Iocaine Powder
You stand in the library holding a glass of wine. The others are here as well, though oddly none of them appear to be in conversation. They are all, like you, standing silently, their eyes darting back and forth, around the room and back to the wine, always back to the wine.
Where am I?
The thought echoes in your head as the fuzziness begins to clear. You can't remember how you got here. Or where "here" is. You're not even sure of your own name...
One of the others throws his - or her? - glass to the floor. The glass shatters into tiny pieces, and drops of wine splash beautifully on the floor. The angry guest must think he has been drugged.
Have we?
Your glass drops from your shaking hand. Others reach the same conclusion, some losing their hold on the wine out of terror, others angrily smashing glasses against the floor and walls. The last glass breaks, and there is silence in the library once more.
You look at the others again, realizing now that they are all dressed the same - a long, androgynous robe, a name tag proudly displaying in some cases a seemingly random string of characters, and a black mask. Your hands rise, almost against your will, and confirm your fears - you, too, are wearing a mask.
At this moment, the door opens and a man enters the room. Unlike the rest of you, his robe and mask are grey in color. There is an unintelligible shout of outrage, but the man calmly raises a hand and speaks.
"Welcome, dear guests. I hope your arrival here has not inconvenienced you too greatly. You may be suffering some slight amnesia. This is an unfortunate necessity; don't worry, it will wear off soon. In the meantime, if you would help yourself to your choice of drink, we will begin shortly."
Paris, 22 May 1839
"It is with some distress that I confirm the veracity of the mysterious disappearances which are the talk of Paris. Are these strange events related to the arrival of the so-called Count of Monte Cristo, with whom I had the pleasure of dining at the home of Albert de Morcerf yesterday morning? This is but speculation, and futile at that as the Count has likewise vanished." - M. Beauchamp