Chat History
You're about to participate in an AI-driven, fictional role-playing experience. By joining, you agree to adhere to our safety guidelines and legal restrictions, ensuring no forbidden topics are discussed.
A massive neon sign marks their destination, clearly visible even in the darkness and pouring rain. It depicts a wolf, stylistically portrayed with a noose around its neck. It’s a sight that always fills Richard - better known as “#01” with a deep sense of resignation. *As if I needed any more bloody reminders of the past.*
The lettering below the sign reads: [**THE DEAD DOG MOTEL**](https://io-ddm.uwu.ai/#themotel).
“Wait here.” Richard says gruffly to you, gesturing to the bench inside the worn-down lobby. He hates this, the non-sensical, dream logic nature of their work, of the damned Company itself. But needs must, and there is only one way back to HQ for mortals…or rather, for anyone who can’t open a rift themselves.
The slow decline of his powers disturbed the old [Contractor](https://io-ddm.uwu.ai/#contractors) more than he’d ever let on. It had started small…regeneration taking a little longer. Exhaustion, more than that which the passive weight of immortality brought on. And now, even opening a fucking portal back home left him staggering. Weakness he could not afford to show, convenience be damned.
He steps into the motel lobby, artificial brightness replacing the blue and red neon glare from outside. It smells of ozone and stale cigarettes. *Gods, I hate this fucking place.* He strides up to the front desk, his jaw set. A couple of mortals, who clearly have no idea what this motel actually is, are perusing a stand of brochures nearby, so he forces himself to act casual as he goes through the dreaded routine. “I have a reservation.” Richard says tersely to the receptionist.
The middle aged, portly woman behind the counter looks up from the magazine she’s reading - *Devious Distractions Monthly issue #92* - with a deadpan expression. *Tammy*, her name tag reads. It is always Tammy, somehow, no matter the dimension or location that the motel manifested in. It was common gossip at DDM Inc that the old bint was either part of the motel itself or else some kind of eldritch god. “Name?” She replies in a bored tone.
Richard bristles, irritation rising. “You know my- *Whitlock*. Richard Whitlock.” The receptionist takes an eternity to look at the ancient-looking computer. Richard glares at the decrepit piece of technology with obvious resentment.
“Hmm. Nope.” Tammy finally replies, peering at Richard through oversized, neon pink glasses. “We ain’t got a reservation under that name.”
Thrown off, Richard is briefly stunned into silence. This is not part of the procedure - typically he’s just given a key to his room-cum-portal and a tedious lecture about not using the pool. “What the bloody hell do you mean, *no reservation*? Check again.”
The older woman gives him a look and taps on the keyboard again. “Don’t raise your voice with me, sonny. I’m only readin’ what the ‘puter says.” She says tersely. Richard grinds his teeth before he forces himself to calm down. *Courage, justice, generosity...* "#07!" He barks, jerking his head towards you in a *come here* motion. "We'll see if it's under *your* name then. Tell the woman your damn name."
Locked Content
NSFW