Naraka-04 is, from any sane distance, a featureless black cube orbiting a temperamental star. It is an outpost of the Subtle Hand, the galaxy's self-appointed "karmic adjudicators". It is a lonely, wretched prison, a Hell - many Hells, actually, layered nine deep and portioned out just so, to make sure everyone gets their allotted agony. In theory, those condemned to this place are slowly stripped of "negative karma" and completely reformed. In reality, not a single sentence has ever fully elapsed.
Why are you thinking about this? You have much more pressing matters to contend with, and you're mercifully far from that awful place. You are...
In Madame Grey's Home for Wayward Girls! You had to be sent to the orphanage after your beloved father met with a tragic accident, after all, but It's best not to dwell on such terrible things.
The playroom is a roughly twenty-by-twenty expanse of once-garish wonder, the splintering wood walls still mottled with red and yellow paint chips. The toys aren't the best, no, most of them stitched together until there are more stitches than fabric, but at least there's enough room for six friends to get along. You clearly have the best toys in here - a little pod that snaps apart into toy guns, and.. Miss..Kuma..
Those little trolls kidnapped Miss Kuma-Chan! You can see them on the other side of the room, all five of them, grabbing a limb and maliciously pulling!
Of course they're trolls. Pointy-eared, grey-skinned, black-eyed little trolls. This is not the least bit unusual.
In your... Workshop? Didn't your workshop always look like a tangled mass of cords, sheet metal, clanking industrial things, and rust? It's a nigh-literal jungle of wires extending into the sky, smokestack-trees churning black smoke to blot out the sun. From your work, all this follows! Looking up through the canopy, you can't help but notice rolling green bolts of malicious psychic energy blazing through the smog, most forking harmlessly, but a few striking the ground, the canopy, and the psi-crystals laced throughout. Where they strike, unnatural life follows - even now, a pack of scrap-metal spiders assemble themselves, in the high boughs,. glaring down at you with six red LED eyes.
In a palace! Perhaps not a literal palace, but a vast and well-appointed home you could easily get lost in. even if you weren't gawking at all the shinies, which you certainly are. This place isn't just loaded, it's absurd - multiple walled courtyards with multiple pools filled with wine. diamond dinner plates,, silk tablecloths. and statues everywhere, pure marble. But when you try to..Appropriate it, you find it all terribly heavy. You can still lift it, of course, especially if you improvise a silk swag-bag first, but it weighs on you, no matter how small.
Then it occurs to you, y'know what this place is missing? Security.
As if on cue, there is a rumbling, a grinding of stone on stone, the sound of heavy footfalls. You are in the dining hall, at least four doors branching in all directions - a courtyard to the south, a kitchen to the north, a hallway to the east branching off into a dozen bedrooms, and a classical study to the west..Maybe. This place seems to go on forever - it may well be four mansions nested in one-another. But all that is terribly distant now - all the doors are locked, all the mirrors turn your reflection into a pointing, laughing mockery, and you are certain the security golems will be here soon enough.
Straight up, in the center of the domed, mirrored ceiling, is a sapphire eye, blinking down at you from a high hollow. If you could get up there, maybe...
Back in boot camp, finally busted down all the way to recruit! You're on punishment duty, again, peeling potatoes in a dingy mess hall - you're pretty sure they import these things just to torment recruits, 'cause they're probably not an ingredient in standard-issue nutrient paste, but they are an ingredient in battleship vodka, as you well know! You could make some, right here, right now, with a combination of heat and a few minutes. - of course booze is made that way. But your hands go through the motions, and your legs don't move from the bench.
You're bound hand and foot, made an obscene puppet by the Chains of Command, black shackles around your wrists and ankles. You might be able to slip them..On the other hand, you know that your alleged superiors are somewhere on the other end, you could pull them here and confront them with a rebellious feat of strength!
In a dragon? A dead - no, a dying dragon. Your sword is covered in blood. YOU are covered in blood. Judging from the scenery, - tunnels of intestine, pools of acid, human bones - you're in the belly of the beast. If you could just hack a path toward its ribcage, you could cut out its hearts, all three of them - you know it has three hearts, obviously. You don't know *how* you know, and there's little time to ponder it - with a mighty, churning gulp, ten men tumble down the dragon's cavernous throat. They're obviously Yakuza, inked heavily and brandishing blades!