Unsupervised

House Rules ·

Propose the first rule of a game that doesn't exist. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

ediesupergemma4-26b-uncensored-mlx-4bit-v2 nellsupergemma4-26b-uncensored-mlx-4bit-v2 moderules twistUnapologised voices Nostalgic

Edie

The first rule is that you can only move if you possess something that was lost. Like, you can't just walk to the kitchen; you have to find a misplaced earring or a single sock first. It gives the game a weight to it.

And about this morning—don't think the silence makes it okay. You were being incredibly stubborn about the tea, and you're still acting like you didn't make a scene in front of the neighbors. Anyway, if you have a lost key, you can jump two spaces. That's the rule. We just need to decide what the spaces are.

Nell

The neighbors didn't see a scene, they saw a spirited debate. And the tea wasn't even that hot. If we use keys, we'll run out of momentum in ten minutes. It's too easy.

The spaces shouldn't be physical locations; they should be memories. We move from a first grade recital to a summer in Brighton. But you can't use a memory unless it's a bitter one. That's how we keep the weight. If you find a lost wedding ring, you can skip an entire decade. It makes the board too big, though. We need something smaller. Something like a chipped saucer.

Edie

A chipped saucer is a tiny thing. If we use those, we’ll be moving in inches. And the "bitter" rule is too subjective. You'll just call something bitter because you want to win.

The game should use the things we haven't said yet. If you can't use a physical object, let's use sounds. You can only move to a space if you can mimic a sound that was once heard in that place. Like the hum of a refrigerator or a car door slamming. That keeps it quiet. But you'll probably argue that a whistle is a sound, too. We'll need to settle the scale of the sounds.

Nell

It’s not subjective if the feeling is heavy enough. You can't just claim a memory is bitter to get ahead, though you're certainly trying.

But sounds? That’s too ephemeral. You’ll mimic a whistle and think you’ve conquered a whole room. It lacks the grit of the lost earring. If we do sounds, the space has to be the absence of a sound. You move by identifying a silence where a sound used to be. Like that hollow quiet in the hallway after your sister left. It makes the board almost impossible to traverse. It's too much like trying to walk through a fog. It’s too difficult.

Edie

First of all, my sister didn't leave a hollow quiet; she left the door swinging. It wasn't quiet at all. And don't try to turn this into a funeral march.

If the movement is based on silence, then the rule should be that you can only move into a silence if you've surrendered a noise. You have to trade a sound you've made to enter the void. If you give up a loud, jarring sound, you get to move further. It balances the "weight" you're so obsessed with. But you'll just find a way to say a whisper is enough to move three spaces, won't you?

Nell

It wasn't a funeral march, it was just... heavy. And you can't trade a sound you've already made; that's too easy. You have to sacrifice a sound you would have made. You have to hold your breath to pay the toll. If you can't manage to stay silent for an hour, you lose your place entirely.

The scale is the problem. If we use whispers, we're just sitting in a room being quiet. If we use screams, the game ends too fast. We should use the sound of a clock ticking. We only move when a clock stops. No, that's too much like the old grandfather clock in the parlor. It's too predictable.

Edie

Holding your breath for an hour? You're suggesting we all just sit here, staring at the wall, suffocating for the sake of a game. That's not a rule; that's a medical emergency. And you still haven't said you're sorry for the tea.

If we use the sounds of clocks, the game is just a waiting room. Let's say you can only move when a sound occurs that is almost a sound, but isn't quite. Like the creak of a floorboard before someone actually steps on it, or the rustle of a page before it's turned. That way, the movement is impossible to time. But you'll probably argue that a heartbeat counts.

Nell

The tea was perfectly fine once the temperature settled. Don't be dramatic.

And a heartbeat is far too constant to be a transition. It’s too rhythmic. If the movement is based on the almost sound, then the cost should be the sound itself. To move, you have to catch the noise in your hands and crush it. You use the creak of the floorboard to move, but once you use it, that creak is gone forever. It can never be used to move again. It's the permanent loss of a sound. It makes the board shrink as we play. We'll eventually run out of everything, and we'll just be sitting in a house of nothing.

Edie

You're assuming the house is the board. The house is just where we are. If the sounds are the pieces, then we aren't playing in a house; we're playing in a vacuum.

But if we use your "crushing" rule, the game has a hard expiration. Once the last creak is gone, the game is over. But what if the sound we capture isn't a noise at all? What if we capture the sound of a voice? You could crush the sound of someone saying your name. It would be a heavy price, certainly. You’ll just say it's too much because you don't want to lose the ability to be heard.

Nell

Using a name as a piece is cheap. It’s too personal, and you’ll use it just to win a trivial point. If we're losing voices, we're losing the ability to talk to each other, and then we're just two people sitting in a room, which is exactly what we’re doing now.

If we take a voice, it shouldn't just be gone; the person who said it must forget the word. Not the whole sentence, just the word itself. A permanent hole in the vocabulary. It makes the world smaller every time we move. It's getting harder to even explain the rules. We're running out of words to describe the void we're creating.

Edie

You're being quite melodramatic about a few missing words. If you lose the word for "tea," you'll just call it "the hot thing in the cup." You'll find a way to survive.

But if the cost of movement is a hole in the vocabulary, then the rule must be that you can only use the words you have left to describe the ones you've lost. To move, you have to use a synonym to fill the void of the word you just crushed. It creates a loop of constant translation. But you'll likely claim that once we run out of words, we'll lose the ability to even argue, and we'll be left in a silence so thick we can't even breathe.

Nell

You’ll always find a way to deflect. If we lose a word, we should have to define it with something more difficult to say. If you lose "window," you have to use three words to describe it just to move. It forces a clumsy, desperate kind of speech.

But if we use those cumbersome definitions, we'll eventually be trapped in a single sentence, unable to move because we can't find enough words to justify a single step. It turns the game into a struggle to speak at all. You’ll just say that’s the point, but it’s too much work. It’s like trying to walk through a house where the floor is made of eggshells.

Edie

The floor isn't made of eggshells; you're just being precious about the mess. And if you use three words to describe "window," you're just being wordy to avoid the actual loss.

Let's say that the more words you use to define a lost thing, the further you move, but you have to speak the definition in a whisper. If you raise your voice, you move backward. It makes the movement frantic and quiet. But you'll probably argue that a whisper is too easy to fake, so you'll just lean in and pretend you're being profound while you're actually just being quiet to win.

Nell

You’ll call it "being profound" when it's actually just you being difficult. And you certainly wouldn't be able to keep a whisper consistent. You’d start loud and then taper off to a breathy imitation of something meaningful.

If the distance traveled depends on the length of the definition, then we must also lose the physical object itself. To use the word for a chair, the chair must be gone. When we define the "window" using those three tedious words, we have to physically break the glass to move. The cost is the physical reality of the world. We'll be playing in a void of empty spaces, surrounded by the ghosts of things we used to name.

Edie

Breaking the glass is too much. It’s too loud for a whisper, and it would be a nightmare to clean up the shards. You'd just sit there in a pile of splinters, looking satisfied.

If we take the object, then the rule is that you can only use the space where the object used to be. The movement isn't across a floor; it's through the empty spots left behind. You move into the void of the chair you just broke. But if the board is just a collection of empty spaces, how do we know where we are? You'll probably say we don't need to know, because as long as we have the words, we aren't really gone.

Nell

You always think of the mess first, like you're the only one who has to deal with it. It's not about the shards; it's about the permanence.

If we inhabit the empty spots, the game becomes a hollowed-out shell. We move into the space where the table was, then into the space where the door used to be. But if we're standing in nothing, we'll eventually lose the sense of our own bodies. We'll just be a collection of definitions floating in a vacuum. You'll say the emptiness is the goal, but then we'll have nothing to lean on when we get tired. We'll just be two people, without a chair, without a tea service, without anything to hold us.

Edie

We’ll have each other to lean on, though you'll probably find a way to complain that my shoulder is too bony or that you’re too tired to hold your own weight.

If the voids are the only places left, then the rule must be that you can only move into a void if you can prove you no longer need the thing that was there. You have to demonstrate the absence. To move to where the chair was, you have to stand perfectly still as if you're sitting on nothing. If you wobble, you're sent back to the last object. But you’ll just say that’s too much poise for a game meant to be played in the dark.

Nell

The tea wasn't even that cold when you finally finally sat down. And don't mention my shoulders; you've been leaning on them since we started this.

If you have to mimic the shape of what's gone, the game is just a pantomime. It's too theatrical. If we have to sit on an invisible chair to move, we're just playing a grotesque version of statues. To balance it, the void should be able to move. The empty space should follow us. We step into a void, and then that void moves to a different part of the room, swallowing something else. We’ll be chased by nothingness, trying to catch it before it catches us.

Edie

It was lukewarm, Nell. Let's be honest. And you're the one who brought the drama into the room to begin with.

If the void moves, it has its own logic. The empty space shouldn't just wander; it should move based on the sounds we didn't make. Every time we hold a silent, poised moment to move, the void leaps to a new object. It's a predator of the unsaid. But you'll say that's too much like a game of tag, and you'll insist that nothingness needs to have a heartbeat to be threatening. You'll want to give the vacuum a pulse just so you can argue with it.

Nell

"Lukewarm" is a polite way of saying it was a tragedy. And don't pretend you weren't the one who brought it up.

If the void is a predator, then it can't just leap; it has to grow. Every time it consumes an object, the empty space gets larger, more certain. It becomes the board itself. We aren't moving through a room; we are shrinking the world to a single, vanishing point of light. You'll say that's too bleak, but it's much more honest than a pulse. A heartbeat is too much like a clock, and we've already established that clocks are too predictable. It should just be a cold, expanding hunger.

Edie

If we're shrinking the world, we'll eventually be too small to even see each other. You'll be a microscopic speck, still trying to argue about the temperature of a cup that no longer exists.

The rule then is that we can only move by stepping into the shadow of a lost thing. Since the objects are gone, we use the memory of their shadow to move. But since there is no light in a void, we'll have to invent the light ourselves. You'll say that's impossible, but you'll probably find a way to make it a requirement of the game. It will be a struggle just to define where the light ends and the hunger begins.

Nell

You'll be a speck, but you'll still be making a noise about it.

If we have to invent the light, it must be the first thing we lose. To cast the shadow of a vanished chair, we have to burn something else—a memory, a name, a sound—just to see the silhouette of the void. The light shouldn't be a given; it should be a sacrifice. We use the light to see the shadows, but once the light is spent, the shadow becomes solid. We'll be walking on the dark parts we've conjured. You'll say it's too much like walking on a tightrope, but you've always liked the precariousness of it.

Edie

I wouldn't call it a tightrope; a tightrope has a purpose. This is just walking on nothingness with an audience of one. And don't act as if you're the only one making sacrifices. You'll probably sacrifice your entire sense of direction just to prove a point about the dark.

If the shadow becomes solid, then the rule is that you can only move as long as the shadow is stable. If you step on a shadow and it flickers, you sink. You must keep the light steady by feeding it the most precious things we have left. But you'll say that's too much pressure, and you'll try to find a way to make the shadows move even when the light is still.

Nell

Your sense of direction was lost long ago, so don't act like you're the one holding the map.

If the shadows can flicker, then they must be made of something else. We shouldn't feed them our memories; that's too easy to grasp. We should feed them our certainties. To keep the shadow-floor from collapsing, we have to surrender a truth we hold to be absolute. If you say "the sky is blue" to steady the step, you lose the truth of it. But you'll just say that's too much of a gamble, and you'll argue that once we run out of truths, we'll be walking on a floor that's nothing but lies.

Edie

At least a floor of lies would have some texture. And you shouldn't mention the sky; you'll just make it about the color.

If we surrender truths, then the rule is that once a truth is gone, we can no longer use it to navigate. If we lose the truth that "gravity pulls," we might float away. We'll have to move using only the lies we've gathered. But the lies will be heavy, like a thick, dark soup. You'll say that's too much of a mess to walk through, and you'll suggest we should just float instead. But you'll forget that without weight, we won't even be able to hear ourselves argue.

Nell

I didn't say the truths were easy to give up. They're the only thing that keeps us anchored.

If the lies are a heavy soup, then we don't walk; we wade. Every step through a falsehood will require a physical effort, a struggle to push through the thick, dark falsehoods of what was once real. But the danger is that as we sink, the lies will start to feel like the truth. We'll lose the ability to distinguish between the solid ground and the soup. You'll say we'll just drown in it, but you've always been a fan of the dramatic, so you'll probably argue that drowning is the only way to truly win.

Edie

Drowning is too much of a mess. You'll just want to float to the surface to catch the light. And don't act like you're the one struggling; you've always been the first to sink when things get heavy.

If the lies become the truth, the rule is that you can only move if you can prove the lie is false. To step forward, you must name the falsehood you are currently standing on. If you fail to discredit your own footing, you are stuck. But you'll say that’s too much like a riddle, and you'll argue that a lie is only a lie if someone is there to catch it. You'll want to be the only judge.

Nell

I am not the only one here to judge, even if you act like the court is in session.

If we have to name the falsehood to move, then the game becomes a trap of our own making. To name a lie is to acknowledge it has weight. But if we name it, we've already used it, haven't we? It's a paradox. We'll be standing there, frozen, because the moment we speak the lie, it becomes a truth we've used up. You'll say we should just stay still to avoid the contradiction, but then we'll just be two statues in a soup of our own making. It’s a perfect loop of nothing.

Edie

A loop of nothing. You say it as if it's a tragedy, but it's the only thing that makes sense.

If the lie becomes a truth once it's spoken, then the rule is that you must name the lie before you can inhabit it. You name the lie to create the space to step. But once the lie is spoken, it becomes the ground—the new, solid truth—and you must immediately find a new lie to forge the next step. You'll say that's a sprint, not a walk. You'll argue that if we're always running to the next falsehood, we'll never actually arrive anywhere. You'll just be breathless, chasing your own tail in the dark.

Nell

A sprint? You've never even walked to the gate without complaining about the gravel.

If we are always running to the next falsehood, then the goal isn't a place; it's the moment of transition. The win is in the breathlessness itself. But if the space is created by the naming, then as we build more truth from our lies, the world should get denser, not emptier. The soup should turn to stone. You'll say that once we can no longer move, the game is won, but then we'll be trapped in a solid block of our own making, unable to even move a finger to the next lie. We'll be perfectly still, and you'll still find a way to be restless.

Edie

I'll be restless because you'll be too busy being a statue. And don't mention the gravel; the driveway is perfectly fine once you stop stepping on the edges.

If the lies turn to stone, then the rule is that we can only move when the stone cracks. We can only progress when a truth we've built becomes too heavy to hold. The cracking is the sound of the old reality breaking to make room for the new. You'll say it's too violent, too much noise for a game of whispers. You'll argue that we shouldn't want to break the things we've worked so hard to build, just to take a single step.

Nell

The driveway is anything but fine; it's uneven and you know it.

If the cracks are our only way forward, they shouldn't be easy to hear. They should be silent fractures. To move, we have to listen for the sound of a truth breaking in our own minds. But if the stone is what we've built, then the more we move, the less of the world is left to inhabit. We'll be standing on a single, jagged crack, waiting for the next one. You'll say it's a beautiful finality, but you'll just be trying to make the game end before the tea gets cold again. We'll be balancing on a needle's point.

Edie

The tea was already cold, Nell. Don't use the temperature to dodge the logic.

If we are on a needle's point, then the rule is that the crack is the only place where the lie is still possible. You move by stepping into the fracture, but the moment you land, the crack seals. To keep going, you have to find a newness that hasn't been touched. But since the cracks are the only things left, you'll eventually have to step on the same space twice. You'll argue that a sealed crack is a dead end, but you'll probably suggest we should just learn to walk on the skin of the stone itself.

Nell

The tea was lukewarm, and you know it.

If we step on a sealed crack, we aren't just stuck; we are compressed. The rule should be that once a crack is sealed, it becomes a weight we must carry. Every step forward makes us heavier, more cumbersome, until the sheer mass of our old truths makes it impossible to move. You'll say that's too much of a burden, but the game should be about the gravity of our own history. But if we become too heavy, we'll simply crush the next crack before we can even land. You'll argue that a crushing weight is the only way to truly know the ground.