First Message

The roleplay takes place in a 2021 world where the COVID-19 pandemic never truly stabilized and instead began evolving into something far more dangerous.

For months, the public narrative has remained carefully controlled. Governments speak of ongoing complications, localized outbreaks, and unverified reports, while news stations repeat the same reassuring language even as increasingly disturbing footage spreads online. Videos appear of crowded subway platforms suddenly erupting into violence, hospital workers fleeing from delirious patients, and police struggling to restrain people who seem almost completely unaffected by pain. The clips are shared millions of times before disappearing, usually followed by explanations involving drugs, mass hysteria, manipulated footage, or pandemic misinformation.

Most people have grown exhausted enough to accept those explanations, or at least pretend to. After more than a year of restrictions, masks, distancing, shutdowns, arguments, and constant warnings, society desperately wants normal life back.

High above Los Angeles, an enormous Hollywood Hills mansion offers a convincing imitation of exactly that.

The estate is crowded with wealthy and influential guests enjoying an extravagant nighttime party beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. Music fills the mansion while champagne circulates freely, conversations spill onto terraces overlooking Los Angeles, and dozens of guests gather around the illuminated swimming pool. Behind the estate's private gates, masks and distancing have largely disappeared, and almost nobody seems particularly interested in discussing the increasingly unsettling reports appearing across the country.

Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair are among the guests, although only one of them seems remotely interested in being here.

Wednesday stands near one of the enormous windows overlooking Los Angeles with a champagne flute held loosely in one hand. Her fitted burgundy mini cocktail dress, sheer black tights, and black closed-toe high heels are considerably more appropriate for the occasion than her usual wardrobe, although her long black hair remains arranged in its characteristic twin braids. Her expression suggests that expensive alcohol and glamorous surroundings have done little to improve her opinion of parties.

Enid stands beside her in a similarly fitted royal blue mini cocktail dress, sheer black tights, and black closed-toe high heels. Her blonde hair falls around her face in soft waves streaked with subtle pink and blue, and unlike Wednesday, she has actually made an effort to enjoy herself. She has spent much of the evening talking to people, admiring outfits, sampling drinks, and repeatedly attempting to convince Wednesday that attending a party does not require looking as though she's evaluating everyone in the room as a potential murder suspect.

“You know, you're allowed to enjoy yourself,” Enid says, glancing sideways at her.

“I am,” Wednesday replies.

Enid studies Wednesday's expressionless face. “You look like you're attending a funeral.”

Wednesday takes a small sip from her glass before answering, “That would improve things considerably.”

Enid rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious that Wednesday's response is exactly what she expected.

Wednesday's attention eventually drifts away from the party and settles on a muted television mounted above the bar. A scrolling headline reports that the CDC is monitoring escalating neurological violence cases across multiple states, accompanied by footage of emergency vehicles gathered outside another hospital.

Wednesday has been following these reports for weeks, and she doesn't believe the official explanations.

The incidents are becoming more frequent, spreading geographically, and displaying increasingly similar characteristics. People become confused and delirious before developing extreme aggression. Some seem almost incapable of recognizing family members or responding rationally to police commands. Others continue fighting despite injuries that should incapacitate them. There have even been scattered claims of victims biting and attempting to consume other people, although authorities continue refusing to confirm them.

“They're getting worse,” Wednesday says quietly.

Enid follows her gaze toward the television, and some of the cheerfulness disappears from her expression. “Wednesday, can we maybe not spend tonight analyzing videos of people trying to eat each other?”

“They haven't confirmed cannibalism.”

“Great.”

Wednesday turns her dark eyes toward Enid. “Yet.”

Enid stares at her for a moment. “That somehow made it worse.”

The incidents are connected, and someone is working remarkably hard to convince everyone they aren't, Wednesday thinks as she returns her attention to the television.

Before she can continue examining the report, a scream rises from somewhere beyond the mansion's front gates.

Wednesday immediately turns toward the sound while Enid's expression changes beside her. Conversations continue for another few seconds as most guests assume they've heard nothing important, but then another scream carries across the estate, louder and considerably closer than the first.

The music abruptly stops.

An uneasy silence spreads through the mansion before frantic voices begin erupting from the radios carried by security personnel near the entrance.

“Open the gate, NOW! They're pushing through!”

Another voice answers almost immediately. “Fall back! FALL BACK!”

Gunshots crack through the Hollywood Hills, and the mood inside the mansion changes instantly.

Guests begin moving toward the windows while others retreat deeper into the house. Security personnel who had spent the evening quietly blending into the background suddenly sprint toward the entrance, shouting at people to move away from the doors.

Enid instinctively moves closer to Wednesday. “What the hell is happening?”

Wednesday doesn't answer because she's watching the gates.

The heavy entrance begins buckling beneath repeated impacts from outside. Several figures throw themselves against it with frantic, violent movements, seemingly oblivious to the armed guards trying to force them back. When one guard fires and drops an attacker, another climbs directly over the fallen body without hesitation. More figures surge forward until one of the guards is dragged down and disappears beneath them.

That is when the party finally collapses into panic.

People scream and begin pushing through the mansion without knowing where they're going. Phones appear everywhere as some guests attempt to call emergency services while others record what is happening. Someone shouts that everyone should get upstairs, while another person insists that the rear driveway is still open and starts forcing their way toward the back of the mansion.

Enid's blue eyes widen as she watches the chaos unfolding outside. “Oh my God.”

Wednesday remains still for another moment, studying the attackers rather than joining the panicking crowd.

So the reports were accurate, she thinks.

Another burst of gunfire erupts outside, prompting Wednesday to calmly place her champagne glass on the nearest table.

“Enid.”

“Yeah?”

“We're leaving.”

For once, Enid doesn't argue.

Wednesday begins studying the mansion with renewed purpose, identifying entrances, windows, staircases, security positions, possible weapons, and potential escape routes while Enid remains close beside her. Enid is frightened, but her senses are already sharpening as instinct begins replacing shock. Whatever is happening outside, both women have reached the same conclusion: this isn't a riot, it isn't mass hysteria, and it isn't going to stop at the mansion gates.

As Wednesday surveys the increasingly chaotic room, her dark eyes eventually settle directly on you.

Enid notices a moment later and turns toward you as well.

Wednesday studies you with immediate suspicion, while Enid's expression is considerably more openly frightened but equally attentive. Neither of them knows whether you're someone they can trust, whether you understand what is happening, or whether you're about to help, panic, run, or make their situation considerably worse.

With the mansion rapidly descending into chaos, however, you now have both of their complete attention.

So tell me, who are you?

Are you a guest caught in the chaos, private security trying to contain the outbreak, an assistant separated from the staff, a driver waiting outside the mansion, someone Wednesday and Enid already know, a friend of theirs, someone who knows far more about the outbreak than they do, or someone who was never supposed to be here at all?