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97 Poets of Revachol: The Tale of Lumen Boulanger (Day 1 - Part 1)
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 15:29:33 +0000 UTCJamais vu. The opposite of déjà vu. Not already seen, but never seen. Everything that should be familiar appears strange and new. Like some half-forgotten day in your childhood, only now. That's the feeling you've been having. And for who knows how long? You should go and ask Joyce Messier about this -- what world are we in? This is the fundamental question.
Disco Elysium, Jamais Vu (Derealization)
CW: Gun violence, cults, drug use, xenophobia
In the final hours leading up to the proper start of the game, we were run through several workshops introducing us both to other players and the more minute game mechanics. Of note were a series of ‘classes’ teaching us the fundamentals of how to make things in game - how to write, how to make music, etc.
I was assigned to participate in the class that taught art.
Fun fact about me in real life - I have dysgraphia. Despite many years of focused education trying to remedy it, my handwriting still looks like chicken scratch and my drawings follow suit. I can occasionally make something coherent, but there is a reason that the only art assets I have ever made for the entire channel were the squiggly background lines in the End of Eva video. Needless to say, the idea that arts might be a serious component of my character did put me a bit on edge.
But it made Lumen excited.
A heavy bucket overflowing with spray paints clatters to the ground. Before us is a giant wall made out of cheap wood. I look over my shoulders in both directions and find two smaller walls near each corner of the courtyard. The intent is obvious.
Some take to the paints like fish to water, others contentedly hang back and watch the eager at work, while the remainder drift to the supply so aloofly that it’s hard to tell if they’ve even made up their minds yet. You can guess which faction I was a part of. The things we do to give ourselves a graceful out.
The first batch of artists finish, stepping back to proudly take in their handiwork. Some are lore related, some are jokey, some are straight propaganda, but there’s one work I see which instantly sets the tone perfectly: Hastily sprayed text demanding the viewer ‘INFLICT GOOD OR DIE TRYING’.
That’s it.
That’s the energy.
I don’t know who painted it, but whoever it was: thank you. The phrase has still stuck with me in the weeks since.
I still have my misgivings, but I know what my character would do. So I hand her the leash as I take what I consider to be my first canon action as Lumen Boulanger.
I grab a can of blue paint, find a distant corner with a blank space, and begin to spray.
After a moment, I step back and take it in, just like the artist who inspired me.
‘HOPE LIVES!’, with a little heart next to it.
This would become darkly prophetic In ways that I don’t think anyone - neither player nor organizer - could have predicted. Yet, without that foreknowledge, I decided two things in that moment:
1) Graffiti WOULD be one of my weapons in the fight to come.
and 2) ‘HOPE LIVES’ would be graffitied on my heart till the moment I returned my costume.
I had, at last, found Lumen in earnest.
Just in time for the game to begin.
________________________________________________
16:00
‘Where are my fucking posters???’
The argument comes to a stop as four heads abruptly turn to look at me. I may have come across as more upset than I meant to, but those posters were meant to serve a deeply important purpose.
‘You mean those anarchist flyers? I took them down after you took down my posters!’
Aubin Sol Montpensier (not his real name) adjusts his glasses, defiantly life his chin above the red palettes on his shoulder. In a grand hall, he might look intimidating. In this one small room contained largely of five beds and one broken water faucet dragged through the wall, he just looks really fucking silly.
‘You mean that monarchist propaganda? I wasn’t about to look at that shit when I come back from the sweatshop every day.’
Valrein finally chimes in.
‘They kinda were propaganda.’
‘No they weren’t! They were perfectly reasonable art which paid tribute to Suzerianist principles.’
‘That’s literally monarchist propaganda!’ I yell. I feel a tinge of shame for escalating this. But, also: Fuck him.
Jaime’s begun doodling in the corner, leaving us to our squabbling.
‘Guys, guys, please lower your voices, you’ll disturb the birds!’ pleads Avery.
Despite the cacophony, I’m somehow the first to take note of the distant sound of gunshots. I reflexively, foolishly, wander towards the noise. I just couldn’t believe my ears. La Cage is not a peaceful place, but it’s violence is beatings, exploitation, and riots - not bullets.
Who here could even afford a gun?
Gunfire picks up its pace. Return fire.
I get close enough to the window to catch a glimpse of something ominous.
La Cage is designed as such that any hallway window can see nearly the entire courtyard, meaning I had a clear view to see the Local Union Branch furiously unloading on what could only have been a band of mercenaries equipped with the kind of armor only corporate black budgets can afford. It’s only then that I notice Valrein and Avery looking over my shoulder.
‘Oh shit…’ I whisper, somewhere between horrified and awestruck.
‘What the fuck…?
‘Oh my god…’
A hammer gets cocked. I snap back to reality.
‘Gunfire, get back and get down!’
I grab the person closest towards me, and find myself dragging Avery back to the flat. Aubin and Jaime are already taking cover, and we’re quick to join them. There’s little else to do but count seconds and hope. 14 seconds later, the last shot rang out.
We all check in with each other, whatever argument we were having before suddenly feeling so petty. I take the chance to apologize to Aubin for taking down his posters, and he does likewise. I don’t like him, but I can respect him. If I want peace, here or anywhere else, it has to start with me. I breathe a sigh of relief, before my concern reaches further outward.
‘I’m going to check on everyone else, I’ll be back.’
‘Stay safe Lumen!’ Avery says it like she’s casting a ward.
‘Will do!’ I shout back, as I dash off into the hallways of La Cage.
I dash downstairs, passing by several panicked people on the way before literally bumping into Gabriel, one of the few anarchists in La Cage who lives up to the title. I ask him if he’s heard anything. He has it on good authority that one of the Union members, Donnie, has been shot by Mercs working for Wild Pines. The full severity of the situation hits me in the gut. Donnie’s a friend of a friend, which means they’re a friend. I thank Gabriel and sprint off towards the clinic. My body goes on autopilot as my brain can’t help but wonder: What in God’s name could Wild Pines want with La Cage? A single one of those Merc’s guns must be worth more than all the assets in La Cage combined. Even the Coalition only BARELY cares about this place. It makes no sense, there’s nothing here for capital, only the opportunistic.
I arrive to find Elian, the lead of the Local Union Branch, guarding the door to the clinic. He points a submachine gun at me.
‘Get back.’
‘How’s Donnie?’
‘Not taking visitors, get back.’
He places his finger on the trigger. He would do it. I feel it.
The Local Union Branch is not a union. The Local Union Branch is a gang - but they’re our gang. They threaten people quite often, but shootings are rare. They don’t care if workers are getting screwed, but if someone is going around causing too much trouble, the Union will be quick to give them a lead pipe shaped warning.
Elian is looking at me like I’m causing too much trouble.
Tensions are high, and I like to avoid violence. I back off, content with the knowledge that Donnie is at least getting treatment, and head back.
Just because I can’t check on Donnie doesn’t mean that I check on everyone else though. On the way back, I find the Apartment’s janitor and ask him how he’s doing. If he and his family are safe. If he’s being paid appropriately. If he’s unionized. I get back nothing but ‘No’. He leans against a wall and shifts his remaining weight on to his cane as he explains how his wife died in a sweatshop accident not too long ago and no one was ever punished for it. His own limp came from an earlier mishap. I try to let my compassion drown my rage.
I ask if there’s anything I can do to help. He stops for a minute and thinks.
‘Do you have 500 reál?’
‘If I did, you’d have it.’
He smiles. If nothing else, the fact that someone is treating him like a person seems to bolster his spirits a bit.
‘Well, I appreciate that. In that case, a bucket would be enough, if you happen to find one.’
Well, that’s something I should be able to handle, hopefully. I promise that I’ll track one down as I make a note in my character notebook. He offers me an appreciative nod back and returns to his work.
17:00
I head downstairs just in time to catch a glimpse of a collection of workers standing outside the doors to the sweatshops, waiting to lowball their price in the name of getting work. Since losing my job at the bar, I’m now technically left with sweatshop work as my only way to make money. Other than what I get from my parents. But I’d really rather not rely on that, if only to keep people from asking too many questions.
My fingers caress the 150 reál in my pocket, making sure they’re still actually there.
I’m pulled in several directions at once: Working a shift at the sweatshop would grant me a chance to better connect with the workers. But I don’t really need the money.
I, Ruby the Player, feel a drive to engage with the game on its own terms (again, I knew what I wanted to sign up for and am keen to commit). But my feet are still in very real pain from all the work leading up to this point, and the idea of spending two actual hours doing hard labor on them sounds just fucking terrible. Yet, that’s supposed to be part of the experience, isn’t it?
The final feather on the scale is the realization that, if I have enough money to cover rent, then that means I could spend my time helping spread the message of anarchism, learning about all the other worker. Honestly, my talents would be wasted in the sweatshops, if you think about it.
And maybe, just maybe, if I play my cards right, I’ll be able to get my job at the bar back which would allow me to connect with even MORE people!
Yeah. Yeah! This is the responsible choice, actually! Okay! Let’s do this!
Minor spoiler: Lumen will never spend a single day in the sweatshops (for good reasons, only technically related to her lingering sense of elitism). This is in stark contrast to my second character, Valja Krot, who spent the majority of her days working there. Having done so, I can tell you with complete confidence that the sweatshop labor does, in fact, fucking suck: Given impossible tasks with inadequate materials in narrow timeframes while being watched over some of the most violent people around in unventilated rooms for a laughably low pay. Pay which is even further reduced by most employers if you happen to be an immigrant, because, ya know, they can do that and no one will stop them because immigrants don’t have real rights.
As Valja, I spent 2 hours cutting the shittiest plywood you’ve ever seen and painting them into memorial plaques, before having my pay withheld by a fascist who tried to use it to manipulate me and the other workers into supporting his his anti-migrant stances at the local Block Council meeting. That’s a story for another time, but it’s sufficient to flatly say that the sweatshops do in fact live up to their name in spirit, if not quite in real life scale.
For better and worse though, Lumen felt she had better things to do. So I grab a marker and run around defacing every poster and wall I can find, in the name of liberation.
18:00
It’s here that I should note that among the smartest design choices within 97 Poets was the decision to hang up large patches of cardboard to give players a space indoors to graffiti, propagandize, market, and vent however they wanted in a way which didn’t damage this very old building. These were in conjunction with the wooden walls out in the courtyards, but given the high traffic and intimate nature of the halls, these felt like the more vital target.
So I wandered, marking walls with anarchist symbols, scratching out fascist dogshit, and leaving behind tiny reminders that things could be better. As I did, I stopped everyone I saw who looked like they’d worked an honest day in their life and asked the same questions: How are you? How are you being treated? Are you unionized? Are you REALLY unionized - not just under the thumb of the local gang? Is there anything I can do to help?
Often, I was greeted with dismissive affection: ‘Oh how kind! But no thank you, I’m not sure you can help me with what I need.’
Sometimes, it was enthusiasm, someone who could also see the same kind of possibility that I could, but didn’t know how to reach with it. I promised I’d stay in touch.
More than once, I was greeted with the glare of a predator who’d found their prey - ‘a young pigtailed girl offering anything? How very useful…’ (Never sexually, but always tinged with self-interest all the same)
I can only feel sad for them. What has to happen to someone to make them see solidarity and feel only the reflex to exploit it? It’s pitiful. They’ll recognize their mistake after they see what we do here though. I know it.
On the opposite end, I was often greeted with skeptical side-eyes - people who were too polite to bluntly ask if I was doing this to get something out of them. No one does something kind for no reason. You must be getting something out of this, right?
Well, technically true, I guess. I am doing this for a reason: Because the poor and exploited take care of each other. We ARE in this together. Today you, tomorrow me.
And in the process of sharing that solidarity and kindness, I hope that I can show them that we don’t need government to do these things. That we can take care of each other better than the people who hand us violence and call it compassion.
The beauty of direct action is that it acts as its own proof of potential, and regardless of what you thought of me, I WAS going to prove to you that this is the right way forward. I was going to prove that you deserve better, and that together, we could achieve that.
This is, again, very much the kind of person I was in college (or at least tried to be in-between dysphoria induced crash outs). It does quickly begin to feel like putting on an old bathrobe - Worn out and ill-fitting, you can tell you stopped wearing it for a good reason, but the warmth of nostalgia helps make up for the low-thread count.
And it was oddly warm.
18:30
After finishing yet another conversation with yet another worker, I look out the window. At the far end of the courtyard, I see people in a line holding plates as they walk away one after another towards a distant tent handing out today’s midday meal. There is a large dining tent in place nearby, but very few people will ever actually take their food in there. The vibes are nice, but the temperature also immediately spikes by about 10°F/5°C the moment you step inside. Given that the weather for the past few days had been surprisingly pleasant, the vast majority of people end up eating in the open air church.
I turn towards the nearby stair case with the intention of joining them, and yet…
‘Lumen Boulanger?’
I turn and see a large man in a postman’s uniform, complete with an elaborate rounded hat larger than his head. A brief sense of amazement that every doorway in La Cage doesn’t clothesline his headwear fills me before I respond.
‘Yes?’
He thumbs through a stack of letters and pulls two out.
‘Mail for you.’
Wasn’t expecting that, but certainly won’t say no.
I wonder if Mom sent me more money. I shouldn’t think about my Mom as just a money dispenser. Actually, fuck her, she’s wildly bougie and keeps enabling my capitalist pig of a father, her giving me money to redistribute is just justice really. Actually… Nooooo… she’s my mom and I love her and I need to write her back and fix my soul.
I snap back.
‘Thank you kindly!’ I attempt to show my beaming appreciation to my fellow worker. Postie nods and departs, as I briskly descend down the stairs.
I grab a plate and collect my food. As a Revacholian, I’m supposed to pay 5 reál for my food. I casually neglect to because I’m a poor student, and besides, food should be free for all, damn it.
Once I have my meal in hand, instinct pulls me towards the crowd. Then, I remember the letters in hand, and suddenly privacy feels far more important. I find a slab of concrete comfortably isolated from the masses and set my food and ass down. I take a bite and am pleasantly surprised at how delicious it actually is.
I spent a lot of summers working at a youth camp as a vegetarian. I have eaten a lot of meal made by people who resented being forced to make them. I still struggle to eat tofu, because it was not rare for those chefs to bread and fry a rectangular block of tofu, call it vegan chicken strips, hand me a cup of ranch, and call it a day.
This was not that. All the meals during all the runs were both vegetarian, and absolutely delicious. While La Cage might be a destitute place, that destitution never for a moment came through in the actual cuisine the players were expected to live off of while it was on going.
I feel my mood lift, as I crack open a letter.
The first is, in fact, from my mom. She’s worried about me. Things have gotten tense lately even in her relatively privileged area of Revachol. She shutters to think what will happen to me in somewhere as unstable as La Cage. All the usual mom stuff. She admires the strength I have to live true to my principles, but worries that the Moralist International and Coalition will be unable to keep us safe, that Revachol would be nothing without them. And she of course pleads with me to write more. I make a mental note to do so as I tuck the letter back into its envelope, before open the next.
It’s a letter from someone who hates Authority, or so it says, marked with the same anarchist symbols that adorn my patches, signed as ‘Unknown Friend’. Anarchists. It tells me that if I want to know more about the history of oppression in this place, then I should seek an anonymous grave marked with a symbol somewhere in the courtyard. Once I find that, a hidden history of La Cage will make itself known to me.
Interesting.
I take another bite of food and return the letter back to its envelope as well.
I quickly survey the entire courtyard as I chew. I have no fucking clue where this could be. My polycule was meeting in 30 minutes so I couldn’t spend too much time on it, but I could keep an eye out while I was still here.
A metal door slams against a nearby wall.
‘Alright, alright! If you worked today, come over here! 30 for immigrants, 70 for native Revacholians.’ A pompous looking man clad in red palettes lifts his nose up as he pulls out a stack of reál.
There’s grumbling, but the money is otherwise distributed without incident. The trio of workers begin to pass by me while my mouth is full.
I see a chance and can’t help myself.
‘However much they paid you, it’s not enough!’ I yell to the best of my abilities.
One chants back ‘Here here!’
Another exclaims ‘See! That’s what I’m sayin’!’
The third one walks over towards me. An elderly man with a pale face and a lost look in his eyes.
‘My name is Matija. You… think we should get more money?’
‘I very much do. Been talking to people here and the only thing everyone seems to agree with is that this is work is as dangerous as it is bullshit. You deserve better.’
Matija takes a moment to contemplate ‘...Yes. Yes I do. …and how do you think we can get it?’
‘Definitely! If everyone’s in agreement, that means everyone will be easy to organize.’
‘What, like a strike or something?’
‘Or a walk-out. Or something. I’m not sure yet, was going to talk it over with some of the other anarchists tonight, figure something out.’
‘...ah. I see. Well, do let me know. I would quite like to see things change around here.’
He laughs with a placating joviality as he walks away. It’s hard to tell if he’s inspired, thinks I’m stupid, or has his mind on something all together. I don’t wonder long though, as only moments later a collective of Coalition agents walk past with sharp suits, shotguns, and assault rifles. I take this as my queue to go wash my lunch plate and head up to my polycule.
Again: Not a fan of violence.
The Coalition agents are some of the very few NPCs in 97 Poets. They are no non-sense government men who come to actually buy the goods produced by the sweatshop, and in the process generally treat the owners about as well as the owners treat everyone else. There are stories to be told another time, but suffice to say that it’s not rare for them to destroy much of what has been created to ‘test’ it while insulting the owner for letting them do it. It’s a beautifully humiliating affair, one that is wildly cathartic to watch and deeply degrading to be subjected to (I have to imagine). And yet, within that, it’s hard not to pity them on some level as well: Even the sweatshop owners are beaten down, oppressed, and vulnerable. It by no means justifies their treatment of people, but does highlight how capitalism beating heart is abusive exploitation at gunpoint. Within this system, even monsters are victims.
Am I speaking as Ruby or Lumen right now? Good question.
Also as it turns out, Matija was the spouse of my Run 4 character, Valja. I shall not spoil why, but when/if I end up writing that story, I would implore you to come back and read this exchange with that context and realize just how fucking hilarious it actually is.
19:00
Eli is the last to arrive, almost exactly as I place down the needle on the vinyl. Warm pop tunes fall from the player’s cheap speakers and I find my seat across from Niko, the flat’s owner, and someone who, ya know. She’s… great. Got bad habits, but she’s great. Most importantly, she saw a ghost with me that one time. Next to her is our newest member, Jo. Part of our goal for today’s meeting is to figure out his initiating ritual to make him an official member. Eli sits to my right, daughter of the leader of the local Block Council and aspiring reporter. I try not to play favorites, but she is probably my favorite. To my left is Urdr, the Keeper of Stories, an elderly immigrant who joined us recently after moving here from a culture where polyamorous relationships were accepted as normal.
And standing above us all is an Unseen, named the Flowerseller.
As a unit, we are the Polyamorous Paranormal Pursuers, or the 3P, and with everyone assembled we can finally get down to business.
First order of business was, of course, drugs.
There were, of course, no drugs. Sobriety was strictly mandatory for the whole game. All the ‘drugs’ in-game were some kind of real life sweet - Powdered sugar, jellybeans, non-alcoholic beer (which was unreasonably delicious by the way), etc. The common understanding however was that if you took something, you were intended to roleplay both the highs and the lows of it. If you get drunk as hell, roleplay that, then roleplay then hangover.
Additionally, the first thing we actually did was take a quick moment out of character to set boundaries, make sure everyone was okay with reasonable touch, hugs, etc., particularly given that we knew this was likely to go to some pretty risque places.
I am very glad we did.
The Flowerseller begins the proceedings. As the drugs kick in, we turn to Jo and his initiation. He says he’ll do anything, just name it. After a couple moments of discussion where we universally agree that it needs to be something big and public, suddenly Niko excitedly blurts out a suggestion.
‘You need to write a sermon on the nature of love and deliver it while standing on the table during breakfast tomorrow!’
Everyone co-signs. Jo looks nervous but committed. One of the neighbors abruptly walks in on the way to their flat.
Okay, so I might have lied before: Niko’s ‘flat’ is less a ‘flat’ and more ‘a hallway they get charged rent to live in. Despite the intimate nature of everything, foot traffic is unfortunately to be expected.
We move onto the next order of business:
The ritual needed to commune with the supernatural.
The Flowerseller tells use all that we all must tell a story about love, a true or false one.
Niko goes first, telling a heartbreaking story about a love lost. It’s a lie. Eli and Jo also tell their own stories - Also both lies.
Urdr tells a story about how 45 years ago, he bedded a beautiful woman in Oranje just as he was about to leave for Revachol. He returns 20 years later and entices another beautiful woman who looked just like her, and was in fact her daughter. Another 20 years pass and he returns to Oranje, and finds another beautiful woman with much the same vibe. Thus, he was able to seduce three generations of the same family.
No one’s sure what to make of it.
‘I kinda hope it’s not true.’ Eli squirms
‘I kinda hope it is.’ I grin with a mix of mischievousness and stimulants.
Urdr smiles. ‘It’s true.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Hell yeah.’
The Flowerseller whispers in my ear, letting me know that this is one of the most beautiful love stories I’d ever heard. I feel a sense of loving warmth wash over me.
Urdr later tells this same story during a church service.
Finally it falls to me. I tell the story of how Kazi left. How my pride to see him give up everything to fight for a better world was overshadowed only by the gaping hole his absence had left in my heart. How I tried so hard to wait as long as I could, but still hadn’t heard a word. It’s hard not to assume the worst, but I have faith that he’s still out there doing good. My faith that he might one day return though… well, if I still had that, I wouldn’t be here.
Eli and Niko look crestfallen on my behalf. Jo places his hand on his heart. Urdr looks me up and down. The Flowerseller places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a warm nod.
‘I really don’t want that to be true.’
‘...it is.’
My heartbreaks, even as I know that I’m still loved. But I also know that here, just like everywhere else, better things are possible. I grab Niko and Eli’s hands and try to offer a smile to them all, to let them know that they have managed fill that void. I hope it seems sincere. Feels like I’ve already been a bit too honest for my own good.
A moment of silence, some mix of respectful, mournful, and awkward, brought to a halt by a pair of hands clapping together.
‘Okay, perfect!’ cheers the Flowerseller ‘With that done, we can now begin the ritual!’
Thank fuck, something to change the subject.
‘Alright, cool! What do we do?’
‘Everyone’s going to get paired with a lover, and then we will spend the rest of the night exchanging partners.’
So an orgy. The ritual is an orgy.
Oh god the ritual is a fucking orgy.
‘...okay then! How do we want to do this?’
Niko hops up and pokes her head into one of the flats.
‘This room’s empty! Sure they won’t mind us borrowing it for a bit. Give us a bit of privacy.’
Yeah. We’ll just borrow this stranger’s flat. Great idea.
The drugs mean that this thought isn’t sarcastic.
We begin to pack into the room
Almost as if on cue, the room’s owner wanders in, necktie wrapped around his forehead, absolutely fucking wasted. Most of us pretend not to see as we pile into his room, while the Flowerseller begins to work some kind of magic on him so that he’d come to see the beauty of letting his personal bedroom become a public fuckden for burnouts.
We begin to lie down on the floor.
Now, I have no doubt that there are some of you reading this and, at minimum, are asking ‘You’re not actually about to fuck on the floor with several strangers, right?’
Correct. Rules for intimacy were one of the many things laid out in the lead up to the game. Obviously, there’s some leeway for actually touching (shoulders and hands were generally accepted as okay until otherwise denied), but there was naturally a hardline on anything properly sexual. Not just discouraged, but flatly disallowed - If you were fucking for real, you were not playing the game right (though admittedly, by that point you probably don’t care about the game too much anymore).
That said, there were of course substitutes. Pressing your cheek against another’s cheek was a replacement for making out. Lying down on your side while facing and holding another person was the replacement for sex.
They had not, however, given us any instructions on how to do a god damn orgy. So we improvise.
We all lay down in a star shape - heads almost touching, feet pointed out - and take each other's hands. I grasp onto Niko and Urdr, as the Flowerseller bids us to close our eyes and savor the moment. We listen to each other’s breathing, and find comfort in each other’s presence.
Was it 5 minutes? 15? Through the comforting dissociation, it’s hard to tell. The time is only marked by outbreaks of giggling. Everything else melts.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.
The Flowersellers voice plummeted us back down into reality.
‘Alright! You have all had a vision!’
Among the several props and costume items I’d received, there’s been an envelope of ‘visions’. Having completed this, we were granted permission to pull one slip of paper out and do with it what we will.
The sex ritual had, in fact, allowed me to commune with the supernatural.
My vision was… surreal. The whole of La Cage was quiet, save people quickly scurrying to cover. I can’t help but be reminded of the shooting early today. Screaming breaks out as a cop named Rex Poe kicks in a door. Minutes later, he returns, leading someone named Blue out in handcuffs.
Then it ends.
…Fuck, is magic real? I’m a rationalist, a materialist, but this defies all reasonable explanations.
Unless it was just the drugs. A distinct possibility.
This merits investigation.
Whatever the truth might be, it’s clear to the whole polycule that our moment here has passed. Now, we all have places to be. I look at a nearby clock and realize that my Anarchist meeting begins in about 10 minutes. I sense a similar restlessness from everyone else. Everyone hands tightly grip each other's one last time, and we begin to stand.
As we filter out of the room, we pass by its still drunk owner, slouched against the wall of Niko’s ‘flat’. One after another, we place a hand on his shoulder and thank him for allowing something so beautiful to happen. He drunkenly grumbles in response.
Everyone goes their own ways, and I am left to saunter to my next location with an overwhelming sense of euphoria, inner peace, and joy.
This. This is what the world should feel like all the time. Letting everyone have this is what will make it all worth it.
Better things are possible, and now I feel that reality in my soul.
I understand the appeal of cults now.
This is a joke, but it’s also kinda not.
The euphoria I walked out of that room with was a result of me buying into the character, but still quite real. It was perhaps the best I’d felt since arriving, a sense of bliss which would carry me through much of what was to follow. However, even in the moment, it did not escape my notice that the thing that triggered that euphoria was not in fact drugs (because again: I am stone sober during all of this), nor actual sex (which again: was not had in any way), but a feeling of emotional and physical belonging. It was acts of intimate movement and emotional solidarity which made it feel less like a collective of broken people, but a Transcendent ‘Us’, only further reinforced the fact that it did sincerely seem to be yielding mystical results.
This is what I mean when I say that, somewhere in the many, many timelines of this game, there is a supernaturalist Lumen who goes ALL IN on this shit, though it would almost certainly not end well for her.
The whole experience made me appreciate that I am actually susceptible to cult-like indoctrination (as you too likely are). With the way I felt after that, if that shit had been triggered by a singular charismatic figure who also wanted to feed me a valuable purpose? Holy shit, are you fucking kidding me?
There’s a certain liberation in handing over agency, as I think we all know. After all, that’s acquiescence of agency is the most fundamental buy-in needed to participate in any game, especially ones like this. Want to play basketball? Dribble this ball with your hands. Want to play to Bloodborne? Commit to defeating these challenging bosses. Want to play 97 Poets? Let your character lead you where they want to go. And I do think that, on some level, that is part of the fun of games:
Please god, give me rules, tell me what I can and can’t do, limit my available choices so I can figure out how to most efficiently operate within those limits, make decision making easy yet engaging, let someone else do my thinking for me for 5 minutes so I can play the puppet getting dragged around by mechanics. It’s hard not to seek it out sometimes. We can only make so many decisions a day before the mental fatigue starts to set in, so these devices which give us real yet diligently restricted choices actually begin to feel freeing in a way. That said, it’s most certainly not hard to see how that impulse could be exploited by those with ill intent.
Seen at that angle, it suddenly feels a lot more reasonable that I could get pulled into something less wholesome in its intent than our silly little game about the rise of fascism. I am not immune to being pulled into abusive dynamics of all kinds, and neither are you.
Also, I should state this for the record:
I’ve been polyamorous for over a decade at this point. I know intimately what these kinds of relationships look like: they look like watching Ice Cube’s War of the Worlds while stoned in a cuddle puddle. Similar, but notably different from this because the only spiritual component is occasionally listening to Alan Watts or Gnostic gospels, and the only initiation ritual is that I am going to make you listen to every Jeff Rosenstock album.
What took place here wasn’t mutual love between a healthy polycule. It was a collective of messy crash outs at best, and an actual sex cult at worst. There are polycules out there like this - make no mistake and keep yourself safe - but I as a player knew that this was a disaster waiting to happen from the moment.
But holy shit did I love it.
Crashing out can be a lot of fun under certain contexts, as it turns out. Especially when you know that YOU won’t have to pick up the pieces.
This was, unambiguously, the moment where I lost whatever lingering vestiges of Ruby, the player who is trying to be optimal at the game, and fully fell into Lumen, the hippie nerd with shit to do and love to share.
I now had three overarching goals:
First, find out who Rex Poe and Blue are.
Secondly, do something to help the workers I’d been talking to earlier in the day.
And third, track down that unmarked grave which the letter I got was alluding to.
The vision definitely takes priority though. With a warning like that, you basically have no choice but to act on it, right?
Speaking of…
Comments
Cammie Dawn
You paint such a bright and deep picture of the experience-- no doubt you know this but to put it plain-- what you lack in the ability to draw images and words with stencil grace you more than make up for with poetic flair! The thing that really grabs me here is how the game is designed to allow the expression of ideas, the cardboard graffiti is truly inspired and I love the way you handle the rationale between your IRL limitations and pour them into the drive and direction of Lumen like the sweatshop decision But more than anything-- you're granted a character who is morally compatible with yourself and the freedom to act out in ways which may not be safe or opportune in day-to-day life and are able to give voice to those frustrations and deep seeded desires and are always quick to note the line between Ruby The Player and Lumen The Character-- like how shame tinged your earliest attempts at barking at people for frustrations-- Absolutely LOVE that LARP grants you that freedom and lets you become intimate with that headspace and erode the fear and hesitation you'd otherwise feel-- more than *cathartic* it sounds honestly enriching to be gifted the ability to see what you're emotionally capable of and push those bounds while the boundaries are down Thank you for sharing this experience! It's thrilling!
