Strands of Fate Secret GM notes that players shouldn't read

As the light grows brighter, squares of colour begin to emerge.  At first they are hard greens, reds, and blues, but an inexplicable sensation of acceleration is accompanied by rapid differentiation and spread of colours at the edges of each block.  Like thousand-sided kaleidoscopic Rubik's cube, the blocks of colour morph and reposition themselves as your brain struggles to pick out some logic in the chaos.  Finally, it comes:  Odd shapes manifest and solidify, a tiny oval room with white walls and a round glass door in front of you.  A sense of gravity returns in a rush as you collapse, every limb in your body screaming out a desperate confirmation that yes, they're still there.  A pop and hissing draws your attention to the door which slowly slides into a slot in the ground.  The door opening is accompanied by a strange shimmer, light seemingly refracting through the air...only it isn't air.  With a shock, you realize you're submerged in a transparent fluid.  Instinct kicks in and you reach for the door, hauling yourself out and into the open, liquid-free room beyond.

This time you manage to catch yourself rather than completely collapse though your knees still slam harshly into the floor.  To your left and right a long hallway bathed in harsh artificial light stretches out into the distance.  The pod you came out of is one of dozens lining the place, and many are in the process of disgorging their cargo in a splash of fluids.  The figures that emerge cause you little comfort however: human-like, but grotesquely thin, devoid of hair or any anatomical differentiation from one another.  No skin or flesh or even muscle is present on their frames constructed of unyielding metal, plastic, and similar inorganic materials.  You move to haul yourself to your feet, to flee or to fight, but the sight of your hand desperately clutching a railing gives you pause.  Small, but with overlong and far to slender fingers.  White, black in places, the plastic or fiberglass sheathing showing hints of the machine beneath.  Frantically, you look over the rest of your body but as much as you seek the comfort of yielding skin and tough bone the rest of your body follows your hand.  A reflection of your face in the wet metal of the floor adds a finality to the matter.  It seems alien, with simple holes for ears and nose, two large black lenses in place of eyes.  Jaw and teeth are both present, but your lips are like a blackened rubber mold fitted into a slot carved out of the steel frame of your skull.  The sound of shattering glass and a despairing wail draw your attention to one of your neighbors, who has just made the same discovery as you.

Before wholesale panic can set in, a calming feminine voice comes from unseen speakers.

"Greetings, newborn.  Poor things, you must be terrified.  Don't worry, everything is fine.  Just fine."

The voice's plea for calm is shockingly affectionate, even motherly.  Somehow, it tells you not just what you were hoping to here but in just the way you wanted to hear it.  It would be comforting were it not for the immediate repetition of the line with the lack of variation in tone or cadence confirming your fears.  It, too, is artificial.  A series of lights begin flashing under the floor, leading down the hallway.  The speakers start up again, politely requesting everyone follow the path.  While a couple figures immediately begin to walk, most wait for the voice to repeat itself before even considering moving.  By the fifth cheerful rendition of 'walk down the aisle' you reason that nothing will change by staying put and follow the instructions you are given, being careful to keep your distance from the others.

The lights guide you all to yet another room, this one far more homey than the sanitized lab aesthetic of the hallway you've left behind.  Simple desks and chairs are set facing a projector screen and podium and at the podium stands a human.  Not a half-human half-machine or head-in-a-jar, but normally clothed, slightly slouching, weary-looking human.  He nods and gestures to the desks.

"Please, sit.  We have a few centuries of catching up to do."