A kitchen. One exit. Well lit. No pickups, no targets. She takes a few steps forward, long plait of hair swaying, hips wiggling. She braces herself; feet spread, and pulls her pistols. There is a noise through the doorway. Constant, not approaching. She runs through the door.

A corridor, short, two doors to the left, open. It ends in an outside door. Stairs lead up. The source of the noise: a cat scratching at the stair post. She shoots. The cat goes down quickly in the hail of bullets. It spreads liquid red over the carpet. A ragged scrap of blood-soaked ginger fur. Messy.

The door leading outside is not locked. She decides to explore the house and return later.

Nothing of interest in any of these rooms. No secret blocks to pull. No pickups. She flips in a tumble of limbs and comes up running. Back at the foot of the stairs. The cat remains. It is clotting into the carpet. She thinks this is wrong. The cat should have vanished by now. She circles around it, nervously draws her guns.

First floor. Four doors. All open. Steps up to a dark attic. Nothing in the rooms. She begins to fret. She ascends the steps.

The attic space is dimly lit by a skylight, the walls lost in the dark. She puts her guns away, pulls a flare from the backpack. Uses it to find the light switch. Easier than she expected. It is in plain view. The flare gutters and dies while she is searching for traps. She lights another and presses the simple white switch.
She somersaults sideways, flips to face the room, pulls her guns. A bare lightbulb in the centre of the ceiling comes on. Men do not charge the room. The distant rumble of boulders does not sound. The floor in front of the switch does not fall. She puts her pistols away. Blushes.

Wooden crates line the wall. She climbs onto the nearest one. Grunts as she pulls herself up. She lines herself up with the skylight. A small jump backward. Run. Jump. Grab. Pull up. She is standing on the roof.

She walks to the edge. There is a windowsill below. She turns, jumps back, grabs. Catches the guttering. Crack. Wrench. She falls.

Scream.

Snap. A twisted bundle of broken limbs.

Fade to black.

The kitchen. The scratching. Guns drawn, she approaches the cat. Stops. The cat stops scratching. Sits, Looks. Guns trained. She hesitates. The cat does not attack. She lowers the pistols. The cat saunters away.

She opens the door. Sunlight. A suburban street. People. Guns drawn, she steps out.

Woman and pushchair. No threat. Three men. Looking at her. Approaching. Laughing. Looking. Leering. She aims. Hesitation. Smiles slipping. Angry. Shouting. Running. Firing. Screaming. She leaps. Jumps. Pivots. Running targets.

This is better. This is how it should be. She leaps backward. Horns blare. Screeching brakes.

Fade to black.

The kitchen. She looks at her guns. She puts them down on the table. There are no puzzles. No traps. No secrets. No targets. No quest.

Everything is wrong.

She turns - we see her face clearly. She is pretty, but nothing special after all.

"I don't want to play."

Her hands look strange. Hanging. Useless.

She turns and puts the kettle on. The water boils. Tea is made. She sits stiffly at the table, facing us. A deliberate act; she slouches. The steam drifts between her and us. Eventually, a fat ginger tom slinks into the room, sits upon her lap and starts to purr.

She smiles and sits and sips.

Because she wants to.

Not playing.

Game Over