The android sneers as you don't answer, stating, "Oh, I see."

It withdraws, and the doors close. As they do, the infoplates change, the InterGal one now reading "The Mime Pits".

Oh dear.

The doors open all too quickly, and immediately you're struck by a blast of hot, fetid air. A multi-limbed orange Tharnax pokes his wrinkled head into the elevator, his single beady eye catching you in its glare.

"So, they sent me another one, eh?" he growls, spitting a globule of pulsating blue saliva onto the floor. "Well, you don't look too much like a mime, my pretty, but that don't mean you won't fetch a price anyway, har har."

"No, wait, I'm not a uuuurk," you answer, being grabbed by three of the Tharnax's arms.

Unfortunately for you, nobody ever escapes the Mime Pits. Several hours pass with you having to work hard toil (mostly pushing against invisible walls) to earn half a cup of stale water and an all-too-brief reprieve. The worst part is, you're stuck in here with only Tharnax slavers and mimes of all species for company. One by one, the other mimes are taken by the slavers to be shipped off with new masters.

You're bought by a kindly old Deshanan female, who only whips you when you forget to put on your makeup or try to talk. This, obviously, complicates the matter of explaining that you're not a mime, and you don't really belong there. You work for a few years as the Deshanan's personal mime, moving invisible boxes and scaring off unwanted guests. You now own three berets, all black. When your mistress finally passes on to the next plane, your ownership is willed on to her daughter, who is much more liberal about mime rights, and, without really consulting you, sets you free in a forest on a planet of mimes.

You've forgotten how to talk, now, or lost the will to, anyway. You shun the other mimes, but put to good use the skills you had to refine while a slave. You build yourself a tree fort out of invisible walls, and live out the remainder of your days silently hunting for food and writing abstact poetry.


And it's a bit of a strange one, admittedly. It all makes more sense if you realise that every society recognises being a mime as a terrible birth defect, one that is best served by making use of their particular skills to benefit others. I'm happy to let you try again, avoiding this awful fate. Turn to page 1 and start from scratch.