History: Though I can’t recall the specific circumstances surrounding the inception of the initial, foundational concept, the intensity of my compulsion to work on and bring to fruition my nascent design ideas was, for years, unwavering. Beginning in early 2015, I drafted pages of elementary puzzles and artwork that I eventually attempted to translate into an executable game program with basic sprite animations. However, the constant impediments and frustrations derived from my limited capabilities proved untenable, as did the overall scale of the project and my inextricable desire to manifest the game precisely in the idealized form I had envisioned. Out of my own sense of pertinacity and refusal to abandon a narrative that had been so unequivocally inspirational to me, I decided to salvage the needlessly descriptive, thirty-thousand-word script and adapt its scraps into a full-length novel (see PART 2: Novel Chapter 1).
Though the remnants of this entire script in its original format have been saved, I’ll constrain this post to include a few sections that are sufficient to establish the general tone and structure of this work.
Background: Set during the latter half of the nineteenth century in a fictional universe, this sci-fi fantasy, puzzle-platformer was designed to incorporate the fundamental principle of “screen-wrapping” as a controllable mechanic to conduct the player through the various gameplay stages. An intricate narrative was to be interlaced between four primary levels and their respective bosses, with the player returning to an expansive, Victorian-inspired city after each mission had been completed. This city and its Non-playable characters were dynamic, altering in accordance with the passage of time and the propagating consequences of an ongoing, ever-encroaching armed conflict (based on the Franco-Prussian War and the Siege of Paris). I planned to conclude the game with a bit of a considerable reveal concerning the protagonist, Rigel, that, to be succinct, was weirdly similar to the ending twist of Jordan Peele’s “Us”.
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Rigel ascends the ladder and appears at the right side of an open, lonely room. Indented into the room’s gray-bricked back wall, an imposing clock face is alighted in the pale emanation gently diffused from the emerging morning sun. A slanted and elongated image of the clock’s face is silently lain across the wooden floorboards by the refracted light of the rising sun, terminating just before the top of the ladder and the scuffed, black shoes upon Rigel’s feet. Undisturbed and accumulating dust at the center of the room, a mechanism comprised of an aggregation of small gears, pistons, and wires is elevated on a solid wood platform. A gear box, interconnected to the complicated workings of the machinery stationed beneath it, projects four thin metal shafts from each of its four sides. One rod attaches to the center of the clock face positioned focally against the back wall, while the other three are implicitly fastened to clock faces not visible in frame. Such components should have, as in times since passed, interminably driven the fluid, incremental movements of the clocks’ metal hands. Instead, the tower perpetually wears upon its faces the precise hour and minute which brought about the sudden cessation of its rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat. As Rigel cautiously moves towards the dormant machine, his eyes are uninterruptedly drawn to the interlocked, splintering beams of the rafters overhead. From the dispersed shadows that shroud the sharp angles of the high, vaulted ceiling, the second boss of the game emerges. The fight concludes once again with the destructive deactivation of the boss and the release of a single mirror shard, which now gently rests upon the shallow, brick ledge surrounding the clock’s face. Rigel’s resolute approach to the shard gradually stains his body in a familiar red-orange hue that is captured and reflected in his eyes the moment his left hand finally makes contact. Fade out.
Another first-person lore cutscene begins.
The screen slowly fades into an image of a leather-bound notebook open to a page covered in exceptionally detailed illustrations and mechanical drawings outlining the design and operation of a toy music box. The handwriting slants capriciously, making it almost entirely illegible, and the page itself is lightly crumpled and sporadically discolored from many unfortunate encounters with both food and drink. The book is steadied and propped up against two thin thighs that bend upon their prominent knee caps in the foreground of the frame, while a clock face presents a view of the dull, gray western sky just a few paces away. A small gas lantern sits calmly beside the man on the wooden floorboards, its low-burning flames somnolently wavering as they slowly shrink and die. Continuous, sonorous whirring sounds elicited from operating machinery pervade the otherwise still, lonely room. As the man progresses in making contributions to his work, heavy footfalls and reserved voices reverberate discernably from below. The notebook is hurriedly closed and the man shyly peeks around to the left. His pale, boney hands quietly grasp the right edge of the solid wood platform he had been resting against as a stout man dressed in a top-hat and thick overcoat finishes his ascension of a nearby ladder. The new gentleman removes his hat and moves hesitantly toward the tower’s eastern face, his obscured front illuminated by a circle of light thrown across the floor by the rising sun. A few moments of uninterrupted silence pass before a second gentleman appears at the top of the ladder. Though his back is mostly turned and his features are partially blanketed in shadow, his gaunt, haggard appearance and slightly rounded and burdened shoulders are undeniably perceptible. His hands delicately cradle a bouquet of flowers against his midsection. He, too, removes his hat as he [laboriously] and painfully makes his way toward the brightly shining clock face. Not a word is uttered between the two, and they stand there, unmoving, looking out at the view of the city and countryside beyond. Finally, the shorter gentleman places a reassuring hand upon the other’s right shoulder and turns in the direction of the ladder. In response, the humble observer anxiously conceals himself once more behind the wooden platform. His breathing eventually slows and regains its normality as the sound of footsteps pressing against the creaking, wooden rungs of the ladder is heard. Carefully, the man once again peers out from behind his cover to venture a glance at the remaining gentleman. In his perceived solitude, the gentleman allows his reserved, unemotional composure to soften, and his head bows deeply into his chest while shallow gasps violently tremble his frail frame. After some time has passed in this manner, he manages to bring a thin, shaking hand up to his face to remove the evidence of his sorrow before replacing the top hat upon his head. He takes a few uncertain steps toward the ladder and hesitates just as he reaches the center of the circular beam of light emanating from the clock face. His upper body slightly turns back around as his eyes distractedly and aimlessly scan the secluded little room one final time. From this position, the warm gleam of the morning sun clearly illuminates the gentleman’s angular features. Visible just beneath the broad brim of a smooth top hat, an untamed mess of light brown hair falls gently before a deeply etched, creased brow. Protruding bags stained a dark purple underlie tired, reddened eyes, and dry, thin lips quiver almost imperceptibly. He shuts his eyes tightly for a moment and allows a heavy sigh to forcibly escape from his heaving chest, which seems to calm his shaken demeanor considerably. Conviction born of despondent resignation suddenly consumes him and he steadily turns toward the ladder, casting his face once more into the darkness of his own shadow. Consequently, the toymaker again retreats to his hiding place as his view of the tower begins to blur from the emergence and accumulation of empathetic tears. Echoing from behind his left shoulder, an audible whine of aged wood from underneath the weight of descending footballs is discerned. The toymaker is alone with the dull hum of the clockwork once more. For the final time he turns toward the clock face, his vision still compromised, as the screen occasionally flashes black in an emulation of the act of blinking. With every step, the distorted splotches gradually sharpen in resolution and the room’s features become more distinguishable and defined. The image finally regains its former clarity just as the toymaker passes through the soft veil of emitted sunlight and finds himself before the brick ledge surrounding the clock face. Looking down, he perceives a humble bouquet placed lovingly upon the warmed, chipped bricks as light settles delicately against the gentle curves of its red petals and the creased folds of the thin fabric embracing its stems. The toymaker reaches forward and caresses a lone petal with a single, trembling finger. His eyes carefully raise and he stares introspectively out the circular window at the scenery beyond the tower. Pale sunrise is emerging over the peaks of the mountains in the distance, gradually dispelling the heavy, obstinate shadows which lay across the dying trees and the slowly wakening city nestled in the valley below. Through the slight opacity of the glass’s surface, the toymaker spots two figures emerging from the tower and heading off in different directions down the intersecting, cobblestoned streets of the quiet, dormant city. He meticulously follows the movements of the taller man until the gentleman enters a simple corner residence and disappears. Fade out.
Fade in to a familiar view of a cluttered desk displaying multitudinous pieces of fabric, strings, gears, and bits of wood all alighted under the dim, red-orange glow of a resting gas lantern. Partially hidden beside discarded scraps of colorful toy components, an unadorned wooden box sits beneath pages of music box plans that were hastily tacked into the smooth mortar between the faded bricks of the workshop’s wall. Nimble fingers appear in the foreground and swiftly work towards stitching decorated sections of cloth together. The left hand eventually lowers in a demonstration of the completion of its task while the right-hand grabs and twists a metal valve attached to the side of the lantern. Gas ceases to course through its glass chamber and, subsequently, the flames it harbors are slowly stifled until they suddenly and unceremoniously die with a final desperate breath. Fade out.
Positioned in the exact location in frame where the lantern once sat, a lifeless gas streetlight partially fades into view. Its base is rigidly anchored into an accumulating film of hardened, glistening ice, and the view of the quiet street diminishing into the distance is indistinct and heavily shadowed from the darkness of the not yet completely faded-in screen. Standing beneath the light, a middle-aged man wearing a messily patched brown jacket and frayed, woolen gloves with large holes torn into the fingers carries a long, metal pole. At its end, a stout wick maintains a tiny pilot flame which is brought beneath the lantern’s hood and touched against a thin, continuous jet of gas softly whistling as it streams from a flute at the lamp’s center. Narrow flames ignite and burn hotly within the glass lamp, melting away the few flecks of snow and ice which had just begun to cling to its surface. The remainder of the scene dimly fades into view. The newly illuminated city street behind the lamplighter is mostly empty, and the red-bricked buildings which line its sides are enveloped in a deep gray haze interspersed with flurries tossed about capriciously by blustery, freezing winds. Bleary, yellow circles of light thrown from streetlamps in the distance barely punctuate the dense, heavily laden murkiness of the early winter’s evening. The toymaker braces himself against the wind and presses forward down the cobblestoned street, his determination unimpeded by the severity of the storm surrounding him. He trudges arduously down the road, his steps encumbered and deliberate in deference to the slick, shimmering ice that has encrusted across the surface and into the rugged grooves of the stones lying beneath his feet. A quaint residence emerges distinctly from the pervading fog in front of him, resting at a corner formed by the bisection of the main road by a narrow, unlit passageway. As he perseveres in his advancement towards the stoop leading up to the building’s doorway, he suddenly becomes cognizant of an oddly tepid breeze brushing past the right side of his body. Squinting through the barrage of snow and chilling gales that assault his vision, the toymaker notices that he has found himself within the confines of a diffusion of red-orange light spilling out from a paned, rectangular window just a few feet to his right. He carefully steps into an embankment of snow piled up against the building’s wall and peers into the window, which has been stuck slightly ajar by a discernable cant in its bottom edge. The living room appearing beyond the glass is plain, and its furnishings without ornamentation or meretricious decoration, and yet, it emanates an indubitable air of hospitality and comfort. Featured prominently against a back wall covered in faded, lightly curling navy-blue wallpaper, a lit fireplace is framed with a simple, oaken molding and mantelpiece. Glowing embers and dying flames meekly quiver and crackle as they exhaustedly consume the charred remnants of a log resting against the fireplace’s blackened, brick interior. A floral-patterned, upholstered armchair is positioned at an angle with its back to the exposed window and its obscured front facing the faltering fire. A slender forearm peeks out shyly from the feathered seam of a worn dressing gown as it sinks deeply into the right arm of the cushioned chair, its hand slowly losing its grasp on the binding of a still-open tome. Beside the chair, a cigar languishes in a tray amongst its scattered ashes, sending up wavering ribbons of smoke that curl and expand as they dissipate into the warm, stagnant air. This view inside the quaint apartment rapidly grows unfocused and distorted as the toymaker pushes his body away from the broken window with the force of his right hand against the glass’s surface. His exposed right extremity, throbbing and chafed from the unremitting gusts of freezing air, is stained an almost ethereally vibrant red-orange hue in the flickering light streaming from the window. A moment of brief hesitation passes before the toymaker’s attentions are turned to the amorphous object covered in a sheet that he protectively holds under the crook of his left arm. Delicately, he lays the package upon a brick ledge underlying the building’s window and raps loudly against the glass. He then turns away, hastily, from the emanating heat escaping from the slanted opening and tightly secures his overcoat across his chest. As he ventures into the stifling, deep gray cloudiness that has settled heavily between the austere, imposing rows of silent tenements, he manages to steal a final glance back in the direction of the window. A billowing wind brushes past the nestled bundle he left behind, rippling and flapping the loose edges of its fabric bindings until the object underneath is partially exposed. It is, quite discernably, a toy replica of the clock tower boss Rigel recently defeated. Fade out.
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A light frost clings to the browning leaves that congregate at each summit while the vibrant red and golden hues of fall retain their spectacular resilience at lower elevations. A rail line escapes from the city and the overbearing mountains behind it, though currently no trains venture to travel along its track. On the leftmost border of the city limits, shallow ponds of mossy green punctuate the otherwise uninterrupted fields of coarse, wild grass. The crepuscular sky behind the mountains is painted in deep blue strokes which gradually blend into a coalescence of warm, yellow and orange tones spilled across the edges of the visible sky by the setting sun. Fade Out.
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Gray cobblestones lie underfoot which welcome the protrusion of thin blades of wild grass in the spaces in between. In the distance, a grouping of dilapidated brick homes sends up lazy puffs of smoke and soot from blackened, stout chimneys. The sky is dark and rain pours unceasingly in heavy streams tinted a deep gray from diluted ash. The indistinct forms of individuals move at a fair pace across the screen in a murky, shadowy blur. Distinguishable and prominent amongst the other figures, a female child in a navy-blue coat slowly heads from the outskirts of town near the factory’s entrance toward a lonely brick building. The sound of feet splashing through puddles accompanies the camera’s pursuit of the girl as she reaches the building and opens its door, cheeks and eyes noticeably red and flush from continued hysterics.
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Jasper and his friend: Jasper settles upon a stool, his gangly body hunched over the bar and his protruding nose dangling just above a glass half-filled with a discolored liquid that he lazily swirls about. The sound of the parlor doors being swung open is heard, and a corpulent gentleman with neatly combed, thin black hair steps forward and glances, unassured, around the hazy room. His uncertainty is immediately dispelled when he spots Jasper, and, gradually, during his approach of the man, an unrestrained smile stretches across his full lips and inflates his reddened, rounded cheeks. He laughs dryly as he carefully lowers himself into the wooden stool beside Jasper. “I had heard whispers about an infamous arsehole practically residing at the parlor’s bar. Somehow I knew they were referring to you.” He claps his hand congenially against his friend’s back. “It’s been too long, Jasper. Your landlady said you’re rarely ever at home. Makes it difficult to contact you, you know.”
Jasper fixates his narrow eyes upon his friend and glares at him with sudden hostility. With a sneer, he takes a dramatic, obnoxious swig of his drink before answering. “My hours at the factory are getting longer. Forgive me for trying to relax during my free time.”
“You misunderstand, I don’t intend to lecture you. I came here to give you this.” The gentleman slides a folded piece of paper across the bar’s surface towards Jasper, who snatches it hastily and stuffs it into the interior pocket of his tattered, tweed jacket. “I, um, I’ve signed up for the army.” Jasper raises a single eyebrow and delivers a punctuated, condescending snort. “Ah, there’s that judgmental gaze I’ve missed so much. Anyways, I’m not particularly articulate, but I think I put my thoughts quite well in that.” He makes a subtle motion in the direction of the hidden pocket. Clearing his throat, the man hesitantly lifts himself from the stool and looks expectantly at Jasper for a moment before awkwardly turning away with frustrated resignation. “So…farewell, for now.”
“…No. Sit. Have a drink with me, first.”
The gentleman obliges.