When Ricky Kaine walked into the arcade, time stood still. People lined up behind the battered machines and ran to mob their king. Rat moustached teens lowered their eyes as he passed, deferential despite the rebellious t-shirts and the headphones about their neck blaring hair metal. The darkness punctuated by neon was his throne-room, a place where he held court. In this futuristic VR nightmare-world, Kaine's only chance to rise above his decrepit surroundings is the suicide cabinet filled with ASCII, Roguelike.