Cleared

I'm sitting at my desk. There's only me and the little cabin, inside and outside. There are a few pictures, newspaper clippings and mugshots on the wall. There are two stamps in front of me: Approved and Denied. Green and red, yes and no, in each case condemnation. Like the raindrops on the windshield, time seems to be trickling down. Is it that dark, or has all color just faded from the world? Sluggish, leisurely, contemptuous, suspicious. Life passes me by - no, lives. A line of people waiting for me. For my judgment. For my mercy. Just like me. I am also being judged.

A man approaches: long, brown hair, goatee. A mixture of Garry Oldman and ... someone. I can't think of anything. My mind is blank, succumbing to the monotony of power. He places a briefcase on the counter, inside: a game. Papers, Please. His first work. A simulation. A masterpiece? A disgrace? He closes the case again, I'm not interested. I don't need be interested.

He takes an ID card out of his coat: Lucas Pope. American. Developer and ... composer? Something stirs in me. Music. There - something is moving. In the queue, while the glances furtively appear behind the man. But also in my memory. I close my eyes. Music. Sounds. Soundtracks ... there was something. I remember. Slowly, like thick honey, the thoughts drip into my hollowed-out mind. Video games. Soundtracks. That made sense! Something made sense again!

When I open my eyes, I see it as clearly as if the rain had become a veil: Video game soundtracks. I pull the surprised man over the desk counter and ignore the stares of watchers and watched. “What have you brought?” I whisper in the man's ear. He has a simple scent that seems to ooze indie developer. “Three tracks,” he replies as he detaches himself from me and pats the rain off the front of his coat. “Three,” I reply hollowly. “Is that all?” “That's all.”

'Three can work', the thoughts circle in my head. 'Three. Trinity. Three musketeers. Three healthy meals. Three-' The thoughts end. “Show me,” I whisper, almost begging. “Only if you let me pass.” There it was, the condition. There was nothing free in this life. No freedom, not even death. I hesitate. “One now, the others when I'm through.” It was too tempting. Even before the veil of thought tears, the green stamp flies down. The man smiles with a superior grin. He knows he deserves it; that he can do it again at any time.

I look at the track: Papers, Please. Simple, plain, modest. Authoritative and uniform. Then fast-paced, almost rebellious. A steady brass beat, which at some point, supplemented by synths, relentlessly swings the communist club. The conveyor belt speeds up, everything is too much. It's all over.

When I look up, the man has already vanished. The remaining pieces are lying on the counter: Victory and Death. Success and failure. One is a euphoric piano with an out-of-place drone that celebrates a victory that isn't one and doesn't belong to me. In contrast, Death dances on my grave, celebrating my downfall with equally false joy. Memories flash: of There Is No Game: Wrong Dimension. Of Workers & Resources: Soviet Republic. Familiar. Known. Swallowed. Consumed.

I realize that I can't win. No one can. In this game, in this hamster wheel of decay. Constant dripping wears away the stone. The rain is back, the music has disappeared after a handful of minutes. Was it worth it? Was I worth it? The custodian?