You have awoken in what resembles a hospital examination room. It smells like a mixture of birthday cake and sewage. Beyond the curtain, a strange, metallic tapping sound is growing steadily louder. You can't remember how you got here, but you remember your son. You don't know where he is.
— First words of official narrative text, Awful Hospital
They woke up in a plain white room. Four walls, a roof and a ceiling — each of equal dimensions, each as blank as a mind with writer's block.
You wake up in a hospital room.
You are wearing a nurse uniform and bloody bandages. You have an empty syringe in your hand.
Something is banging at the door. It wants inside.
What do you do?
You are wearing a nurse uniform and bloody bandages. You have an empty syringe in your hand.
Something is banging at the door. It wants inside.
What do you do?
You wake up on the floor, and quickly become aware of a searing pain in your head and your left leg, and a duller, more all-over pain in the rest of your body. The room you're in is dark, save for the red emergency lights. Those being on is almost more concerning than the fact that you hurt... pretty much everywhere. Your senses slowly return, and you become aware of something beeping nearby. The sound is kind of grating, especially with this super fun headache you have now.
You wake up to the sound of splashing on the floor.
You wake up in your bed
but not in your room.
Just as your eyes begin to focus, part of the ceiling breaks with a loud crash. Black-green sludge begins pouring into the room, like water but... thicker. It coats the floor in an instant, reaching about ankle height in seconds.
Aside from you and your bed, the only things you can see in this room are a door and a bookshelf. There are no windows, vents, or other exits, save for a small port with iron bars in the door—and that's far too small to fit through. The whole thing reminds you of a prison cell, one that's uh... poorly equipped to deal with flooding.
You wake up in your bed
but not in your room.
Just as your eyes begin to focus, part of the ceiling breaks with a loud crash. Black-green sludge begins pouring into the room, like water but... thicker. It coats the floor in an instant, reaching about ankle height in seconds.
Aside from you and your bed, the only things you can see in this room are a door and a bookshelf. There are no windows, vents, or other exits, save for a small port with iron bars in the door—and that's far too small to fit through. The whole thing reminds you of a prison cell, one that's uh... poorly equipped to deal with flooding.
In moments, unconsciousness claims [Supergirl]...But for how long, she doesn't know... She knows only she awakens in a dark and unfamiliar place, to a gruff voice speaking to her from a pinpoint of light."
— Narrator, The Strange Revenge of Lena Luthor
