The plant is a game designed completely around telling a story. The gameplay is minimal, nothing more than a couple of nudges in terms of how you write the story. The interesting part is what comes out of it from your mind. This is a link to the rules of the game; I’ve also attached the story that came through my playing of it.
My father was a butcher. My father was also a drunk. The copper smell in the long mill hall brought back memories of the back of his shop, of heavy hits from sweaty, bloody gloves if I wasn’t working fast enough. I shivered slightly at the smell. I moved quickly to a door at the left, eager to leave this room as soon as possible.
I found myself in the control room. I thought back to before it had been in such disarray. It used to be so clean, so perfect. Everything ran smoothly in it’s place and could never fail... until it all did. Still, I felt my daughter’s presence for a moment. She must have come this way, I was certain of it. That thought helped calm me. There were no ghosts here, and my father was long dead. The building was old and empty. I moved on.
I walked down the old metal stairs into the furnace room. It was a huge space, the abandoned equipment torn apart and still towering over me. In the center of the floor someone had dragged in a shopping cart, covered in a ragged tarp. A clock was hidden inside; I could hear it ticking from across the room. I was running out of time. I needed to find her, and she was already far ahead of me.
I climbed down a ladder, sinking deeper into the plant. The trunk room was filled with burst pipes and dank from old, tepid water. The water in the well was pitch black. I remembered finding old Mrs. Steadwell down here, just before the plant had closed. She had looked up at me, tears brimming in her eyes. “I hope you’re happy.” Her jaw hardened as she spoke. But it had been the right choice then, and I had to move forward now.
I took the last staircase down to the bottom of the plant, far from sunlight to where the work line lay. The machines had been taken when the money ran out, and all that was left was a vast empty space. Still, just being in the room dragged me back to the day of the accident. I heard Jimmy screaming, I saw red blood welling up from where his hand should have been. Everyone else lept into action and I just stood there, frozen.
I stood there hearing old echoes for what felt like an hour before I could cross the empty space to the door into the scrap room. After the plant was shut down, this must have become a hangout spot; it was filled with trash and graffitti. Angry and afraid, I paused to take in the room.
She was waiting at the back of the room, lost in her own thoughts. When she heard me move she stood, and smiled. There was no joy in it, just acknowledgement. He had already left, taking some other path, gone before I arrived. I was too late, by a mile. The little girl I came looking for was gone.
