LEVEL 01: THE DIONYSUS EXTRACTION
Part One of a video game treatment series "Book of Dreams"
What follows is a series of loose treatments for several levels of a video game.. written based on wild dreams I've had. A lot of these dreams I’ve been throughout my life and crazy fantasy themes and trans personal motifs.. I've thought of this game as a metaphysical action adventure.
This short series is a departure from my normal writing, but considering it's not that likely I get to develop this anytime in the near future, I thought it would be fun to share it with you all here. Ideally, I envisioned it being developed for VR.
I hope you enjoy the storytelling!
LEVEL 01: THE DIONYSUS EXTRACTION
Mission Classification: Asset Extraction
Asset Codename: MARY
MISSION OVERVIEW
Objective: Extract asset MARY from the Dionysus Palace Resort Hotel and deliver her to rooftop extraction point within designated time window.
Asset Profile: Code breaker. Intellectual background, no field training. Currently in possession of critical data (USB drive, contents classified above courier clearance). Asset is frightened but cooperative. Requires protection and guidance throughout extraction.
Opposition: Hotel security systems (automated surveillance), possible counter-agents operating within the facility. Threat level assessed as moderate to high.
Courier Parameters: Operate with maximum discretion. Minimize collateral damage. Complete extraction within the time window. Professional detachment required, emotional engagement discouraged.
ENVIRONMENT: DIONYSUS PALACE HOTEL CASINO RESORT
Architectural Style
The Dionysus Palace represents peak luxury futurism, a synthesis of Art Nouveau organic curves and Art Deco geometric precision. In contrast to sterile modern minimalism, the space breathes warmth through its opulence. Think where opulent technology enhances rather than replaces human-scaled beauty.
Exterior Approach
Mission begins in the exterior landscaping. Manicured grounds stretch in elegant curves, pathways lined with sculptural plantings. The weather is perfect, a goldilocks zone, with gentle natural light that makes surveillance challenging. Golden hour quality to the air. Sky must be scanned for drone surveillance, small dark shapes against blue that could be security or wildlife.
The building itself rises like a jeweled crown, its facade blending curved glass with golden metalwork in flowing Art Nouveau patterns. Somewhat imposing, but seductive. A place designed to welcome the wealthy, the powerful, the discreet.
Ground Floor: Casino & Public Spaces
Entering through the main doors reveals the central casino floor. Serving the highest level of clientele, not like gambling of street-level venues. These machines are regal, their LED displays set into golden housings with curved lines and ornamental details. Each one is a essentially its own fine small artwork. The sounds are carefully orchestrated, musical rather than chaotic.
The floor plan is deliberately complex, designed to disorient and entrance. Restaurants are scattered throughout rather than grouped, each one a different culinary experience nested within the larger space. Small intimate dining rooms with curved booth seating. Bars with backlit bottles creating constellations of harmonic color pallets.
Large Romanesque sculptures punctuate sight lines. Marble figures, neo-classical in style but with subtle futuristic elements. Fountains. A Venus with circuit patterns barely visible in her flowing hair. An Apollo with eyes that might be cameras or might be artistic license. These sculptures serve dual purposes: aesthetic beauty and surveillance blind spots for those who know how to use them.
The Restaurant Blind Spot
Approximately midway through the ground floor sits a smaller restaurant with a retro American Diner aesthetic. 1950s filtered through futuristic lense: chrome and leather, neon but sophisticated. More importantly, it contains a corner booth position with no direct camera line of sight. A small pocket of privacy in a surveilled world.
When the courier attempts to use this position, it is already occupied. The occupant is aware of the spot's value, sitting with calculated casualness, nursing a drink that's barely touched. They make eye contact. A moment of recognition between professionals. The occupant is not immediately bribable or persuadable. The courier must move on.
VERTICAL PROGRESSION: FLOOR BY FLOOR
After locating Mary somewhere in the lower-mid floors (exact location determined by mission briefing intelligence), the courier must escort her upward through the building. Each floor presents different challenges:
Residential Floors (Mid-Level)
Guest room corridors with plush carpeting that dampens sound. Wallpaper in subtle geometric patterns. Lighting is warm and indirect, creating pools of shadow between sconces. Security cameras are disguised as decorative elements, hidden in crown molding and light fixtures. The courier must move Mary through these spaces with careful timing, avoiding both cameras and guests.
Mary is frightened here. Her breathing is too loud.. She wants to rush, which would draw attention. The courier must maintain calm, project confidence, guide her with minimal verbal communication. Touch her elbow to slow her down. Make eye contact to reassure without speaking. Professional intimacy born of necessity.
Service Corridors (Upper-Mid Level)
Behind the luxury facade exists the infrastructure. Narrower halls with industrial flooring, pipes visible overhead, the hum of HVAC systems. Staff members in crisp uniforms pass through on scheduled routes. The courier must time movements to avoid these encounters. Service elevators provide faster vertical access but increased risk of confrontation.
TOP FLOOR: CONVENTION SPACES & THE ALICE PROTOCOL
Convention Hall Layout
The top floor is devoted to private events and conferences. Large ballrooms can be subdivided with soundproof partitions. Smaller meeting rooms line the perimeter. Catering stations at strategic points. Most importantly, several roof access points exist for emergency evacuation, though only one provides the necessary cover for aerial extraction.
The Alice in Wonderland Masquerade
Current intel indicates a private masquerade party occupying the northeast ballroom, themed around Alice in Wonderland. The event provides cover (costumed guests, lowered suspicion of unusual appearances) and complication (increased foot traffic, potential for wrong-place-wrong-time encounters).
The space is transformed: oversized playing cards hang from the ceiling, mushroom sculptures scatter the floor, lighting shifts between cool blues and warm ambers. Guests wear elaborate masks, some covering full faces, some just eyes. Mad Hatter top hats, White Rabbit ears, Queen of Hearts crowns. Servers dressed as chess pieces circulate with drinks.
The Doll Maker
Entry to the masquerade requires either invitation or convincing cover. At the door stands a woman in her sixties, elegant in the way only true craftspeople can be. Her fingers are stained with trace amounts of paint and resin, barely visible against her formal attire. She holds a doll, approximately eighteen inches tall, displaying it to arriving guests like a gallery docent.
The doll is extraordinary. The courier recognizes this immediately, that spark of something beyond operational parameters firing again.
The face is antique French bisque porcelain, using hand-poured techniques that died out in the 1920s. The eyes are hand-blown glass with internal circuitry so fine it's nearly invisible, pupils that track movement with unsettling accuracy. The body beneath the Victorian dress is something else entirely: synthetic muscle fibers over a titanium skeleton, bioengineered skin grafts with embedded sensors, joints that move with inhuman precision.
Promethean hybridization. The marriage of dead art and bleeding-edge science.
The courier pauses, genuinely arrested by the craftsmanship. Mary tenses, confused by the delay. But the courier is studying the doll's construction with an intensity that transcends mission focus.
"The porcelain work," the courier says, voice still flat but engaged. "That's authentic Jumeau technique. The slip casting, the blush tinting. You actually revived it, it's quite exquisite."
The doll maker's eyebrows rise slightly. Surprised to be recognized, here among people who see dolls as mere curiosities.
"The muscular integration though," the courier continues, "that's a tad reckless, no? Organoid processors interfaced directly. You're playing with military technologies without considering whether you should."
The doll maker's expression shifts. Defensive, but also intrigued. "Should is a word for people afraid of what's possible."
"Should is a word for people who understand consequences." The courier's tone remains neutral, almost clinical. "China's already putting bioengineered neural tissue into mechanical bodies. Organoid chips that obliterate the line between grown and built. Each advancement happens in isolation, brilliant people pursuing what they can do without coordinating on what they're creating collectively."
The courier gestures at the doll. "It is beautiful. Genuinely. The craftsmanship is flawless. But you're normalizing the fusion of the organic and the mechanical at an aesthetic level, making it charming, collectible. Meanwhile, somewhere else, someone's weaponizing the same principles. Someone else is creating surveillance systems. Someone else is building control mechanisms."
"And you think these people talk to each other? Share concerns? Coordinate their impacts on the species?" The courier's head tilts slightly. "They don't. They can't. The pursuit of individual possibility undermines collective wisdom. Everyone's so focused on their own fire that they don't notice the whole forest burning. Does your doll have a soul yet within that fleshpot?”
The doll maker is silent for a long moment, studying the courier with the same intensity the courier studied her doll.
"You're not here for the party," she says finally.
"No."
"But you understand the work."
"I understand the danger of beautiful things made without asking what they'll become when they're no longer unique and novel toys."
The doll maker's expression shifts entirely. Something lights up in her face, the particular joy of an artist being truly seen by someone who understands the work at depth.
"You know the Jumeau method," she says, and there's genuine warmth now. "Most people… can scan and pull up surface facts trying to impress me. But you..." She studies the courier more closely. "Seems you actually know the details of its history. That's not in any readily available databases."
The courier says nothing, but doesn't deny it either.
"And you see the problem I'm creating." The doll maker cradles her creation with something like grief now. "Everyone at this party wants to suckle my toes. “Genius.” they say. I used to enjoy that more. They don't understand they're watching me normalize the apocalypse in porcelain and titanium…. And cells"
She looks at Mary, then back to the courier. Recognition dawning.
"Oh, You're working," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"Hmm. I think I shall invite you into our little Ball. Would you like that?
Come as my guests, As a token of my gratitude, for being seen by a clever antiquarian?”
"Yes, that would be very generous of you."
“Consider it done, new friend.”
Then she smiles, smaller now, more genuine and private. The smile of someone who's found an unexpected ally, or at least someone who understands the weight they carry.
She gestures them both forward. "I'm Véronique Millais. In our small, strange community, I'm something of a celebrity. No one questions who I bring to my exhibitions."
She steps to the door, bypassing the security checkpoint entirely with the casual authority of someone whose presence is validation enough. The door attendant nods respectfully, doesn't even glance at credentials.
"Thank you," the courier says.
"Oh no need." Véronique holds the door open, her beautiful, dangerous creation cradled in one arm. "You gave me something more valuable than I gave you. You made me see what I'm actually making. I'll be thinking about that long after tonight."
The courier and Mary slip through the door into the wonderland chaos. Behind them, Véronique stands at the threshold, holding her masterwork, genuinely questioning her craft for perhaps the first time in decades.
Inside, the courier stores the information efficiently: third door past the ice sculpture, custodial closet, camera blind spot. Véronique had offered this detail in her earlier conversation, casual as breathing, the way artists often share studio secrets with those they recognize as peers.
But the courier is not her peer. The courier is a weapon.
For a moment, discussing the ethics of innovation, something else had been present. Something that knew about craftsmanship and consequences.
THE CUSTODIAL CLOSET INCIDENT
Objective
Once inside the masquerade, the courier needs to either conceal Mary temporarily or obtain costume elements to blend her into the party. The custodial closet off the main ballroom provides both: staff uniforms, cleaning supplies that could be repurposed, privacy for a quick change.
The Space
The custodial closet is quite large, deep even. Shelves line both walls, stocked with cleaning supplies, extra linens, lost-and-found items. Mops lean in the corner. The smell is chemical cleanliness, faintly astringent. Overhead LED casts harsh light, very different from the ballroom's romantic ambiance.
The courier ushers Mary inside, and begins scanning shelves for useful items. Mary stands pressed against the back wall, trying to make herself small, invisible. Her fear is palpable. She doesn't belong in this situation and she knows it.
The Counter-Agent
The door opens. For a moment, the figure in the doorway could be hotel staff, someone who simply needs supplies. They wear appropriate clothing, nothing immediately suspicious. The door shuts quietly behind them.
Then movement. The knife appears with practiced speed, professional. Not hotel staff. Counter-agent. Different organization, same skill set. They've been tracking Mary, or tracking the courier, or both.
The Neutralization
The courier is a machine at this moment. Without fear, hesitation, or moral deliberation. Just problem and solution. The counter-agent has a knife..
The fight is brief, brutal, and utterly professional. A fusion of economy of motion and honed muscle memory. The courier blocks, redirects, strikes at vulnerable points. Solar plexus, throat, temple. The knife clatters to the floor. The counter-agent goes down, unconscious or worse. It doesn't matter which. The threat is neutralized. There is hardly a sound, none of which made it through the door over the party outside.
Mary has pressed herself into the corner, one hand over her mouth to stifle her shock. Her eyes are wide, terrified. She has just watched the person protecting her reveal themselves as something inhuman in their precision. A weapon in human form.
The Courier checks Mary for injury (none), checks self for injury (minimal, acceptable, easily concealed), checks time window (tight but manageable). Extracts what might be useful from the counter-agent's pockets (comm device, credentials, weapon). Drags the body behind the shelves where it won't be immediately discovered.
"We need to move," the courier says. First words spoken in several minutes. Calm. Flat. Professional.
Mary nods. She's shaking, but she nods. She trusts this cold, frightening person because there's no other choice. The courier will protect her. The courier will complete the mission. That's what the courier does.
ROOFTOP EXTRACTION: THE ANGEL PROTOCOL
Accessing the Roof
The custodial closet incident has cost time. The extraction window is narrowing. The courier guides Mary through the masquerade party, using CV Dazzle principles combined with borrowed costume elements to break facial recognition... Geometric makeup patterns, unusual accessories. They blend into the wonderland chaos, just another pair of eccentric guests.
The courier acquires a conversational companion, someone tipsy and gregarious who provides social camouflage. Small talk about the party, the costumes, the absurdity of it all. The companion never realizes they're running interference for an extraction operation.
Near the northeast corner of the ballroom, behind a service bar, is the roof access door. Emergency exit, alarmed but not camera-monitored due to fire code requirements. The courier has override codes. The door opens to reveal stairs climbing upward into darkness.
The Rooftop Environment
The roof is vast, mostly flat with a slight drainage slope. HVAC equipment clusters create a mechanical forest, pipes and ducts and condensers humming. The air is different up here, cleaner, with slight wind. The sky is deepening toward evening, first stars becoming visible.
The designated extraction point is the northeast corner, away from main air traffic corridors. The courier positions Mary near the low parapet wall, checking sight lines. She's shivering despite the mild temperature. Adrenaline crash, delayed shock from the closet incident. The courier doesn't comfort her with words, just positions themselves between her and the roof access door. Protection without sentiment.
The Extraction Window
Time window: three minutes. The courier's internal clock counts down. This is when airspace access has been arranged, when surveillance has been redirected, when the impossible becomes briefly possible. Three minutes of grace in a world designed to permit no grace.
Two minutes. Mary fidgets with something in her pocket. The USB drive, though the courier doesn't know its contents. Classified above courier clearance. Need-to-know basis, and couriers don't need to know. Just transport. Just deliver.
One minute. The courier scans the sky. Nothing yet. Slight tension, first crack in the professional calm. Backup extraction protocols exist but are significantly more complex. Better if the primary protocol succeeds.
Thirty seconds.
An Angel Descends
There isn't a squib in sight.
A figure descends from above, a set of wings spread wide, catching the last golden light. The wings are not cybernetic, or artificial or technological. Huge feathered, graceful wings, organic hyper real looking. Something that exists in the space between, real but impossible. He wears dark slacks and an open button-down shirt, professional but casual, like someone who stepped out of an office for a quick flight across dimensional barriers.
The wings fold as he lands with barely a sound, bare feet touching rooftop with perfect balance. The courier sees his chest, a golden Sri Yantra glowing across his exposed skin. Sacred geometry made manifest, the pattern of cosmic order, the visual representation of all creation and dissolution. It emits its own light.
The rendezvous doesn't arrive in a vehicle. The being himself is the vehicle, a vehicle of an astral light body.
The angel is strikingly beautiful. In the way a perfect equation is beautiful, the way a flawlessly executed movement is beautiful. Intimidatingly so. Form and function unified. It's power and grace are inseparable.
The Recognition Code
He walks toward the courier with calm confidence, each step deliberate. Dark hair moves slightly in the wind. His eyes are ancient and kind and utterly alien. He leans close, close enough that the courier can smell something like ozone and honey, and whispers:
*"The matriarchy is dead."* weird
The words unlock something. Not memory exactly, but recognition. The courier KNOWS this code, knows it's the correct passcode, but the phrase is disturbing. Maybe it's meant to be off putting, or a deeper puzzle. The courier knows this being is trustworthy even though conscious understanding provides no justification for this knowledge. It's deeper than training, older than the courier's constructed identity.
The phrase is both authentication and revelation. The matriarchy. Something vast and old and purposeful. The first hairline crack in the memory cap, the first hint that there are layers beneath layers beneath layers.
The Impossible Pull
For the first time in the mission, the courier feels something beyond operational parameters. Drawn to this being. Wanting to stay close, to ask questions, to understand what it is about him that resonates in places the courier didn't know existed.
But training reasserts itself. Mission window closing. Time to extract. The courier turns to Mary, gives a slight nod. Mary approaches the angel with terrified reverence. He smiles at her, gentle and reassuring. Extends one hand.
The courier steps back. Professional distance. Need-to-know. The angel's extraction method is not the courier's concern. Just complete the handoff and extract via alternate route.
But for just a moment, the courier watches. Watches Mary take the angel's hand. Watches the Sri Yantra glow brighter. Watches the wings begin to spread again, magnificent and terrible and real.
Extraction Complete
The courier turns away before witnessing the actual departure. Discipline. Protocol. Already running scenarios for extraction from the building. Back through the masquerade (different route, different disguise), or via service stairs (faster but higher security risk), or brief concealment followed by walking out with morning shift change (slowest but safest).
The pull toward the angel fades as distance increases. Rational mind reasserts control. Mission successful. Asset delivered. Zero casualties (the counter-agent doesn't count as casualty, just neutralized threat). Minimal exposure. All parameters met.
The echo of the whispered phrase lingers though.. . The warmth of the Sri Yantra's glow. The impossible beauty of wings catching starlight.
The courier doesn't look back.
---
AFTERMATH & TRANSITION
Mission Debrief
The courier extracts via the service stair route, altered appearance (removed costume elements, hair differently arranged, posture changed), merging with late-shift staff heading home. No one stops them. No alarms. Perfect execution.
Safe house three blocks away. Secure comm link. Report delivered in clipped, professional language: Asset delivered to secondary contact at designated coordinates. Opposition encountered and neutralized, minimal signature. USB drive transferred with asset. Mission complete.
The handler's voice is satisfied but unsurprised. Confirmation of payment transfer. Instructions for next assignment (pending). End communication.
The Lingering Question
Alone in the safe house, the courier should feel nothing. Mission complete, payment confirmed, next assignment pending. Standard operational cycle.
But the ANGEL. How is that even possible?
Never seen such a thing.
What did those words really mean? Why did the Sri Yantra's geometry seem like a pattern the courier had traced before, long ago, in some forgotten context?
No answers yet. Doesn't even have the framework to properly formulate the questions. Just has a feeling, strange and uncomfortable, like remembering a dream upon waking, the details already dissolving but the emotional residue remaining.
Something felt changed on that rooftop, a shifted perspective. The courier, still a professional instrument of discrete delivery… but deep in some forgotten place, something of a memory is beginning to wake.
Impossible things had just suddenly become possible. And for the first time in a long time.. the courier wonders what's next, beyond the next job.