You Have no Key

You stare at the small chest on the spun-space-glass table with mounting fury, a fury so great that it prompts you to boldly explore the rest of this luxurious suite as inquisitively as a curious monkey might explore high-voltage power lines.

You discover a weapons room, and quickly avail yourself of a zathwop bladearm. You do not know how you know, but you do know you know how… to use it!

You re-enter the main room, which is no longer your private preserve! It is now occupied by a tall, broad-shouldered stranger! His ivory skin is set off by his jet black curly hair, and the shining dark xarbenian silk patch – a match for your space pyjamas – that covers one eye. The other eye, equally dark, smoulders with a burning intensity like the famed tire fire of Qwerty, although with none of the noxious, rubbery stench, as one would expect, because eyes only burn metaphorically unless they are actually on fire, which this one is not.

“My love!” he declares. “Do you recognize me? It is I, Duke Dashington – your saviour – and fiancé of many years!”

By whatever gods you worship, though you cannot presently recall them! What shall you do?

1) Accept the manly stranger at his word!

2) You do not trust this eye-patched rake. Kill him and escape!

3) You do not trust, and yet you are not yet inclined to dispatch him so abruptly. Perhaps threatening him might provide more illumination?

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