When I do, the whole purse comes apart at the seams, and dice and dozens of Gonfalon coins scatter across the floor. Some bronze, some gold, but most of them tin—or rather, silver. They’re the exact same coins as the ones we use in the game, except they’re all still shiny. New and never used. Not mine.
They roll across the floor and dance around my feet. There’s more here than my character ever had in-game. Hells, it would break the game; I could buy so much influence. Because while Gonfalon is sometimes a far better place to be than the real world, some rules are universal, and wealth will always equal worth.
I try to keep my breathing even. I’ve bought influence before, and no one ever noticed. They only ever appreciated my money.
But these coins… Why are they here? Who put them here?
A small piece of paper floats down to the ground, and I snatch it up before it gets there.
Six words and the chill from the room settles inside of me. My shoulders drop and my jaw tenses.
Break the rules. Lose the game.
I don’t recognize the handwriting. I don’t know if it’s a threat or an observation.
I crumple the note and begin to pick up the coins, one by one. Copper. Gold. Silver. Each one goes back into my coin purse, tied together with pieces of string. By the time my fingers have passed across all the various pieces of metal, my heart rate has settled to a steady, cold drum.
Break the rules. Lose the game.
Someone knows what I’ve done. I’ll have to do something about that.
Five
Ever
This was a mistake. I walk around the living room, making sure all the game clues are where they’re supposed to be. The storyteller’s robe clings to my shoulders. Normally, I feel more complete with it on, as if it’s a magic layer of protection against the world. But right now, the fabric clings like a pair of hands, pulling me back from the precipice.
This was a terrible idea. Everyone is trying, more so than I expected in the first place, but this weekend can’t live up to anyone’s expectations, least of all mine. This game isn’t home anymore.
I asked Liva about using the cabin and if her parents would mind. “The cabin isn’t an actual vacation spot for anyone but me,” she said. “It’s a status symbol. No one goes there.”
The words took a moment to sink in. The idea that her family could have an extra home without caring about it was wild. I’m lucky to have a roof above my head and a place to sleep each night, but so many people struggle to find even that. And this cabin is just…here. Empty most of the time. That doesn’t seem fair.
I didn’t know what else to say, but I accepted the keys to the cabin. Because it has an open-plan living room that’s twice the size of mine. Because it has all the potential to be a perfect getaway.
Because right now, our group is all patched up and duct taped together. Everyone is angry. Everyone has secrets. I have secrets. And I’m also somehow somewhere in the middle, unable to make it better. I can only give them a make-believe world to escape into.
While I wait for everyone to get ready and for the game to start, I stand in the middle of the still-quiet living room and whip out my phone. Before I think better of it, I scroll to my text thread with Damien. I still have my phone—we’ll all put them away in the pantry soon—and I need a helpline.
This was a mistake.
He replies instantly.
Why?
Damien doesn’t know the meaning of weekends—which is to say, his computer is always on, whether for his game development work or to chat with Finn and me. Our group chat started after Finn introduced us at WyvernCon, and Damien realized I have a passion for games too, be it TTRPGs instead of MMORPGs. We called the chat our greater transformation chat.
After Finn got beaten up, Damien and I started our own private thread, a place where we could share our worries without burdening Finn. And over the months, we kept chatting. The distance and sense of privacy meant I told Damien all the hidden parts of me, the secrets, the worries I shared with no one else—not even Finn. I’m not entirely sure he signed up for that, but as Damien says, “Every trans kid needs trans elders.” And sure, he’s only twenty-something, but, “We’re family, after all. Perhaps not in blood but in other ways that count. So we link our arms and form shields. That’s how we keep one another safe.”
Because the group isn’t what it used to be anymore. It’s not like the last time you saw us.
I imagine it isn’t, after what happened with Finn. Hatred is insidious. It doesn’t attack once and then withdraw. Hatred is a parasite. It burrows. It gnaws at you. It tries to undermine the structures you have and leave voids where your safeguards were.
He says it like it’s no big deal. Like that’s just the way things are.
I don’t want it to be like that.
Of course not. No one ever does.
So what do I do about it?
You fill those voids with love.
The game?
Yes, for example. You and Finn both love the game, and so does the rest of your group. It can be a place of healing. And trust.
Yeah. So. Remember when we talked about how good role-playing games are about trust? I don’t think the group trusts one another anymore either.
I hesitate, wanting to say, I don’t know if they can trust me. But I don’t.
And I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know how to fix them.
I don’t know how to fix Finn. I can almost hear Damien sigh.
It isn’t your job to fix them.
Of course
