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A first-ever tiny mod submission, done in collaboration with and painstakingly optimized by kilowatt64. I got to have some fun laying down various parts for this tune, but a big ol' chunk of respect and gratitude to the latter for reeling it in to become what you hear today.

The loose narrative follows a faulty arcade machine and its quirks, though, as the descriptioncore to come explains, those quirks extend well beyond the confines of the physical equipment. Thanks for listening!

/ * / * / DESCRIPTIONCORE INBOUND / * / * /

You crouch down, shifting instinctively to one knee in a move suited to middle age, and run your fingers along the arcade's cabinets various edges, searching for any shoddy patchwork or hints of a slapped-on plastic finish to the exterior art. Everything seems, to the point of mild concern, in pristine condition.

"As is," the seller reminds you — again. You catch from the corner of your eye that his gruff disposition has betrayed itself for a few nervous glances and shuffling feet. He realizes far too late, hurriedly renewing his attention to the bit anyhow; his brows furrow and his arms cross in a poor attempt to anchor unsteady hands.

Whatever. You've encountered more unusual folks and fishier deals than this one. You follow the mix of Earthy tones up the cabinet's side as it gives way to a blend of blue and then crimson. Your counterpart has refused to plug the machine in, despite protestations that it indeed operates just fine, but the magnificent cabinet itself is worth the asking price. You glance at last at the title — a painstakingly custom piece, by your judgment — outlined in a such a way to press it out in front of the patterned colors.

"THE WHIMS OF FORTUNA," your inner voice recites...except that wasn't your internal monologue. Did the guy say it out loud? Does a two-garage really have the acoustics to have words rattle around your brain like that? Welp, time to deflect that oddity.

"Nice machine you've got here," you compliment, returning to an upright position after what feels like years.

"AS. IS," your kinds words get as a reward. Yeesh, Pokemon have better dialogue than this schmuck.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," you jest mildly. The circumstantial wordplay falls on deaf ears — well, in this case, the twitching eyelids of the gentleman across from you. The eye contact is awkward enough that in a different setting it may qualify as a first date.

Moneys are exchanged, handshakes are, mercifully, declined, and the world seems like it resumes spinning after the longest breath existence has ever held.

You get home and plug the sucker in. The game is a complete mystery to you, but so was Mr. As Is and you survived that affair, so what folly could really outperform that conversational torture? The game boots up just fine and a steady hum starts to envelop the machine...then the space around you...then something you can best describe as your essence. The lights flicker at random intervals and the room feels somehow alive, equally aware of the ongoing occurrence of the supernatural.

"GOOD LUCK" pops up in an unembellished pixel font on the screen and then, well, nothing. No sound, no sensations, no visuals — just a whole lot of nothing. Everything shuts down and you've returned to the peace of your game room.

The next several hours are punctuated by a frightening uptick in chance: you slip on a stray dog toy to find a $20 bill wedged under the kitchen cabinet that's promptly chewed up by the dog who had lost its plaything; you forget your raincoat only to be followed by a peculiar eye in the storm — leaving you sunburned by day's end, of course; you get every green light on the way home from work, as well every green light on the way back to the office and back home again once you've realized that you had grabbed somebody else's house keys, which happened to be your boss's, who only removed you from the list of layoffs after mistaking your return to the office for an unwavering commitment to your place of work and its bottom line.

The days that follow see the odds grow more volatile and precarious as you're, among other moments of the extraordinary, struck by a baseball, which is the only thing that stops you from getting hit by that bus that crashes into the car that was chasing you because, you see, you were mistaken for a celebrity and asked to join a wild night of escapades until a distraught former lover, whom you assured over and over again you had never met in your life, mistook you for that same celebrity.

Each restart of the machine and attempt to wrestle yourself free of its machinations only seems to strengthen its hold. You fall desperately to the ground and notice, next to a different $20 bill your dog chewed up, what appears to be an address printed on the bottom board of the cabinet.

You Google it; conveniently only 17 hours away. Undeterred, you pack nothing, having learned well that you no longer have any control, and make for the address, braving unprecedented changes in conditions, surviving harrowing encounters with wildlife, clinging to precarious slopes, summiting magnificent peaks, and getting by merely on the draconian comedy of whatever pulls, prods, and tugs at the strings of your existence.

Finally, at last, you arrive at the feet of, well, somebody. Human-like in form, but aloof and careless in nature, they look at you with a gentle smile and ask, "All done playing?"

"Yes, please," you blurt out, as if asking your mother to take your plate away.

That same hum returns, echoing from seemingly ever direction at once, filling the air with palpable, tactile noise that feels...heavy. The diety-creature-maybe-Fortuna-who-really-gives-a-shit-at-this-point person glows faintly and then stops, cocking open a scrutinous eye.

"Hmm, that usually works," they say with a voice that suggested little regard if it, in fact, did not work. They check their wrist, presumably telling time on a watch that's not actually there. "What year is it? Maybe the warranty's expired," they announce with a shrug.

Dumbfounded, you try to protest, "But...still—can you—I don't want to play anymore, thank you."

"It is a bit peculiar, though," the whoever comments. "Usually the game comes with a little note that grants the holder one free release."

"Oh no," they say, eyes bursting wide, humored by the whole ordeal.

"You didn't buy this thing as is, did you?!"

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