You wake up feeling faint and dizzy in the middle of a dry, deserted wasteland. You stand up, look around, and manage to conclude that you are alone. The light is dim - the sun must have just set. A strong wind blows. The sand is kicked up into your eyes, forcing you to shut them painfully. You collapse down onto your knees and shield your face with your arm. You use this time to try and gather your wits - to figure out where you are. You do this in vain. You are at a loss for both memories, and ideas. By the time you feebly rub your stinging eyes back to comfort, the wind has died down. And this time you see the figure of a man in the distance. You attempt to call out but your dry, cracked throat won't allow it. Up until now, you hadn't even noticed your thirst. The figure in the distance may be your only hope of survival. You consider standing back up, but decide it will be easiest just to crawl. You unevenly make your way towards the figure, hands and knees slipping along the way. Whoever it is you're crawling towards is unmoving; still as a statue. At last, you make it, relieved the man was not simply a mirage. You're about to try and use your voice again, but instead, the man whips out his arm to hold a flask directly in front of your face. Without thinking, you grab it from his hands and drink down it's contents greedily. Scotch. You cough, but with your throat rejuvenated, you finally speak:

"Who are you? Where is this place?"

The man sits down next to you, crosses his legs, and takes his own gulp from the flask.

"The name's Connor," he says, "and this was once my Nexopia page."