Episode Two: The City Platform, The Station

The station platform is crowded. So crowded.

But it's an ordered crowd. Given the time, the clothing, the general observance of transport etiquette, you can tell the group is made up largely of commuters.

Everytime you are here, you dedicate a good percentage of your consciousness to suppressing claustrophobia.

[Look]

You are being swept gently along with the tide of human bodies. It is sweaty, gritty and soothing.

There is an escalator here.

To the north, is the train carriage - still regurgitating tired-looking passengers.

[Use escalator] - removes train carriage from available locations, changes this room to the station exterior.


You bide your time. You are Buddha. You are the reed. You are supple. You will bend, but not break.

The train carried you here.

The crowd carries you onto the escalator.

The escalator carries you to the station proper.

And now - nothing is left to carry you.

You are an individual. Responsible for your own actions.

Such a burden.

[Look]

You are standing in the body an inner-city train station.

There is a noticeable absence of rubbish bins. The threat of trash-concealed improvised explosive devices is obviously worthy of bin-removal.

Legitimate, official Police Officers assure that nobody jumps the ticket gates.

You are serious. Real gun-wielding police officers. Here. Dedicated to protecting a private corporation.

It must be some consolation to the man with his teeth knocked-out, the woman who has been pack-raped, the father stabbed in the queue at the kebab shop - that at least - in this chaotic world - train tickets are being properly paid-for.

The ticket gates stand smugly, awaiting your approach.

[Look at ticket gate]

You've encountered this before. Ticket in, Gate opens, Ticket out.

Conversely, you can squeeze through the gates.
The solitary perk of being a healthy individual amid veritable planets of public healthcare endorsed sows.

[Use ticket gate] - changes scene to city street

You line up behind an excessively-sized woman. Her bra-strap forces the formation of two distinct backs - an upper and a lower back.

Her flanks grind wetly against the sides of the gate as she labors to maintain inertia.

You prepare to place a helpful boot in the small of her back - for a gentlemanly push - but she makes it.

You move close to her and put your hand out, collecting an imaginary ticket.

She smells like icecream.

The police don't move.

You have just been positively-reinforced.

Ah, the outdoors. What a seething nightmare you are.

[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to city street

You slip the ticket into the gate, and pass through. For a second, you yearn for the days of wagons and horses and shotguns.

You would definitely become a serial killer.

The city. You are a beast of gravel and unbelievable promiscuity. I love you so.