My daughter was gone and I had to look for her. All I knew was that she was not where she said she’d be, and her dull friends had no other idea. I finally found some evidence from her room and diary that she’d be there. Why in God’s name would she go there?
I pulled my car over and ran past the abandoned, rusty gates. The Plant. A million thoughts run through my head. I can’t explain, but she has to be here. I pushed past the first door, into the Coil Room. A bank of cylindrical extrusion presses stand like sentinels in the dust. The equipment was broken, run down, like it had never been run in years. The ceiling had holes in it. There was no sign of life in this room, not now, not for the past five years or so. I moved to the door on the right.
I used to spend a lot of time here. I used to eat lunch here every day. I had forgotten how soothing this courtyard was to me, when I was trying to get away from the drudgery of working in The Plant. There used to be a tree here, and people would gather there to smoke, and I’d people-watch. I ate alone after people found out I’d been to jail before for bashing the factory manager. I suppose I understand why they’d be fearful, but did they understand what happened to me? I was always watching the yellow, exhausted faces huddled around that miserable tree. Every day I’d look out for the person I trusted the most, who betrayed me by calling me out. Celeste, I was always still looking for you. The anger of past memories grew in me, and then I grew fearful. I never really recovered, did I? I’m better now, I swear I’m better. I must get going.
I continued past the courtyard into the scrap room. Ah, I remember this. It was where cars got turned into nothing more than a chunk of useless metal so it could become useful again – where only equipment hummed day after day, loud enough to cover the sounds of all the illicit activity going on. Shattered beer bottles and ancient condoms litter the floor. Those disgusting pricks.
A saltiness entered my mouth. I hadn’t realised how much I was sweating here. Adrenaline? Wait, how much time had passed since I entered? The saltiness brought back unwanted traumatic memories of the factory manager – heavy – trying to get me – ugh, stop, I’m choking – into the scrap room – pain, at the tugging of my hair – when he thought nobody was looking. I hunched down unknowingly, the terrifying memories returning and my vision blurred a little.
I ran to the side and crawled into a claustrophobic access corridor that once was my hiding spot from him. Now, it was filled with animal droppings and asbestos. The fans were no longer working, a thick layer of dust sat undisturbed, and the ductwork was tired, leaving old, gaping holes.
It is the past. I used to spend a good amount of time above the factory floor, in cramped crawlspaces filled with metallic dust. Here, the roar of the plant floor was muffled, and it was almost peaceful. I look down and see my partner, the love of my life – she is talking to the manager, about keeping her job. Is the manager threatening her? How much longer can I keep up with this – but if I don’t then Hilary will lose her job. I blink, and the scene dissolves. Right. I need to find my daughter.
I get up and enter the furnace room. A shopping cart and rotten canvas tarp was set up in a corner. The Plant had been empty for some time now, so I’m not surprised that someone has set up a temporary home in here. A sudden memory flashes into my head. It’s a few years ago. The furnace room is hot, the hydraulic lifts poised like fat legs on either side. There is a taste of metal in the air, and the foreman comes in. He tells me I’m going to be a father. I drop to my knees in joy. Finally! Wait, my daughter. That’s right. Where is she!
The next room is larger than all the others. The work line room, once dominated by four immense machines churning, constantly churning and spitting metal out, was empty save for some refuse and a desiccated, stained mattress in the middle.
I lean against the door. I’m exhausted. There is an itch in my throat. I swallow dryly. I wonder where she could have gone. The feel of metal on my skin jolts me back into the past. It’s the manager, telling me one last time. He’s pushed me against a table. The metal, on my face. Coldness, on my stomach. Oh, God, make it stop. He’ll never stop! Beasts never turn. My rage starts to build. My stomach hurts. I feel like I’m going to hurl. My legs find themselves and I run…
into the control room. The equipment here, once expensive and state of the art, had been forced open and gutted for every piece that held value on the market. The rain had entered and turned the contents of an overturned desk into a mouldy paper pulp. A mummified rat peeks out of a waxed red paper cup.
She’s been here. The paper cups were arranged around the mummified rat like a tomb. We did that the last time for our cat Charlie. I feel a wave of relief wash over me. I must have imagined that nonsense in the last room of the plant. It couldn’t have happened, right? A sigh escapes my lips.
I look in the dust for some prints and find it. I follow them into the trunk room. Gas and water pipes start their journey from here, but none of them are working now.
A memory comes again. Her baby shower. My baby daughter. MY baby daughter. People came to see her, what a miracle! That’s right, she’s a miracle. I’ll definitely find her. A father’s nose, that’s what it is.
I descend for the third time down a ladder and enter the break room. Faded health and safety posters – what a joke – vie for space with creeping mould and crudely scrawled graffiti. This place had been turned into a shooting gallery – all manner of needles and syringes form a toxic constellation across the cracked linoleum floor. And there she was. In the middle of it all.
In the end, she wasn’t even hiding. She appears before me, a few metres away. A different turn, a more sensible choice, and I would have walked right to her. She smiles when our eyes meet, but it is a terrible smile. Somehow vacant, as though picked up through magazine photos rather than ever being happy. She’s changed. What happened to her? My stomach churns again. And again. Make it stop.
==========
The Plant is a solitaire roleplaying game, much like the adventure game books we are so used to, but with a rpg element. Cards with randomised numbers and letters, and details produced by the player help bring certain scenes to life – and the important part of this game, to make it immersive, is to genuinely put effort into answering the questions.
You’ve drawn a detail – the feel of metal on your skin – why is this terrifying to you?
Each paragraph above was written with some of the text and sometimes none of the text from Jason Morningstar’s words, and represents a room and a memory/detail used to bring the character, history and The Plant to life.
The result from this simple mechanic? A stellar experience created. I highly recommend going into this with 100% and your story will be unique and deeply emotional. You can find the pdf of The Plant here.