You are in a city park, surrounded by empty skyscrapers. To the north, across the street, is a museum. The entrance glows with ethereal light. A voice in your head beckons you to come.
cw: brief mentions of suicide and addiction
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Full episodes begin January 2021.
You are in a city park, surrounded by empty skyscrapers. To the north, across the street, is a museum. The entrance glows with ethereal light. A voice in your head beckons you to come.
cw: brief mentions of suicide and addiction
Find us on Facebook, or show your support at our Patreon page.
Full episodes begin January 2021.
Welcome to the tutorial.
Nothing you do now will affect the story. But after this, your decisions will have narrative consequences, which can change how the game ends.
Do you understand? Type “yes” or “Y.”
>_
Great. Let’s begin.
You are standing on the sidewalk in the middle of a large American city. It’s mid-morning, and something about today just looks cold. The chilly air feels almost wet, the way it soaks into your clothes down to the skin.
Autumn came early this year. Temperatures dropped before the leaves turned and fell. You remember, a few weeks ago, walking past restaurants with outdoor seating. Glowing patio heaters stood like sentinels among the packed tables. It felt almost normal, seeing friends share a meal together, after the turmoil of the past several months, after despair gave way to violence, after the insurrection was crushed, after the last wave of suicides. Those who survived needed comfort. The restaurants stayed open until the final deadline came.
Now everyone is gone.
To the north is a museum. At the top of a worn stone staircase is the entrance, flanked on either side by Doric columns. To the south, across the street, is a public park. The city’s empty downtown extends to the east and west.
What do you do?
>_
You walk to the park and see long grass, ungroomed hedges, and a large fountain. In the center is a statue of a topless woman cradling an algae-stained pitcher. She was probably some kind of goddess? The fountain has long since gone dry. Thousands of pennies line the bottom of the pool. A little further back, some trees provide shade for a row of benches.
>_
You step closer to the fountain and pick up a handful of coins. For decades, people have stopped right where you’re standing to toss in a penny and make a wish. As if they could bribe fate with spare change.
>_
You throw the pennies toward the benches. They fall in the grass soundlessly. You feel nothing.
>_
You abandon the fountain and sit on a tree-shaded bench. The day passes. The blue sky turns a golden magenta, then a glimmering black. Ever since the power grid went down, after there was no one left but you, you stood among the dead skyscrapers and stared at the swirling, infinite universe. Sometimes, you slept in the middle of the street just because you could.
While you look at the stars, you hear a voice in your head.
It’s time, it says.
>_
You ask the voice, For what? It doesn’t respond. But you already know the answer.
>_
You tell the voice to go fuck itself. It says:
You chose this.
>_
You stand up and throw a small tantrum.
>_
Okay. A big one.
You run back to the fountain, reach into the pool, and throw fistfuls of pennies into the street. You imagine all the wishes they represent:
A wish for forgiveness, for a winning scratch-off, for the cat to die before it needs to be euthanized. Countless wishes for sex, half-hearted wishes for world peace.
A wish for a new job or Broadway fame or a state school acceptance letter after all Ivies said no.
The selfless wishes of children: for a cousin to cope with addiction, for her teachers to get a raise.
You keep hurling pennies into the street until the fountain is empty and the pavement shines with copper. Then you scream.
Across the street, the doors to the museum swing open. An otherworldly light from inside beckons you to come.
The returns and says:
Whenever you’re ready.
>_
You head north to the museum. At the top of a worn, stone staircase is the entrance, flanked on either side by Doric columns. To the south is a public park. The city’s empty downtown extends to the east and west.
You’ll be safe here, the voice says.
>_
You climb the stairs, clinging to guardrail the whole way up. You look into the entrance but can’t see past the ethereal glow.
>_
That’s what you’re not supposed to do, right? Don’t step into the light, they say in the movies after someone is pulled unconscious from a battlefield or frozen lake or burning building.
But no one is left to beg you to stay.
You step into the light.
It feels blissful and warm. The light is gentle. It takes nothing from you. Instead, it asks. And in your relaxed state, you are finally willing to oblige. You give it everything: everyone you’ve ever hurt and loved and mourned, every moment of pride and regret. Your name. Your face. Every moment you’ve spent on this godforsaken planet.
You give and give and give until, finally, you’re gone.
Now you’re ready.