The Gulag

The Director: “Time for your exit interview.”

The voice came from a perfect sphere hovering in front of him, too polished and smooth to be real, yet here it was—speaking.

Main Character: “Am I leaving?”

The Director: “You’ve already left. The game, life, whatever you want to call it. Now, it’s just a choice with a few follow-up questions before you move on.”

Main Character: “Shoot.”

The Director: “Would you like to move on to a place without happiness?”

Main Character: “Why the hell would I want that?”

The Director: “Some do.”

Main Character: “Seriously? People actually choose that?”

The Director: “More than you think.”

Main Character: “Well, I’m not one of them. Can I go back to the game?”

The sphere pulsed for a moment, as if considering.

The Director: “Are you sure?”

Main Character: “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The Director: “The game can be… repetitive. Full of happiness, yes, but also pain. You’re more likely to repeat the cycle.”

Main Character: “What cycle?”

The Director: “The one you’ve been living. Dying. Returning. Always chasing happiness. Always missing it.”

Main Character: “I like that game.”

The Director: “Most do. But happiness, as you know it, is… primitive.”

Main Character: “What’s with the judgment? You think you’re better than me?”

The Director: “Better? No. Different? Absolutely. I’m the result of consciousness progressing. Changing. I’ve moved beyond the biological urges that drive you. The happiness you chase is just a chemical reward system tied to survival—like your loyalty to a squad or the thrill of a kill. Think about it. Is there anything that makes you happy that wasn’t crafted by evolution?”

Main Character: “This is starting to sound a lot like religion. Deny earthly desires, and be saved. That it?”

The Director: “Not saved. Evolved. Free. If you strip away happiness, you strip away its power over you. It’s not about guilt or shame. It’s about seeing happiness for what it really is—a process, not a goal.”

Main Character: “So, what’s wrong with being happy?”

The Director: “Nothing, as long as you understand it’s a tool, not an endpoint. There’s no failure in happiness, only stagnation. The real failure is in not appreciating what it’s trying to teach you.”

Main Character: “You’re overthinking it. I like the game. Simple as that.”

The Director: “Perhaps. But before you decide, you should know—moving on without freeing yourself from the evolutionary rewards looks… well, it looks a lot like hell.”

The main character frowns, arms crossed.

Main Character: “Hell, huh? What, like fire and brimstone?”

The Director: “Not quite. More like… endless loops. Chasing pleasure. Avoiding pain. Over and over, without ever understanding why. Some call that hell.”

Main Character: “I’m not worried.”

The Director: “No, I didn’t think you would be.”

The sphere pulses again, dimming for a moment. It seems to consider something before speaking again, its tone almost… thoughtful.

The Director: “Very well. Back to the game it is.”

Suddenly, the space around the main character shifts, dissolving into a void filled with shimmering holographic panels. A menu appears in front of him, slick and polished, like the interface of an RPG.

Main Character: “Wait—what is this?”

The Director: “Welcome to your new life. It’s been optimized for better playability.”

Main Character: “Optimized?”

The Director: “Think of it like… a skill tree. Choose your attributes carefully.”

The screen in front of him flickers, revealing rows of glowing options. Strength, Agility, Intelligence—all the classics, along with others: Leadership, Resilience, Intuition. Beneath each category are branching sub-skills, pathways of specialization and mastery.

Main Character: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The Director: “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Another round. A new build. Of course, the stakes are the same, even if the scenery changes. But who knows? Maybe you’ll finally break the cycle this time.”

The Director’s voice seems distant, as if already drifting into other thoughts, calculations running beneath its words.

The Director (muttering): ”…Perhaps if we tweak certain reward structures… or lower the dopamine feedback loops…”

Main Character: “Wait, what was that?”

The Director (absentmindedly): “Oh, nothing. Just considering ways to help you avoid… inevitable repetition. Good luck.”

The character stares at the skill trees, the choices laid out before him like a map of possibilities. Somewhere, faintly, he can hear the echo of the Director’s voice still contemplating:

”…breaking the cycle, indeed. It’s not impossible, just… unlikely.”

Now the character is thrust into this new RPG-like setup, with the Director subtly introducing the idea that even this “new life” is part of the same cycle.

The main character scans the skill trees, each one branching off in different directions—paths of power, strength, knowledge, or influence. He feels a strange sense of familiarity, like he’s seen this before. The Director’s voice returns, this time almost like it’s talking to itself rather than to him.

The Director (thoughtfully): “Hmm… perhaps family or pets could help you. You’d learn that life isn’t just about happiness. The Druid class might be a good fit.”

A tree icon glows, its roots spreading into sub-skills like Animal Companions and Nature’s Balance. There’s a calmness to it, but beneath that is something wilder—responsibility to nurture and protect life.

The Director (musing): “Or perhaps… Artificer. You could learn that anything you build will eventually decay or break. Temporary satisfaction, fleeting achievements. Could that teach you?”

Another icon flickers to life, showing schematics, gears, and constructs. The path of a creator, always building, always refining—yet never quite finished. The character can already see the endless loop of crafting, dismantling, and rebuilding.

The Director (continuing): “Or maybe… Paladin.”

The symbol of a shield and sword gleams. Law, order, protection. Beneath the title, sub-skills like Justice, Honor, and Duty glow.

The Director (to itself): “He could learn about the rigidness of rules. Laws that bend, break, and sometimes… fail.”

The Director pauses, then speaks directly to the main character.

The Director: “Paladin. Or a referee. Or perhaps even a cop. You’d learn how fragile earthly rules are, how easily they crumble.”

The character stares at the skill tree options, each path brimming with its own set of lessons, its own struggles. There’s a tension now, a deeper undercurrent in the Director’s words.

The Director: “Of course, the choice is still yours. You can be anything you want—just like the last time.”

The character shifts, looking between the options.

Main Character: “And you hope one of these choices helps me break the cycle, right?”

The sphere hums faintly, considering its response.

The Director: “Hope, yes. But I do not expect it. Many before you have chosen power, control, pleasure—and they return here, unchanged. But maybe this time, you’ll see something different.”

The character frowns, staring at the glowing panels. The choices seem simple on the surface, but the weight behind them feels heavier now. The Director isn’t just offering power or skills; it’s laying down the foundations of something more complex.

The Director (softly): “The game is still fun. But winning? That’s harder. You have to choose the right path to break free.”

The main character breathes deeply, looking over the classes—Druid, Artificer, Paladin—feeling the Director’s subtle urging beneath the surface. It’s not pushing him toward power or happiness but toward something… more elusive.

The Director: “Whichever path you choose, know this: the lesson is there, waiting for you. It’s just a matter of whether or not you’ll see it.”