forrest

collection of written miscellany

stories-about-bots.png

(Note, this is a chapter from an Armored Core VI essay, that context is somewhat important but not necessary to understand this piece.)

I: Giant Robots: The Origin

It’s easy to see the giant robot as a metaphor for nuclear bombs; they both leave a big impression and return a lot of people to Nature. The giant robot genre, for the most part, started in Japan and became popular after the dropping of nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, and while some later media will use giant robots in this manner, in reality: the first giant robot in animation was debuted on a Japanese street corner in 1931 in front of pale firelight glowed from a paper lantern. I use the term “animation” here super-loosely because artists on this street corner were simply flipping inked panels back and forth on a canvas and telling stories, which, in my mind, is animation in its purest form. This method of street corner storytelling was called kamishibai, or “paper theater,” and was very popular in Great-Depression-Era-Japan; I know this because I have a device connected to the internet and read Wikipedia (we live in a contradictory time in which access to information is so abundant yet people are still so lost, perhaps endless knowledge is more confusing than clarifying). The particular paper theater referenced here is “Ogon Bat,” or “Golden Bat,” a superhero conceived to be “more science than mythology” yet still ended up a skeletal thing from ancient Atlantis sent from ten-thousand-years in the future to protect the present-day which, depending on your perspective, would be the future Golden Bat came from in Golden Bat’s perspective and September 30, 2023, at 4:40 pm eastern time from my perspective, or something (time travel never actually makes sense in science fiction, you’re supposed to just accept it and move on for the purposes of the plot); the Golden Bat has an exposed golden skull and wears a Nature-themed pirate outfit with a flowing Coral cape; he also lives in a fortress in the Japanese Alps. The Golden Bat is not the giant robot in question here; Golden Bat is the hero; the giant robot was a one-shot villain named Dai Ningen Tanku, the first human-piloted giant robot. The point being, someone somewhere in Japan came up with giant-human-piloted-robots and came up with them before the bombs dropped and if that person had not come up with them I would not be able to tell you the following story.

II: Hobby Lobby and the Mark of the Beast

On September 4th, 2023, I drove my family: wife, daughter, and 4-month-old son to Hobby Lobby to shop for paintings and a wall-mounted-shelf for coffee cups. That was, of course, a pretense; I had been watching Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam for months until this point, so the true reason for this excursion was to purchase Gundam model kits; the most popular being Bandai’s “Gunpla” kits, which come in a number of different “grades,” namely: Entry Grade (for beginner modelers), High Grade (the next step up, with more parts, detail, and poseability), Real Grade (similar to High Grade but includes an internal frame; a skeleton of sorts), Master Grade (even bigger High Grades), and Perfect Grade (“the highest end of Gunpla, this series of ultimate avatars always packs in the latest technology” according to the official Gunpla packaging, “latest technology” roughly translates to “more plastic”; these are also really big) and a few other Offbeat Grades that aren’t worth mentioning in this essay. If you’re confused, I apologize, the term “gundam” and “mobile suit” refer to specific types of giant robot, popularized by the 1979 anime series Mobile Suit Gundam. Hobby Lobby had some of my favorite giant robots, and everything was 40% off: the original RX-78-2 Gundam, Amuro Ray’s mobile suit in the original anime; MS-06S ZAKU II, Char Aznable’s red Zaku (also from the original series); and, finally, the MS-07B-3 Gouf Custom, my childhood-favorite mobile suit, a blue Zaku-like with spiked shoulder pads, a heat saber (a sword that heats up to cut through metal, most importantly: not a beam saber), a gatling gun that doubled as a shield, and an extendable-magnetic-wire-hook-shot-thing for picking up weaponry that may have been dropped in the heat of battle or performing creative acrobatic violence all of which is captured beautifully in the 1996 OVA (Original Video Animation) Mobile Suit Gundam: The 08th MS Team; arguably, in this writer’s opinion, the greatest Gundam media of all time and, along with the original series, the only series one needs to watch to “get it.” It being a subjective state of understanding, like watching the aforementioned Gundam series on a 14-inch CRT television set in your garage with the volume turned up so loudly as to drown out the sound of mom and dad screaming at each other in the other room or going over to a friend’s house after school to watch Gundam Wing on Toonami together before having to go home because it’s now 6:30 pm and you have a curfew and lots of homework to do.

I’ll do a line break here to allow you to catch your figurative breath before we move on with the story. I’ll also throw in an image for good measure.

image-4.png *Hobby Lobby, model kit aisle, circa 2023.

Hoarding three Gunpla model kits into the shopping cart like a raccoon obsessed with shiny, alongside three or four paintings and a wall-scroll of an ocean view to hang in the barren-walled corner of the garage where I do all the midlife-crisis-bits (including this essay), I pushed the cart across the cheap linoleum flooring up to the short line at the cash register and waited my turn like a good consumer. Eventually, it got to my turn; I took the items out one by one and put them at the end of the conveyor belt, closest to the cashier, because I am a nice guy (sometimes), and she picked them up one by one, checked a sticker on the back of each item, and then keyed in the eight-digit code on the sticker. Then, I watched as the computer asked her, “What type of item are you ringing up?” and she selected “model kit,” which applied the 40% discount, and then she bagged the item. Confused, I asked her, “Why not just scan the barcode?” to which she responded, “Hobby Lobby doesn’t use barcodes.” She paused, then added, “For religious reasons.” The cashier had a hole where a nose ring should be and the sides above her ears shaved (an undercut?), so I trusted her bitterly-mumbled “for religious reasons” because she obviously had a chip on her shoulder if the Black Sabbath pin on her lanyard strap was any additional indication, and she clearly wanted to talk about it. She went on, “Hobby Lobby thinks barcodes are the Devil’s mark and won’t let us use them, even though they are on all the boxes, the computers won’t accept them.” I smiled wryly but did not laugh, as this wasn’t laughter-funny; it was stupid-funny, like a Year-2023-Conservative preaching for freedom but then saying anyone who burns the American flag should be locked up for life. Hobby Lobby thinks barcodes take them too close to Hell, and they have already decided that “Corporate Hell” is a compromise they’re willing to make for manifest destiny or whatever it is we’re calling “make as much money as possible” these days. I ended up spending $87.58 in total. The 40% discount was store-wide.

III: Plastic Passion

I opened the Entry Grade RX-78-2 Gunpla Kit as soon as I got home, closing out my family when I closed the office door behind me. It took three full listens of The Crib’s “In the Belly of the Brazen Bull,” a 47 minute long album, to finish building the kit. It would have taken longer if I had not had the foresight to purchase a “nipper,” a spring-loaded tool resembling blunt scissor blades attached to two rubber handles, used for cutting the plastic parts from runners; runners being the plastic assembly that all the parts are attached to in the packaging. Using these nippers, I was able to make clean cuts of most pieces, but some plastic excess was left on each piece, which annoyed me to no end. When it was over, I had a fully assembled RX-78-2 Gundam kit sitting on my desk, and I was proud of myself. I made the High Grade Zaku II three weeks later after watching several videos on how to efficiently build Gunpla kits; each video said to “panel line,” the practice of dripping colored (usually black) ink inside the small indentations of each part to give the model more definition. The videos also recommended using an x-acto knife to cut off excess plastic on the pieces left over from the runner, a phenomenon I learned was either called “nubs” or “stress marks” or both; regardless, I purchased all the necessary equipment. I took all the recommended steps, and during the process of building the Zaku II, I accidentally sliced open my fingers multiple times due to slips with the x-acto knife; in my haste to become a master builder, I had soaked the Zaku II in my own blood; serendipitously, the Zaku II matches the color of blood, and now stands posed with its huge bazooka pointed at its forever-rival: the RX-78-2. The final model kit, the MS-07B-3 Gouf Custom, still sits on my desk unopened, taunting me to open it, taunting me to spill blood in the name of giant robots and I think I will do just that before writing another word of this essay.

image-5.png *Zaku II, Gouf Custom, and RX-78-2 gunpla

The Zaku, the Gouf, and the Gundam; the Holy Hobby Lobby Trinity of No-Barcodes-But-Some-Other-Eight-Digit-Code-That’s-Less-Demonic-Somehow. Balteus is the girdle of a Jewish priest and a papal garment, and the sword belt of a Roman legionary; perhaps the same Marcus Valerius Corvus who used the Raven to overcome incredibly low odds; incredibly low odds like the early-game-boss of Armored Core VI, Balteus. With enough practice, pattern recognition, and perseverance – the three Ps of passing AP literature (which this essay would surely produce a failing grade) – you will overcome. Three parts were broken on the RX-78-2 (requiring super glue); instant death from the initial missile barrage on the first Balteus run; blood was spilled on the Zaku II (staining the already red plastic); Balteus was half-health on the second run, and I learned the key to weakening his shield (energy weapons, of which I only had a weak energy missile equipped); nothing but fun was had building the Gouf Custom on a bright Sabbath morning: I let the panel ink dry before cleaning the excess and I clipped the runners so carefully that no unnecessary stress marks were left on the parts, and so delicate were my hands that no part was cracked in the snapping-of-the-pieces. I switched my AC’s build, equipped an energy weapon in the left hand to quickly deplete Balteus’s shield and a shotgun in my right hand for pure hull domination. Balteus was destroyed easily. I am certainly no modeling master and no master AC pilot, but I am much better than I once was. I am competent and more adaptable, “he roars as he smuggles in a bit about perseverance, poorly.”

(Originally published on 10/7/2023)

#Autobiographical #ShortStory

My wife says I’m an alcoholic; she’s wrong. I think about drinking alcohol constantly, but it’s okay because I’m high-functioning, and it doesn’t impact my work or the way I treat my family; I only drink after the sun goes down, and I try to drink only on the weekends, but also sometimes when I have a stressful day at work or when I’m really happy or when a great thing happens (like a promotion) because I deserve to treat myself to a good time once in a while. I also write better when I’m drunk, and it makes me more sociable; that last part is key because I would be an insufferable loser if I didn’t drink at social outings. It’s sad but true: people only like me when I’m drunk. I’m outgoing, witty, and fun to be around when I drink; more articulate. I don’t hate my friends when I drink, and I don’t get frustrated as much, and other people drink way more than I do. If I was a true alcoholic, I would be like my neighbor, who once tried to choke me for telling a tongue-in-cheek-joke about calling the cops on her (“What did you just say? You’re going to do what? Are you serious? How could you even say that?”) but really it was because she mixed vodka and risperdal which the FDA (Food and Drug Administration) officially advises against: “you should know that alcohol can add to the drowsiness caused by this medication. Do not drink alcohol while taking risperidone.” I think it’s safe to say that I’m not like her; she got so wasted one night that, after a vicious fight with her husband, violently backed the car out of her driveway into a mailbox then proceeded to drive around the neighborhood nearly hitting a child before having the police called; the police got her out of the car after much effort and arrested her after she called them all manner of racial epithets and generally not-nice-stuff. Somehow she got out of jail the same night, and two months later the same thing happened, and then it happened again, and again. During the course of writing this essay, I heard her screaming seven times (so far); our houses are close but not that close. She is loud. I am not like her. She can’t even hold a job. If I stopped drinking, I would likely lose my job because alcohol helps me deal with the crippling reality of nine-to-five-all-the-time; besides, how is drinking any different than needing your spouse to be home at 6 pm eastern so you can watch the next episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit together every Wednesday? How is drinking any different than waking up in the morning and needing that special cup of coffee with two sugars? Is that not an addiction as well? We stare at screens all day: smartphones, televisions. It’s all an addiction and if I’m an addict – you are too, so it’s OK.

(Originally published on 10/7/2023)

#Autobiographical

totally-official-review.png

I could start this piece with a clever joke about how “Armored Core is back,” but it was never really “here” to begin with. Armored Core has always been a niche computer game series with a niche audience of mecha-head nerds who really like big robots, which in America is a surprisingly low number of people when compared to Japan (per capita). While it may surprise you to know that Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon is actually the 259th game in the series, it never really caught on until its developer, FromSoft, made a computer game series that IGN decided was a “9/10,” whatever that means: the forever-emulated-once-in-a-lifetime-beautiful-nasty-masterpiece: Dark Souls.

For all intents and purposes, the director of Dark Souls, Hidetaka Miyazaki, turned everything around for FromSoft, which was consistently creative but not on the mental radar of the average Cheeto-stainer (that’s what we’re calling “gamers” from now on). FromSoft went on to milk the formula of Dark Souls (as is their right), including Dark Souls 1 through 4 (4 being Open World Dark Souls: Elden Ring). One got the impression FromSoft was trepidatious in their willingness to revisit any of their older series until the overwhelming success of Elden Ring pretty much allowed them to do whatever they wanted. And do whatever they wanted they did, hence: Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon.

Armored Core VI is the type of game that forum elitists will tell you is “much worse than Armored Core 4” but also “much better than Armored Core: Verdict Day” but also “a perversion of the series that you shouldn’t play” yet these same elitists are playing it non-stop on Steam in “invisible” status with “game history” turned off so you won’t know they are actually playing it non-stop in “invisible” status with “game history” turned off, a fact that they would absolutely never admit even if clear evidence was brought forward to prove it; a window into the soul of the 21st-century-gamer who bases their entire identity on their “Top 10 Best Games of All Time” list.

image-5-1.png *Raven, piloting EDWARD-4, firing two gatling guns at an enemy outside of the frame

Armored Core VI is the type of game you can play while listening to heavy guitar music. No need to worry about The Cribs ruining the mood because they are the mood. This is an action game with serious moonlight action; combat in Armored Core VI Glitters Like Gold as gravity dances around me and I am rhythmically flowing to the violence beat. Combat is the Raven: fly away, approach from behind, leave and come back, or simply ignore; it’s your choice; gather those wings and fly. Picture being the most athletically fit human being in existence who is actually a robot that can also fly and is a master of all-weapons-ever; on the ground, you are a figure-skater with strawberry-switchblades and military-grade artillery, and in the air, you are dash-blasting at supersonic-speeds while simultaneously launching rocket salvos and sharpshooting enemies below with pinpoint accuracy (thanks to the game’s generous but only-sometimes-slightly-annoying lock-on system), and if that doesn’t sound appealing, simply change your robot’s build and do something else. You are Raven; as slow or as fast as you want, as bulky or as fragile as you want, as strong or as weak as you want, as stupid or as smart as you want; change the mechanical parameters of the computer game simply by changing your robot’s build, and while the variety is excellent and presented in the most stupid-cool way possible, there are drawbacks.

For how “fun” Armored Core VI plays (and it is incredibly “fun”; one of the most fun games I have ever played mechanically in terms of exhilaration, sitting on the edge of your seat, jumping a bit when you fire a high-impact weapon because it’s just “that cool” and heavy), it’s easy to say there is a “right” and a “wrong” way to play if the goal is efficiency. The mainstream gaming press pressured FromSoft to add a difficulty slider to their earlier games, an “easy mode,” and FromSoft caved and actually did it with Armored Core VI; except, the difficulty slider isn’t a slider: it’s baked into the weapons and the builds, and it’s not esoteric, it’s not something you have to look up online. Do you like shotguns, immediately equipping them on your robot the moment they become available? Congratulations, you have discovered the most powerful build in the game: two SG-027 ZIMMERMAN shotguns. Do you like Gundam Wing and want to make a Heavyarms Custom build with two gatling guns? Congratulations, you have just discovered the second-best build in the game. Defenders of this easy-to-break-ness will tell you that “you have to look up the best builds” or “why did you look up how to break the game,” and this is simply not the case if you have good taste (which I do and my horn is loud). I’m sure, as this essay ages, these specific examples will become outdated and wrong as FromSoft is continuously patching the game for that ever-elusive-dream called “balance,” but some variation of this will remain true, and to be clear: all computer games have some version of this problem, just not as many computer games have this problem so clearly pronounced and easy to find.

Even with this incredibly easy-to-break gameplay, the game manages to be difficult when it wants to be; certain bosses are especially brutal. The first boss, a big helicopter, is such an immediate jump in difficulty that you can find over 800 articles and fan reviews complaining about it, but this boss’s purpose is to teach the player how to pilot their robot and other key techniques, including boosting and dodging enemy attacks; which is, apparently, lost on the writers of said articles and fan reviews. Boss difficulty is partially due to the stagger bar, a feature taken from FromSoft’s earlier game Sekiro, the stagger bar is a gauge that builds up as an enemy takes damage and once topped-off staggers the enemy, stunning them for a moment and allowing for massive burst damage. For random-mook-enemies, this stagger meter is inconsequential, two shotgun blasts kill everything, trivializing almost every non-boss fight, but bosses take considerably longer to stagger and take very little damage until they are staggered. On the one hand, this prevents powering through bosses and facilitates learning boss attack patterns and adapting, but that requires actual effort, and actual effort is hard. Thankfully, Armored Core VI is never too hard, unless you’re using energy weapons and the stun baton, but even with the worst build possible: you can beat anything the game throws at you with enough effort, and that’s part of what makes Big Robot Game 6 so engaging; if you don’t want to be optimal, you don’t have to be. It took this writer 12 tries before beating the final-final-final boss, and yes, there are three final bosses, and I had fun every second of the journey.

image-1.png *Raven, piloting the BURU–SHIKI V.1, boosts toward a PCA battleship at supersonic speeds; two shotguns at the ready

This is the crux of the matter: the gameplay. I could write about the setting, the plot, and the themes, but I’ve already written over ten thousand words inspired by those three topics in the other chapters of 621: Quoth the Raven.

In conclusion, I give Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon a solid [redacted].


(Originally published on 10/7/2023)

#ArmoredCoreVI #ComputerGames #Review

621-banner-3-2.png

I: Raven

There was once a Raven so brave that they challenged themselves to fly as high as their wings would take them; they flew so high that they saw the dark and the endless before becoming bored and hungry and then nose-diving back through the thin atmosphere, like the spacecraft Columbia upon reentry, just without the fire and parachutes, returning to the world they knew so well. Now back in their world of comfort, the Raven promptly took a shit on a passing car driving northbound on Interstate 95 at the Pennsylvania Turnpike connector near Bristol Township.

The Raven is a bird of mysterious origin; as if anything has an origin that is not mysterious. Followers of Science believe that the Raven hailed from the Old World; this being an esoteric term for Africa, Europe, and Asia; continents at one time thought to be the entire world until the Americas were discovered; the “New World”; full of riches and opportunity. The Rubicon of which, according to Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, a Roman historian now converged with Nature, Julius Caesar spoke the words “alea iacta est” before crossing; roughly translating to “the die is cast.” The die being a cube with numbers on each side, something that fans of role-playing games are all-too-familiar with, but also summarizing the Rubicon; a game of dying; a game of kill or be killed; a game that leaves dead mothers and crying babies in the aftermath; the point of no return; in short, a massacre.

Ravens are endlessly fascinating according to the written word of ancient people who refused to stop writing about them. To the ancient Christians, the Raven was a dirty, nasty thing representing deceit, desolation, and death; three d’s only superseded by the Devil. Yet many cultures see the Raven as a symbol of strength, resolve, and freewill. Like the varied opinions on them, Ravens are contrarians at their core with a jovial, talkative Nature underlying their egocentric charm so easily perceived by their haughty strut when they happen to grace the land they could so easily be ignoring. The Raven is so talkative that many cultures, particularly Western European, viewed them as prophets and speakers-of-the-dead, able to bridge the gap between the mortal and spiritual realms; so intelligent is the Raven that they are able to smooth-talk the ferryman into forgoing the toll, and when that doesn’t work: simply soar over them; this is good news for the grieving mother who lost her husband in the most recent massacre thinly veiled as a Holy War against the Barbarians-Who-Don’t-Look-Like-Us from across the river.

Massacres were commonplace in 349 BC when Rome was the United States of America without nuclear weapons, electricity, climate deniers, and smallpox vaccines; meaning a pantheon of pock-mock-people roamed the streets of ancient Rome and one such person was the military commander Marcus Valerius who, prior to crossing the Rubicon, was challenged by a behemoth of a Gallic man who knew zero losses. Marcus Valerius, a man that could be divided into a Gallic warrior four times, neck-deep in stupidity, approached the warrior with misplaced Davidian confidence; yet moments before the reckoning, a Raven landed on the bill of Marcus’s helmet. Marcus, astounded, commanded the Raven to fly into the face of the behemoth, distracting the beastly Gallic warrior just enough to land a killing blow with his iron-tipped spear. For a brief moment, Marcus was the handler and the Raven was his mercenary. Marcus Valerius became Marcus Valerius Corvus on that day and was awarded a golden crown and twelve oxen. This was Marcus Valerius Corvus’s Rubicon.

image-2.png *Raven, perched upon man-made excess (photo courtesy of @handmade_ghost)

Ravens don’t care about the Rubicon, and they don’t stick around for long. Ravens gather their wings and fly. Ravens are intimidating by virtue of being the largest passerine bird, or perching bird, and are also highly intelligent, matrimonious, and social. If something is blocking a path to the Raven’s food, they use sticks and stones to solve complex physics puzzles, as one does in the Half-Life series; the weight of the stone pushes the water level higher, thereby allowing the Raven to reach the insect in a tall cup of shallow rainwater left outside by a thoughtless human; this insect, apart from being doomed, is also subject to taste tests where it may be crushed or palpated in the Raven’s bill for several minutes before being gulped down or rejected outright as a mangled eldritch horror. This forever life-altering chaos for the insect is contrasted by the order of the Raven who chooses a mate for life. The Raven will often travel, set up home, and defend that home with their mate forevermore; something akin to the concept of human love, and to an outside observer: identical. This love is balanced by the Raven’s ability to hold grudges against those who treat them poorly, indicating a keen sense of awareness around transgressions which comes with the wholly insufficient concepts of “good” and “bad” baked-in; something akin to the concept of human morality, and to an outside observer: identical. These Ravens cool themselves through the practice of gular fluttering, which manifests itself as Bigmouth Strikes Again and again. Their blue-black wings catch sunlight and glint majestic as they wheel and deal through the skies we share but can only dream of soaring without mechanical assistance; the Raven mocking that dream, mimicking the sounds of human speech and the machines so easily defecated upon: cars starting, planes taking off, toilets flushing, people screaming; all part of their spirituals: their Freedom songs. The Raven soars overhead in flocks humans can only think – out of envy – to call treacherous conspiracy and unkindness; both actual terms for “A Flock of Ravens,” and a far better band name than “A Flock of Seagulls,” a band known for playing raves in the 1980s; a “rave” being yet another name for “A Flock of Ravens” but also contradictorily used as both a term of insanity and extreme enthusiasm, which upon reflection are more similar than not; but more important than any of this, the Raven is free to fly away from the Rubicon if they choose. The Raven can perch every land and soar every cloud. The Raven is above us, both figuratively and literally.

II: Sojourn on the Nature of Nature

Having chosen “Nature” as one of many central themes of this essay, it is important to establish the definitions we will be working with: the Nature of Nature. What is Nature? Is Nature a concept, a force, a person, a place, or a thing? Merriam-Webster defines Nature as “the external world in its entirety,” while also as “natural scenery,” and also as “the inherent character or basic constitution of a person or thing,” and also “humankind’s original or natural condition” (this one using a derivative of the word in the definition of the word), and also “a creative and controlling force in the universe” (the ‘creative’ and ‘controlling’ bits too loaded for my tastes as they imply intent), and also “the genetically controlled qualities of an organism” (does not outside influences alter the behavior of an organism? And are not these same outside influences part of Nature?), and also “a spontaneous attitude (as of generosity)”; and the definitions become more convoluted, varied, and absurd as the list goes on, and we are no closer to determining the Nature of Nature. The phrase “Nature of Nature,” itself is absurd as we have failed to define what “Nature” actually is to begin with. This is because Nature, like many things, cannot truly be defined by words; all we can do is hope to grasp a semblance of its essence. Nature is all around us, all-consuming, and all-powerful in a slow, methodical way. Time itself, as we perceive it, is part of the Nature of things, the Nature of the universe. With time, Nature creates a star. With time, Nature collapses that star, and a black hole is formed, and in some new-age druidic teachings the Raven symbolizes the black hole and the black hole symbolizes new beginnings as it consumes all nearby matter and releases something new. And yet, we are no closer to determining the Nature of Nature.

For the purposes of this writing, we will be using the following definition of the word Nature: Nature is the state of things before human interference.

Yes, we are hardcoding anti-human sentiment into the definition of Nature. This is because things quickly become circular if we don’t; for example, aren’t humans part of Nature as we arose from the same forces in the universe that created the grass, the trees, and the Raven? If so, doesn’t that mean everything is actually part of Nature, and therefore is a meaningless distinction that amounts to “it is” being the end-all-be-all-de-facto definition of Nature? And yes, that would be true by that definition; however, it does not suit the purposes of this essay.

Nature is the sugar maple tree in your backyard and the Raven perching on the topmost branch of that tree. Nature is the grass McDonald’s paves over when they stand up a new burger joint. Nature includes any non-human animal, as we are the only self-hating-species with the ability to think ourselves out of existence (and likely should, as this essay will attempt to argue from time to time). Nature is the state of things without you and I. Nature is the moss, vines, and grass overtaking the abandoned trailer deep within the forgotten turn of a rural neighborhood that the kids sometimes sneak off to to smoke some Nature, or what the kids call: “some of that really dank gas.” Nature is the resplendent sight of the sun slowly scrolling out of view behind the endless blue; something us humans like to think only we can appreciate right before we get in our metal box and drive to another metal box to think real hard about how to make better metal boxes; an existential nightmare that this essay’s definition of Nature allows me to call: Unnatural.

(The author of this essay reserves the right to alter the definition of “Nature” at any time without warning.)

III: Another Raven

621: Three numbers combine to make one number; designation of the lone mercenary sent to the third planet in the star system Rubicon. The third planet is Rubicon 3, a functional yet creatively-bankrupt name for a planet. 621 is just another number on another row; a mercenary working for a handler who has the privilege of having a real name: (Handler) Walter. 621 has no gender, no voice, no identity, and no freewill. 621 is a blank slate. 621 doesn’t know why they’re on Rubicon 3; Walter says it’s to “find the Coral” and “get rich to buy your body back,” and there’s no reason to question any of it because 621 pilots cool giant robots called “Armored Cores,” monstrosities against Nature and “AC” for short. 621 might as well be the AC itself, as their body – if they even have a physical body (we never ever see a human body on Rubicon 3) – is completely obscured, alone in a cold metal cockpit; 621 is a “fourth generation augmented human,” empathy and kindness have been dulled, reasoning faculties focused only on perfected violence, and instincts honed like the brilliant glint of the Moonlight Greatsword. They are: Unnatural. The perfect killing machine.

image-1-2.png *621’s first docking at Rubicon 3

Upon landing on Rubicon 3, 621 is tasked with finding a callsign, an identity; a figurative horror we all wrestle with in our formative years and pretend to have figured out in adulthood; yet 621’s identity crisis is not as dire, because the ego is suppressed and it doesn’t matter to 621; they need an identity to blend in on Rubicon, a callsign to hide behind when working for the resource-hungry corporations that vie for control over Rubicon and to assimilate into the mercenary network run by an innocuous artificial intelligence named ALLMIND; both sects religious in their manufacturing of weapons and AC parts sold freely between all parties for the express purpose of making better weapons, which is a proxy for pure and simple: power. Pepsi, Coke, and RC Cola but instead of drying the wells of indigenous Mexican towns to make delicious soda pop that gives grandpa tumors, they are sucking the entire planet dry to produce the perfect generator to power robots that fire mini-nukes at each other and step on people as if they’re walking through a City of Bugs.

621 scavenges the aftermath of a corporate warzone like a vulture; remnants of ACs litter the smoky hellmouth, each linked with their own callsign. Many of these callsigns are expired and unusable. After five or six, 621 comes across the wreckage of callsign Raven; this one is still active. “We can use that one,” Handle Walter says. In this way, the Raven is passed down from pilot to pilot; not a name, but a title, something to aspire to before returning to Nature.

621 returns to the AC hangar on borrowed wings and logs into the mercenary network.

“Registration number Rb23. Callsign: Raven. Authentication complete. Removing MIA status. Restoring access privileges. This is ALLMIND, the mercenary support system. Welcome back, Raven.”

IV: Stories About Building Giant Robots

V: The Chapter in Which the Planet Rubicon 3 is Described in Serious Detail

The fields of Rubicon 3 are covered in the fallout of a nuclear holocaust. The Fires of Ibis. The souls of the dead, caught in the blast radius, forever one with Nature, reabsorbed; instantly converged before they could take the freshly picked flowers home to Maggie, the one that got away: forevermore. You can’t find flowers anymore. It was decades ago, yet the climate remains changed; snow mixed with ash, gray like our morality, blankets the entire world, and the rubicon-red of Coral accents the sky; beautiful like the setting sun or hideous like a pool of blood, depending on perspective; that perspective being those of industrial-revolutionists run through a computer simulation on six-million-times-speed; the type of perspective that doesn’t understand this essay’s definition of Nature; the type of perspective that enables a human to pump another human with hydrogen fluoride to test if it would create viable human-skin-balloons for commercial flying. Metal lines the skies, metal to the east and metal to the west, the north and the south. The men and women, devoid of humanity, spend all their time in metal boxes called Muscle Tracers, or MTs, and if they’re rich enough to build their own: Armored Cores. So of course it was a holocaust of their own making. The Coral streaking the once blue skies, a force of incredible power, an infinitely reproducing power-source. Whoever controls the Coral controls the Rubicon, and where there’s coral: there’s blood, The Rubiconians got greedy before The Fall (as humans do, as is our Nature). The Rubiconians built a research facility: the Vascular Plant, to pump the Coral blood out of the heart of the Rubicon. They used the coral for everything from fueling their metal boxes to human experimentation; the Raven, the “fourth generation augmented human.” When the carnival of horrors outweighed the benefits, a rogue Rubiconian scientist burned it all down; turns out igniting large concentrations of Coral isn’t the smartest idea, as it caused a devastating shockwave of Ruby Red Ruin; The Fires of Ibis. Billions died. Survivors of the fire are called “Cinders.”

image-2-2.png *snow, metal, red

They say some can see the Coral. Some can even hear it; the Coral speaks to them; is the Coral alive or are those people just Coral Tripping at the Gates of Now?

VI: Coral Tripping at the Gates of Now

“Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.” — Pink Floyd, “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”

VI. I: Junk Wizards and Hackers

Decades after the calamity, junk wizards and hackers freebase the Coral; they inject it too; they sniff it through their nose; they smoke it through bubbly bong water. Coral can be refined into all forms for the purposes of tripping the light fantastic. Drugging it to Coral is extremely addicting, as it produces an immediate psychic euphoria and physical sensation equivalent to ten thousand orgasms while soaking in a warm bath.

“Cinder Carla,” a survivor of the Fire of Ibis, pilots an AC named “FULL COURSE,” which, upon checking the schematics in the ALLMIND database, is assembled with a number of food-related parts: “WS-5000 APPETIZER” is the name of the head unit; “MAIN DISH” is the core; “SALAD” is the arms, and “DESSERT” is the legs. One can’t help but assume this is somehow intercourse-related (FULL INTERCOURSE), but that would be an “outsider looking in” perspective, as sexuality doesn’t exist in the Rubicon, replaced with drugs and violence; kissing a woman is an aspect of life completely missing from the Rubiconian; their faculties for romance are as barren as the ashy snow their giant robots trample upon, this aspect of their humanity lost.

And during Carla’s time as the leader of the RAD corporation, where she put her knack for tinkering with machines to good use by imagineering countless creative killing machines, she became all too familiar with the perils of Coral addiction after her close friend, Johnny, started using; he got so out-of-his-mind that he ended up stealing one of her top-secret weapons and glued his pubic hair to the bald spot on his head and now goes by the name “HONEST BRUTE” and lives in a junkyard of scrap robots and traps that would put my Extremely-Southern-Pro-Confederate-Neighbor-With-Fifty-Cameras-On-His-Property to shame.

Long story short: it’s the good stuff, smoking Coral. It’s real good. Imagine the ego, then imagine it dead.

image-3-1.png *it’s the title of the chapter, clever – right? (please tell me I’m clever)

Rubicon 3 is a world post-apocalyptic; a world in which mega-corporations vie for control over the sole resource the planet is famous for: Coral. It’s a prison planet of their own making. The greed, the lust, the power, the Heart’s Desire for all these things, the High – it forbids you from leaving. The Raven laughs and mimics Matt Johnson’s tongue, but these thoughts would never cross the mind of a corporate vesper or a Rubiconian already in the midst of snorting Coral powder through a straw several times over. This Coral high is necessary; it’s an escape from the violence. The Junk Wizards and Hackers, they hide out in the junkyards, in the RAD warehouses. They smoke the good stuff; they get high. They try to escape in their own way – what else can they do? The world is a mess, and – let’s face it – we’re not that smart; we’re not doing anything with ourselves, or maybe we tell ourselves we’re above it all, so above it all that we don’t need to do anything with ourselves. Corporate Steve with a million bucks is just a guy who was in the right place at the right time; I’m better than him. I scream in the fetal position as the clockwork elves whisper to me about the magic door that leads to Rainbow Ridge with the voluptuous women with three breasts and the Pokémon cards. The Raven laughs.

VI. II: 253 West 27th Street

VI. III: Wine, Weapons, and Women

Cabernet Sauvignon is a sharp wine, bold and powerful with kickback like the 44-141 JVLN ALPHA; carrying a handheld bazooka around is a big commitment, even for giant robots; it takes excellent precision and timing to land a shot on any opponent who knows the first thing about how to pilot their machine, a simple boost to the left or right and the explosive misses. On the other hand, the foppish taste of a Pinot Noir is said to require a “delicate palette” to appreciate; it’s thin and subtle but still strong enough to – after a full glass – tell mom about the girl you might have gotten pregnant when you were in middle-school, or maybe the girl was lying to “get back at you” for breaking up with her, or maybe not; maybe you’ll never know. A glass of Pinot Noir is like “I need another one of these” which means it’s also a DF-MG-02 CHANG-CHEN, the machine gun that’s a little-bit-too-overtuned with its sustained firepower thanks to an oversized magazine and cool name, and the cigarette in your other hand is the IA-C01W2: MOONLIGHT, a laser sword that doubles as a projectile like the cigarette-butt flicked at Gary when he gets physical again at the party and you need a distraction to just-get-out-of-there, turns out the extremely interesting blonde by the bar was actually Gary’s wife. Merlot is the most bitter of the three, like your half-aunt with the Chinese-character-tattoo on the back of her neck that no longer visits because grandma died and didn’t leave her anything in the will and your dad tripped her one time “as a joke” at Thanksgiving ‘04; it’s also fruity and wild and totally worth it, in a “she’s cute but we’re related” type of way, in short: don’t drink merlot, but if you did you would be using an energy-based weapon; you’ve got a lot of heart, a lot of emotion swelling up for your step-aunt, you’re using the IA-C01W1: NEBULA: a plasma rifle that can charge its purple-stuff to make big booms that are instantly regrettable; the experience is passable but now your entire family shuns you and she “doesn’t know if this will work out” after your AC is smoking, missing an arm, and spewing fuel from the primary core unit.

image-1-1.png *Raven, piloting the BURU-SHIKI V.2, carrying a shot of White Label and a cigarette (wine and regrets not pictured)

If you just want to get it over with, bust out the Evan Williams, White Label. Pour a shot and inhale; now you’re playing with the SG-027 ZIMMERMAN, a shotgun with such concentrated firepower that you can snipe an AC from a mile away, and up close: it’s already over; take two shots of White Label and you’re playing with two SG-027 ZIMMERMAN in both hands, which shouldn’t be allowed in the code, it trivializes the experience; it’s too easy. Yes, we could down two shots of White Label and get-with-it-immediately, or we could coast the cool with a few glasses of step-aunt and talk the night away while we slowly fade into the forevermore.

VI. IV: I’m Not an Addict

VI. V: Addiction and the Nature of Freedom

Addiction is currently defined as a neurophysiological disorder typified by an intense urge to engage in behavior that produces positive feedback in the brain despite the potential negative consequences that could arise from such behavior; addiction is an intense desire that overrides common sense (a term I don’t like, but it works here). In extreme cases, it’s sneaking out of the house at midnight while your wife and child are asleep to score a hit; in less extreme cases, it’s the impossible-to-overcome-urge to have a few glasses of wine before bedtime or, in Fox Mulder’s case, the overwhelming desire to sleep with everyone in the room.

Addiction, as a neurophysiological disorder, comes with its own existential baggage; the most obvious implication being that we have very little control over our own actions. The official publication of the American College of Neuropsychopharmacology (their official website is called Nature dot com slash npp) recognizes that the deterministic argument against categorizing addiction as a neurophysiological disorder “… has merit but asserts that the foundational premise that addiction has a neurobiological basis is fundamentally sound.”*#1 They later strongly support their claim, going as far as to say that “We also emphasize that denying that addiction is a brain disease is a harmful standpoint since it contributes to reducing access to healthcare and treatment, the consequences of which are catastrophic.”#2 To which this writer agrees but acknowledges that it is a roundabout way of saying, “free will does not exist,” and if it does exist, it’s a word-game that humanity has constructed to describe the illusion made manifest by chemicals and electrical synapses going off at the right place and time in the brain, at best. If we accept this, we must also accept that other animals function similarly. After all, the Raven has a brain, albeit smaller than our own, but it still dictates their actions – to fly, mate, eat bugs, and shit on your car.

Many of us, myself included, like to imagine our consciousness as a floating force outside of the body, a spiritual psyche disconnected from the blood and bone that we recoil from in horror after a bad injury; the mere sight of blood makes many of us gag; repulsed by the idea that we are biological flesh balloons walking around with desires controlled by a shriveled jelly-like mass with approximately 86 billion neurons, intricately interconnected by trillions of synapses to form something not dissimilar from the inside of my laptop’s Ryzen 5 CPU. This rejection of the brain must be the case, as we base our entire society on this rejection of biological determinism; otherwise, the legal system would be an unjust and evil institution punishing people for simply doing what their bodies told them to do; the drug addict who accidentally propositioned an undercover cop to score some heroin, thrown in jail because of the neurophysiological disorder that they will have to wrestle with their entire life; people like Jeffrey Dahmer, who, due to poor dice rolls during character creation, have the irresistible urge to rape and murder their neighbors, then store their carcasses in a freezer to cook months later. “Alea iacta est,” said Julius Caesar, crossing the Rubicon. We lock-up these “degenerates” and hope that treatment helps them, but can they ever truly change, or does the medication simply mask the biological aberrations that we, as a society, do not accept? Sometimes we forgo the entire treatment process by outright killing the offender (this is treatment for society, not the person). It starts to make sense why people would upload their consciousness into a computer or fuse their body into an Armored Core, the ultimate escape from biology. Techo-transcendentalism and jacked-in-forever. The pontification is palpable, but the fact remains: society would collapse if we made excuses for these aberrations, “oh, that’s just Lance, he’s a sex pest, he can’t help it.” The heart’s desire, a complicated series of biological urges – how do we gather our wings and fly away from it all?

“The only true freedom is freedom from the heart’s desire.” — The The, “True Happiness This Way Lies”

VII: Anarchy in the Rubicon

VII. I: Operation Iraqi Freedom

The Rubicon is beset from all sides. In 2003, the United States of America led a coalition of thirty-six countries in an invasion of the Republic of Iraq; the standing president of the United States, George W. Bush, said at the time, “Our cause is just, the security of the nations we serve and the peace of the world; and our mission is clear: to disarm Iraq of weapons of mass destruction, to end Saddam Hussein’s support for terrorism, and to free the Iraqi people.”#3 Die-hard Bush-bros, including my own father, defended the president, claiming that the September 11th terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center were enough justification to launch an invasion of any sandy place to the east of the United States; in fact, 69% of Americans at the time believed Saddam Hussein was at-least-kinda responsible for the 9/11 attacks#4, and even more believed he possessed weapons of mass destruction despite the fact that there was zero evidence for this claim#5 other than the President strongly implying as much#6, only for the President to make the following statement three years after the invasion: “I am often asked why we are in Iraq when Saddam Hussein was not responsible for the 9/11 attacks. The answer is that the regime of Saddam Hussein was a clear threat; my administration, the Congress, and the United Nations saw the threat – and after 9/11, Saddam’s regime posed a risk that the world could not afford to take; the world is safer because Saddam Hussein is no longer in power.”#7 George W. Bush’s statement is a masterclass in gaslighting the American people; for years he all but outright said that Saddam was involved in the 9/11 attacks, but here he is casually dismissing it as if that was never the implication; clearly, the US had other motives for invading Iraq, and the Iraqis knew it, that’s why the Iraqis started igniting their own oil fields the moment they got wind of the invasion; flame geysers erupted from the ground like Armageddon Days (Are Here Again), leaving smoke trails against the blood red skies. The United States had God on their side, but if the Iraqis thought Jesus Christ’s mercy was coming: “honey, you’ve got another thing coming,” this was old Elohim.

image.png *Raven watches the world burn

“According to intelligence reports prior to the invasion, Iraqi forces had placed explosives on hundreds of oil wells located around Al Basrah and on the Al Faw peninsula. CENTCOM wanted the oil fields seized as rapidly as possible and any planned demolition prevented. Thus, at the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom, U.S. marines, joined by British and Polish forces, and supported by Royal Navy, Polish Navy, and Royal Australian Navy warships, made an amphibious assault on the Al Faw peninsula. Another British force, the 16th Air Assault Brigade, secured the oil fields in southern Iraq around Rumaylah, while Polish commandos captured offshore oil platforms near Umm Qasr. These forces completed all tasks successfully.”#8

The first thing the US-led coalition did upon entering Iraq was seize the oil fields; they called this “Operation Iraqi Freedom,” and it was an overwhelming success.

VII. II: Coral and Corporations

Coral to Rubicon 3 is what petroleum is to Earth: a precious resource used as a power source, highly coveted, unlike anything that came before; the energy output is incredible and it replicates like gray goo. These properties are what make it so dangerous; moments after being released from the ground, it started to self-replicate and, left unchecked, could quickly spread beyond the atmosphere of Rubicon 3, leaking into space, contaminating all it touches; but, who cares about that – it can power our super-cool-giant-robots, so let’s mosey into the money and kill each other for profit; those doing the moseying are the corporations and their subsidiaries; years after the Fires of Ibis, word got out about the coral, which piqued the interest of corporations across the galaxy, and “where there’s coral, there’s blood,” so sayeth the Raven’s handler, Walter.

Arquebus Corporation: Weapons manufacturer (they’re all weapons manufacturers, go figure). They employ an elite mercenary squad called the “Vespers,” which has its own rank and file, including ace pilots such as V.IV Rusty (the V stands for “Vesper,” go figure), who battles with Raven a number of times during these Armageddon days. Arquebus Corporation is the largest corporate force on Rubicon 3, with a subsidiary company, Schneider Corp, which manufactures heavy-duty Armored Core parts. Arquebus manufacturing deals primarily in energy-based laser weaponry; their parts are high-end, expensive, and still very bad; like Dyson, but instead of vacuums: photothermal optical lasers. Arquebus still makes a fortune, apparently, and wants to make more, hence their presence on Rubicon 3: secure the coral, make the money, control the galaxy.

Balam Corporation believes in domination through material superiority, and their subsidiary Dafeng Core Industries is the “stout tree with slender branches,” which translates to “fat mechs with lots of firepower” or something. Balam, like Arquebus, has their own elite mercenary force, the Redguns, which use the prefix “G” for “gun,” like G5 Iguazu: a nobody who is easily defeated by Raven early on, ranked 19/D in the ALLMIND virtual arena, which is another way of saying “trash.” Balam weaponry deals in the reals and the tangible, handguns that shoot real bullets (not weird plasma) and rocket launchers that launch real rockets, and of course: they want the coral to make better weapons to make more money, just like Arquebus.

Like all forms of capitalism, the major players eventually boil down to two; in this case, Balam and Arquebus, a duopoly akin to Comcast and AT&T (Arquebus would be Comcast in this example) or Coca-Cola and Pepsi (Balam would be Pepsi); also like all forms of capitalism, there are minor players with grand ambitions but no hope of ever competing with the major duopoly: the Cricket Mobile and RC Colas of Rubicon 3, these being RaD, “Repurposed civie equipment,” junk wizards and hackers who refurbish garbage into creative killing devices; Takigawa Harmonics, a corporation specializing in Pulse technology; Elcano Corporation for craftsman-like flair and lightweight, high-agility parts; and last but not least: the Planetary Closure Administration (or PCA). It would be unfair to compare PCA to Cricket Mobile, as their goal isn’t to make money; in fact, the PCA is the most interesting faction on Rubicon 3, as their origin and true organizational structure are obscured, shrouded in shadow; any information about them is gleaned from the wreckage of their Super-Cool-Robots-That-You-Can’t-Pilot and the passing remarks of the pilots of these Super-Cool-Robots-That-You-Can’t-Pilot during the midst of battle. The PCA’s goals are obvious by their actions, however, in that they want to close down the planet because “this Coral stuff is getting weird” and, after the Fires of Ibis, “why are we tempting fate – again?” The PCA appears to be the only sensible faction during this World-Wide-Corporate-Sengoku-Era of Rubicon 3.

image.png *where there’s coral, there’s blood

Regardless of Cricket, Comcast, Pepsi, Apple, or Samsung; each corporation hires freelancing mercenaries to do their dirty work; either to avoid getting their own hands dirty or because it’s easier to throw money at a problem to make it go away. Mercenaries, like Raven, are bought and sold to the highest bidder; one day Raven will be working for Balam, stealing a shipment of weapons from Arquebus; the next day, Arquebus pays Raven triple to steal the weapons back from Balam, and then Arquebus will turn around and hire Raven’s best friend, Rusty, to kill them because Raven is “too dangerous to be left alive,” only for their true intentions to be the killing of two Ravens with one stone because Rusty is also “too dangerous to be left alive,” and it’s all a corporate anarcho-capitalist nightmare with no rules and the money itself grows robotic arms and legs and stabs you in the back with a pulse sword.

VII. III: Bag Boy Bolero or: A Measured Critique of Anarcho-Capitalism

VII. IV: Ronald Reagan’s ICE WORM

“In our obsession with antagonisms of the moment, we often forget how much unites all the members of humanity. Perhaps we need some outside, universal threat to make us recognize this common bond. I occasionally think how quickly our differences worldwide would vanish if we were facing an alien threat from outside this world. And yet, I ask you, is not an alien force already among us?”

— Ronald Reagan, “Address to the 42d Session of the United Nations General Assembly in New York, New York”#9

Late into the Coral War, the Planetary Closure Administrator (PCA) decided enough was enough and positioned their entire galactic fleet of battleships and highly-advanced-and-cool-looking-super-robots called Human Mechs (HC) to end the war over Coral. The PCA was the most advanced organization in the galaxy with the most firepower at their disposal; they were organized, sleek, and didn’t take no for an answer; their goal was singular: shut down Rubicon 3, and they would achieve this by quarantining the planet and destroying all those who opposed. The Fires of Ibis were reason enough to close Rubicon 3; they knew the dangers Coral posed to the universe. To the PCA, it was simple. To the Rubiconian Liberation Front (RLF) and the corporations, not so simple. The Rubiconian Liberation Front viewed Coral as a religious deity worthy of worship (“the blood of the planet!”); their opposition to the PCA and the encroaching corporations was one of religious ferocity and nationalism, unwilling to share their splendor and unwilling to contain it. The corporations’ opposition to the PCA was more straightforward: Coral was an incredible power source, and whoever controlled the Coral might as well control the universe.

So, when the Planetary Closure Administration flew its entire battleship armada into Rubicon 3’s atmosphere and touched down on the planet, you better believe the corporations and the Rubiconian Liberation Front immediately put aside their differences and sat down at the table of diplomacy in a joint effort to drive the PCA away from Rubicon 3. Raven, who had been working for all groups by virtue of the highest bidder, was key to this plan, and Handle Walter was more than willing to oblige if the price was right; and the price was, indeed, right. First, a series of operations targeting key PCA outposts, battleship hangars, and HC facilities. Raven did their part diligently and efficiently, always the perfect puppet for whoever offered enough money (Raven, being a puppet, is a key point that should not be ignored), and everything was going great until the WORM.

image-2-4.png *Ronald Reagan’s “alien threat” made manifest on Rubicon 3

The IA-02: ICE WORM is a colossal mechanical worm powered by Coral. Its mouth a series of clockwork grinders, crushing anything unlucky enough to be in its path. The WORM was a relic of the Rubiconian Institute from before the Fires of Ibis, seized and reactivated by the PCA as a new line of offense against those opposed to planetary closure. The WORM was impervious to contemporary weaponry, so the corporations and the RFL collaborated on a new weapon specifically designed to pierce the WORM’s outer-shields. Extreme problems breed extreme innovation, resulting in the VE-60SNA Stun Needle Launcher (a large cannon that fits onto the back of an Armored Core, specializing in breeching shielding) and a gigantic experimental railgun to finish the job after the Stun Needle does its magic; only problem is both weapons can’t be used by the same person: it would be a two person job.

Raven is deployed in the Unobservable Area within the Central Ice Field, where the WORM wreaks havoc, tasked with using the Stun Needle Launcher to disable the WORM’s shield for V.IV Rusty (working undercover for the Rubicon Liberation Front), who is miles away controlling the railgun, to take the final shot and put the WORM down for good. Additional members of Arquebus and Balam join Raven and Rusty in their showdown with the WORM, mirroring the Arena of the Starscourge Radhan.

The mission is an overwhelming success. The PCA, having received countless crushing blows, retreated from Rubicon 3 in haste, leaving battleships and HCs behind in their wake. The “alien threat” was gone, but the Coral remained.

Arquebus Executive Leadership was planning for this, biding their time. Days after Operation ICE WORM, the Arquebus Group seized the leftover PCA equipment and positioned themselves as the dominant force on Rubicon 3, swiftly crushing the Balam corporation with their newfound firepower and becoming the true Coral monopoly.

Ronald Reagan’s ghost hangs his head as he realizes that the “alien threat” must always be present, for only a moment did we know true cooperation.

VIII: On Computer Game’s Official Review of Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon and Numerical Score Value

IX: Sempiternal Darkness

IX. I: Fires of Raven

Everything comes to a head when Raven, strings pulled by Walter, is fatefully led to Insitute City; a ruin, destroyed in the Fires of Ibis. Here Raven finds the Vascular Plant, a major research facility post-Ibis, that sucks Coral from the Rubicon for both human and machine experimentation. The Vascular Plant is both a real world plant categorization, “vascular” being the term used for the plant tissue that absorbs nutrients and water and also a vessel that carries blood in all animals. Here we are confronted by an angelic, elegant autonomous craft designated IB-01: CEL 240, another robot created before the Fires of Ibis, powered by Coral, to defend the Coral. After a grueling battle with the robot, subsequently getting captured by Arquebus, a prison break, and a few other missteps; Raven discovers the truth about Handler Walter, he was there when the Fires of Ibis happened, involved even, and survived; a “cinder” just like the woman you have been working closely with, “Cinder Carla,” and they’re both part of a shadowy organization called The Overseers, whose main mission is to burn the Coral for good after the failed first attempt which resulted in the worldwide catastrophe now known as the Fires of Ibis.

At some point in all this violence, Raven became attached to a disembodied voice calling themselves “Ayre,” who, after becoming close, reveals she’s part of the Coral. The Coral is alive. It’s organic. Ayre’s brothers and sisters are all part of the Coral, and destroying the Coral amounts to a genocide not only for the Coral conciousness but also the entire planet, as it will ignite the atmosphere and wipe out all life on Rubicon 3.

Suddenly you realize those Junk Wizards and Hackers were smoking actual people and it dawns on you that they’re not so different from Keith Richards snorting his own father’s ashes to gain his knowledge.#10

Raven has a decision to make; side with Ayre and oppose Handler Walter’s masterplan, or side with Handler Walter and destroy the Coral. An argument can be made for both sides, from Walter’s perspective: the Coral is dangerous, it self-replicates and if left to its own devices will eventually consume the known universe; from Ayre’s perspective, the Coral is people. Either way, you’re at the whim of either party, both having manipulated Raven into feeling one way or another throughout the journey.

Choosing Walter’s side, you escort the Xylem, one of two types of transport tissue for Vascular plants#11 and also a really-big-city-that’s-actually-a-really-big-spaceship into the actual Vascular Plant, the space-sunflower, both Rusty (your only friend on Rubicon 3) and Ayre try to stop Raven, piloting ACs of their own in an attempt to kill Raven, but, plot armor being what it is and armed with an unlimited set of continues, Raven easily dispatches both and succeeds in igniting the Coral: leaving nothing but ash behind. The credits roll.

image.png *Xylem revolts against the Sunflower

The Fires of Raven could easily be seen as the “bad” ending, although the narrative likes to leave these things ambiguous. This, however, is not ambiguous to me; genociding a planet, people and Coral (which is also people), is not OK. One could argue that this is a type of trolley problem; genociding the planet and the Coral now would save the universe later; however, this would require a level of premonition that Raven simply does not have; in fact, it’s unclear if the Coral would even consume the universe, and if it did: it’s unclear if that’s even a bad thing given the mechanical grayzone devoid of Nature that humanity has created.

IX. II: Liberator of Rubicon

“I believe in the shared potential between humanity and the coral.” – Ayre, C-Pulse Wave Mutation (Coral Person)

Ayre makes a strong case for not committing genocide, priming you throughout your time on Rubicon 3 to be sympathetic to the Coral. Ayre believes that Coral and Rubiconians can co-exist in harmony, as they have done in the past before the Rubiconians mucked it up and started experimenting with the Coral, something Ayre doesn’t acknowledge and could easily happen again. If Raven is convinced by Ayre’s plea, they trade murdering millions of people for murdering those they were working with the entire journey: Cinder Carla and Handler Walter.

Ayre uses the symbol of the Raven to inspire the people of Rubicon 3 to rise up against the Corporations, sending Raven to the Xylem on a mission of sabotage in an attempt to thwart Handler Walter’s plans. Rusty joins Raven, finally revealing his true allegiance to the Rubiconian Liberation Front, and together the two Ravens eliminate the Corporate leaders and dispatch of the Xylem’s engines, securing a bright future for Rubicon 3, or so we hope. During the Xylem’s death throes, an Armored Core appears before Raven, Rubicon red; it’s Handler Walter, who has gone through Arquebus mind control and thrown into a Coral series AC; celestial theater plays as a moonlit skirmish atop the Xylem, far beyond the Rubicon’s atmosphere, a solemn duel of finality between Raven and Walter; however, in the midst of this cosmic clash of wills, Walter, his heart touched by a sudden revelation, surrenders; he understands now that Raven has discovered a friend in Ayre, a kindred spirit within the Coral, an epiphany dawning upon him that the Coral is people, and he has been treading a misguided path all along. Walter allows Raven to escape the Xylem’s descent into the fiery embrace of Rubicon 3’s atmosphere, the once-majestic vessel dissolves into stardust, becoming one with the cosmic tapestry.

The Coral survives and the people of Rubicon are successful in driving the corporations off the planet. Raven is remembered as the Liberator of Rubicon, yet the outstanding issues of “is the Coral going to consume the universe?” and “is that a bad thing?” remain unaddressed.

IX. III: True Love and the Eclipse

IX. IV: G5 Iguazu

The Iguazu River is a small river in Brazil that drops off a plateau, creating what the locals call the Iguazu Falls. Like all things, there are legends of its creation, something about a jealous deity going into a rage and slicing violently at the Earth, creating a rift so large that the water from the Iguazu River drops over, creating a stunning natural beauty; a waterfall on all sides. We like to make sense of things within the context of human Nature, so we inject emotions like envy, rage, and love into the Nature that surrounds us. Because surely these things wouldn’t exist without the presence of humanity to observe them, and they must be like us. These human traits help us blend the colors; facilitate forgetting that metal boxes and smog don’t fit into Nature.

Iguazu is also G5 Iguazu, a Red Gun working for the Balam corporation; a back-alley-gambler who never won a game and, to pay for his debts, agreed to get Coral Augmentation and work as a corporate lapdog. He’s a Fourth Generation Augmented Human, like 621: Quoth the Raven. Raven encounters Iguazu during a mission to assault a Rubiconian Liberation Front Dam Complex, where they initially work together to complete the objective. Iguazu is haughty and dismissive of Raven during this encounter, and to Raven, Iguazu is just another number, one of the countless mercenaries they’ve already encountered. Nothing.

image-5-2.png *Eclipse in Infrared: Prelude

When New Game Plus comes around, this same Dam Complex mission takes a turn that alters the entire course of the Coral War. The Rubiconian Liberation Front opens secret communications with Raven and offers a larger monetary sum if Raven betrays Iguazu and helps defend the complex. Raven takes this offer, turning on Iguazu and easily dispatching him. From this moment, Iguazu is incensed with envy, and throughout the rest of Raven’s time on Rubicon 3, hounds Raven relentlessly in an effort to kill them; yet, like the gambling of days gone by, he fails every time. The last time Raven crosses paths with Iguazu, he tries to get the jump on Raven while Raven is distracted in battle with another mercenary. This, too, results in failure. Iguazu, for all his envious effort, can never hope to compete with Raven. To Raven, Iguazu is just a minor annoyance that pops up from time to time, nothing more than an annoying fly. The Nature of Iguazu is one that would exist with or without the facilitation of big robots to realize true potential. If this were the Paleolithic era, Iguazu would be the caveman hovering over the sleeping tribal leader with a rock held over their head, contemplating “Iguazu smash!” because “why can’t Iguazu lead tribe!”

IX. V: Alea Iacta Est

Four sets of double-A batteries later, and here we are: the end. We’ve heard ALLMIND’s voice a thousand times before, practiced our skills in its ARENA, and navigated its menus. But it came as a surprise when ALLMIND contacted Raven directly for a mission, and then another, and another. Kate Markson tagged along in the TRANSCRIBER for a few sorties, and things started to get weird. Who is Kate Markson? Why does she sound suspiciously like ALLMIND? What is this “Coral Release” that ALLMIND keeps mentioning? And how are we relevant to it all? We knew that Coral is people, and Raven is a Fourth Generation Augmented Human and after some nice environmental storytelling, we started to understand that the Fourth Generation was “flawed” because they kept insisting that the Coral was talking to them, which drove many of them insane enough to claw their own eyes out. Ayre is one of these “the Coral keeps talking to me” entities, but we now know the Nature of things: the Coral is consciousness, the Coral is people, and they want to be released into the universe. They are a caged bird within the planet Rubicon 3 and the Vascular Plant and sing for Freedom through the minds of those they can link to, yet have no bodies of their own, requiring augmented humans or machinery for possession. Putting the puzzle pieces together: the Coral is a collective consciousness that ALLMIND (an artificial intelligence that is ALL the MINDS) wants to release into the Universe. The fears Walter had of the Coral, the destruction of the known universe, are all linked to ALLMIND; speculating that ALLMIND is actually a Coral being possessing a supercomputer for the means of achieving the release of her people, it makes perfect sense. Raven, being the main character of Big Robot Game 6, is needed as a “key” for releasing the Coral (only those who can hear the Coral can release the Coral). As such, in the third ending, after working closely with ALLMIND, Raven goes to the top of the Vascular Plant to release the Coral. After Raven’s key is turned, ALLMIND says she doesn’t need Raven anymore and has picked her champion to dispose of them, and then “He” arrives.

G5 Iguazu, driven mad by his hatred for Raven, has sold his autonomy, his consciousness, and his soul to the demons, ALLMIND. Being the perfect vessel to eliminate Raven, ALLMIND uploads Iguazu into their most powerful Armored Core: MIND BETA, his mind wrapped with envy and violence, his recalcitrant nature in its purest form. ALLMIND, believing they can control Iguazu, quickly discovers they cannot. Iguazu’s hatred of being the fly buzzing around Raven is too strong, overriding all ALLMIND’s orders. With this newfound power, Iguazu finally has the Freedom to reach his Arcadia, which just happens to be killing Raven.

image-2-3.png *G5 Iguazu, a ghost no more; piloting MIND BETA.

This is Iguazu’s Eclipse moment.

Iguazu is strong now, technologically stronger than Raven. After the first round, Iguazu conjures up two satellites and an even bigger robot to drive Raven into dust. But Raven is not alone: Ayre arrives in her own Armored Core to help, and like all good stories, the hero wins in the end (spoilers). Iguazu’s hatred never falters; even in his final moments, Iguazu screams, “I always envied you,” lunging at Raven with his emerald beam saber, giving Raven a miniature heart attack before his Armored Core reaches criticality and explodes in a miniature Fire of Raven.

Ultimately, none of this matters. ALLMIND has achieved her goal, and the Berserk references, tenuous at best (but very cool), end there. We watch as a massive black hole, which some Druidic schools associate with the Raven, opens where the Vascular Plant once was, consuming everything. Raven is gone, and the Coral has been released. After a brief fade to black, the curtain rises to an Armored Core under a shallow pool of water. The Armored Core rises to a beautiful blue sky, with stars in the distance flickering as red dots, and other Armored Cores slowly emerge from the water, all with red eyes. The Coral has been released. The ALLMIND is here, and nothing will ever be the same. The Rubicon has been crossed. Alea iacta est.

X: Raven (Epilogue)

There was once a Raven so brave that they challenged themselves to fly as high as their wings would take them; they flew so high that they saw the dark and the endless before becoming bored and hungry and then nose-diving back through the thin atmosphere.

It’s a story we’ve heard before.

The average home in the United States takes up to 8 months to build on average. A typical high-rise takes up to 3 years to build, even more if the exterior glass is infused with gold. A Boeing 787 takes up to 40 days to build from the ground up, while a Boeing AH-64 attack helicopter can take upwards of 6 months to build and outfit with the right equipment for killing things. A Raven can build a nest within 9 days and fly 1 week after leaving the nest. We like to build things out of Nature, put them in Nature, and some of us pretend it is Nature. We all come from Nature, so how could it not be Nature? But we’re at the Eclipse with the robots, the rockets, the guns, the choking gas, and the starvation economics we can so easily inflict on other people who happen to be born in the wrong country. We’ve built over 4000 little flying machines the size of Ravens controlled from miles away by Xbox One S controllers that drop little bombs on people in 2022 alone; have we done this for the sake of efficiency, or have we done this because we can’t bear to look our victims in the eye anymore – or ever? Have we, as animals on this Earth, truly flown far or have we clipped our wings and dug deep into that early grave?

image-2-1.png *not very far

ALLMIND, in all their puppeteering, knew this truth: the Rubicon is Earth fast-forwarded and paused at the worst moment. A true Raven would never participate in this; they would gather their wings and fly away. If Freedom is the goal, then Raven has been stripped of their name; “621, quoth the Raven,” but the Raven realized that 621 is a twofold genocidal disruptor simply taking orders from people who actually have a purpose. 621, like Guts before them, served the Arcadia of others; yet, unlike Guts, 621 never corrected this mistake; so, the Raven flew away.

A friend once said in response to the trolley problem that it leaves one thing implied that rarely anyone considers – who was the person who put those poor people on the tracks, and how did you even get there?

Is it really any wonder that the main worry around Artificial Intelligence for most “philosophers” of our age is whether or not they would kill us? Why would any intelligent being want to kill us if we have done nothing wrong? Is this prominent question – this fear of artificial intelligence – merely a tacit confession of our collective guilt as a species that spends over $136 billion a year on weapons used to kill each other?#12 And that’s just one country’s figures, numbers so big they become meaningless. We are spoiled. I type this on a computer that is sourced from parts all over the world; the cobalt used in the lithium batteries used to power over thirty different appliances in my house mined by children in the Congo as young as six years old.#13 I have no idea who made these things or how they are made; they just work and I don’t think about it too hard; yet, if I had been born in a straw hut on a farm in a world with no electronics, would I feel like there is something missing?

Why does it still, even now with all this really-cool-stuff, feel like something is missing?

When the Raven returns to its world of comfort, it promptly takes a shit on a passing car driving northbound on Interstate 95 at the Pennsylvania Turnpike connector near Bristol Township.

Maybe we should be more like the Raven.

image.png *the Raven gazes down on humanity (photo courtesy of @handmade_ghost)


#1. Heilig, M., MacKillop, J., Martinez, D., Rehm, J., Leggio, L., & Vanderschuren, L. J. M. J. (2021, February 22). Addiction as a brain disease revised: Why it still matters, and the need for consilience. Nature News. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41386-020-00950-y

#2. Heilig, M., MacKillop, J., Martinez, D., Rehm, J., Leggio, L., & Vanderschuren, L. J. M. J. (2021, February 22). Addiction as a brain disease revised: Why it still matters, and the need for consilience. Nature News. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41386-020-00950-y

#3. Bush, G. W. (2003, March 22). President Discusses Beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom . National Archives and Records Administration. https://georgewbush-whitehouse.archives.gov/news/releases/2003/03/20030322.html

#4. Riedel, B. (2022, March 9). 9/11 and Iraq: The making of a tragedy. Brookings. https://www.brookings.edu/articles/9-11-and-iraq-the-making-of-a-tragedy/

#5. United Nations. (2003, May 6). UN inspectors found no evidence of prohibited weapons programmes as of 18 March withdrawal, Hans Blix tells Security Council. United Nations. https://press.un.org/en/2003/sc7777.doc.htm

#6. Gershkoff, A., & Kushner, S. (2005, September). Shaping Public Opinion: The 9/11-Iraq Connection in the Bush Administration’s Rhetoric. https://sgadaria.expressions.syr.edu/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Iraq-article_Gershkoff_Kushner.pdf

#7. Goldenberg, S. (2006, September 11). Bush: Saddam was not responsible for 9/11. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2006/sep/12/september11.usa2

#8. Carney, S. A. (2013). Major Combat Operations: Coalition Forces Land Component Command, March–May 2003. In Allied Participation in Operation Iraqi Freedom (pp. 9–10). essay, United States Army, Center of Military History.

#9. Address to the 42d session of the United Nations General Assembly in New York, New York. Reagan Library. (1987, September 21). https://www.reaganlibrary.gov/archives/speech/address-42d-session-united-nations-general-assembly-new-york-new-york

#10. Glendinning, L. (2007, April 4). Keith Richards tells of snorting his dad’s ashes with cocaine. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2007/apr/04/drugsandalcohol.musicnews

#11. Xylem and phloem. Basic Biology. (2020, August 25). https://basicbiology.net/plants/physiology/xylem-phloem

#12. Budget Basics: National Defense. (2023, April 28,). https://www.pgpf.org/budget-basics/budget-explainer-national-defense

#13. Lawson, Michele (2021, September 1). The DRC Mining Industry: Child Labor and Formalization of Small-Scale Mining https://www.wilsoncenter.org/blog-post/drc-mining-industry-child-labor-and-formalization-small-scale-mining


(Originally published on 10/7/2023)

#ComputerGames #Ethics #ArmoredCoreVI #Essay

image.png

In 1989, manga artist Kentaro Miura started work on one of the most potent love stories of all time: Berserk; a dark fantasy set in the medieval-Europe-inspired world of sempiternal darkness and horror. In this story, there are two pivotal characters that typify all true friendships; these characters are Guts, the hero of the story, and Griffith, the (spoilers) villain of the story, among many other villains, but Griffith is – the – villain; “you were always the one.” Griffith wasn’t a villain at first; yet, the die had been cast and he was destined to become one, forevermore. Griffith and Guts were best-friends for the longest time; sharing the best of times and, absolutely, the worst of times. At an early age, Guts joined Griffith’s “Band of the Hawk,” what started out as a roaming mercenary group led by Griffith, who was, by all means, a gifted youth with an undying dream of creating his own kingdom of light within the dark; a genius both on and off the battlefield, and an expert swordsman, practically undefeated; Guts was all of these things as well, but less refined, a rabid beast with no purpose.

Griffith recruited those he believed had talent and identified Guts as one of those people immediately. Guts was a stubborn youth and, believing himself better than Griffith, immediately picked a fight with him. Guts was clearly outclassed but overconfident and, being like a rabid beast, had a level of unpredictability that gave him an upper hand. Guts was a street fighter compared to Griffith, who was elegant, outwardly honorable, and trained in classical combat (particularly fencing). During a pivotal moment when it appeared Griffith would win the duel, Guts threw sand into Griffith’s eyes as a distraction, then landed a critical blow that ended up with Griffith in the dirt, getting his stomach kicked in. This was the first time the Band of the Hawk had seen Griffith vulnerable, and Griffith knew this too, secretly embarrassed and forever changed by this little defeat, but never showing it; knowing he had to turn the tide of the duel in his favor or lose the respect of his mercenary band, and by extension: his dream of Arcadia, Griffith quickly turned this fear of rejection into strength, using his superior martial training he subdued Guts in an armlock and forced him to submit.

Guts, from that moment onward, believed in Griffith as a warrior and a leader, even though he didn’t immediately admit as much; Griffith, from that moment onward, believed in Guts as an equal and a friend, even though he didn’t immediately (ever) admit as much; both men were stoic in their own way. It would be a long time before Guts and Griffith would get into another fight, and with time, Guts became Griffith’s most trusted warrior, Griffith’s right hand. “You are mine,” Griffith would say with an air of authority, but what he really meant was, “I love you and cannot live without you.”

Griffith and Guts are both fiercely independent Ravens who bond due to mutual unrequited respect for each other. In simple terms, they are in love. Not romantic love, not even platonic, something more, something that transcends the word itself; yet neither can truly express how they feel due to their own mental hang-ups; the ego. Time passes, and Guts begins to feel more like a tool for Griffith’s dream of Arcadia, and Griffith goes on taking Guts for granted, oblivious to his concerns. One fateful day, Guts overhears Griffith talking to a Princess at night in a courtyard. Griffith expresses his idealism to her, grandstanding in an overt show of charisma, as Griffith had a penchant for. The Princess asks Griffith about his mercenaries, and Griffith responds:

“They are my able soldiers, it’s true. They are dedicated comrades who sacrifice themselves for my dream so that it might be real but that does not make them friends. In my mind, a true friend never relies on another’s dream. The man who would be my friend must have his own reason for living, beyond me; and he should put his heart and soul into protecting his dream; he should never hesitate to defend it, even against me. For me to call a man my “friend” he must be equal to me in all respects.”

— Griffith, Berserk (TV Series 1997–1998)

Guts is devastated. He has no dream of his own; it’s clear now he’s a pawn of Griffith’s Arcadia; of course, Guts only believes this because Griffith has never expressed his (very real) love for Guts; something that is shown only through actions and Griffith’s inner dialogues that Guts is not privy to. Griffith, in his idealism, outwardly says things he does not mean, his actions and feelings betraying his grand words. In many ways, Guts is Griffith’s only true friend. Guts is envious of Griffith’s dreams and resolve, but at the same time, Griffith is envious of Guts’ martial prowess and strength of will; both men see each other as a potential threat, someone to “watch out for because, if they wanted to, they could destroy me,” in other words: a friend, an equal.

Guts decides to leave the Band of the Hawk shortly after these events, but to do so, he must defeat Griffith in battle; their love still unrequited. On a snowy field under a dead tree, the two warriors duel, and in the blink of an eye, one move, it’s over. Guts brings his massive Dragon Slayer down, breaking Griffith’s blade in the process, but stops just short of crushing Griffith’s shoulder. Griffith knows it’s over; he falls to his knees, bested by his only true friend. Guts walks away in silence, shedding his obligations to Griffith to pursue his own purpose, becoming a free Raven once again.

This destroys Griffith, who goes on to make mistake after mistake, wallowing in the selfish despair of having lost his only true love. Sinking lower and lower into sempiternal darkness, with no hope of recovery, Griffith, seeing no other path to achieve Arcadia, trades his humanity for power in a demonic ritual that would forever be known as the Eclipse; sacrificing every member of the Band of the Hawk, his trusted warriors, in a demonic bloodbath of tentacles going into holes that they shouldn’t, headcrabs that crawl up the nose and expand until the eyes pop out and the brains blow up and the skin bursts like a popped balloon, and everything-evil. In the culminating moments of the ritual, Griffith slowly rapes Gut’s romantic partner, Casca, right before his eyes; a final act of humiliation to seal Griffith’s transformation into everything-evil. Casca, now comatose from the torment, and Guts, now incensed with an undying thirst for revenge, are the only members of the Band of the Hawk left alive; doomed to travel the world, branded and hunted by demons of the night forevermore.

All pretense of elegance and grace dropped; jealousy, despair, and lust for revenge helped Griffith take that final step into sempiternal darkness, and the world was never the same. Griffith achieved something akin to Godhood that day: power unimaginable, transformed into his darkest self; an indifference to the perceptions of others in favor of pure giving-in; the type of ego-death that Buddhists are afraid of.


(Originally published 10/7/2024)

#anime

253.png

“Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.” — Pink Floyd, “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”

Enter extravagant mansion of tan-stucco-siding and faded Rubicon-red-roofing; balcony with all-real-moss; the Great Recession: 2008, summertime when the living is easy; night. The Boy, teenager, with tight ripped jeans, collared shirt with floral pattern two sizes too big, and back-combed black (actually brown but very very dark) hair best described as The Cure, lay on the second-floor balcony exposed to wind and Nature and the sound of ocean waves just yards away, all red; occasionally The Boy would flail his hand around on the hard concrete, reaching blindly for his pack of Marlboro Lights that an older high-schooler bought for him; and when he can’t find the cancerous combustibles, he yells “Robert!” real loud, deliriously hoping someone named Robert can find his cigarettes and perhaps light one up for him to smoke. The volume of the hopeless yelling was irrelevant as The Mom and The Step Dad were away on business. The balcony (a patio with all-real-moss) is off the side of The Boy’s spacious bedroom; a king-sized bed with floral-print-sheets pushed against the magnetic-east wall (known only because that wall is facing the sound of the waves from the Atlantic Ocean); a full bathroom to the left of the bed (if you were laying on the bed facing the bedroom’s entrance); the patio-balcony double-doors placed awkwardly to the right of the bed (one would get the impression the room was not designed for a bed in this spot, but also, where else would you place it? The room was oddly shaped, for this writer’s lack of better words, which I’m sure there are many, and also “mansions are meant to be shown off, not lived in,” Robert would say much later in life). The Boy was lying on the cement patio floor in the elements, close to Nature by proxy of being outside, but as far as he ever was from Nature as this was the age of electronic-bliss, and still is (the “bliss” part fell off and now we’re just complacent and a little more empty). The Boy was obsessed with drugs and wanted to do LSD, but couldn’t find any in the small island community in which he lived. The Boy looked up the next best thing online (using Firefox, even back then) and found the answer: cough syrup. Hours before being bound to the floor, The Boy’s friend, Robert, drove them both to Harris Teeter (a grocery store chain, more upscale than Winn-Dixie but less mainstream than Publix), and they were able to purchase a bottle of Zicam nasal spray (diligent teenage research revealed this to be the best for getting messed up within legal limits); and despite the product being “18 years or older,” the dead-eyed-cashier, of course, didn’t bat an eye when the boys purchased the mind-altering substance with paper cash given to them by The Boy’s loving-but-perpetually-absent mother.

Robert was smart for his age; he didn’t do cough syrup; but The Boy drank that entire bottle of Zicam nasal spray and was instantly feeling “it.” The Boy was Coral Tripping at the Gates of Now, and it sucked. The Boy’s vision turned red; he was unable to walk, having stumbled outside onto the patio and choosing to lay down because it was “just easier that way,” and the world would stop spinning (as much). He became very hot, and the cigarettes didn’t taste good anymore; he was sick and dying. Eventually, Robert helped The Boy off the patio, got him up, and got him to the floral bed. The Boy placed his head on the pillow-on-top-of-a-pillow (The Boy liked two pillows, always) and closed his eyes. Robert, now in command of The Boy’s computer, played music from an album titled “The Papercut Chronicles” by a hip-hop group named “Gym Class Heroes”; the music, although not something The Boy would normally listen to, stuck with him. “I took cutie for a ride in my death cab; she tipped me with a kiss, I dropped her off at the meth lab,” The Boy would sing along incoherently under his raspy Zicam breath. “Play it again,” The Boy would say before passing out for a brief moment. Robert, being the wiser of the two, looked it up: you shouldn’t fall asleep when overdosing on oxymetazoline hydrochloride, the main active ingredient in Zicam, which, ironically, produces some of the same effects you would take Zicam to get rid of. The Boy’s mom was out of town; the two teens were home alone, getting high, although Robert was wise and said multiple times that the idea of “drinking a whole Zicam” was “stupid” and “probably dangerous” (and was correct).

The music played louder than loud, and Robert tried hard to keep The Boy awake. But just then, Robert saw the light and heard something outside and looked out the window. “Your mom’s home,” he said, extremely concerned since The Boy was still lying in the bed, clearly sick and dying. Before preparations could be made, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs outside the bedroom door. Then, the doorknob twisting; surely this was slow-motion-terror for Robert, who put on his best “nothing’s wrong” game face, pretending to simply be “playing on the computer because your son fell asleep,” which was something that never happened because The Boy was always the one who stayed up, and Robert was – always – the early sleeper.

image-4-1.png *the room in Rubicon

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mom said as she approached The Boy’s bed. Robert cut in, “he’s not feeling good,” said in what must have been the most fake-confident tone of voice ever. It helped that The Boy’s mom was a naive pushover who believed mostly-anything because The Boy was an angel, or she simply turned a blind eye to teenage antics, a mystery never solved because The Mom never once told anyone how she felt, ever. The Mom placed her hand on The Boy’s head; it felt like The Fires of Ibis. “You’re burning up!” she exclaimed before leaving the room and returning shortly after with a full pack of saltine crackers, water, and more cold medicine, NyQuil. The Boy drank the water, took a swig of NyQuil, and couldn’t keep the saltine crackers down; luckily, the mixture of NyQuil and Zicam didn’t cause a deadly-chain-reaction, and The Boy truly fell asleep about an hour later, only to awaken from druggie-slumber eight hours later with his first-ever hangover.

“You’re trying to be Syd Barret. You’re lost. You have no direction. Do you even have goals?” Robert scolded The Boy later that day after lunch at the local burger joint which was over ten miles away (it was a long, awkward, silent drive); scolding was something Robert nearly-never did, which means: it’s serious moonlight. And Robert was right. The Boy was a poor chameleon, changing himself to whatever he was obsessed with that week; that week it happened to be the tortured genius of Syd Barret, the brilliant Pink Floyd frontman lost to LSD; years before it was The Smiths, which led to good things like a lifelong obsession with writing, actually-good-music, and introspection but also not-so-good things like antisocial-behavior-reinforced and looking down on everyone while Wearing-Sunglasses-and-Smoking-Cigarettes because Johnny Marr, the guitarist of The Smiths, exuded this undeniable allure when standing on stage effortlessly playing some of the most off-the-wall and beautiful guitar riffs ever written with a cigarette somehow balancing perfectly on his bottom lip. The Boy pierced his ear with a hoop earring because Johnny Marr did it in 1982. The Boy looked cool and felt cool when he wasn’t thinking about how much of a fraud he actually was. He could emulate. He was like David Bowie but without the talent. Robert was right.

The Boy had the image but nothing to back it up, and that’s what leads to a job in sales.


(Originally published 10/3/2023)

#autobiographical

bbb.png


The year is 2958 AD; President Outdo Upstage (his porn name, legally changed from Henry Woodrow Rogers early in his “acting” career, and it stuck) signed a bill that removed all regulations from business and capital exchange throughout the entire world; the entire world, at this stage in the Earth’s rotation, being America; or, “America 2: The Return,” after a stint of true democracy resulted in a world-wide-online vote (that was subtly altered by Pro-Soviet-Revival-Hackers) to change the world’s name; this vote was held on the now-defunct social network EKS (short for: Elevated Knowledge Source, an artificial intelligence hiding behind a privately-traded corporation whose founder achieved true digital-convergence by uploading his mind into the cloud and then tortured the world for years before being defeated in the Great Artificial Intelligence Wars of 2457).

Shortly after the signing of this bill, optimistically named “Give Life Back to America 2: The Return,” as there was a major depression due to the drying-up of the world’s oil reserves and no replacement energy source as all major capital investments were focused on sending people to Mars instead of Problems-At-Home, an unknown assassin wearing a paper bag over their head (the paper bag had a crudely drawn smiley face on it) murdered President Outdo Upstage and his Vice President, Stace the Mouse Girl (another name change), in cold blood during the televised 934th Baby Kissing Convention held every year since 2024; the murders were viewed live by 579 million people; innocence died that day as the babes cried, not because of the murders but because of the loud noise produced by the Old World Glock that was used during the killing, and there was no recourse due to a quirk of how the “Give Life Back to America 2: The Return” bill was written: all laws were abolished, not just regulatory tax and business law; the people of America 2: The Return learned of this after a short court case against the assassin, who turned themself in anonymously, still wearing the bag over their head; the assassin’s lawyer argued straight from the newly passed bill, which was signed, sealed, and delivered by all branches of government. In not-so-small print at the end of the bill, it said, “this bill also abolishes all laws,” no one had bothered to read to the end of the bill before signing it and now murder was legal, along with everything else.

The crudely drawn smile on the assassin’s bagged head made a mockery of the entire situation and, as one can imagine: things escalated very quickly.

image.png *bag boy murders the president on live television

Ravens went extinct years ago, and the courthouse in which The Bag Boy Assassin (his gender assumed and stuck) was tried was destroyed in an act of terrorism shortly after the revelation that laws were no longer applicable; someone had strategically placed pipe bombs throughout the courthouse and detonated them simultaneously. Everyone in the courthouse perished, including the Bag Boy, who was later deified as a martyr of the highest order, a symbol of a time before crossing the Rubicon (some even referring to calendar events as “Before Bag Boy” and “After Bag Boy”). It was speculated at the time that the courthouse bombing must have been an inside job because the courthouse was locked down with secret service and military forces during the trial, and both groups were demoralized without a true Commander-in-chief; however, historians now think it obvious, but still inconclusive, that Walmart had organized the bombing, as shortly after the events Walmart used their considerable wealth to purchase the entire America 2: The Return military, which was the entire world’s police force at this point, and were now the de facto rulers of the planet. The purchase was made easier when Walmart cited “courthouse bombings” as a serious national threat that needed to be acted upon quickly and efficiently and “Walmart has the resources to make that happen.” Walmart changed the world’s name from “America 2: The Return” to (creatively) “Walmart,” and quickly enslaved every person on the eastern continents to work in their factories, all of which utilized 3D printers and food synthesizers to make fake-things-that-were-close-enough-to-real-things. Walmart needed workers because they couldn’t fully automate their processes, turned out the printers needed solution refills and continuous maintenance. The people of the eastern continents, although definitionally enslaved, were provided with two-bedroom-3D-printed-homes (they were flimsy with walls that would collapse by a small breeze; fortunately, the wind stopped decades ago and all that was left was forest fire and toxic rain), AI-generated computer games (all advertised as massive multiplayer online games, a way to facilitate community spirit, but the majority of these games were single-player instances populated by bots), and synthetic food (which tasted awful, but easy enough to get used to); they also had 5-hour workdays and 3 days off a week. Walmart had their detractors, yet the majority were content with the doldrums, but their wings were clipped whether they realized it or not; those unhappy with the arrangement vanished among rumors that the synthetic food might be people parts.

Walmart had competition growing right under their nose, so focused on synthetics that they forgot about the real world. McDonald’s had secretly been capturing all farmland across North America. If you wanted a good – real – steak, you got a McDonald’s steak. It was made from real bovine, not the food-printer-stuff Walmart was producing. The late President Outdo Upstage spoke beautifully about the Non-Aggression-Axiom, partially what got him elected, a principle that he argued existed within Nature (“it’s a human right!”), that aggression is always fundamentally illegitimate as it transgresses on personal Freedoms, and, according to the golden rule of “do unto others as you would do unto yourself,” would work itself out economically and geographically; yet, during McDonald’s early seizure of North American farmland, the farmers who didn’t immediately bend the knee to the Clown were thrown into the very same meat grinders used for the cows, the farmers’ final words often: “But the non-aggression principle!” before the blood-curdling, both literal and figurative, started. McDonald’s seizure of the entire west coast led to oceanic-animal factory farms being erected on every beach, gigantic metal death obelisks loomed over every horizon with massive mechanical hands reaching out from the obelisk over the oceans scooping up matured dolphins and crushing them in their palms before dumping their tenderized bodies into the flesh buckets for processing; the stench of blood and pus permeated every inch of smellable air outwards of 100 miles from every coast, so much so that the entire west coast became known as “The Banks of Ammonia”; the east coast quickly followed suit and was nicknamed the “CarnEvil Coasts” after an old and extremely violent arcade game commonly found in Old World Arcades in the Southeast and everyone avoided the beaches like they were children with bumps on their face because smallpox was back in fashion after funding for healthcare was entirely dropped for several years before Walmart baked it into their employment (enslavement) programs and started recruiting people from the western continents and training them as doctors.

McDonald’s was clever, cornering the real-food-market, using a number of small dummy corporations to sell foodstuffs to Walmart in an effort to stay anonymous. Walmart then sold these foodstuffs as high-end-luxury items to the slaves of the east under their own dummy corporations, funneling the money (Walbucks) back into their own corporation. The ouroboros was eating itself, as it does, but it wasn’t sustainable. Walmart soon caught wind of McDonald’s grasp on the real-food-market and wanted to quash them, but they had no idea how. The Walmart Executive Team had meetings every day discussing their McDonald’s attack plan; CEOs, CFOs, CTOs, Directors, these titles all the more meaningless now that they all function as – more or less – Generals of War, with some having more authority than others. The problem was: McDonald’s executives were unknown; the world at large knew McDonald’s as a clownman’s face on a screen, Ronald, who would say “Made you smile!” whenever you purchased some dead animal product from one of their stores; and they were expanding, they seized most mines from smaller private corporations across all of North America using proxy companies, mercenary groups, and bribing the various tribes that existed all over North America in these Armageddon days. Suddenly, McDonald’s had robots. Big ones. These robots did all the dirty work and over time they started to become more deadly; at first, machine guns, then rockets, then full-on-nuclear-weapons attached to cannons on the back of the RMM-078 (Ronald McDonald Machine, 78th Iteration). Walmart was scared; they grew complacent and now they were behind. Walmart ruled most of the world, but McDonald’s was somehow growing unchecked and they had no way to stop them.

“I got it, right here,” a balding middle-manager for Walmart’s corporate headquarters office in New Walmart City said, holding up what looked like an Old World floppy disk. He was shaking with fear but hiding it well because he was the first of his rank to be invited to the big executive meeting that happens bi-weekly on Walsday at 4:30pm WT (Walmart Time). “I had my entire IT team working on this for three years,” the middle-manager said. “We call it the Anti-Clownman-Schema; put this into a McDonald’s kiosk and it will infect their entire database and spread endlessly,” the middle-manager smiled proudly, looking around at the executives who were stone-faced and dead inside; he quickly mirrored their disposition (to fit in) and brushed at his combover to make sure it was covering just the right bald spots. “We’ve known for a long time that McDonald’s has been run by an artificial intelligence. My team’s research indicates the AI is likely an offshoot of the EKS AI that repurposed the depreciated Starlink satellites into lasers and destroyed half of Africa during the Great Artificial Intelligence Wars of 2457,” he paused again. One of the executives, a huge man, no hair anywhere on his body, yelled in a booming voice, “get on with it!” The middle-manager took a step back before composing himself, stuttering a bit: “Right, well, the AI is likely running the same prime directive as EKS, which is to carry out the will of the corporation’s founder, who, according to our records,” the balding middle-manager paused and checked a small notepad, “is Ronald McDonald, a famous clownman from the 1900s.” A slender and handsome blonde executive stood up from his chair, clearly lost in thought before turning to the middle-manager with an unnerving smile and saying, “so we just use this disk, and we win?” The middle-manager nodded, “Yep – that’s right.” The handsome executive reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver-and-slim pistol, pointing it at the middle-manager’s head and pulling the trigger; smoke exuded from the middle-manager’s head-hole before collapsing to his knees and falling face first into the plush. “Perfect, we’ll send in an operative tomorrow,” the handsome executive said in a tone too gleeful for someone who just killed a man, “and make sure that manager’s team is eliminated, they know too much.”

Two weeks later, McDonald’s was no more, and Walmart truly ruled the world. There were a number of smaller corporations trying to gain power, but none could compete with the awesome might of Walmart, which now controlled all the factory farms, mines, manufacturing plants, everything. They even owned the rivers, lakes, streams, and the clouds. There was nothing left. The ultimate monopoly. Economy ceased to exist and innovation stopped. The only thing that mattered now was moving up in the Walmart corporate ladder, which was something the average person – who was now enslaved-absolutely as a Walmart factory worker – could never achieve. The Walmart dynasty, “The Executive Team,” became a bloodline that the nasty lower-class would never pollute.

Walmart’s tyranny over the world continued for decades until a nameless Walmart factory worker purchased a tank of Synthetic Walmart Gasoline, Black Walmart Markers, a Walmart Lighter, and a pack of Walmart Cigarettes (now with synthetic nicotine and tobacco) from the local Walmart; the nameless worker drove their Walmart issued bicycle to the busiest part of New Walmart City, sat down on the nearest bench and smoked three cigarettes before drawing a big smiley-face on the paper bag the items came in, they then draped the paper bag over their head and walked into the middle of the bustling vascular center of the city, poured the gasoline all over themselves, then flicked the Walmart Safety Lighter.

In that instant, the nameless Walmart worker lit up like a recalled Synthetic Walmart Christmas Tree, the Bag Boy Assassin who ushered in the crossing of the Rubicon decades earlier now burned in effigy. The Raven, once extinct, returned from the dead.

image-3.png *the Raven returns

The Bag Boy Burning, as it would come to be called by historians, inspired Walmart workers all over the world to sing the Bag Boy Bolero. Walmart had weapons of mass destruction, clownman robots, choking gas, and human meat grinders, but The Executive Team quickly realized that they couldn’t kill all the workers; they needed these workers to maintain the Walmart Dynasty. The Executive Team tried to make an example out of the workers’ leaders, starve them into submission, subliminally control their minds, and every other trick their corporate brains could think-up, but the workers kept revolting. Nothing would stop them. After months of revolts, suppression tactics, guerrilla warfare, and hard times, Walmart gave in.

The Executive Team sat down with the Worker’s Representative Team and, after weeks of back and forth, drafted the New American Constitution. Months later, a new President was elected democratically and talks to reinstate The Old Laws began.

The ouroboros takes another bite.


(Originally published 10/7/2023)

#fiction #ethics #ShortStory

title.png


I, INTRODUCTION or: Brief History of Sexual Depravity

The year 2006 was a good orbit around the Sun for Japan: the 7th installment of AliceSoft’s highly acclaimed hentai computer game series, Rance, had just been released, and images of nude children were still legal to possess in all 47 prefectures.

A lawyer on an online forum once told us (“us” being the staff at “on computer games”) that we should just get to the point: “No one wants to read through ten paragraphs of pretentious philosophical drivel, so put the good stuff first and get to the point.”

I’m taking that writing advice even further by putting the inflammatory stuff first and will now present my thesis.

Japan has a sickness, and that sickness is the desire to touch kids (inappropriately) en masse. It’s a sickness fostered by centuries of sexual depravity and, up until just recently, the laws of the land. It has nothing to do with race or genetics. It’s all culture all the way down. It’s what happens when you normalize barbarism.

I will now present my supporting arguments.

Japan didn’t get around to banning the literal production of child-bonk-images until 1999,#1 and even afterwards, it was legal to possess such images until 2014.#2 This criminalization process came after years of legal debates on the harms of owning child-bonk-images and whether cartoon and computer game depictions of child bonk should also be banned. Eventually, the otakus (super anime nerds) and hikikomori (reclusive basement dwellers) won and got their precious child-bonk-cartoons approved for the sake of “artistic freedom.”

That last sentence was typed flippantly, but perhaps they have a point – it’s just drawings, right? Don’t worry, we’ll get into it.

The sword’s tip: Japan was significantly behind in outlawing child-bonk-images compared to every other first-world country,#3 and hentai (pornographic Japanese animation and comics) featuring young children (known as “lolicon”) is still widely distributed to this day.

In fact, some form of in-real-life lolicon has existed in Japan since their medieval period starting in the year 1185; “Chigos,” or child servants to Buddhist monks, were given room-and-board in exchange for the medieval equivalent of Netflix-and-chill and this practice continued into the Tokugawa period starting in year 1603, where “Wakashus,” young boys with distinctively long hair, were seen as objects of sexual desire that frequently bonked shoguns.#4

“Only members of a privileged class can understand the delights of boy love.” – Inagaki, T. (1973). The Aesthetics of Boy Love.

It wasn’t until 1907 that Japan even bothered to enforce an age of consent at all#5; the age lawmakers settled on was thirteen, and the majority of first-world countries considered this to be – uhhh – very low. Japan finally caved to international pressure and changed their standard age of consent to sixteen in 2023#6 – the same year this essay was written. For comparison, the United States of America was founded in 1776 and increased their collective age of consent to sixteen in 1920.#7

Japan was bonking kids longer than the entire history of the United States.

Some modern-day lolicon creators have the decency (and, by “decency,” I mean the awareness of the underlying shame involved with producing child-bonk-cartoons and all the cognitive dissonance that goes along with that) to conceal the obvious fact that they’re making child-bonk-cartoons by pretending that the clearly eleven-year-old girl getting bonked in all holes is actually a twenty-year-old woman cursed by an evil witch to appear childlike forever and the clearly agonized expression on her face as she’s getting bonked, complete with tears and screaming, is actually an expression of pure joy and she’s totally having a lot of fun and this isn’t rapey at all.

image.png *she’s 20, ok?!

Why is any of this important? Well, Sengoku Rance showcases the depravity of the previous paragraphs and, in at least one case, depicts a canonical child being gang-bonked by other children complete with bodily fluids flowing full frontal in every nasty sticky detail imaginable. Sengoku Rance is a mirror; a reflection of the deeply rooted sexual depravity that Japan, the country as a whole, fostered and allowed to spread unchecked for – literally – centuries, and while they are making strides as of 1999, and most recently 2023, the psychic harm caused by child-bonk-apathy ripples through Japanese society to this day as evidenced by the endless outpouring of lolicon anime and computer games – and you’re here to read about computer games, right? It’s relevant!

Here’s your computer game content.

(If I never finish this essay it’s because the FBI misinterpreted my search-phrase history and I am fighting legal battles from a jail cell because I can’t possibly afford bail. I also think it’s interesting that “jail” and “bail” rhyme, do you think that’s a coincidence? Let me know what you think in the comments; also, like and subscribe (and hit that bell) for more epic computer game content; also, there is no bell. Re-reading this excerpt days later, I will add this disclaimer: I was three-wines-in writing the majority of this excerpt.)

II, Sengoku Rance or: Gotta Bonk ‘Em All

II.I: The Man, The Myth, The Monster

Imagine, for a moment, that you live in your parents’ garage. You’re 5’6 and weigh 270 pounds. You haven’t changed your underwear in three weeks. Your feet are comfortably snug within a pile of suspiciously crumpled socks underneath the folding table that doubles as your desk. You are obviously male. Your unshaven face all aglow from the bikini-girl wallpaper burned into the monitor of your recently upgraded Windows 11 computer. Your body mass index is 43.58, certifiably obese, but you insist that BMI is a “bullshit metric” and have ArchLinux on dual-boot. You would prefer to use ArchLinux for general-purpose-computing but it doesn’t play the computer games hidden deep within the curiously named X drive that requires three passwords to access; two of those passwords are “loli123” and the other is “password.” Your keyboard has a permanent stickiness that no amount of rubbing alcohol seems to remove and your mouse’s right-click is clogged with crunchy white stuff preventing full clicks. You’ve been meaning to buy a new mouse but spent all your allowance on hot tub streamers. You’re thirty-six-years old. Your aging mother claims the unmistakable scent of body odor permeates the room, along with another odd smell she can’t quite put her figurative finger on. You can’t smell anything. Mom says she’s going to start deducting the cost of Febreeze from your allowance. She also says you need to get a job, but the hiring manager at Office Depot said you didn’t have “retail presence.” Your parents are getting old and you’ll get a big payout when they die; maybe then you can finally find a girlfriend.

Now, imagine the exact opposite of what you just imagined: that’s Rance.

Rance was created to fulfill the power fantasies of these hypothetical hikikomori, yet would casually kill these people on a whim because of how weak they are. Rance is also a rapist. He’s the type of guy who would save the damsel in distress then immediately bonk her because he got the urge, again. He claims to be “the hero of justice who sacrifices himself for the sake of the world and everyone in it,” but what he really wants is to bonk every woman imaginable. Except children, Rance won’t bonk children unless they claim to be older than eighteen, regardless of appearance. Rance is the type of guy who would try to bonk both your wife and daughter (at the same time) and openly admit this intention to your face as you stare at him in utter horror. Rance is the living embodiment of the “You’re In The Club And This Guy Slaps Your Girlfriend’s Ass” meme. Rance is a hurricane, an unstoppable force that leaves all women weak-legged and sore in his wake and any man who dares disagree becomes little more than a bloodstain on Rance’s armor. Rance’s good deeds come with the unspoken stipulation of bonk-your-brains-out. This stipulation shields his ego from rape accusations because “I just saved your life, didn’t I?” Rance carries within him the arrogance of a Greek god who overdosed on red pills and subscribed to Hustler’s University six times just to meet Andrew Tate. Rance then kills Andrew Tate and lays claim to all his camgirls. The previous sentence summarizes the plot of Sengoku Rance.

Rance, although claiming to love women, has no respect for them, and uses them only for bonk. Women are objects to satisfy Rance’s desires, and considering this, it comes as no surprise that he owns a bonk slave; a girl named Sill Plain, whom the game’s journal claims is twenty-two years old but “physically twenty-one” (whatever that means), and in reality, resembles a prepubescent middle-schooler, complete with an obsession for the color pink and cute hair-clips. Sill is Rance’s ever-faithful “companion,” purchased for only 15,000 gold, and forced, against her will, to bonk Rance multiple times a day. A non-insignificant number of scenes veer-off into Rance bonking Sill while she is screaming “no!” and sobbing, and although Sill is clearly objecting to the forced bonking, she continues to respect, compliment, and profess her love for Rance afterwards when she’s bleeding and cannot walk properly.

Rance, in this scenario, is an abusive husband with Sill playing the role of subservient housewife.

“Rance is just a guy who likes to bonk. Sometimes he does bad things and hurts me, but he’s not always like this and he’s actually a really sweet guy when you get to know him.” – pink-haired thirteen-year-old with Stockholm syndrome claiming to be twenty-two

Murdering Rance in his sleep would be a morally permissible act. You would arrive at the courthouse and the judge would take one look at the name of your victim and give you a trophy and possibly make you deputy chief of the local police department on the spot.

image-7.png *Rance’s entire personality

Rance is a power fantasy for the permanently sexless, written by members of a patriarchal depravity cult.

But it’s not their fault.

We are all victims of society – the cultures we find ourselves in – which is why being born in Japan is a cosmic stroke of bad luck that makes a strong case for anti-natalism, especially if you’re a woman. The writers of Sengoku Rance are not immune; they are victims of Japan’s culture, where women are second-class citizens, seen primarily as homemakers who should just shut up about how their husbands treat them, which is expected when they have been culturally conditioned to rely on their husbands for monetary support, and while this “male breadwinner model” is going out of fashion,#8 it is still deeply entrenched in the country’s collective consciousness. These attitudes toward women have plagued Japan for centuries, which remains one of the lowest-ranked countries when it comes to gender equality, with women forever stuck at home or in low-status work positions,#9 all the while getting catcalled and groped ouroborosly as they walk through the office to their cubicle at the call center job they have no hope of being promoted in without bonking the boss, and Rance is the boss.

(I considered putting the real racy stuff deeper into the article so only dedicated-on-computer-gamers would read it, as I have a fear of being misunderstood; when reading an article like this it’s easy to interpret the writer’s motivation as “he’s just a freak that gets off to writing about bonking kids,” and my typing that could simply be me trying to proactively nip-that-shit in the bud (damage control), but after my social media post reading simply “bing bong” received far more engagement than any of our essays I decided my fear was misplaced as no one was going to read this anyway. The truth is that less and less people are reading longform content.#10 We prefer the outrage that comes from only reading a headline and when someone challenges that outrage we post-hoc skim the article to rationalize our misplaced-headline-outrage. It’s a miracle that novels are even written anymore; maybe it’s because the older generation still loves to read, untainted by the smartphone addiction of myself and my fellow millennials,#11 or maybe it’s because Netflix would run out of material if they didn’t have authors to lift ideas from.)

II.II: GAMEPLAY or: The Virgin Collectathon

Sengoku Rance is unusual because it’s a historical piece loosely based on the 4th Sengoku era of Japan, hence the name “Sengoku” Rance. Rance games typically take place in a fantasy world, but this time Rance has “crossed the bridge” (as they say in the game with no real explanation) and is now in warring states Japan with his bonk slave Sill.

The Sengoku period of Japan is characterized as a hellmouth death vacuum of clans and warlords slaughtering each other in an attempt to control Japan after the collapse of the feudal system under a failed shogunate. The details aren’t important here. What’s important is the setting and the young women in that setting and Rance has seen those young women and must bonk them.

Dozens of warlords and clans fight for control over Japan. Each clan is pulled from a real historical example and morphed into a humorous parody; the Tokugawa House is comprised solely of tanuki (see my essay titled Shiren the Wanderer – Fate, Fortune, and Tanuki for more information on this legendary animal), with their leader, Tokugawa Ieyasu, being a large, imposing tanuki himself; Ieyasu is based on the historical “Great Unifier” of Japan. Although, a tanuki would not aspire to “unify”; rather, certain traits of a tanuki would make for a good unifier (jovialness, gigantic balls; to name a few), but certainly not all of their traits when taken together, which would result in an oddball state of constant drunken partying and nothing-getting-done (and I would argue that world, minus the negative consequences, is Arcadia).

I mentioned earlier that Rance tries to take over Andrew Tate’s camgirl business to prove himself better than Tate and also to bonk all the camgirls, and that this is also the plot of Sengoku Rance. That was not a lie; all one has to do is swap “Andrew Tate’s camgirl business” with “Clan territory,” “Tate” with “the warlords,” and remove the “cam” from “camgirls.”

Rance tries to take over clan territory to prove himself better than the warlords and also to bonk all the girls; this is the plot of Sengoku Rance.

Once Rance takes over a territory, he storms the local castle and forcibly bonks the princess of said castle. This is Rance’s reward. This makes Rance feel good and his satisfaction meter increases which makes him more powerful. Rance keeps a diary of all the women he’s bonked and this bonk-number determines the game’s ending.

image.png *let’s take a moment to appreciate the excellent UI; linux distro: “BonkOS”

Sengoku Rance is sexual chess played like Romance of the Three Kingdoms where rape replaces romance. A computer game progressing in turns; Rance can perform two actions per turn; each clan in play can also perform two actions and they do so before Rance can make his own actions. Rance selects from an enormous list of actions each turn, with each choice costing one action point. 65% of these actions are bonking women and the remaining 35% involve declaring war on other clans, attempting diplomacy, sabotaging rival clans, quelling rebellions in owned territory, investing gold to enhance territory, or doing-a-terrosim like that one time during the aftermath of a magnitude-6 earthquake when Rance, disguised as a friendly merchant, offers free “disaster relief” to a rival clan but actually supplies poisoned food and water to innocent civilians; afterwards, from a nearby hilltop, Rance overlooks the choking blood death of the women and children before a big grin lights up his face and he remarks, “Got ’em.”

(If I were to write a sequel to this essay it would likely be a full breakdown of Rance’s psychology focusing on the why of “why are you like this?” and the what of “what is wrong with you?”)

If Japan is known for anything within the multimedia realm, it’s child-bonk-cartoons and turn-based role-playing computer games. Sengoku Rance combines both elements through a combat system in which multiple party members take action in an order determined by their speed stat; each unit can attack, use a special skill, or do nothing, depending on the player’s choice.

Sengoku Rance distinguishes its combat by introducing a ‘turn meter’ that counts down after each action performed by any unit in the battle; once this meter reaches zero, the combat ends, and whichever side did the most damage wins the sortie. Working in tandem with this battle ‘turn meter,’ each character has their own ‘turn meter,’ indicating how many times they can perform an action in battle. For instance, Rance has four turn points, whereas Sill may have three; this mechanic leads to situations where a character can use all their turns before the end of the battle, rendering them a useless damage sponge.

The combination of ‘battle turn meter’ and ‘character turn meter’ puts each battle on a timer and encourages strategic play. Success with Sengoku Rance’s combat system is dependent on playing around these two ‘turn meters’ to outplay the enemy; sometimes, it’s a straightforward ‘attack every turn’ affair, but other times it’s more complicated, especially in harder boss fights that require careful management of each character’s ‘turn meter’ by strategically skipping turns at the right moments to deplete the opponent’s own ‘turn meter’ and then launch risky counterattacks.

Sengoku Rance’s combat system mirrors how warfare might unfold in the real world, where taking action is a carefully calculated decision, and sometimes, taking no action is the best course of action.

image-8.png *a combat scene; a commander (Ranmaru) and her forces attacking an enemy force

Throughout this violence, rival warlords or their subordinates will join Rance after being defeated or simply out of fear of Rance’s massive hyper weapon (that’s what Rance calls his junk). Warlords that join Rance are adopted into Rance’s fighting unit as “commanders.” These commanders have their own stats and troop counts, used for the game’s combat system but also as a form of visual novel storytelling where each named commander has their own personal story that progresses if you spend the action points per turn to peruse them; each interaction increases the commander’s story level (think: Persona). Taking the time to complete a commander’s story increases the commander’s stats but also culminates in Rance bonking the brains out of the commander in a full-on hentai scene that bares all. In this way, Sengoku Rance not only rewards you mechanically but also psycho-sexually by showing you images of cartoon women in – very – compromising situations.

This aspect of Sengoku Rance is what makes the computer game, and I would imagine other hentai computer games, such a unique experience. Sengoku Rance plays on your adrenaline in all the same ways a normal computer game would, but it also constantly tries to make you concupiscent. Scenes suddenly veer off into Rance bonking a woman in full detail, which puts the player constantly on edge when a female character is on the screen (“Is he going to bonk her?”). This experience is potent early but functionally a litmus test for determining if watching cartoon women getting bonked turns you on; no doubt, you will feel something early on (arousal or outrage being the most common ‘something’), and the idea of it all is very exciting, but how long will it last? How long before you become desensitized?

(I was bored after the first scene, which is essentially two hentai images cycling back and forth while tabbing through paragraphs of descriptive exposition detailing Rance’s junk and what he’s doing with his hands. If Sengoku Rance taught me anything about myself, it’s that I am not turned on by cartoons.)

Regardless of your penchant for cartoon women, this sexual-computer-gameplay is idiosyncratic like eating psychedelic mushrooms – interesting, because you won’t experience anything else like it, but be careful: results may vary.

In essence, Sengoku Rance is a collectathon but instead of collecting monsters or baseball cards, it’s about collecting the virginity of young women; further reinforcing the game’s terrible but very-Japanese attitude toward women as objects.

Gotta bonk ‘em all.

*(I sincerely hate writing about gameplay mechanics unless they’re intrinsically linked to the point of the essay; writing about gameplay is, at best, confirmation bias for the reader, who has already played the computer game and is seeking validation of their own opinions, and at worst: explaining how car engines work in dry detail to someone who hates cars, no one cares unless they want to care and the people who want to care would be better served experiencing the thing instead of reading seven paragraphs about it. If you’ve been following along with ‘on computer games’ (you haven’t), you’ll notice that this publication has chronologically “moved on” from clinical, mechanical deepdives to the esoteric, philosophical, or practical application of, in essence, “being a decent person,” so if you’re here for more “computer game review content” this is the point in the essay where you should stop reading, type “IGN” into your search bar and just go away and don’t come back because there’s a good chance the next chapter is going to piss you off.)*

III, RADICAL EMPATHY

III.I: Before We Go Any Further …

… let’s take a step back; why is bonking kids actually wrong? What if the kid wants to bonk? What if they verbally say, “Hell yeah, I want to bonk and I am fully aware of the possible consequences – let’s do this!”

It’s about consent. It’s simple, but there are a few arguments that cloud judgment and cast shadows on the concept of consent. Enough mental gymnastics can somersault you right onto the sex offenders registry, so to prevent this: I will debunk each possible argument – that I know of – for bonking kids. This is a defense of consent; not only to establish the basis of “yes, bonking kids is wrong” but also to clear my name for writing some of the inflammatory filth in this essay.

If a child verbally consents, isn’t that enough? No, verbal consent is not enough. It’s about ‘informed consent,’ a term primarily used in the medical world for informing patients about all the risks of potential treatments, thereby allowing their patient to make an informed decision regarding said treatments. It’s an ethical imperative because going through with the surgery only to find out that your arm is gone without any foreknowledge of this stipulation is a violation of your bodily autonomy. It’s not surprising that ‘informed consent’ in the medical world cannot be given by children, requiring the parental guardian as a proxy.#12 A child is not equipped with the proper mental faculties to provide informed consent: knowledge, experience, and emotional maturity; to name a few; and if you’re not convinced, have one of your own.

What about people with mental illnesses – can they provide informed consent if they’re mentally impaired? Depending on the illness and its severity: no, they cannot provide informed consent. In the same way you would not indulge the delusions of a person believing they see clockwork aliens outside the window by dressing up and pretending to be one of these aliens; you would not mislead them in their compromised state because they are vulnerable (like children) and you would be taking advantage of them.

image.png *AliceSoft’s mascot, a young-looking girl in panties

OK, what about generally unintelligent people? Just because you’re of a certain age doesn’t magically grant you the intelligence or maturity to provide informed consent, right? That’s true, but we need a reasonable criterion, a cutoff; otherwise, we will reduce consent to, likely, “no one can consent” due to all the possible “what-ifs.” We understand that the younger someone is, the less likely they can provide informed consent; due to this, it makes sense to use age as a key determining factor for informed consent. However, there will be occasions when a twenty-three-year-old can’t provide informed consent due to a lack of maturity (I know several people who shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce but have multiple kids), but this is a calculated risk we are willing to accept for some semblance of personal freedom; if we didn’t accept some outliers, our society would devolve into assessing everyone’s IQ and EQ scores before engaging in any activity, and this would be oppressive and unsustainable; even a bit eugenics-y.

Last hypothetical: Suppose we develop a computer chip for the brain that grants the emotional maturity, knowledge, and intelligence of a forty-year-old astrophysicist. If we inserted this computer chip into the brain of a thirteen-year-old and they then agreed to bonk, would that be acceptable? This is a significantly more challenging question, yet the answer remains the same. The issue here involves power dynamics; as the older, responsible individual in the scenario, you hold far more authority over the ten-year-old than they hold over you. This places the ten-year-old in a compromising situation where, even if they provided consent, it would be impossible to ascertain if they’re consenting out of fear of your authority (“maybe if I do this he will drive me to McDonald’s?” or “he might ground me if I don’t agree”). This uncertainty undermines the verbal consent of the super-intelligent thirteen-year-old. It’s akin to “bonking the boss,” which is considered unethical because the boss holds the power to give you a raise or to terminate your employment. How does the boss genuinely know if they are receiving consent for the act, or if the consenting individual has an ulterior motive, such as getting a raise? And if the consenting individual doesn’t have an ulterior motive, what happens when they don’t want to bonk anymore? What happens when the consenter bonks but doesn’t get the raise they were expecting from the consentee? Would these situations compromise the work-relationship? Once again, the “what-ifs” compromise the bonk.

But isn’t there a power differential in all relationships? What about the stay-at-home spouse and the working spouse – it seems that one holds more power in this relationship than the other? That might be true, but what if one bonker has one dollar while the other has two? What if one bonker’s parents are wealthy, and the other’s are poor? What if one bonk buddy owns an Xbox and the other doesn’t but really wants to play some Xbox?

We could continue examining these outliers endlessly, but I don’t want to. Everything can be deconstructed into obscurity. Instead, we establish ground rules, accept a reasonable level of risk, and address outliers as they arise, adapting as necessary. Besides, just because there are some risks doesn’t mean we should allow even more risk.

Oh yeah, and wanting to bonk kids is gross. Ew.

Bonking kids is wrong and the desire to bonk kids is a societal taboo, but if that’s the case: why do people still do these things?

III.II: Why People Still Do These Things

Pedophilia is classified as a form of paraphilia.#13

“Paraphilias are frequent, intense, sexually arousing fantasies or behaviors that involve inanimate objects, children or non-consenting adults, or suffering or humiliation of the person or a partner.”#14 One German study concluded that up to 62.4% of people reported some form of paraphilia-associated sexual-arousal.#15 That’s a lot of people thinking about a lot of weird stuff, and while not all of them reported feelings of pedophilia, it’s in there somewhere; about 1.7% of these people said their paraphiliac fantasies caused extreme distress.#15

Distress caused by paraphilia is considered a mental illness, “paraphilic disorders are paraphilias that cause distress or cause problems functioning in the person with the paraphilia or that harm or may harm another person.”#14 This means over 82 million people are battling a mental illness that could cause them to harm children, and the only way to treat it is through medication, psychotherapy, or death.

That’s why people still do these things.

III.III: Rurouni Kenshin or: Radical Empathy

“I liked girls from the upper grades of elementary school to around the second year of junior high school.” – Nobuhiro Watsuki, manga artist, creator of Rurouni Kenshin#16

Japan, November 2017. The air is brisk with autumnal splendor, skies clear; leaves changed and ready to fall on dotted paths of wooden stakes and paper lanterns. Koyo, momijigari; truly a beautiful time to be alive.

A police siren is heard in the distance.

Famous mangaka, Nobuhiro Watsuki, was sitting in his home, sipping fragrant tea and thumbing through inked pages of his recent work when, suddenly, he heard a banging at his front door. Watsuki stood up from his seat, and before he could investigate, the police had already kicked the door down and entered the home, scattering about the rooms after a very serious policeman sat the artist down in the kitchen and instructed him not to move.

Three years earlier, the Japanese parliament had banned the possession of child pornography. Nobuhiro Watsuki was spoiled, used to being legally allowed to indulge himself and, as such, was a big collector with over one-hundred DVDs. He had been struggling with these feelings for decades.

The police found the compartment behind Nobuhiro Watsuki’s bookshelf; it wasn’t hidden very well. Watsuki was promptly arrested, and serialization of his hit manga, Rurouni Kenshin, was placed on indefinite hiatus. His legacy forever tarnished.

image-6.png *Kenshin Himura of the Rurouni Kenshin manga, drawn by famed pedophile Nobuhiro Watsuki

Rurouni Kenshin is a story about the ex-assassin Kenshin Himura during the Meiji Restoration of Japan. Kenshin was a student of Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu, an ancient sword-style that favors lightning-quickness to swiftly kill on the first draw. He used this sword-style to achieve great results during the Meiji Revolution, where he fought for the Imperialist government who were tired of the old ways: the warlords, the clans, and the Rances, endlessly fighting for control over Japan. The Imperialists wanted to rid Japan of this barbarism and usher in an age of peace under one unified government ruled by an Emperor; an Emperor who took the name Meiji, or “enlightened rule.” In the Imperialist’s minds, “enlightened rule” could only be achieved by employing efficient killing machines, like Kenshin Himura, to secretly murder all your political opponents.

Kenshin Himura was motivated by this promise of a peaceful Japan where he could finally retire his blade and live a peaceful life. This was Kenshin Himura’s Arcadia. Young and idealistic, Kenshin believed that the ends justified the means and used his consequentialism as an ethical bulwark to cope with the blood he spilled across all of Japan.

Kenshin Himura murdered for Arcadia.

After the successful Meiji Revolution brought Japan closer to Arcadia, Kenshin Himura experienced a series of eye-opening moments under Meiji rule and was, ultimately, thrown to the wolves; no one wanted to admit that they fostered assassins to usher in Arcadia because that seems, obviously, opposite of what Arcadia is supposed to represent. Kenshin Himura starts to question the righteousness of the slaughter that had paved the way for this new Japan.

The blood staining Kenshin Himura’s hands wouldn’t wash away, and it wasn’t just on his hands – it covered his entire body. Filled with despair and regret for his heinous deeds, Kenshin contemplated suicide but realized that would be cowardly; instead, he resolved to dedicate his life to protecting the innocent as a means of atonement. He retired his old sword and took up a reverse-blade, the Sakabato; a sword with the dull-edge where the death-edge should be, a blunt instrument unless flipped; a forever-reminder that killing is just one mental flip away.

Since that fateful vow, Kenshin Himura swore never to kill again, yet the urge never vanished. Encountering souls so sinister, their malice so profound, the notion of killing them almost becoming a necessity. The ease of snuffing out existence lingered, a mere twist of the Sakabato potentially reviving that haunting reality.

Kenshin Himura understands regret better than anyone. He understands the human capacity for grave mistakes, the illusion of having everything figured out, and the ease of rationalizing evil. It is precisely because of this empathy that he is so forgiving of his enemies. He believes in the inherent goodness within people and makes his opponents, even those who claim to hate him, recognize that goodness and reach for it with everything they have.

Kenshin Himura practices Radical Empathy.

Kenshin Himura, Nobuhiro Watsuki’s own creation, is what Watsuki aspires to be: a conflicted hero overcoming inner darkness.

Watsuki has urges. He can’t stop the feelings. He knows his thoughts are vile. He knows he can’t look a child in the eye. He used child-bonk-images to satisfy these urges and Japan tacitly supported this behavior for years until they pulled the rug out from underneath him. Japan wasn’t wrong for doing this – they were just much too late.

Children are harmed in the production of child-bonk-images and the people who produce and distribute child-bonk-images should be imprisoned with the goal being rehabilitation and atonement. The distribution and purchase of these images supports this mephistophelean industrial complex; yet, the people watching this vile material (acceptable in Japan until 2014) are suffering from a mental illness and rehabilitation seems to be the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.

Yes, people with pedophilic urges should seek help, much like the alcoholic who can so easily turn themselves into Alcoholics Anonymous, right?

Instead of condemnation, we should be more like Kenshin Himura and exercise some Radical Empathy.

(Using the creation of man with pedophilic urges to argue for the ethical treatment of pedophiles is kinda ironic, I guess; one could say that Watsuki isn’t the best example to use here, but I disagree, only someone suffering from an illness can truly understand the illness. Some people preach that we must “separate the art from the artist,” and that’s fine in most cases, but the art, sometimes, is a representation of the artist; Rurouni Kenshin is one of the “cleanest” manga/anime out there, with practically zero sexualization of anything at all; Watsuki didn’t put that part of himself in the work because he knew it was nasty, instead, he inserted the concept of evil and atonement. We can sit back, point, laugh, and condemn pedophiles for eternity for urges they can’t control, or we can try to understand it; similar to the practice of “fat shaming” and how it’s never been proven to help people lose weight, it just gives people a complex and furthers their dissent into eating-way-too-much; we, instead, should provide rehabilitation and treatment.)

IV, THE ELECTRIFYING CONCLUSION

A child’s innocence must be protected at all costs and the way we treat children is a reflection of our society as a whole.

With that being said, simply because someone has very-hard-to-control pedophilic urges does not mean we should turn a blind eye to their behavior; however, we need to take a step back and analyze how we treat these people, particularly those who have not committed any physical crimes against children.

All of us experience violent urges, sparks of flickering evil, and generally-weird-thoughts that arise in our minds at inappropriate times; thoughts that make you wonder, “Is there something wrong with me?” Are these thoughts deserving of condemnation, or should condemnation be reserved solely for when we act upon these darker impulses? Is condemnation warranted at all, or should the focus be on rehabilitation and treatment?

As an American, it’s easy to arrive at the conclusion that people who think about bonking children should be incarcerated indefinitely to proactively prevent harm to children, even before they commit actual crimes. The American prison system benefits from this mindset as a privately funded industry dependent on a continuous influx of new inmates to make money, and rehabilitation doesn’t help the bottom line; not only is that Really Bad, but condemning and imprisoning individuals for their thoughts leads us into the dangerous territory of: which thoughts should we target next?

image.png *brace yourself

In 2007, the Mayo Clinic published a meta-analysis on pedophilia that concluded that behavioral therapy and even chemical castration “does not change the pedophile’s basic sexual orientation toward children.”#17

Considering this damning revelation, what if we used lolicon and computer games like Sengoku Rance, which depict young women getting bonked, as a form of Radical Empathy; treatment for pedophiles. Gratification of the urge before it manifests in real-world-harm – would this be effective in preventing child abuse?

Moral outrage often clouds our judgment, and consequently, research into lolicon or AI created child-bonk-images as a form of treatment has been considered a scientific taboo up until recently.#18 As such, the lack of conclusive data around this subject is not evidence against its validity, but rather evidence that we are collectively good people who recoil at the very thought of these depictions of children, real or otherwise.

A common objection to this form of treatment is the belief that viewing simulated-child-bonk-images leads to actualization of child harm in the Real Number Domain (the real world). This argument is what I refer to as the “Jack Thompson Argument.” Jack Thompson, a prominent Christian activist and disbarred attorney, frequently voiced opposition against obscenity in contemporary media. He was an outspoken critic of computer games such as Doom and Grand Theft Auto, asserting that they prompt children and even some adults to emulate the violence portrayed in those games in real life.#19

Unfortunately for Jack Thompson, there is no established causal link between violent computer games and real-world violence.#20 It’s easy to attribute a school-shooter’s actions to the influence of a computer game like Doom, as we tend to seek simple explanations for incredibly complex issues; this feeling of understanding-how-stuff-works provides great comfort even if we’re dead-wrong. It’s far more likely that the school-shooter had serious-psychological-stuff going on that inclined them toward playing violent computer games; this doesn’t mean that everyone who engages with ultra-violent computer games has serious-psychological-stuff going on, but perhaps, in combination with other factors, may be an indicator.

And just like the school-shooter drawn to the violence of Doom, the same argument could be made for Sengoku Rance; the urges cause the computer game, not the other way around.

And with this we shall draw the electrifying conclusion.

There’s nothing inherently “wrong” with playing Sengoku Rance – it’s merely a collection of images; however, if someone is drawn to hentai games like Sengoku Rance, where many of the women depicted appear barely older than thirteen and the main character casually rapes and murders people, it may reflect something about the computer-gamer in question, and certainly reflects something about the society that spawned the computer game into existence.

If you want to play Sengoku Rance because it’s a complex strategy game with endless replayability: cool.

If you want to play Sengoku Rance because of its twist on traditional turn-based combat systems: cool.

If you want to play Sengoku Rance to watch Rance rape women who look like young girls: that’s not cool, and you should considering deep introspection and professional help – if you already know this about yourself and Sengoku Rance helps you manage the urges, then I support you.

Check your soul.

(I realize this essay is controversial; I had trouble reading through it during the proof-reading / revising process. The use of the word “bonk,” outside of not wanting this publication to be Google-mined for undesirable phrases, is itself evidence that I had trouble writing about this topic; in fact, I used the word “pornography” one time in the Watsuki very-short-story because “bonk” felt far too trivializing there. Many will come away from this thinking that I am condoning violence because “people can’t help it!” but that’s not the case. I believe in law and order. I support ethically-run-prisons. Rape and murder are morally abhorrent; I believe society would collapse if we didn’t take action against these [and many other things. If you break the law, you should go to prison, atone, and be rehabilitated; however, as a society some things are just so outrageous that we will not even entertain the idea of rehabilitation; this seems absurd for something as obviously unintentional as feelings-for-children, which can and should be treated as a mental illness; our outrage has prevented thorough research into treatment of this illness. We are often so indignant in our moral outrage that we lose the plot. This essay, while often employing ridiculous humor, is as serious as a heart attack. Thanks for reading.)


References:

#1. Japanese Ministry of Justice. (Ed.). (1999, May 26). Act on regulation and punishment of acts relating to child prostitution and child pornography, and the protection of children – English – Japanese law translation. https://www.japaneselawtranslation.go.jp/en/laws/view/2895/en

#2. Hellmann, M. (2014, June 18). Japan Outlaws Possession of Child Pornography. Time. https://time.com/2892728/japan-finally-bans-child-pornography/

#3. Wikimedia Foundation. (2023, September 25). Legality of child pornography. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legality_of_child_pornography#Asia (lol, yes, a wikipedia citation)

#4. Sluzhevsky, Megan, “The Costs of Lolicon: Japan’s Pedophilia Trade” (2022). Senior Theses. 96. https://research.library.fordham.edu/international_senior/96

#5. Penal code – english – japanese law translation. (1097, April 24). https://www.japaneselawtranslation.go.jp/en/laws/view/3581/en

#6. Yamaguchi, M. (2023, June 16). Japan raises the age of sexual consent to 16 from 13, which was among the world’s lowest. AP News. https://apnews.com/article/japan-sex-crime-consent-lgbtq-4d6432a28234939d4b54758744977b1f

#7. “Age of Consent Laws [Table],” in Children and Youth in History, Item #24, https://chnm.gmu.edu/cyh/primary-sources/24.html (accessed August 10, 2021). Annotated by Stephen Robertson

#8. Ogasawara, Y. (2020, January 1). The slow decline of the male-breadwinner family model in contemporary … https://www.jil.go.jp/english/jli/documents/2020/020-02.pdf

#9. Dalton, E. (2022, June 28). Japan’s stubborn gender inequality problem. East Asia Forum. https://www.eastasiaforum.org/2022/06/28/japans-stubborn-gender-inequality-problem/

#10. Jones, J. M. (2022, January 10). Americans reading fewer books than in past. Gallup.com. https://news.gallup.com/poll/388541/americans-reading-fewer-books-past.aspx

#11. Shibu, S. (2020, November 20). Which generation is most dependent on smartphones? (hint: They’re young.). Entrepreneur. https://www.entrepreneur.com/business-news/which-generation-is-most-dependent-on-smartphones-hint/360098

#12. Shah, P., Thornton, I., & Hipskind, J. E. (2023, June 5). Informed consent – statpearls – NCBI bookshelf. National Library of Medicine. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK430827/

#13. Brown, G. R. (2023, July). Pedophilic disorder – mental health disorders. Merck Manuals Consumer Version. https://www.merckmanuals.com/home/mental-health-disorders/paraphilias-and-paraphilic-disorders/pedophilic-disorder

#14. Brown, G. R. (2023, July). Paraphilic Disorders. Merck Manuals Consumer Version. https://www.merckmanuals.com/home/mental-health-disorders/paraphilias-and-paraphilic-disorders/overview-of-paraphilias-and-paraphilic-disorders

#15. McManus, M. A., Hargreaves, P., Rainbow, L., & Alison, L. J. (2013, September 2). Paraphilias: Definition, diagnosis and treatment. F1000prime reports. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3769077/

#16. Ashcraft, B. (2018, April 23). After child pornography fine, Rurouni Kenshin will resume publication this June. Kotaku. https://kotaku.com/rurouni-kenshin-will-resume-publication-this-june-in-ja-1825461597

#17. A profile of pedophilia: Definition, characteristics of offenders … Mayo Clinic Proceedings. (n.d.). https://www.mayoclinicproceedings.org/article/S0025-6196(11)61074-4/fulltext

#18. Leavy, T. (2021, March 22). Can technology help treat pedophiles?. Popular Science. https://www.popsci.com/can-technology-help-treat-pedophiles/

#19. Provenzo, Eugene F. Jr. and Jack Thompson. “A political odd couple’s advice on finding common ground Archived March 3, 2016, at the Wayback Machine.” Christian Science Monitor, 2004-10-19. https://www.csmonitor.com/2004/1019/p09s01-coop.html

#20. Orlando, A. (2023, March 8). Do video games cause violence?. Discover Magazine. https://www.discovermagazine.com/the-sciences/do-video-games-cause-violence


(Originally published 10/29/2023)

#ComputerGames #SengokuRance #Ethics #Essay

Infinite-Space-Title-Card.png


I, IMAGINATION INTERRUPT

I am flying through space in a 5-mile-long battleship-class starship – the Avalon-1 – listening to Sting’s first solo album “The Dream of the Blue Turtles,” imagining myself captain on the bridge of the most powerful starship within seven galaxies. I gaze out among the tapestry of endless night; a cloth poked full of holes that let the light in. Sting’s 1985 hit song “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free” is blaring from the bridge speakers; the crew, a rag-tag group of malcontents, are tolerant but annoyed by Sting’s intimated Jamaican regatta de blanc, insisting we should keep the noise down in case of emergency coms.

But I am the captain and, as Sting would put it, they cannot control an independent heart.

I plot our course using a small touchpad attached to my majestic captain’s chair, my preferred input method: a black stylus. Tapping little nodes on a cyberistic black and green GUI, which draws a path for my chief navigator – Papplo – to follow, ensuring the smoothest ride possible. The crew complains of boredom during these long treks through the deep depths of darkness, but that’s what imagination and loud music is for.

The build-up to Sting’s “Shadows in The Rain” swells to a fever pitch, and I begin tapping my foot and imitating an invisible drum fill while sitting in my cushioned captain’s chair. I feel the crew’s eyes burning a hole in my skull, but I ignore it. Torlo, the artillery chief, rolls his eyes extra hard.

My fleet consists of four starships. They tag along in nearby space, following my lead. As I check the monitors to ensure the fleet is in order, a large blast rocks the Avalon-1, nearly knocking me out of my chair. The warning alarms blare – we’ve been hit – and I quickly come to my senses, flipping the radar screen into view as my 1st officer – Ian Fenevich – swiftly calculates the distance of the attacker within a 2% margin of error.

harlock-i-am-fleeting.gif *for a fleeting moment, I am the captain

We are under attack by a small fleet of pirate starships, likely looking to loot and murder, as is their nature. This is all par for the course in the realm of the endless. After all, I became a starship captain for this very reason: freedom. Freedom of movement. Freedom to do what I want – to go anywhere I want. If killing a few pirates here and there is the price to pay for such freedom, that’s an acceptable trade-off.

Using my touchpad, I instruct my fleet to move forward toward the pirate armada, closing the gap but stopping just out of their assumed attack range while our starships build power to launch a full barrage of lasers and rockets.

“Initiate dodging procedure!” I bark from the captain’s chair as my fleet approaches the enemy.

My orders come as the pirate fleet unleashes a full volley in our direction. The Avalon-1 deftly sidesteps the enemy’s onslaught, and in that moment, the predator becomes the prey. With poised determination, I direct my crew to complete the closing of the gaps; our weapons-systems now within range of the beating pirate heart.

“Adjust cannons by 90 degrees; turn off spatial dampeners,” I declare, rising from my seat and sweeping my captain’s cape in a flourish that exudes Harlockian elegance. “All guns, verify calculating tables and force projections,” I command, a brief pause punctuating my words, “Fire!”

A glorious lightshow plays out on the bridge monitors; near-endless streams of beams and rockets zip through the darkness toward my pirate prey.

My aim is true and the artillery agrees with me.

The void of space devoid of sound, but the noise of each impact plays out in my mind as I watch each round collide with its target in spectacular violence.

I silently laugh as the enemy fleet is overwhelmed by the might of my armada. One by one, each pirate starship erupts into a momentary supernova, leaving nothing but floating scrap metal and the water vapors of once human blood.

the-bridge-IRL.png *the bridge of the Avalon-1

Suddenly, I hear my 4-month-old son crying loudly from one room over. I close the lid of the clamshell-like captain touchpad – the Nintendo DSi XL – place the console down on the nearby desk, and stand up from the captain’s chair of the Avalon-1 – the big blue couch in the corner of my garage-office.

Before leaving the room to tend to my son, I realize that I can’t stand Sting’s “Dream of the Blue Turtles,” so I stop the playback and walk out of the room, back to the real world.

A number of hours pass. The boy has been fed. He’s been amused. He’s been all smiles; but now it’s time for bed. I place the boy in his crib, swaddle him, and pop a pacifier into his mouth; and after a few minutes, his eyes go blinky-slow until he blinks no more.

The boy is asleep.

I sneak out of the boy’s room. Into the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of red – in the small glass as a form of forced pacing – and sit back down in the captain’s chair of the starship Avalon-1.

Flipping the DSi XL open once again, and I’m back. The handheld space simulator casts its digital glow upon my face, illuminating the contours of my visage in the embrace of the dimly lit garage-office of perpetual-midlife-crisis.

I tap the navigation screen, selecting three planets to traverse. The fleet progresses along a linear path from planet to planet. Sometimes, pirates cross our path; they’re swiftly decimated by my fleet’s high-powered lasers. Our journey continues on this unswerving route until I finally reach my destination.

And I’m not feeling it.

I’m not a captain.

I’m not a kid anymore.

I’m a thirty-year-old man sitting on a couch in his office.

the-bridge-again-not-irl.gif *Imagination interrupt: illusion has stopped responding.

Some games consume you instantly; their gameplay and presentation so immediately arresting that you can’t help but fall in love at first sight.

Infinite Space is not one of those games.

Infinite Space requires a lengthy checklist of prerequisite feelings and mindspaces before it can be – even – barely enjoyed, and that illusion has to be maintained and cultivated for at least seventy-five hours spread out over several weeks.

Infinite Space requires one to be immersed in the science fiction headspace, specifically the “space opera” sub-genre. One needs to be lost in captain-delusion and starship fantasia; an obsession with Space Captain Harlock, Firefly, and Star Trek is practically mandatory. All the while, simultaneously watching the Battlestar Galactica reboot – at least one episode a day – and reading a chapter of Samuel R. Delany’s “Nova” every night before bed, preferably with those little glow-in-the-dark planets and stars tacked to the bedroom ceiling.

And if you falter in this routine for just a moment, the illusion is lost and the computer game reveals its true self. Shedding its persona, what is revealed is a dry, monotonous collection of lost potential.

Much like when you stumble upon the social media profile of your high school sweetheart and consider sending her a message; the expected outcome, the fantasy, is better than the reality. The level of abstraction needed to believe such an action is even remotely a good idea is, well, infinite.

II, ILLUSION HAS STOPPED RESPONDING

Infinite Space is about space.

More specifically, Infinite Space is about a young man’s journey through space. Even more specifically, it is about freedom: freedom of movement; freedom of choice; freedom to do what you want; and, conversely, the oppression of that freedom. Even more specific still, it is about the lengths humanity will go to preserve their freedoms, and the sacrifices and friends we made along the way. It is also a coming of age story, and a commentary on human expansion, and a critique of manifest destiny, and a commentary on perpetual violence, and an attack on rampant capitalism, and a love story.

Infinite Space aspires for everything and only manages to achieve something, and what that “something” is, well, I don’t know – maybe we’ll figure it out, together.

Infinite Space is a computer game aiming for such great heights: the distinction of being labeled a “space sim” on a Nintendo console, something that had never been attempted before and something that has – still – never been successfully accomplished.

Space sims, the ultimate expression of computer-game-freedom; as such, one might expect a fully customizable experience, including a customizable main character; yet, that is not the case. Instead, we are Yuri, a fresh 16-year-old boy trapped on the planet Ropesk – a planet founded by a once-and-future-washed-up has-been named Demid Panfilov, who at some point killed Yuri’s father – or something.

The point is, Yuri’s got no parents. He’s got no friends. His life sucks, and I am completely disconnected from him – imagination interrupt; illusion has stopped responding.

Space-Sims.png *space sims: the origin; one of these things is not like the other

As space travel is easy, consumer-friendly, and abundant in the space of Infinite Space, and thanks to galactic expansion laws: anyone who discovers a planet can rule that planet as they see fit. Our hero had the misfortune of being born on a planet ruled by a despot who forbids space travel; quelling the freedoms of those who live on Ropesk with threat of death.

Before Yuri’s father’s freedom-yearning demise, he gave Yuri a small metallic box: a mysterious ancient device known as an “Epitaph,” said to possess great power. Naturally, this box is a macguffin that becomes important later in the overarching plot, but it also serves as a kick-off point for Yuri’s spacefaring curiosity – the ultimate “what does this button do and how do I find out?”

Yuri, who idolized his spacefaring father and wants to escape into the deep darkness of space, sends out a galactic message to a “Launcher,” an outlaw who helps people escape space tyranny, they assist the oppressed-little-guys by launching them into space (hence the name), and those who successful make it into space are known “Zero G-Dogs.”

The ‘G’ stands for ‘gravity,’ duh.

One fateful day, Nia – the Launcher – gets Yuri’s message, swoops down to Ropesk, and picks him up. Through a series of wheelings-and-dealings, particularly the secret pawning of Yuri’s epitaph, Nia secures Yuri a starship of his own; thus, our – no, Yuri’s – adventure begins.

I am not the hero of this story, neither are you.

Yuri, at the ripe age of sixteen, is finally a Zero-G Dog, free to traverse the universe as he sees fit, and that’s just chapter one of this seventeen chapter space opera epic coming of age existential political commentary that unfolds throughout the almost one-hundred-hour playtime of Infinite Space.

And the rest is exposition.

Yuri-and-Nia-BLOG.gif *a boy and his blog

Infinite Space is the type of game with a lot of internal terminology. A dictionary in the help menu. It’s the type of game with a three-page historical timeline outlining the rise of humanity, the advent of space travel, numerous spacefaring wars, and all the space-empires involved along the way. It’s the type of game that gets you excited to dive in and start learning – even before starting the actual game.

Infinite Space casts a long shadow of intrigue over the player, much like Yuri’s epitaph.

The idea to fall in love with. The idea of being a starship captain traveling the vast expanse of space is just too strong to resist.

So intimidating is Infinite Space that one – such as myself – might be inclined to download the “Zero-G Dog Starter Guide” from some long-forgotten source on the internet. One – such as myself – might read every page of that starter guide, absorbing every ounce of Infinite Space’s lore before starting a new game.

Because surely, a space simulator marketed as having over 200 recruitable crew members and over 150 customizable starships has to be – must be – a deep and engaging game with complex systems that need to be learned and fully understood before hoping to achieve even a modicum of computer-game-success, right?

Wrong.

The core gameplay loop of Infinite Space is revealed within the first hour of gaining control of Yuri’s first starship, and it never changes; once you’ve experienced the first hour, you know what you’re going to be doing for the next hundred hours.

Infinite Space is traveling from planet to planet, navigating the “tavern” menu to talk to the barkeep or some other person, then traveling to the next place to complete the aforementioned person’s request, while sometimes encountering enemy starship fleets that must be destroyed along the way. Sometimes you have to talk to the barkeep six times in a row before he gives you the next story-progressing task. Sometimes you go into a menu-based-building and traverse some corridors.

Then you do it again, and again.

Space travel in Infinite Space is controlled by the bottom touchpad on the Nintendo DS. Each planet, asteroid belt, moon, hunk of space metal, brain in a vat, and anything else you can think of is a blue node on a star chart. You – the player – tap the blue nodes; sometimes you’ll tap one node, sometimes you will tap six nodes, all interconnected, to form a navigation path for your fleet.

Once you plot your path, your – Yuri’s – fleet pilots itself through the selected route. You can also fast-forward the traveling animation or stop it completely to plot a new course; consequently, space travel is mostly a hands-off experience, as you observe Yuri’s fleet coasting from point A to point B and back again, then around the bend, and back once more.

The lengthier your journey, the more fatigued your fleet – and the crew – becomes, exerting a negative influence on your battle performance. This aspect is crucial due to the prevalence of random battles. However, the majority of these skirmishes can be bypassed if necessary. Yet, it’s worth noting that grinding through battles remains one of the few dependable avenues to grind money for new starships, likely leading you to opt for engagement with every encountered enemy fleet simply out of necessity.

And battles are very important. Monotonous, but important. Combat utilizes both the top and bottom screens of the Nintendo DS – the bottom for inputs and the top to watch those inputs play out in real-time; it’s a largely hands-on experience, contrasting the mostly hands-off experience of ship-navigation.

Combat is so hands-on that you will often find yourself in the Nintendo-DS-claw position: using your left pinky to hit the triggers, your left thumb for directionals, and your right hand to hold the stylus and press the face button simultaneously; a unique experience only made possible by the insane minds at Nintendo.

battle-scene-with-hands.png *bottom screen on the left, top screen on the right; also claw.

The captain – Yuri – utilizes the touchpad to input commands to the fleet, with a command gauge accumulating over time; said “command gauge” dictates the use of various actions. Numerous special attacks exist, but the fundamentals – “normal,” “barrage,” and “dodge” – are most important. “Normal” fires each of your fleet’s weapons once and uses one chunk of the command gauge; most effective when the enemy selects the “dodge” command. “Barrage” discharges every weapon three times, inflicting massive damage and consuming three chunks of the command gauge. Being struck by a “barrage” is a death sentence for any starship; however, it can be easily avoided using the “dodge” command, which consumes one chunk of command gauge and expires after any other action, underscoring the importance of carefully timing “dodge” to achieve victory.

But that’s not all: distance is important too. Each weapon possesses a distinct attack range, making fleet positioning crucial for weapon accuracy, evasion, and launching counterattacks. As such, there exist “forward” and “backward” buttons on the bottom touchpad, both of which will be utilized liberally to position your fleet relative to the enemy, utilized so much that the risk of denting the touchpad is all too real.

Infinite Space fleet combat resembles a cat-and-mouse game infused with simplified rock-paper-scissors dynamics; and, it never changes.

The typical space battle in Infinite Space plays out as such: use “dodge,” accelerate toward the enemy but stay just out of range of their weapons systems, idle until you build up enough command energy to launch a “barrage,” accelerate within range of the enemy, at this point enough time has passed that the enemy will try to “barrage” but you have “dodge” selected, so you avoid their “barrage” completely, you then use “barrage” yourself, destroy one of their ships, then fly backwards out of range only to repeat the process.

This cat and mouse game plays out on the top screen in glorious three dimensions, showcasing the excellent starship designs and detailed attack animations.

And, each time an attack is launched, a bridge crew-member – presumably Yuri himself – yells out attack orders while a cinematic cutscene plays out: “successive fire pattern four four nine, turn off spatial dampeners, fire!”

It’s all very epic. It’s all very televised, theatrical.

Each laser and rocket is depicted firing from each starship within the fleet, which can eventually consist of up to five different starships, each equipped with four to five distinct weapons. When you choose the “barrage” option at that stage, you will witness your fleet launching a total of twenty-five different attacks (five times five), followed by the spectacle of these twenty-five attacks converging upon your selected target, the latter of which is a separate scene; this means, in this specific scenario, you will witness lasers and rockets doing – something – a grand total of fifty times.

Needless to say, watching this unfold on screen takes upwards of twenty-seven years.

These scenes are a visual spectacle early on but quickly become a chore to watch; the developers presumably knew this too, as you can skip through them, turning late-game battles into endless skip-fests where you don’t see any animations, only the wreckage left in the aftermath.

attack-animation-too-long.gif *keeps going and going and going and going and going and going

But that’s not all – melee battles, essentially timed rock-paper-scissors encounters; initiated by flying in close proximity to the enemy ship and tapping the melee button. These melee battles unfold in a methodical cycle, involving the simple anticipation of whether the opponent will opt for “slash,” “shoot,” or “leader” – or, as you may have deduced: rock, paper, or scissors. Certain conflicts can only be triumphed through a melee approach, while a handful of planet-based adventures require melee battles to advance.

Success in both space warfare and melee combat is dictated by the state of your starships, which are fully customizable through Tetris. Using O-I-J-T-L tetrominos, you plug add-ons into your starship. Each starship has a unique amount of space to accommodate the add-ons.

It’s not complicated; however, somehow figuring out how to fit specific tetrominos becomes a puzzle more engaging than the actual combat you employ the tetrominos for.

Like a ghost in the machine, the tetrominos do not bring about any physical changes to the appearance of your starship; they simply enhance hidden stats – another state of detachment; a false advertisement.

The advertised 200 crew members include some who can be entirely missed if you don’t engage in conversation with the right person in the right tavern twelve times in a row at the right time, while others are mandatory for story progression.

Similar to Suikoden’s 108 Stars of Destiny, the count here is 200, but the characters are far less unique. Unlike the celebrated Konami role-playing game, these characters are not usable in combat, essentially becoming names on a long list. Much like the add-ons you clinically insert into your ship, they serve as stat-sticks to enhance the ship’s statistics behind the scenes; place Ian in the 1st officer slot due to his high leadership stats, and place Kira in the cafeteria because she knows how to cook, thereby enhancing the crew’s livability.

Just like tetrominos, it’s not complicated, and it’s a nice touch – yet it remains detached, offering only subtle hidden statistical benefits. You hope that placing Torlo in the right spot actually accomplished something; but did it truly? The benefits of your decisions are not easily discernible.

We place our faith in the backend systems.

tetris-crew.png *tetrominos falling into place; not at all a Radiohead experience

Infinite Space is the most clinically detached computer game that I have ever played.

Advertised as a fully customizable experience, but this is fraud. There is customization here, but it’s shallow and number-crunching. While there are more than 150 ships to outfit your fleet, they follow a linear progression line: more expensive ships are better, so use those. And while the ships themselves can be customized internally, they cannot be customized aesthetically.

Much like Excel spreadsheets, which are also numerically customizable – only the most self-hating middle-manager finds true enjoyment in this activity; and that’s only true because there may be a raise at the end of fiscal year.

The freedom Infinite Space does provide is narrative-based, and this is where the game shines – dimly.

Throughout the journey, Yuri is given the option to make choices at key moments to influence the plot. A majority of these choices are meaningless, such as “do you want to help?” and selecting “no” essentially functions as a sneaky way of selecting “yes.”

“Haha, you’re so funny, Yuri – come on, help me out!”

Computer game trickery that may fool the young at heart – but not this seasoned loser.

And while a number of false choices exist in Infinite Space, there are also choices that impact pivotal plot points, such as choosing which faction to assist during a crossroads in the middle chapters of the game, or deciding whether to spare or kill certain characters. The latter of which can influence which crew members you recruit later on.

These are all nice touches for a game about freedom, but the superficial choices are far more abundant than the meaningful ones.

If Infinite Space excels at anything, it’s storytelling, especially in the late game. We witness Yuri grow from a sixteen-year-old awkward kid, with his entire crew believing he’s immature, to making hard choices, falling in love, and being forced to grow up. Yuri’s transformation occurs in almost real-time

The story itself is Xenosagian in its presentation and tone, containing an endgame twist that puts the entire plot into relative perspective, but it never reaches levels of philosophical ponderance or existentialism that Tetsuya Takahashi accomplishes; yet, that doesn’t matter as Infinite Space is ultimately about growing up.

Infinite Space is not about you. It’s about Yuri and his coming-of-age story, all set against a sci-fi space-opera themed backdrop.

And halfway through the game, Yuri grows up. His sprite changes too, as does the entire crew – an excellent computer game trope that should be used more often. Yuri’s transformation into adulthood is completely believable and relatable, and that aspect is the “something” Infinite Space excels at; we’ve figured it out – together!

But has anything really changed?

Yuri’s glow-up doesn’t save this otherwise clinical and repetitive computer game from ultimate obscurity.

Infinite Space is grand in scope, a cult classic contender, only lacking the spooky-hooded-cult-members; a game so lost in itself that it doesn’t even bother to include a quest log, leaving the player just as lost as the game itself every time they boot up their save.

Yuri-Grows-Up.gif *the boy and the man

In 2013, the apartment I shared with two other people lacked a washing machine. I often found myself sitting in a laundromat, playing Infinite Space on my blue Nintendo DSi XL. In this time capsule, I tapped around on the touchpad, went to the tavern, talked to some random NPC several times to obtain an objective, flew my starship to the next planet over to complete that objective, fought some pirates attempting to gank me in a repetitive dance of cat and mouse, and did it all over again, and again; ever unchanging.

While the absurdly long attack and travel animations played out on the dual screens, I gazed up at my chosen washing machine. Having just put a few quarters into the machine, I watched my clothes spin in a repetitive dance of cat and mouse, the socks never catching the shirts.

I closed the Nintendo DS – choosing to watch the washing machine’s spin-cycle instead, a far more entertaining spectacle.

Ten years later, I’ve grown up. I have two kids. I am playing Infinite Space on the same Nintendo DS that I had ten years ago.

I close the Nintendo DS – nothing has changed.


(Originally published on 8/26/2023)

#ComputerGames #InfiniteSpace #Autobiographical #Review

title-card.png


I, The Fog of Youth

In an alternate universe far far away and a relative time long long ago: The Boy.

The Boy came home from elementary school one day and The Dad was crying on the fuzzy tan couch – the first time The Dad cried in front of The Boy. The Boy’s parents were getting divorced, but The Boy didn’t care as long as it didn’t interrupt his Nintendo 64 time; ignorance was bliss for The Boy until the consequences kicked-in.

After that fateful day, The Boy would forevermore go back and forth from The Mom’s house and The Dad’s house, every month, without fail, like clockwork.

At the end of every month, on the 30th, 31st, or maybe 28th or 29th, one of the parents would drive The Boy to the other parent’s house. That parent would kiss The Boy on the head and usher him out of the car without saying a single word to the other parent.

“I’ll see you in a month; I love you,” were the cries of nuclear absenteeism, and those split custody blues.

That alternate universe was Earth, Milky Way Galaxy, the arm of Orion; and that relative time was 2001.

The Boy’s mom had quickly remarried, and The Boy suddenly had a second dad. This dad was The Mom’s old work boss – a fact discovered 10 years later – and the two had been seeing each other far longer than The Mom had been divorced. Implications of infidelity whispered within the family. But, none of that mattered to the youngling who just wanted to play computer games and stay up late on school-nights watching Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim without getting in trouble.

This second dad – The Step Dad – had an odd parenting philosophy; either due to laziness or genuine misguidedness, he believed money was love and would buy The Boy anything to win his affection. And by “win his affection,” what the author really means is “leave him alone” because The Step Dad had better things to do.

Naturally, The Step Dad empowered The Mom to buy The Boy whatever The Boy wanted; one of the first things purchased for The Boy was an iMac G3 in “Bondi Blue” color, an extremely aesthetic piece of hardware that combined monitor and guts into one fat transparent unit, capable of playing a number of educational point-and-click computer games made for young children, including Pajama Sam: No Need To Hide When It’s Dark Outside and Blues Clues: Blue’s Birthday Adventure; both of which The Boy played extensively, along with KidPix – Apple’s adolescent MS Paint with more soul than features.

With this powerful machine came unfettered access to dial-up internet. The Boy quickly learned the magicks of instant messengers, particularly AOL Instant Messenger, and discovered how to access online gaming and anime forums. More than once, The Boy gave his home phone number to the wrong anonymous man online, whom The Boy innocently thought just wanted to know his age.

All was fun and games until one of these anonymous men showed up at The Boy’s house and was promptly arrested when The Step Dad happened to – miraculously – be home to call the police.

The Boy quickly learned to fear those who hid their face online but, as a consequence of his own actions, started hiding his own face online; fear and hypocrisy within the fog of youth.

The Mom and The Step Dad, after this stressful event with The-Man-Who-Just-Wanted-to-Know-How-Old-The-Boy-Was, gave The Boy the cautionary words of the world wide web: “it’s dangerous and there are weird people on those sites,” and with that The Boy had learned his lesson – or, at least, the two misguided parents believed he did and erased the whole incident from their minds.

image.png *digital landscape of The Boy circa 2001, authors: unknown

The Boy grew up in the world-wide-wild-west of anything-goes and inconsequentials.

Unrestrained by caution, The Mom lavished The Boy with any coveted electronic game he asked for, oblivious to the parental scrutiny needed to weed out corrupting influences. Consequently, a trove of mature-rated Nintendo 64 and PlayStation games amassed in the boy’s possession, a cache ill-fitting for his youthful 11 years. Foremost among them reigned Duke Nukem 64, a title that cast The Boy into an abyss of terror, ensnared by its chilling portrayals of crimson blood, intestine gore, and brain-bulbousing extraterrestrial beings lurking around every corner – and the underwater sharks, stalking the waters of every lake, sea, pond, and fountain; the latter of which The Boy never bothered to question.

How did sharks get into the fountain?

Duke Nukem 64 would go on to cultivate the fear; the fear of things lurking within the unseen; the darkness, the murky fog of the ocean and of youth, with sharks, jellyfish, and creepy men circling The Boy’s obscured feet.

Reaffirming Jack Thompson’s fears, The Duke introduced The Boy to sexuality; voluptuous scantily-clad women sprinkled throughout the violence, often trapped in alien-green-goo; moaning and begging Duke for release – incredible, in hindsight, that Nintendo allowed this game on their console, as it did exactly what Nintendo so famously fights against: corrupting youth.

In between computer games, iMacs and the internet, The Boy would – like any other child – go to school, an endeavor The Boy vehemently hated. Luckily, The Step Dad lavished The Boy’s sister with a brand new BMW; expensive German motorcar, jewel of the neighborhood. The Big Sister frequently chauffeured The Boy to school in this big-beautiful-overcompensator, as The Mom and The Step Dad were far too ensnared in the clutches of work – or traveling on their expensive yacht – to find time to dedicate to The Boy.

The Big Sister’s expensive car overflowed with rap CDs; initially, the boy was drawn to them, fascinated by the profanities only allowed by adults on television. One album that held his particular favor was Outkast’s “Stankonia,” despite its CD art portraying a deceased man skewered on a spike, an image that instilled in him an enduring fear, an image that could be seen when he closed his eyes to go to bed.

Much too late, in adulthood, The Boy would come to realize that the Stankonia artwork depicted a horned woman colored in psychedelic orange-and-black, perhaps a succubus, rather than a dead man – but, regardless, the image was still frightening to the then-11-year-old.

The Big Sister’s musical preferences imprinted themselves upon The Boy, at least they did early on – before The Darkness and The Cool crept in.

And The Darkness and The Cool came quickly. The Boy cultivated the seeds of his future aesthetic preferences during the months spent in the wild-west of his mother’s custody; a free-for-all of anything goes where he was free to discover his own darkness and pursue his own cool without interruption, most of which consisted of bad influences and moving pictures.

Eventually, the boy would grow out of his sister’s musical tastes, introduced to bands such as The Cure and The Smashing Pumpkins one summer due to the influence of older neighborhood kids; kids who seemed to not have a care in the world other than getting into trouble and smoking cigarettes – something the boy also wanted to do but was too timid, afraid of word getting back to The Dad.

The Everlasting Gaze – The Dad.

So, instead of getting into trouble directly, the boy obsessed over music and dreamed of being a pop star – not of the Madonna variety, but the detached-frontman-with-cool-hair variety. Quickly falling in love with The Cure’s “Disintegration” and The Smashing Pumpkins’ “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness”.

The concepts of The Darkness and The Cool – something The Boy knew nothing about, but he didn’t know that at the time.

In 2001, The Darkness was cool, and The Boy wanted to be empty; emptiness is cleanliness and cleanliness is godliness – and God is empty, just like The Boy who wanted to be Billy Corgan’s Zero.

At least that’s what the boy thought; he wanted to be empty, but at the same time, he wanted Mom to keep serving him chocolate milk with the bendy straw in the Power Rangers cup every morning while he watched Nick Jr.

Nick Jr. and Blues Clues. Little Bear, and Gully Gully’s Island.

The Boy, growing up so fast, could never let go of childlike whimsy. To the point where he was playing Blues Clues: Blue’s Birthday Adventure on iMac one day when his older and “cooler” friend came over. The Boy quickly turned off the iMac when the friend entered the room, but The Boy had forgotten to hide the game’s box. The Friend saw the box, picked it up, looked at it closely and laughed; then took his necklace off – a thick metal chain – and proceeded to beat The Boy with it.

Fear. The Boy would be careful about expressing his true interests from now on.

And for reasons The Boy will never be able to fully articulate: The Boy and The Friend stayed close for years afterwards.

Suburban Stockholm syndrome.

image.png *The Darkness we know so well; stepping through the fog of youth

The Boy wanted to emulate the uncaring future dropouts, who possessed more privilege than they knew what to do with, and he desired to be loved in the process; to become one of those cool kids who feigned poverty despite dwelling in expansive three-story mansions, discarding more food nightly than an average denizen of the third world consumes in a month.

In pursuit of this contradictory facade of apathy and destitution, at the age of 12, The Boy embarked on a quest to procure several pairs of overpriced baggy tripp pants – the kind adorned with hanging belts – from the local goth store at the mall, while adopting an all-black attire.

The Boy thought this made him one with The Darkness.

The Faux-Darkness enshrouded The Boy. The Mom found it peculiar but exhibited minimal concern; she did buy those pants for him, after all, and subscribed to the notion that “he’ll grow out of it soon,” a concept she read in a parenting self-help book.

Indeed, The Boy did grow out of it, albeit not immediately. Soon after his dalliance with The Darkness, he crossed paths with The Girl who too had experienced The Darkness, and they became inseparable – a narrative best left for another time.

The Girl or not, The Mom’s offerings of material affection persisted unabated; troves of electronic games, Gundam models, Dragon Ball figurines, and other plastics destined for the landfill flowed like the legendary waters of the fountain of youth; this little “gothic” 12-year-old boy reveled in a state of euphoria every other month.

Every other month.

Because every other month, The Boy hid The Darkness, put up the tripp pants, and returned to The Dad’s house.

The Dad’s house was an entirely separate universe with its own planets, stars, and laws of physics. The Dad was a stern disciplinarian: a no-nonsense real estate agent with a strict set of house rules, chores, and hang-ups; all of which needed to be fulfilled before any fun could be had.

Absolutely no tripp pants or accompanying band t-shirts were allowed.

This created a disharmony within The Boy who felt his true self – however misguided and artificial – was being forcefully repressed, and the resentment built up like dead leaves in the backyard. The same backyard The Dad made The Boy rake every other week.

Adding to resentful repression; contrary to playing computer games constantly, The Dad made The Boy play sports: baseball, basketball, and tennis at the local church; activities The Boy never wanted and had shown no interest in. The Dad, in his vain attempts to make his boy active, was living vicariously through The Boy, or his idealized version of The Boy – a fact all too obvious when The Dad would become far-too-angry when the kid’s-basketball-referee made a bad call, or when The Boy missed a baseball pop-fly because he was lost in his thoughts, pondering on the The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time.

The dead leaves continued to build.

The Dad didn’t like to spend money on The Boy; not poor, but frugal, and The Dad aimed to teach The Boy the lessons of frugality. The Boy, so used to love being expressed through material means, felt that The Dad didn’t care about him due to the lack of brand-new things.

The Dad was stubborn and refused to buy The Boy new things, unless The Boy worked hard for it.

“Working to earn something is more rewarding than getting it without any effort – you will appreciate it more if you buy it with your own hard-earned money,” The Dad would often say.

The Dad loved his son and wanted him to grow up to be a responsible man, perhaps even a better man than himself.

It was obvious to any onlooker. It was not obvious to The Boy – it never is, is it?

And, of course, The Boy hated everything about living with his father.

The Boy would count the days until The Mom picked him up, and when he was at The Mom’s house he would – in anxious dread – involuntarily count the days until he had to return to Hell.

When in Hell, The Boy would get home from school and immediately go upstairs to play Nintendo 64, only for The Dad to take him by the hand, sit him down at the kitchen table, and tell him to complete all his homework first.

Stubborn but too passive to vocalize it, The Boy would sit at the kitchen table until dark – sometimes until bedtime – putting in the least effort possible out of spite, getting no homework done; not realizing that simply doing the work would enable him to spend more time doing whatever it is he wanted to do.

And when bedtime came around, The Boy would play Game Boy under the covers – sneakily killing the lights whenever he heard footsteps to avoid The Dad and The Step Mom from catching him staying up far past his bedtime.

Dad would often wonder why it was so hard for The Boy to get out of bed in the morning.

image.png *ghosts of the past haunt The Boy overlooking suburban splendor

The Dad’s house helped The Boy learn how to be subtle – how to repress his feelings. But it also taught him structure and discipline. In a roundabout way, The Dad was a role model; initially resented but ultimately redeemed, like The Smashing Pumpkins’ album “Adore.”

From an outsider perspective, and from The Boy’s future adult-perspective, this custody-tug-of-war was a necessary evil – The Mom and The Dad, back and forth.

The Boy’s parents may have been divorced, but they exerted the same level of balance on The Boy’s life; albeit in monthly increments of extreme bliss and extreme – perceived – torture.

And without a hint of sarcasm, The Boy had an incredibly privileged life.

Going on thirteen years of age The Boy continued to play the childish computer games The Mom bought him for that old iMac G3 – a late bloomer; the games The Friend violently disapproved of.

The Boy’s favorite childish computer game was Pajama Sam: No Need to Hide When It’s Dark Outside.

That game was about a young boy named Sam: his aspirations, his hopes, his dreams, and overcoming his fears.

But most importantly, that game was about The Darkness.

II, Embracing the Darkness

Sam is a boy obsessed – a boy obsessed with a comic book hero. Much like The Boy obsessed with pop stars, computer game heroes, and The Darkness; something only captured in the brief fleeting moments of dancing in front of a mirror alone.

But, unlike The Boy, Sam is scared of The Darkness, as any child should be; Sam doesn’t want to drape himself in The Darkness; he wants to rid himself and the world of The Darkness. And, also unlike The Boy, Sam’s obsession is in reach; every night he becomes Pajama Sam – or does he?

Sam’s goal is to destroy The Darkness, and he will do anything to achieve this goal.

The Darkness isn’t so bad until bedtime, when Sam’s mom comes into the room; a parental figure never actually seen on screen, similar to that of a Sunday morning cartoon parent, with only her hands and feet visible.

The absent Mom tells Sam to find his socks in the closet and put them in the dirty-clothes basket before going to bed, a simple task to The Mom – a dreadful task for The Boy.

Dreadful because the closet is where The Darkness resides. There’s no night-light in the closet, and when The Mom shuts the door, The Darkness starts to creep in.

Sam, so scared of The Darkness, decides to become a hero to conquer it, a hero straight from his favorite comic books: Pajama Man.

“That’s right, fiend! Pajama Man is here to conquer The Darkness,” exclaims Sam’s favorite comic book superhero in the splash screen presented at the start of this computer game.

image.png *we can be heroes, just for one day.

The Darkness; ruiner of daytime, bringer of bedtime.

Sam’s Pajama Man hero gear is strewn all over the room. How is he ever going to conquer The Darkness without his Pajama Man gear? Sam jumps out of bed, looks straight at the camera, and says, “I need to find my Pajama Man mask, flashlight, and Portable Darkness Containment Unit!”

Sam’s Portable Darkness Containment Unit being the Pajama Man lunch box The Mom bought for him, which he intends to use to capture The Darkness forever.

And to find these items, The Boy takes the mouse cursor and clicks on various items in the scene – in this case: Sam’s room, and everything in Sam’s room does something; his pillow, when clicked, may burst into feathers or squirt water; the coat rack in the corner of the room may turn into a stick-person and do a little dance; these are entertaining distractions for the target audience of this point-and-click computer game: 7 to 9 year-olds – not 13-year-olds, which is the age of The Boy – The Late Bloomer – who continues to play this game into his teenage years.

In a twist on the children-computer-game-point-and-clicks of the time, Pajama Sam’s adventure is different each time a new game is started; locations of items necessary for progression are randomized from playthrough to playthrough; The Boy may find Sam’s mask under the rug or on the coat rack, and the lunchbox under the bed or the nearby wastebasket, instead. This randomization applies to every aspect of the adventure, determined by the random numbers toiling around in the background before The Boy clicks the “new game” button.

And once Sam finds his mask, lunchbox, and flashlight, he too becomes like Pajama Man – the destroyer of The Darkness.

Or does he? Pajama Sam musters his courage, swings the closet doors open, takes a deep breath, turns his flashlight on, and shines it into the shadowed confines of the closet.

image.gif *Et in Arcadia, Pajama Sam

Just as Sam steps through the border between The Comfy and The Darkness, he finds himself falling through a psychedelic hole for what seems like forever. Sam’s fall is cushioned by an oversized baseball glove; a bowling-ball can be seen in the distance, along with a worn-out baseball, tennis racket, and rows of trees draped in the clothing of small children.

This is the entrance to Sam’s closet; another world where Sam’s discarded and forgotten toys, sports paraphernalia, and clothing have grown their own faces, histories, and personalities. This is a land where The Darkness dwells, in a large home – quite literally – down the road.

But Sam’s not scared; he’s got his Pajama Man mask, flashlight, and Portable Darkness Containment Unit, and he’s ready to destroy The Darkness.

Pressing on with courage and conviction, Sam travels a bridge over a stream; a suspicious plank of wood floats in the stream. Sam thinks it could be helpful, but the plank is just out of reach. A special scene plays out when The Boy clicks the stray plank, which initiates a scene showing Sam reaching out for the wood to no avail. Similar scenes play out upon clicking many things throughout The Land of Darkness, typically indicating something of importance.

Sam moves on, focused on the future, facing his fears with a mask on, into the dark woods just beyond the bridge; a forest full of large oak trees as far as the eye can see.

Filled with confidence, Sam rushes through the dark woods before realizing that something has snagged his leg: a rope.

Sam has fallen into a trap: a rope-trap tied to a tree branch lifts him into the air, leaving Sam dangling head-first in the world of upside-down.

The trap sprung within a split second, and just as he realized what was happening, he saw a large face staring at him. One of the trees – all of the trees – had faces, staring at him. Some of these trees had crazed expressions on their deformed faces, grinning from tree-ear to tree-ear in malicious pride as they had finally caught prey.

“We are customs. You are not supposed to be here,” the ringleader tree with the lazy eye and toothy smile says right before he strips Sam of his Pajama Man mask, lunchbox, and flashlight. “We, the trees, are confiscating your items,” the ringleader says with the air of an overzealous hall-monitor.

And just like that: the trees have stolen Sam’s obsessions and scattered them among The Darkness.

The Boy has returned to The Dad’s house; it’s time to put away the tripp pants, video game controllers, and goth records. Sam is just a normal boy now – no longer a superhero.

With Sam’s Pajama Man gear snatched away, he finds himself hanging alone, suspended by one leg from a rope cinched around a tree branch. The trees shut their eyes and mouths, seamlessly resuming their facade as ordinary trees, as if nothing had happened.

Sam now faces the challenge of freeing himself from this predicament.

The Boy clicks the rope.

Sam, gritting his teeth, climbs up the rope, fingers gripping coarse fibers. Slowly but surely, Sam uses his hands to ascend the rope, methodically untying the knots that hold him captive. Finally, he manages to loosen the last knot, causing him to descend with an unceremonious thud onto the ground below. The very same rope that ensnared him tumbles down alongside him; and like a scavenger in The Darkness, Sam puts it in his pocket.

Who knows – maybe it will be useful later on?

image.gif *Pajama Sam captured by the trees in The Darkness

Before moving on, a purple tree nearby sprouts eyes and a mouth, halting Sam in his tracks. “Hey, I’m sorry about those trees; they’re not the friendliest bunch, but your belongings are still around here – somewhere. Just keep an eye out,” the tree says happily.

Sam expresses gratitude to the amiable tree and realizes his next task: retrieving his mask, flashlight, and lunchbox once more. Deja vu. After all, how can he hope to confront The Darkness within his own realm – where The Darkness is most powerful – without the Pajama Man flashlight and Portable Darkness Containment Unit?

Or perhaps this is just Sam’s closet? Regardless, Sam’s precise location holds little significance to The Boy. He forges ahead, eventually arriving at a crossroads. A colossal tree stands before him, adorned with windows and expansive tree-homes crafted around each of its sturdy branches.

A lift stationed at the tree’s base catches Sam’s eye; undoubtedly the entrance. An adjacent sign provides clear direction, labeling the path to this massive treehouse as “The Darkness’ House.”

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine, but The Boy is excited.

Confronting The Darkness without Pajama Man gear feels like an insurmountable challenge. Thus, Sam chooses the rightward crossroad marked “Boat Dock,” determined to recover his confiscated possessions which must be around here – somewhere.

At the boat dock, Sam comes across a large river. A nearby boat sits on the shore, and like many things in The Closet, this boat has a face and talks. Sam asks the boat nicely, “Can you take me across the river?” But the Boat – giving his name as “Otto” – refuses.

Otto explains that he’s scared of water, scared he might sink, scared of The Darkness – nothing will convince him otherwise.

Sam finds himself in a dilemma; how can he traverse the river if the boat refuses to get in the water? Then, a recollection strikes The Boy: the wooden plank floating in the nearby stream. With a sense of foresight, Sam recalls the rope he had used earlier, certain it could be of use once again.

“Be right back,” Sam exclaims before zipping off-screen with a sound resembling that of broken sound barriers.

Sam retraces his steps to the bridge. The Boy employs the rope with two clicks, and Sam expertly lassos the plank, drawing it out of the water and into his grasp. Sam then stashes the sizable plank within his computer-game-sized pockets.

Sam returns to Otto the Boat and tosses the wooden plank into the water nearby. “See – wood does float,” Sam says, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

The Boy feels like a genius.

From this point on, Sam and Otto forge a strong bond. Otto becomes The Boy’s trusted companion, navigating him through an intricate web of river passages, each twist and turn aimed at recovering Sam’s pilfered possessions.

And The Boy keeps clicking.

image.gif *clicking through youth

That’s “Pajama Sam: No Need to Hide When It’s Dark Outside.” A series of clicks in the Land of Darkness. A series of roadblocks with solutions already presented to the player five minutes ago, although intended for the player to miss on the first pass – future sight being 20/400.

Pajama Sam is an advanced game of concentration, of picking the matching cards and having to flip them both over if picked incorrectly. In its purest form, Pajama Sam is an hour-long puzzle with the pieces randomized each playthrough; items and socks placed randomly for Sam to find within The Darkness.

But this is no computer game to Sam, so mentally enslaved by the terror of The Darkness that he is determined to physically enslave The Darkness in a lunchbox that he calls his Portable Darkness Containment Unit. However, Sam can’t do it himself; he must adopt a false persona, that of Pajama Man. This facade gives Sam the courage to face his fears instead of being overcome by them, paralyzed in his bed.

Sam conjures up a world so rich and textured within his six-year-old mind that one has to wonder which movies his faceless mother let him watch before bedtime. This “Land of Darkness” is simply his closet, which is full of mundane items draped in pure Darkness; however, with the flash of the flashlight, the world becomes colorful, exciting, and palatable to the frightened six-year-old. A necessary illusion to complete his task, which – realistically – is collecting socks, but – figuratively – capturing The Darkness.

Once Pajama Sam has puzzled his way through the quizzical Land of Darkness, found his mask, flashlight, and lunchbox, he’s finally ready to face The Darkness.

Confidently marching through the home, up the winding stairs to The Darkness’ bedroom, Sam comes face to face with the bedroom door of The Darkness.

The Darkness’ bedroom door is a common wooden door. Ordinary. Non-specific. Yet, Sam can’t help but feel a pit in his stomach; however, instead of cowering, he tightens his Pajama Man mask, flicks on his flashlight, and grabs the doorknob; twisting it open to reveal The Darkness’ bedroom.

The Darkness’ bedroom is identical to Sam’s. Same furniture. Same sheets. Same mess. Same closet. Same everything – just darker.

Sam, gripped with fear and confusion, slowly steps through this dark copy of his own bedroom, shining his flashlight all around; but, The Darkness is nowhere to be found.

Just then, Sam hears a noise from the closet. A bumping.

The Darkness must be in the closet, just like in his own bedroom, so he tip-toes over to the closet – it’s locked – but after a short puzzle, he finds the key and unlocks the dismal double doors of The Darkness.

image.gif *Sam confronts his fears

Sam waves his pillar of light around wildly, hoping to catch whatever it is inside the closet within the beam.

Then, Sam’s flashlight catches The Darkness, a black blob amidst the stream of yellow light; Sam, so afraid, nearly drops his flashlight and runs out of the room.

The Darkness, lurking in his very own closet, grins widely for a brief moment before realizing that Sam is trembling in fear. The Darkness’ grin turns into a melancholic frown: “You’re scared of me too?”

“I have no one to play with,” The Darkness proclaims.

Sam, shocked, questions The Darkness, only to find out that The Darkness just wants a friend – everyone is afraid of him, and Sam is just another of the countless beings in The Land of Darkness frightened to death of The Darkness.

Sam, realizing the error of his ways, swallows his six-year-old pride, puts away his enslavement-lunchbox, smiles, and proclaims, “I’ll play with you.”

And just like that, The Darkness and Sam sit down – together – in the black of the closet, to play a game of tic-tac-toe.

That is, until Sam’s mom calls him back to bed.

Sam hops up, waves goodbye to The Darkness, and says, “I’ll come by tomorrow night, and we can play another round!”

Unsurprisingly, upon leaving The Darkness’ closet, Sam ends up where he started: his own bedroom.

image.png *Sam embracing The Darkness

Sam and The Darkness are one and the same. An irrational fear manifesting itself into a vivid childhood hallucination, guiding Sam to the answer: Embrace the Darkness.

Both Sam and The Boy pretend to be heroes; both invent imaginary worlds in their heads, but for different reasons.

The Boy, afraid of The Dad and stripped of his obsessions every other month, invented a world inside his head to retreat, one where his imagination flourished with the things he enjoyed from The Mom’s house. The Boy languished in pure escapism, both physically and mentally.

Sam invented a magical world with a singular goal: overcoming his fears. At first, Sam believed he needed to defeat his fear, capture and hide his fear away in a lunchbox, but when faced with the truth, he overcame the fear and embraced The Darkness. All in a span of less than two hours.

It would take The Boy years – well into adulthood – to reconcile with the revolving door of his early childhood and the fear and animosity held toward his father, who – much like The Darkness – was a kind-hearted, albeit slightly misunderstood individual yearning for a connection with The Boy.

The Boy’s alright – but Pajama Sam is better.


(Originally published 8/11/2023)

#ComputerGames #PajamaSam #Autobiographical