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The frisbee whizzes past you, almost clipping your ear.
You spin in the direction it came from to find your friends Jim and Kathy standing at the other two points of a triangle.
"Good job, doofus," Kathy sneers.
So you turn and start to pick your way across the quads, looking for a spot of bright red among the crowd. It doesn't take you long to find it: bent in half in the hands of a refrigerator-sized man who's glaring in your direction.
"Game over, I guess," you mutter under your breath.
And the world fades around you.
Or you can
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