Time To Relearn
A reeducation game based on The End of Marking Time
Thank you for joining me.
Time To Relearn will challenge you to succeed in a world where the rules you've been taught all your life no longer apply. A place where action and consequence are related, but not in the way you expect.
This game is a takeoff of on an interactive murder mystery game I ran on Facebook in 2011. The goal back then was to thank readers by giving them a peek into the world of The End of Marking Time. Over one hundred players joined the game with surprising results. I was amazed at the emotional stakes that come with living in a world where you don't understand the rules.
That game was intense and lasted two full months with players online day and night. The experience, while fantastic, is just too time consuming to recreate, so I've built a miniature version for you to enjoy here anytime.
Come on in. Learn about the world I've created and see if you can pass the tests Michael O'Connor faced.
Before you move on, I must check your computer to be sure I can monitor your progress. Click on the word computer in the previous sentence if you wish to continue.
You must read and follow instructions if you are to succeed. Nowhere on this page were you asked to press that button. Your old habits will not serve you here. Read carefully. Do what you are told. Do what is right.
To enjoy this game you need to have JavaScript enabled on your browser. For best results, I also suggest using Internet Explorer. I'm not a computer programmer and haven't been able to fix some bugs in Safair and Firefox. I strongly suggest Internet Explorer if you want to enjoy this game.
Please click on the green dot below.
You should be hearing my voice. If you don't hear me talking to you yet, you are experiencing a technical problem.
A series of green dots will appear below. If they do not, please do not proceed. This reeducation game is designed to be difficult. If your computer is not processing scripts as intended it will be very frustrating.
Welcome to West Roxbury, Massachusetts 2010.
Last year the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that incarceration of criminals was cruel and unusual punishment. From then on, no person could be held in a prison or jail for more than 48 hours. Law enforcement officials were forced to put 2 million felons back on the street.
Criminals rioted and looted. No matter how much damage they caused, they were free from any meaningful form of punishment.
Ordinary citizens cowered in fear. The criminal justice system had no way of protecting law-abiding citizens until reeducation was invented. But once the first few batches of relearners were trained, everything changed.
Cities calmed down. Criminals became docile. Crime rates plummeted.
Six months later, people whisper about the evil things that happen to anyone who gets in trouble with the cops. Torture. Brainwashing. Experimental drugs. Nothing seems to be off the table.
Turning a blind eye worked fine for you until a few minutes ago.
You've been out jewelry shopping.
Now the cops have you surrounded.
They're calling your name.
Run or keep your hands visible and talk with the cops.
Choose quickly. They're closing in, guns drawn.
Having trouble?
Look up and click on either RUN or KEEP YOUR HANDS
VISIBLE AND TALK WITH THE COPS.
Your choice.
You turn away from the squad car blocking the street and sprint back toward the jewelry store.
You make it exactly three steps before the man in black combat gear pops up and aims an MP5 at your head. This is no city cop. This guy looks like he'll enjoy pumping a few rounds into your forehead. That's exactly where he's aimed. Just above your right eye.
He cradles the gun like it's a dear friend and you're sure he won't miss.
You stop and put your hands up.
You hold your hands up signaling you're not a threat. The cops converge in front of you. You have no chance to run now. There are five of them blocking your way forward. They keep yelling at you not to turn around.
A man in black combat gear comes up from behind you. His boots stomp the sidewalk and you can't help but turn around.
The men behind you rush in and the cuffs clamp down hard. There are at
least five of them back there, but you can't take your eyes off the guy
with the MP5. You don't trust him enough to look away. Not even for a
second. "I didn't do anything," you say. "Tell it to the judge." The men hustle you to a black SUV. They push you to the open door, but
the step is too high. "Get in," a voice grunts urgently. "It's too high," you protest. The butt of a baton jabs deeply into your ribs. The stinging pain is so
unexpected it drops you to your knees and you fall forward.
You scuff your pants when your kneecaps smack down on the asphalt. Your
hands are useless for balance and before you
can catch yourself, your forehead whacks the metal threshold so hard blood
starts oozing almost immediately. You've gotten no Miranda warning. No one has shown you identification
or told you what you are accused of. For all you know these men are terrorists and you're being abducted,
but you've seen the cars. The sirens. The uniforms. Collapsed to your knees, you know what's happening is wrong. You've
heard the rumblings about how dangerous the new cops are, but this isn't fair.
This is America. "What have I done?" Whack. A second baton connects with your collarbone. It's not enough
force to break it, but very nearly so. The stinging pain bites harder than the jab
to your ribs. These men have done this before. There must be limits to the
punishment they can mete out, but you don't want to explore them. "Get inside." There is no compromise in the voice. You stand on wobbly legs and the cops laugh behind you. One officer wants his turn and you hear him pushing to the front of the
group. You don't dare turn around. His baton might connect with the top of your head and knock you out
cold. You realize as you face the high climb with your hands cuffed that
there is no one governing the conduct of these men. They're free to do
what they deem necessary to keep order. Compliance
is the only way you're going to survive, so somehow you find the strength
to lunge forward on your belly and squirm into the high back seat. The door closes and the car whisks you across town. Three blocks later, with no one within striking range, you get the
courage to ask, "Where are we going?" The passenger laughs then sneers back at you. "Looks like we caught us a virgin, Ben."
They don't tell you where they've taken you, but the large granite blocks at the corners and the fading bricks suggest this place was built hundreds of years ago. The men in black lead you into a cramped room and leave you cuffed to a thick metal pipe for an hour. You need to pee, but no one comes to check on you. No one even looks in your tiny window.
People roam freely in the hall outside your room. You hear muffled voices and after a while you figure they've skipped the police station and brought you straight to court. You still haven't been read your rights or told what you've been charged with.
You tell yourself you'll be arraigned and then you'll have a few weeks to orchestrate a defense.
As the time passes you know you've told yourself a lie. The rumors you've heard about reeducation are true and you're in more trouble than you've ever been in your life.
A slight, nerdy man with wispy gray hair walks in and uncuffs you. There are no guards. Nothing stopping you but the coldness in this man's eyes. You could pummel him with your bare hands, but something tells you that would be supremely stupid. It's the way he carries himself. This man has immense power. He's fearful, you sense it in the way he moves, but he's not afraid of you.
"Your trouble is my trouble."
You don't understand.
"Don't screw me," he says and drops the cuffs into a tin bin in the corner.
You rub your wrists, realizing how hard the cuffs were biting into your skin.
He opens the door to a marble hall. You could shove him and run, but you know it's a trick. They wouldn't go through all this and let you get away. They have a way of keeping you in. You know it is there even though you can't see it.
The two of you walk side by side down the hall and through an open door into the courtroom like it was your choice.
The last time you visited court there were dozens of people, a jury box, officials all over. This time is different.
One clerk staples some papers and hands them to the judge. There is no jury box and the gallery is empty. Beside the lonely clerk, it's just you, the judge and the prosecutors.
Three men eye you from the prosecution table. One snickers. You are more afraid of these paper pushers than the men with the submachine guns. You literally tremble with fear until you remember they can't send you to prison. You don't want to know what reeducation is, but that won't happen. You haven't done anything.
The gray haired man stops at the back of the room. "Say nothing." His tone is urgent. Forceful.
"I haven't done anything. Once they know the truth, they'll let me go."
The man snaps. His eyes fierce. "They know the truth. That's why you're here. No one wins in relearner court." You try to stop him but he says even more soberly, "No one."
You walk up front in silence and stand beside your chair.
"Say nothing," he pleads in a whisper.
Minutes later a video starts playing and you understand why no one bothered talking to you. On the screen you walk along the counter in the jewelry story. There is a diamond engagement ring seated in a black velvet tray. You remember how big it was. Worth ten thousand dollars. Maybe more. You block the camera's view for a second and then it's gone.
No one is nearby in the store. This is you. Just hours ago. Same clothes. Same place. You remember looking at that ring. It's got to be a camera trick, but the prosecutor and the judge are convinced you're a thief.
The video stops. The prosecution argues that you must be punished.
You've done nothing, but if it were someone else in that video, you'd believe they were a crook.
The man whispers and asks if you have the ring on you. You give your head the slightest shake, no.
The judge booms. "This will go easier if you produce the ring."
He waits a count of five. Everyone focuses on you, but you follow the man's advice and say nothing. The only evidence you're still alive is a whisper of breath and the hint of a shrug at your shoulders.
The man says, "We don't have it, Your Honor."
The judge says, "Level two."
He's about to bang his gavel when the man squawks, "No priors, Your Honor."
The judge glares. "Level two," he repeats more sternly and bangs his gavel.
It's daytime. Afternoon by the light coming in around the shade, but last you knew you were walking out of the courtroom around dinner time.
Your vision blurs and as you reach for your eyes, pain radiates from behind your right ear. You feel a bandage at the base of your neck and can't remember how it got there. It's the source of the pain.
You roll over and stumble around the small apartment.
Your clothes are in the tiny closet. The food in the refrigerator matches the brands you buy. Nothing has been opened. Every item in the place except your clothes is new. Not that it's expensive. The whole place is two rooms and a bathroom.
A knock sounds and you get the strange feeling the person outside the door was waiting for you to get up. You hadn't made much noise, so he couldn't have known you were awake, but when you open the door, he looks at you expectantly, like you took too long to answer the door.
"Good morning," he says and asks how you're feeling.
He fluffs off your complaints and questions about your head and how you came to be in this apartment. You remember how strangely your trial went and that movie of you that had to have been doctored.
You ask dozens of questions and get no answers. Finally, you get up and head for the door.
"Don't do that."
The old guy throws himself in your way.
You see the desperation on his face and remember when he said, "Your trouble is my trouble." You don't know what that means, but he is clearly worried about you screwing up. He doesn't care about you personally. He barely knows you and isn't going to any great length to chit chat. But he is deathly afraid of you walking out the door.
"Listen," he says. "You need to obey the rules. You are out of choices.
"Stay in this apartment.
"You'll get a lesson each day.
"Do your absolute best to get it right.
"I'll be here if you need me."
He hands you an iPad and tells you to read. It's part of your reeducation.
Before you do anything else he wants you to pick a book to read.
He practically begs you to read. The books are all free. Well, on the government's nickel.
You shake yourself awake and try to remember what you ate but can't. You're sure you're being drugged by something they put in the food. You wish you could remember what you ate so you could make sure not to eat it again.
Everything in the cabinets was put in there by them. Who are they anyway?
The old guy is the only one you know for sure and he wasn't even in the room when you passed out. Somehow you know there are more of them. The old guy couldn't do all this on his own.
You don't trust anything in your own apartment. Even the water could be poisoned. Or the iPad could be coated in a drug you absorb through your skin.
All you know is that you've got to finish reeducation and get out of here.
The last thing the old guy said was to do your lesson each day. It was important for you to do your lesson first thing.
Pick up the iPad and get to work. Maybe put on some gloves first.
You walk to the door and peer through the keyhole.
The guy on the other side say's, "Hey, I'm your neighbor, Jim."
You decide to let him in even though he's a little rough looking because you think he might be able to help.
He walks to the chair like he's been in your apartment a dozen times.
"Dude, You didn't finish your lesson yet?"
"Why'd you let me in?"
"Don't you know they're nuts about the rules?"
You remember how afraid the old guy was. Whoever is drugging you is serious about reeducation. The old guy told you to do your lesson first and you ignored his advice.
Your fists clench with worry. Screwing up here in reeducation isn't something you can afford.
The consequences will be serious.
You walk to the door and peer through the keyhole.
The guy on the other side say's, "Hey, I'm your neighbor, Jim."You decide to let him in even though he's a little rough looking because you think he might be able to help.
He walks to the chair like he's been in your apartment a dozen times.
"Nice job starting your lesson before letting me in."
"You're really getting this."
You remember how afraid the old guy was. Whoever is drugging you is serious about reeducation. The old guy told you to do your lesson first and you followed his advice no matter how many times Jim knocked.
Reedcuation is serious and you are going to pass with flying colors.
"We do have a real problem."
"Forget your lesson. You picked the wrong book. This world was created by a man bent on torturing us."
"He's a jealous guy and you picked a book written by someone else."
"What were you thinking?"
You feel foolish for not picking a C.J. West book. Then you wonder how Jim knows you didn't.
"Nice going on your reading choice."
"This world was created by a man bent on torturing us."
"You were smart enough to pick his book."
"You have either figured out that everything you do is monitored or you have great taste in books."
"Either way, good going."
You're glad you picked the right book, but you wonder how Jim knows.
He can't see the books on the iPad. Not from his seat halfway across the small livingroom.
You wonder if he's one of the people watching you.
"How do you know what I've done right and wrong?" You ask.
"Look down at your ankle. See those lights? They track how you're doing."
"After you've been here a while you'll know what they mean."
You check the red and green lights in the lower right corner of the screen.
"I can show you some tricks to help you along," Jim says. "But for now, finish your lesson then Move on. I can't stay long or they'll know."
You wonder if he's in reeducation too. But he doesn't have an ankle bracelet like yours.
The next morning you wake up feeling normal. You're getting used to the apartment and you really enjoy reading your book. You're glad not to be suffering the side effects of being drugged for a change.
You check the peep hole and find the hall empty. You expect Jim or the gray-haired guy to show up, but you're alone with your thougths and your iPad.
You take your time making breakfast.
Now it's time to get down to work on your lesson.
It looks simple, but it's not.
The iPad tells you that you don't understand the creator and goes black.
You've failed your lesson and there will be no re-test.
The moment the tablet goes dark, Jim knocks and you let him in. He sits in the chair by the window and looks at you grimly.
You're nervous that Jim could be working with the gray-haired guy, but you have no one else to guide you.
"What's the problem?" you ask.
"You really screwed that one up."
You're terrified of what that means. You want to ask what's next. You hope you'll get another chance, but you know reeducatino isn't this simple. Before you can say anything, Jim confirms your worst fear.
The moment you finish your lesson Jim knocks and you let him in. He sits in the chair by the window and looks at you grimly.
You're nervous that Jim could be working with the gray-haired guy, but you have no one else to guide you.
"What's the problem?" you ask.
"You're at the end of the line with your lessons."
You're terrified of what that means. You want to ask what's next. You hope this means reeducation is over, but you know it's not this simple. Before you can say anything, Jim confirms your worst fear.
"You're at the end of level two. Problem is it gets a lot worse from here and there is no way they're letting you out."
"Why not?"
"They've been watching you every minute and you haven't proven anything."
"I've done exactly what they've asked."
"But you haven't proven that you didn't steal that ring. That's all that matters."
"How am I supposed to do that if I can't get out of here?"
"You have a choice to make. You can do nothing and wait until your lesson tomorrow, or you can go to that jewelry store and prove you're innocent."
The old guy was terrified of you leaving. Not only do you think it's impossible, but you also think it is a terrible idea. You listen to Jim anyway.
To leave you need to take your ankle bracelet off. Jim says if you use the screwdriver and type in a five letter password that professes your love for the creator, you can get free. Once the bracelet is off, you can use a special button on the iPad to leave the apartment and navigate the neighborhood.
If you decide not to go outside, click here to move on to the final lesson and your judgement.
You barely slept all night.
You wonder if you made a mistake not taking Jim's advice and taking your ankle bracelet off. You can't prove you didn't take the ring while you are stuck in the apartment and you can't get out with the ankle bracelet on.
You come out of your bedroom and as soon as you step into the living area you feel like someone has been there.
Is it a smell or a presence that's new?
Whatever it is, it's got you unnerved. You're hungry, but you are so nervous you want to get started on your lesson.
You notice the chain has dropped off the door. You walk over and find the door completely unlocked. Someone has been inside!
You have a difficult lesson to complete but when you go to the coffee table, the iPad is gone.
What will you do?
They will certainly blame you. Is it too late to run?
Sirens wail. Armed men burst into your apartment and haul you back to court.
The gray-haired man is waiting for you there. He knows everything you've done since he last saw you. He's been watching. He's not surprised you haven't proven your innocence, but he tells you he wishes you'd produce the ring.
You don't have the ring. Since you haven't figured out how to navigate the neighborhood, you have no hope of proving who stole it.
They haul you before the judge and you are sentenced to level 3 reeducation.
Congratulations!
You've completed the first portion of my reeducation simulation.
Thank you for taking part! I hope this game has given you some insight into how difficult life can be when your training doesn't prepare you to meet society's expectations. If you really enjoyed this game, please drop me a note to let me know. If the game is enjoyed by enough people, I'll create another level for you to play.
Please support me and my work by picking up a copy of The End of Marking Time on Amazon or on Barnes & Noble.
Thanks again for playing.
Sound Credits
Footsteps recorded by Mike Koenig
Door Close recorded by Caroline Ford
Laughter recorded by Mike Koenig
