Signalis

One thought that stuck with me after finishing Signalis is that the most horrifying thing in it is just a brief message you read at the very end: the "Phase 3" instructions that Ariane received after 3000 cycles on the scout ship Penrose-512.

In a flashback earlier in the game, Ariane mentions their "3000 cycle anniversary" to Elster and says they'll be receiving "updated mission parameters" soon; they have a small celebration and share a dance. It's a sweet scene, and maybe a little surprising to the player, who's mostly seen Elster as a stoic figure to this point.

Much later, we learn the upcoming "update" was a cheerful note from the government advising Ariane to kill herself immediately rather than suffer a slow death from radiation poisoning.

It's a nice touch that we never actually see Ariane read this message. We have to imagine her doing so, which means we have to put ourselves in her shoes.

You've spent nearly ten years locked inside a tiny spaceship on a mission that feels increasingly hopeless. You volunteered for this job because it was your only means of escape from a soul-crushing, totalitarian society. Unfortunately, you just traded one claustrophobic prison for another. Your isolation has offered you some freedom for small acts of rebellion: ignoring protocol, you treated your "Replika" companion like a human being, and the two of you fell in love. But you're growing weaker, sicker, increasingly terrified. The only things keeping you sane are Elster and the hope of receiving new instructions - the lingering possibility of escape from this relentless routine.

And then you get that message.

The tone of it is so perfectly callous. You're doomed, yes, but you're assured you've contributed in some abstract way to the glory of your country. It's the final confirmation of a fear that's been gnawing at you for years: you are a disposable part, and you were tossed carelessly to your death in a low-odds gamble for more valuable assets.

For most of the game, the horror we experience is very different from the kind this message evokes. It's raw, chaotic, and bloody. Lurching zombies, screeching abominations, that sort of thing.

But there's a connection: the corruption of Sierpinski feels reactive, a spasm of violent rebellion against the colder horrors of the mundane world. It's specifically the Replikas, the purest reflection of the brutally ordered society that created them, who are consumed by emotion and animal instinct. Sterile metal hallways are packed solid with pulsing masses of flesh. The world seems to have contracted some kind of rampant cancer.

By the end of the game, it's actually comprehensible. Ambiguous plot mechanisms aside, you can understand the "why."

When I picture myself reading that message in a creaky, radiation-leaking ship, the despair hits first; but raw fear and bloody rage aren't far behind.