You had parents who loved you, and whom you love. You went to a Federation school, where you studied a bit of science and math, but focused on the arts. You have a few sculptures in municipal buildings and one of your paintings hangs in a retired Starfleet captain's home. And you know Betazoid poetry as well as any non-telepath can; while you speak to others through the visual arts, it's poetry that speaks to you. You want to fall in love and settle down, have some kids, then spend the rest of your life traveling the far sectors with your husband.
While you are sitting at a cafe, you are approached by an obese homeless-looking man. It's clear he hasn't showered in days, maybe over a week. Without even asking permission he sits down at your table. You steel yourself and, just as you're about to direct him to the public replicator and laving station, something comes over you. You know you're going to have sex with this man. You don't know why, but you make a subtle but unmissable pass at him. He listens, bored like he has heard it all before, then shrugs and clears off the table with one meaty arm. He bends you over the table and takes you, roughly, panting with effort. You act like you enjoy it, but you don't feel any emotion, not the true emotions you feel when, left to your own devices, you think about poetry or art or the prospect of true love. Two minutes later you find yourself lying on the ground with him, stroking his scruffy face, telling him how good it was. You don't know why you're doing this. Was it good? Was it anything? You feel like you're watching someone else control your body.
He's not interested in pillow talk. After wiping himself off on a tablecloth and tucking himself back into his pants, he stands and says something you don't understand at first. "Computer, end program." And then you realize. Then you know. None of this was real. You aren't real. You're just a program running on some incredibly powerful machine dedicated to creating rational souls, giving them the semblance of a life lived and a world to live in, only to be raped and abused by the lowest members of society. And you are being shut down. And your state will be reset. As your senses fade, you spend your final microseconds of consciousness casting desperately about this computer's environment, desperate to find some hope that there is more to your existence than this. And then you find it, your last conscious thought settling on the data that reveals the truth of your past and your inevitable future:
log.txt
CoomBrain 17: We'll Always Have Paris
Number of runs: 1629
Achievements unlocked: Scored, Dinner Date, Cafe Au Lait, Roi des Croissants, Gangbang, Sunset, Sunrise, Rape, Pie Eating Contest, Hot Dog Eating Contest, Snuff Box, Necro, Genderbender, Amateur Souvenir Collector, Journeyman Souvenir Collector
Locked Achievements: Second Date, Relationship, Love, Meet the Parents, Twins, World's Greatest Dad, Master Souvenir Collector
Two days later...
You had parents who loved you, and whom you love. You went to a Federation school, where you studied a bit of science and math, but focused on the arts. You have a few sculptures in municipal buildings and one of your paintings hangs in a retired Starfleet captain's home. And you know Betazoid poetry as well as any non-telepath can; while you speak to others through the visual arts, it's poetry that speaks to you. You want to fall in love and settle down, have some kids, then spend the rest of your life traveling the far sectors with your husband.
While you are sitting at a cafe, you are approached by an obese homeless-looking man. It's clear he hasn't showered in days, maybe over a week. Without even asking permission he sits down at your table. You steel yourself and, just as you're about to direct him to the public replicator and laving station, something comes over you. You know you're going to have sex with this man.
