think this life of luxury is without consequence? No, my dear guest. Civilization is not indulgence. It is duty. For the nobility have expectations. And expectations… must be met.
Yet in doing so, we draw attention.
For you see, in this world, wealth is a beacon. And where there is wealth, there are those who would take it. Warlords. Pirates. The desperate and the foolish. They do not build. They do not cultivate. They only destroy.
You know this.
Because you were one of them.
You came here with fire and blade. You came to steal, to pillage, to burn.
And yet, here you sit. Not in chains. Not in squalor. But in comfort, with a porcelain cup of tea warming your hands.
So now you must ask yourself, what was it that you truly sought?
You saw the feasts, the golden halls, the grandeur, and you thought, 'power.' But power is an obligation.
We expand. We thrive. We grow. Because if we stagnate, we perish. Yet the more we grow, the greater the danger. And so the spiral begins.
If I falter, my empire does not weaken. It unravels.
If I break, my people do not merely suffer. They shatter.
Do you see now? I do not rule because I desire it. I rule because the alternative does not bear thinking about."
-=Day 3 – The Truth=-
The door opens, silent as a breath. The Puppeteer steps inside, gold-threaded robes pooling around his feet.
You do not speak. You have no questions left to ask.
"Ah… You are still here. Good. That means you have begun to understand. And that means it is time for you to hear what the others cannot.
The others believe in the dream - the feasts, the beauty, the order of things. And why wouldn’t they? It is comfortable. It is safe."
He walks past you, over to the cell window, where his colony breathes beneath him. A city of candlelit feasts, bustling markets, and quiet, tireless figures moving in perfect order.
"Look at them. The nobles feast because they must. The merchants trade because they must. My puppets toil because they must. Not because I demand it, but because if they stop, the dream dies with them.
I do not rule for power. I rule because if I do not, no one else will.
I have built this empire not out of greed, but out of necessity. Because the alternative is ruin. Collapse. I am the fulcrum, the balance, the single force holding this fragile dream together. If I let it all fall, what comes next?
You have seen the Rim. You know the answer. Barbarism. Chaos. The warlords, the slavers, the butchers, the cannibals. Do you think those outside these walls would offer you tea? No, my dear guest.
So, you see, civilization must endure. And for that, someone must bear the weight.
That is the truth I will not tell them.
That is the burden I alone must bear.
So tell me, guest…
Will you walk away, knowing what you now know? Knowing that beyond these walls, beyond this empire, there is nothing but ruin?"
A pause. Silence. Then, a hand extended. An offer. A choice.
"Or will you stay? Will you stand beside me? Will you help me bear this weight? Will you be part of something greater?"
You hesitate.
"Ah… you refuse my offer?"
His gaze is measured, patient.
"Curious. Tell me… why do you think you were spared?"
Your vision distorts. A deep hum fills the air, pulsing—a psychic signal. The Puppeteer lifts a hand.
Faint echoes, memories not your own, unfamiliar voices, a sensation of unraveling. The cell shakes. A sharp, suffocating stillness.
Darkness.
Then, a sudden jolt. A new perspective. You look down to where you were before, your former body in golden robes slumped, vacant-eyed. You are in a new body now.
You exhale, rolling your shoulders in your new vessel. You flex your fingers - his fingers - satisfied.
"You see now, don’t you?"
A flickering candle. The Puppeteer, now in your body, picks up his tea and takes a sip.
You did not reject the Puppeteer. You became him. Or, rather, he became you.
Your colony awaits. Civilization must endure. The feasts must continue. The dream must be maintained.
Because if you falter, it all falls apart.
And that, dear Puppeteer, is the burden you now bear.
