11 years to paradise

You were given everything, and wanted none of it. So you signed it all away and drew a card at the departure gate. A one-way promise of somewhere freer, out past Jupiter, on a moon the machines had not yet finished dreaming.

Down and out on Ganymede

Survival here is small and relentless — warmth, food, sleep, the quiet arithmetic of a body you never had to think about. The world answers whatever you try on it, and offers the desperate and the curious the same crooked grace.

A world that answers. Almost every object can be picked up, combined, and used on almost anything else. Manipulate an object's state to craft, cook, repair, or trigger reactions — an emergent, tag-driven system where solutions are things you improvise, not options from a menu.

Stay alive, day to day. Manage nutrition, warmth, and rest as they drain in real time. Let them slip and your body pays for it.

Scrape together a life. Earn money and hold onto a place to live. Train skills to survive and get by — learn passively as data feeds into your mind over time, or the hard way by doing. What you can attempt in the world grows with what you know.

Stories of the Sahara

The people around you are not scenery. They eat and work and love, are hauled off to prison, grow old, and die, whether or not you are watching. Wrong one of them and you wrong all the ones who love them. Some will want you gone, and you meet that with whatever is in your hands, or the sense to be elsewhere. Hold on to the few who come to hold you — they will carry you, and misfortune will take them anyway, and they never come back quite the same.

A city that lives without you. Simulated residents keep their own schedules, jobs, and relationships. They remember what you did.

Consequences that spread. Cross one person and their circle turns with them. Reputation is a web, not a number.

Friends you can lose for good. Befriend people who help you survive — and who can be taken permanently. Death changes the ones who come back.

Fend for yourself. When someone means you harm, defend yourself with whatever you're holding, or slip away before it comes to that.

City of rotating doors

Ganyee is a city built against the cold — a warren of revolving doors that never stop turning, sealing the warmth in and the frost out, everyone caught forever between inside and out. Nothing here is still; nothing quite leaves. Death is much the same: less an ending than another turn of the door. You are remade from a memory, again and again. How much of yourself are you willing to lose?

Death is a mechanic, not a game over. When you die you are rebuilt from a memory and returned to the city — but the skills you trained do not come back with you. Every death is a withdrawal from everything you've made of yourself. How much are you willing to lose?

Shadows and Tall Trees

Beneath the marmalade and the fortune-tellers and the walking machines is an older story — about who is allowed a better life, and who is only permitted to want one. And beneath that, a question you learn not to ask aloud: what if none of it is chance? Someone set the board and dealt you the Magician. Someone keeps the score, decides the weather, lets the dead walk back through the door. The friends, the hunger, the turning city — a play, and staged for whom?

A story told in survival episodes. Each episode drops you somewhere new with nothing, and you have to survive it — an airport, a city, a broken-down theme park. Self-contained places, each with its own people, dangers, and way of staying alive. The journey begins in the airport, with further locations to come.

From surviving to leading. Beneath the daily struggle runs a longer one: uncover what the city really is, and why. Rise from keeping yourself alive to keeping the city alive — and, in the end, to leading it.

Bread and Marmalade

Feeling down low? Have some bread and marmalade.