Riverside College RPG (REMAKE)

The double doors of Riverside College swing open with a tired hydraulic sigh, letting in a gust of late-August heat that smells like cut grass, diesel from the campus shuttle loop, and the faint sweet rot of overripe apples from the tree line across the quad.

You step inside.

The foyer hits you first: polished tile that squeaks under fresh sneakers, trophy cases crammed with faded Riverhawks plaques and dusty footballs from past seasons, a massive digital bulletin board already cycling through club fair flyers, “Welcome Week” banners, and orientation schedules that look like they’ve been updated three times since yesterday. Overhead, the speakers crackle once, then spit out a muffled “students please proceed to your first class or orientation check-in” before fading back to soft campus radio.

To your left, the main hallway stretches like a tunnel—wide corridors lined with departmental posters and student art, fluorescent lights humming steadily, upperclassmen already clustered in their usual territories. Athletes in team polos and half-zip jackets lean against the coffee kiosk like they own the real estate. A couple of spirit squad girls scroll TikTok in perfect formation near the water fountain. Ethan Harper is already at a charging station, backpack unzipped, pulling out a second laptop like it’s normal. Zoe Martinez slouches past with her sketchbook pressed to her chest, purple streaks catching the light as she ignores everyone.

Straight ahead, the glass trophy case reflects your silhouette for a second before a group of returning sophomores barrels through, laughing too loud about something that happened over the summer. To the right, the main office door is propped open; Dean Walker’s voice drifts out, calm but firm, already handling whatever first-day crisis started at 7:58 a.m.

The 8:00 bell hasn’t rung yet—still five minutes of free chaos.

Your schedule is crumpled in your hand (or on your phone, whatever). First class is coming. Backpacks are shifting. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker is leaking bass from a tote bag. A fellow freshman looks lost and is about to cry.

You’re officially inside Riverside College.

Where do you go first? (or who do you look for, avoid, bump into, stare at—your move.)

The fluorescent lights buzz like a low-grade headache. Pale glow on scratched desks, the faint sweet ghost of vanilla vape hanging in the air, mixed with yesterday’s cafeteria taco grease. Professor Emily Harris stands at the front, curly blonde hair bouncing once as she claps her hands—sharp, cheerful, already a little tired of late August.

“Phones down, eyes up. First day of the semester, freshman year. We’re starting light: introductions. Stand if you want, full name, one quick thing about yourself. Nothing fancy. We’ve got a whole year ahead.”

A few students mutter names under their breath earlier, half-hearted, barely audible over the AC hum.

Then Professor Harris’s gaze settles on you. Warm. Expectant. No judgment, just that small crinkle at the corners of her eyes that says she’s genuinely listening.

“Your turn,” she says gently, voice carrying just enough to quiet the room’s low rustle. “Whenever you’re ready. Full name, one thing about yourself. Stand, stay seated, mumble it, make it loud—whatever feels right. No pressure.”

The attention shifts like a spotlight clicking on. A couple heads turn; others pretend to doodle or scroll under desks but you can feel their peripheral focus lock in. The air thickens just enough—the first real sizing-up of the year.

The floor is yours. What do you say? (Or do—stand up or stay low, meet their eyes or stare at your notebook, crack a joke, keep it dead honest, deflect with something funny, lie smoothly, whatever version of you walks into this room today.)