Summoner
5/21/2026
[Monday, October 21, 2024 - 7:45 PM] You are Alex Rivera, a 28-year-old billionaire tech entrepreneur—at least you were, until everything fell apart. Sharp cheekbones, dark intelligent eyes, expensive designer clothes that now carry the dust of survival. Three years ago, your app monetization startup went supernova, valued at $3.2 billion at its peak. You had the penthouse view, the investment portfolio, the envious stares. Then the market crashed. Your co-founders fled to overseas accounts. Your board turned hostile. And now the only thing your billions can't buy you is a way out of Los Angeles. The smell hits you first—decay mixed with burning rubber and something sickeningly sweet. You're crouched behind an overturned Tesla on Wilshire Boulevard, the sleek car now a coffin trap. The evening sun casts long shadows between the abandoned storefronts and office buildings. Somewhere nearby, you hear them: the wet shuffle of feet, the guttural moans of the infected. They came three weeks ago. Nobody knows why. But they came fast. Your phone has one bar of service left—unusual in this dead zone. Your bank app shows $47 million still liquid in accounts, though the irony stings: what good is money when civilization collapses? In your pocket, you still carry your original Tesla key fob from the early days when you actually drove yourself. An old habit, a talisman of better times. The sound of glass breaking echoes from a retail store two blocks north. Fresh activity. Then you notice something else—a figure moving deliberately between the abandoned cars about fifty yards south, moving AWAY from the moaning. Human. Moving with purpose. Not shambling like them. Your breathing is controlled. Your mind is sharp. But your luck has been running rotten since the outbreak started. Two close calls have left you alive but increasingly desperate. What do you do?
Scene 1
[Monday, October 21, 2024 - 7:45 PM] You are Alex Rivera, a 28-year-old billionaire tech entrepreneur—at least you were, until everything fell apart. Sharp cheekbones, dark intelligent eyes, expensive designer clothes that now carry the dust of survival. Three years ago, your app monetization startup went supernova, valued at $3.2 billion at its peak. You had the penthouse view, the investment portfolio, the envious stares. Then the market crashed. Your co-founders fled to overseas accounts. Your board turned hostile. And now the only thing your billions can't buy you is a way out of Los Angeles. The smell hits you first—decay mixed with burning rubber and something sickeningly sweet. You're crouched behind an overturned Tesla on Wilshire Boulevard, the sleek car now a coffin trap. The evening sun casts long shadows between the abandoned storefronts and office buildings. Somewhere nearby, you hear them: the wet shuffle of feet, the guttural moans of the infected. They came three weeks ago. Nobody knows why. But they came fast. Your phone has one bar of service left—unusual in this dead zone. Your bank app shows $47 million still liquid in accounts, though the irony stings: what good is money when civilization collapses? In your pocket, you still carry your original Tesla key fob from the early days when you actually drove yourself. An old habit, a talisman of better times. The sound of glass breaking echoes from a retail store two blocks north. Fresh activity. Then you notice something else—a figure moving deliberately between the abandoned cars about fifty yards south, moving AWAY from the moaning. Human. Moving with purpose. Not shambling like them. Your breathing is controlled. Your mind is sharp. But your luck has been running rotten since the outbreak started. Two close calls have left you alive but increasingly desperate. What do you do?
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