# this survivalist dark paradise gaiden welcomes you weary nets traveler your palms sweat there are about 60 researchers on this zombie survival server space a lot of excited background chatter in different languages some have software or hardware devices hooked up so they can play amazingly annoying tunes or hysterical sound samples say 'wtf boom' > researcher henry swanson looks around 'scene' confused: wait a sec how am i supposed to know what that even is > big scientist rnd zaibatsu: good question researcher swanson - especially considering you've probably existed deep inside it for some time > henry: what sudden metallic clatter of clips being shoved into place suiting up as they say in the real manly scene for the true internets tough - a loudspeaker voice then shouts go go go and away they sprint (right into an abandoned moonlit landscape of raw zombie survivalist mentality) twenty seconds later you hear a horrible piercing screech as the flesh eating undead claim ir first victim for some reason all these deaders are armed with razor sharp stabbies a random choice you find accentuates ir already disturbing anti-nature as if it wasn't 'orrible enough for blue-grey faced members of the flesh eating video dead to exist they now also have to be armed with rusty triangular sharpness zomfg you can see one of them now stabbing repeatedly at your general direction from behind your cosmically malignantly-useless little pseudo 'anti-deader' barrier constructed from overturned aluminium sentient soft drinks dispenser machines yeesh this particular crusty flesh eater looks like the overcooked corpse of a dangerously underfed holo-tv show presenter - moaning and screaming in its mindless desire to turn you into one of them them them freaking out you take wild aim at the centre mass of its leering desiccated skull and manage to blow it kleen off with your autoshottie in a broody burst of hardcore electroviolets the head flies off and away from the top of the neck while spurting sticky stinking black grue - tumbling forever down empty darkened data hurricane corridors of time seems the target has been quote 'shredded' you instantly feel fresh firm and effortlessly confident - kinda like that insane fashy bald military presenter nerk from future duck tools on channel zero you resist the sudden primal urge to cut down trees sniff leather spark up a full flavored cancer hex stick all before riding off into an artificial sunset rugged all amerikan individualism astride some peak oil swilling steel horse > henry swanson: ok the playspace is awesome but what's all that about keeping it urban zombie survival real like a john wane biosynth just then the heavy metal grating in front of nearby air vent flies across the room with a clang as another undead survivor crawls through dropping down and blinks ir flashlight at you as if to say hello you flash back hi researcher they then turn to a bare section of nearby wall and without a hint of shame or formality mark ir freshly claimed virtual territory with a high volume animal spray this image question consists of a naked melon heavy researcher on a wicker chair ir legs spread wide a large caliber anti-deader rifle in ir tender hands good choice says swanson - hey maybe it's ir mother you try to respond politely with spray of your own design the animated screaming face of a skeletal sentient hyperjet fighter pilot without a mask you took this image from an animated pop video by an all amerikan rock band and feel it properly reflects your new role as a bringer of undead permadeff and destroyer of rotting online mmo worlds unfortunately your aim is just a little off and the spray slightly overlaps theirs suddenly an angry whining voice blares through the wilfully tinny speakers on your research lab desk > undead survivor: yo shit noob don't overspray our logo you type back slowly in shock: gee our bad sorry with that they bound over one's collapsed stack of drinks machines and is gone on ir way out however they fire ir compensatory duck tool of choice at your pathetic barricade destroying it utterly along with all false virtual hopes of protection against the flesh eating videographic scan-lined undead sudden surges of righteous indignation ignite up your spine crackling neon blue sparks of intense martial bioelectricity you curse them out using an instant keyboard text messaging method like they ran over your beloved pet rabbit 'mr bun bun' with a rotary lawn mower you curse them out like a new york dockyard worker named biff - they get the basic message soon after you log off in mixture of listless disgust fuzzy existential dread and terminal boredom so no change there // republic of bob