Tear the Card

Lyrics

The smell of new ink and die-cut board from the Z-Man factory.
October, 2015.
Everything perfect. The tokens unpunched, the cards unmarred.
A map of a world we hadn't yet broken.
Just waiting for our hands.

You read the first card from the Legacy deck.
Your voice was quiet in the yellow lamplight of the den.
The ghosts of Rob Daviau and Matt Leacock at the table.
And on page four, the quiet command.
"You will be asked to destroy components."
We looked at each other across the board.
And you uncapped the fine-point Sharpie.
I remember the sound. That dry, final rasp on the matte finish of Atlanta.
A black line drawn to Chicago.
It couldn't be erased. It was the first scar. Our first choice made permanent.

Tear the card.
The sound is louder than you think it will be.
A clean, static crackle along the perforation.
The Scientist is gone. We watched his picture rip in two.
He's not coming back.
This isn't a game you put back in the box, neat and tidy.
This is the story of how we ruined it, beautifully, together.

January is a sticker. February, a panic level rising.
By May, the board was a beautiful mess of our making.
Our hurried handwriting in the margins.
Cities we circled in black ink: Rioting, Fallen, Forsaken.
All permanent.
We scratched the silver foil on the character cards with a coin.
Gave them upgrades, gave them scars of our own.
Do you remember the night we named the red plague "Gus Fading"?
After your old dog.
Just a quiet joke between us.
Now it's canon. Written on the world, forever.

Most games, you just pack them up.
The plastic pieces go back in their tidy little bags.
The world resets to zero for the next time.
But this one… this one remembers everything we did.
This one holds the grudge for us.
"You will be asked..."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a choice.
It was the whole point.
To make a decision that costs something real.
To leave a mark that will not, cannot fade.

The box is on the top shelf now.
It's not a game anymore.
It's an artifact. A relic of that one year we spent inside it.
The board is a history, written in cheap ink and torn cardboard.
Our history.
And we can never play it again.