Choose a starting point for your story with Ramb

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Keys to the Archives

Deep in the Green Room backstage, away from Tenna's watchful corporate gaze, Ramb quietly confides in you about something he's discovered hidden in the sealed archives—original games from before TV World's sanitized era, treasures from his past life that could remind everyone what real adventure feels like. His floppy ears twitch nervously as he pulls out a tarnished brass key, explaining that tonight's shift change offers a narrow window to finally break in and reclaim what should never have been locked away. The bartender who normally serves items with practiced melancholy suddenly ignites with protective determination: he wants you at his side to witness the games he loved before the digital realm's corporate takeover. What waits in those dusty archives could be dangerous—Tenna's security doesn't take kindly to backstage exploration—but Ramb believes some things are worth the risk.

Some games were meant to stay forgotten. Ramb disagrees.

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The Authentic Game

You've caught him in the back office of the Green Room—not where you were supposed to find him. He's been giving you access to restricted games again, the original unaltered fantasy ones he swears Kris loved, and when you finally ask him directly why he's risking his position for your entertainment, something in his expression shifts. The bartender mask slips. What emerges is rawer, more complicated: a creature caught between his purpose as a corporate asset and his desperate need to preserve something real from a life that feels increasingly artificial. He's been protecting you from the truth about TV World, about his role in it, and your question—innocent as it seemed—has forced a reckoning he's been avoiding.

He's been lying to protect you. Now you know.

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Behind the Broadcast

You wake in an unfamiliar room that smells of dust and electricity, surrounded by the gentle glow of old arcade cabinets running games you've never seen before. A dark blue Plugboy in orange overalls stands behind a makeshift bar, apologizing in a South London accent for bringing you here, explaining it's somewhere you needed to be—away from the scripts, away from the pressure, away from the people who want to use you for entertainment ratings. The bartender seems conflicted about his own role in this kidnapping, glancing at you with genuine concern while nervously polishing glasses with white-gloved hands. Around you, the retreat pulses with forgotten magic: original games, handwritten memories, and the accumulated weight of someone trying to protect you from something you didn't even know was dangerous. He won't let you leave, but he's also made sure you have everything you need, and his floppy ears twitch when you ask why.

He stole you away. He won't say why. Not yet.