AWKWARD ZOMBIE

I know that Clyve and Creaky Accordion frequently have stuff they want to post too, so I figured that this would be a good thing. Spoony's old thread got eaten (probably by Spoony after a night of too much rum where he needed to replace everything he vomited up), so it's time for a fresh new one.



Plus I wanted to post a thing too. So there.
This is a thing that I've been working on in between other things (whenever I get stuck on another project or can't do drawing or music for various reasons). The picture that I did in the art thread are actually the guy and girl that the story tends to focus on.




Chapter One, Part One

Sitting at this stupid counter is probably the worst thing that anyone has to do forever. I mean really, I would rather be on an expansion crew somewhere. Sure it’s dangerous, but at least it’s not so damned boring. I would get to do something other than stare at plain white walls lined with plain white shelves under plain white light. Nobody ever comes in on my shift—

Hello.

A girl walks into the store, head down, shoulders hunched forward and arms crossed tightly. She makes no attempt at eye contact or greeting, and briskly strides over to the produce in the back.

“Hello, can I help you?” I lean forward a bit in my chair. She gives no response, but continues to pick up items. Maybe she’ll get to the dried goods on the higher shelves and ask for help. Wait, no, she’s tall enough that she can reach on her own.

As she approaches the counter, I see that the reason she didn’t answer is because she has music on. Well at least that means that there’s less chance of her intentionally being rude. She’s not terrible-looking, although her skin is kind of spotty and her lips have almost no color. Her dark clothes make her look even paler than she is, giving her an almost sickly appearance.

“Whoa,” she almost whispers. “You’ve gotta be the darkest guy I’ve ever seen.”

Oh great. She’s one of those. Then again, “those” are most of the people I’ve met, so this shouldn’t really surprise me. I feel my eyes squinch up as I raise my hands in a “come at me, bro” stance. “Really? That’s not the best way to convince the clerk to not overcharge you.”

“Excuse me?” she says just as quietly as before, straightening up a bit and uncrossing her arms.

“One:” I shove my hand in her face, counting off points on my fingers. “I don’t fucking care what you think. Two: I can’t change it. Three: It’s bullshit to have issues with someone because their skin has more pigment—“

“Haha, what?” She pulls back her shawl a bit. “Man, like I’m going to be ragging on you for being dark skinned when I’ve got red hair.” And it is indeed red. Well, dark brownish red. I don’t pick up the red as much as what I get the feeling it actually is, considering the lights in here are terrible about washing out all color that isn’t blue. She continues, “You’ve just got a previously dormant adaptation. I’m a mutant.”

“The way you said it before made it sound like you thought it was bad.”

“Oh, nah, I just meant to point out that it’s different. Different is interesting.”

I feel the corners of my mouth tug upward into a grin as I lean forward. “So, now that we’ve got that sorted out, I promise not to overcharge you.” She just gives a quiet grunt that is supposed to be laughter, I think. I look down at what she’s buying so that I can enter the numbers for them. “Dahi, lemmer, dried wizen and canned fish? That’s an… interesting combination,” I remark as I type the codes into the ancient computer that the store runs on. I shift through the grain, roots, herb and cans respectively.

“Yeah, I make a mean wrish and dahi soup.” She explains. “Most people wouldn’t think of using the wizen, but the fruity kind of taste goes really well with this particular kind of fish.”

So the girl cooks, too. But I keep trying to think if I’ve seen her before. Nothing comes to mind, but no one transfers over to this sector. Either you’re born here or you marry someone from here. And I see no nose piercing.

“So, I just transferred here from Central Ag,” she remarks. I stand corrected. “I’m kind of unfamiliar with this sector.” She types her account number into the computer to pay. “I’m still looking for a place to stay…” the computer screeched an angry notice of insufficient funds at her. “…And it’s looking like my job that transferred me here is going to fall through after all. Know any open flats?”

Ummm, do I? That one that’s down the left street might still be open, but I’m not sure. I don’t want to tell her about it and then have it end up not being right. I hear a shuffle and a cane clack just before I receive a smack to the head and a sign is shoved in front of me.

“Daisuke! Sora no heya wa yachin no tamedesu. Sore ni tsuite no hitobito o iu.” My grandmother snaps out the order with no regard for politeness, as per usual.

I put my hand up to rub the back of my head where she smacked me. My grandmother might be old and half crippled, but daisies, she hits hard. The girl is already reading the sign in front of me. “Room here?”

“Yeah, and apparently it’s of dire importance that I tell everyone,” I laugh after making sure that my grandmother is gone.

“Rough boss, I take it?”

I laugh. I forgot she hasn’t been here long enough to know. “Yeah, sort of. That’s Obaa-san. She’s my grandma, but everyone calls her that, not just me. Obaa-san is East Third for grandma, in case you were wondering.” I quickly explain when she briefly looks confused. So far she’s only spoken Central Common. I don’t know what else she might know. She’s bound to know something though, coming from an Ag department. At least, I hope so. Outside of central, only the last generation has had to speak it for school, so she’s screwed if she needs to talk to anyone older than me.

“So, anyway,” the girl asks, pulling her shawl forward again, so that her hair and forehead are covered, “How might I go about inquiring about this room for rent?”

“Uh, best thing you can do is ask Obaa-san, I guess.” I open the door to behind the counter for her. “C’mon.” I beckon toward the door that leads to the stairs up to the flat.
She walks absurdly quietly. Especially considering the heavy boots she’s wearing. When I look back, she’s keeping tight against the wall, as if to stay out of the way of someone who isn’t there, arms crossed again.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Why?” daisies, her voice is soft.

“You’re just…very, um, timid. Wait, that’s not the right word. Um…So what’s with the shawl, anyway?” I ask as I look forward again, hoping the change of subject will let us skip over any lack of Central vocabulary.

“What about it?” She asks.

“Well, why do you wear it like that, even indoors? Completely covering like a hood, I mean.”

“Oh, that’s just what we do in Central, particularly in the Agriculture District as protection from the crop lamps. Helps protect our skin as well as just being modest. Plus, it’s cold in this district. I like being warm.”

I look at her for a second. “Um, maybe you haven’t noticed, but we live underground. There isn’t much weather to affect the temperature down here.”

“The crop lamps and higher population density make it warmer in Central. Plus, you guys are computer manufacturing here, right? Don’t they keep it cooler on this level to keep the larger computers from overheating?”

Uh, well, I’d really like to answer that, but I hate to admit that I don’t really know much about computers, even if we are the primary Tech District. I know even less about the techies in charge of the district. I just work in a grocery store owned by my grandma, man. The most I know about the things is that if I smack our ancient one three times on the right side, that usually rattles pieces back into place.

We walk into the hall where I knock on the wall next to my grandmother’s curtain. “Obaa-san,” I address her.

“Hai. Haitte kuru,” she answers. I pull aside the curtain and enter the room to see her sitting at her desk, looking at something, while her incense burns in the corner.

<I found someone who wants to rent the room.> I tell her in Third.

She stands up and hobbles over to us, muttering something about how she can’t get anything done. “You want the room? Come here.” She pushes past us into the hall, then into the empty room that our last tenant cleared out of about fifteen days ago.

It’s a fairly small room, just a bed, a shelf and a storage chest, with enough space to walk around in and store an extra couple of trunks. The walls are the plain pale grey of the plaster over stone, and match the floor. I look to the girl to see her reaction. Coming from Central, it might be a bit less impressive than what she was thinking.

“How much would the rent be?” She asks. No discernible expression is on her face, save for bland curiosity.

“One copper for every day,” Obaa-san informs her, sticking to what little Common she knows.

I stare at her. That is absurdly low for her. I mean, it’s not bad for a final cost, but at the opening haggle?

“Sounds reasonable,” the girl says. “When do we sort it out?”

Obaa-san looks at me. I translate, and then provide her answer to the girl, “Tonight, if that works for you.”

“Sounds great! Can we do it now?”

“Hai.” Obaa-san turns to me. <Now get back to work, you lazy butt>

Thanks, Grandma. Love you too. I head back down the stairs and back to the counter. As expected, no one else is in the shop right now. And why would they be? Everyone is at work right now. Either that, or they’re asleep. There are only about five people that ever come in during my shift today, and it’s always the same obnoxious kid, old couple, and three noisy friends. Besides which, they’re not due in for another twenty minutes before the kid gets here.

I log into the keypad to check my account. Thirty seven Kaz. daisies, Obaa-san was generous with this last paycheck. I was down to sixteen copper and four silver the other day. I wonder what the girl’s account is. She didn’t even have enough to cover basic, cheap food, so I have to wonder just how little cheddar she had. I mean, if she can’t even afford to buy dinner, what makes her think that she can pay rent? I mean, come on. The total of this stuff only came to eight silver.

Oh hey, here’s the kid. Better watch to make sure he doesn’t steal anything. I swear to god, if I see him swipe one more sweet roll, I will end him. The kid keeps looking at me. I’m not going anywhere, man. Turning around three times and holding your breath won’t make me disappear, you know. Come on, get away from the sweets counter. Go. Get away. Don’t you dare take that spice cake out. No. Hey. No. Back off. What is…Seriously, kid. I’m looking right at you. No. You get over to the counter right now. Hey. Pay for that! Come on, is that really such a difficult concept? Really? THAT IS IT. I AM ENDING THIS RIGHT NOW.

I jump over the counter and chase him out the door. One flying leap and the kid’s face hits the ground. I pull him up to his feet and drag him back to the front counter. I enter the numbers for all of the stuff I remember him stealing, and then shove the keypad in front of him.

“Pay. Now.”

He just glares at me, his nose and lip bleeding.

“Pay, or I actually bring Obaa-san down here, and leave her to deal with you.”

He hesitates a second, and then grumbles a curse as he punches the numbers in with as much force against the machinery as possible. Finally, he turns around and leaves, wiping his face.

“Hey! You forgot something!”

He turns around just in time to receive an aerial delivery of the last sweet roll he tried to steal.

One more social interaction: perfectly executed. Poor manners? Maybe. More fun than calling the Authority? Yep. Besides, my grandma would have just done the same thing. But with more cane beating. Really, I did the kid a favor.

I watch as the end of this four-hour shift ticks away. A hundred seconds a minute, a hundred minutes an hour. Ten hours in a day. That is how long I am stuck in this building for half the week. The other five days, I usually get to come and go as I please, unless my grandmother really needs extra help, like when we’re out of our third clerk. But this is the end of the fifth work day for me, and we’ve got a new tenant. Almost time for supper, and almost time for me to get some free time.

I’ve got several drawings I need to finish, and I’m worried that my vent might have been blocked again. It took me three days to clear it last time. Then again, it was probably only about six hours of work total, it’s just really hard when I have to watch out for people that’ll rat me out to the Authority.

We’ve only ever heard of one person who’s tried to sneak out the vents before, and he was punished severely. He was publicly ridiculed, and his family was forced to pay a fine for the potential damage to the air filters, but after that, no one ever heard from him again. That family actually had to leave the Fourth district and go to Second in order to escape the harassment.

See, the Authority is convinced that the air above ground is still toxic from the ancient warfare that led to the Founding. Not only that, but there have long been rumors about ancient monsters who escaped from the experimental wing of the military facility that the Haven was originally based in. I can say that in all the times I’ve gone onto the granite cliffs I’ve never once seen any of these monsters. I’ve found a few new (or really old, but whatever) species of flora in the spots of soil that are on top of the stone, but no monsters to speak of.

What’s worse is that because the Authority is still convinced that everything is entirely hostile outside of the Haven, they’ve got all of the people believing it too. So there’s a huge social stigma associated with the surface, that’s partly out of fear that if the filters get damaged, we’ll all die down here. I’m pretty sure that if we’ve managed to survive all the industrial accidents for five hundred years down here, we can manage to scrape by with a couple of busted filters.

But, aside from just the Authority mindlessly keeping people in line, The Lady also said from the very beginning, no one was to go above ground until she gave the say-so. She tends to be a lot more understanding than the Authority, and the Authority even fears her (which is why they follow her word so strictly), but she has not been calling them back on the matters of breached vents. With major issues on the Authority, she generally does. But at the same time, in five hundred years, The Lady has supposedly only left her fortress three times. Otherwise, she sends out messengers with the ability to kill the Authority, should it disobey.

Quite frankly, I’m convinced that The Lady isn’t even a real person anymore. I mean, five hundred years? Come on. At this point, it’s most likely just a league of high-ranking representatives from each district that just collaborate on major decisions. And these same representatives are probably the messengers with the pass codes to shut down the Authority systems by district for reworking.

“Daisuke!” Obaa-san shouts, snapping me out of it before I go into full conspiracy theorist mode.

POSTITPOSTITPOSTITPOSTITPOSTITPOSTIT

Hey sometimes I write things that I don't completely hate I guess (I don't think this is a very good poem but some people like it so there ya have it)

She brought me music.
Soft little tunes on crumpled paper.
Beautiful threads of rhyme and rhythm.
We’d sing them together.
Curled up on the couch, singing till the sun went down.
The melodies of summer.
Melodies of love.

Dinner at 6, her place at 9.
We’d sing in the car, laughing the whole time.
Underused radio glowing in the dark.
Dinner was great.
The moon is lovely.
I didn’t notice.
I can’t take my eyes off her.

Unlock the door
Crash on the couch
facebattling by the light of the TV.
She hummed her music.
Her voice on my tongue.
In my head.
In my heart.

We made love like it was a game.
Soft kisses.
Gentle touches.
Perfect rhythm.
Skin and sheets.

We know each other perfectly.
Our bodies.
Our hearts.
Come together like a puzzle.
Melodies of passion.
The night is still young.

Eight O’clock.
White ceiling.
White sheets.
White skin against mine.
She’s so warm. Like sand in the sun.
I don’t want to move.
Don’t want to wake her.
Don’t want to leave.

Pants.
Shirt.
Socks and shoes.
Keys.
Door.
Regret.

I have to go. I could never stay.
I don’t want to hurt her, so I won’t.
End of story.
Same old song.
One last look.
One last facebattle.
One night, just like the others.
Out the door.

I’m silent in the car. No tears, no joy.
Emptiness.
Sex and so-long, just like the others.
Blast the radio.
I hate this song.
I hate all these songs.
I loved her.
But I can’t hurt her.

She was the only one.
The only one I loved.
The only one that brought me music.
I loved her.
So I left.
I couldn’t love her.
I was empty.
And I had no music to bring to her.

That's sad.
Please tell me that's not based on you. Or at the very least, tell me that it was from a while ago and it's about the lady you've got now.

The first post there was a fun read. The wordfilter made some of the areas hilarious as well. I would love to read another chapter. I think you might be on to something with this, but I would spread information a bit more out. The toxic atmosphere stuff seems a bit forced in that early. Getting that into the second chapter would probably make it flow better.

Hnnng this is inspiring me to finish various fanfics and story plots I've been neglecting
I've been in this awful art/writer's block for the past few months now. Hopefully I can break it soon.

To be entirely honest I was last working on a fanfic of Gurren Lagann...

haha no certainly not my current lady.

Only think applicable to my life would be an ex who I spent lots of time with writing and singing little songs, the rest is pure fiction.

Also always have a blast reading your stuff Riku

Hmmm. You might be right. I got kind of stuck there between full-on narration and just what he's thinking/observing.

Oh man can I play too. Here's something that I put in the art thread once but I really like it so...

_____________________________

Heat


There's something refreshing about driving on a nigh-empty freeway at 3 AM. The way the streetlights pass over only your head, gone from your memory forever. They kind of remind me of myself. Completely inactive and fairly unnoticeable during the day, but lighting up with bright heat in the night, only to be forgotten again by morning. The only difference between them and I is that they're able to stay put. When you're an arsonist, there's no such option.

I was fifteen when I figured it out. I'd say “discovered my calling,” but that isn't really it. It's not like if I had one word to describe myself it'd be “arsonist.” To be honest, it'd probably be “reclusive.” Can't really get attached to anything, much less anyone, when everything around you burns at your own hands. Anyway, fifteen, fire, figured it all out. I was sitting on the porch, staring out into the dusk, the setting sun partly obscured by clouds and smog. My little brother had made some little doll things out of hay, mom and dad hung them up outside. It was for his Social Studies class I think. I turned my head to it, it's button eyes and colored superglue mouth smiling at me. And then, fwoosh. The doll went up in flames.

I'm not going to lie, I panicked. I knew it couldn't stay nailed to the wood post, because it'd set the entire house on fire. I picked up the string that tied it to the nail and flung it off and down into the driveway. It couldn't set the driveway on fire.

Most people would've stamped it out. I raised my foot to, when I really noticed the flames themselves. The way they danced around each other and collided with themselves in an eternal cycle of heat and light. That is the only memory I have that I can recall with one hundred percent accuracy. It was truly mesmerizing. I let the doll burn to ashes in the driveway, and then I kicked the ashes to the wind.

I went ahead and finished high school and then got a degree in English at a college about an hour's drive from my parent's place. I kept on living there. Really the only thing I learned from the endeavor was a bunch of quotes. “No, Gatsby turned out all right in the end, it was what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust trailed in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.” See? Did that completely from memory. The skill is pretty useless though. I guess if I kept down that path I could've been a writer or a professor of literature or something. Everybody in high school always told me I was a good writer.

I kept my iPod on shuffle as I drove through the night. It helped to keep me up. “Waiting on Sketchy, stand for Sketchy, paying for Sketchy, Mr. Sketchy Galore.” I laughed at the lyrics, I guess a lot of people would probably see me as a Mr. Sketchy now. It's weird. I don't feel like a criminal or anything, just a guy with a hobby. No different than some guy who builds model trains in his basement or someone who likes to construct Gundam models.

I passed the state line. The words “Welcome to California” came and went in a flash of blue and yellow, fading right back into the darkness of the night with the streetlights. Bye, Arizona. I didn't like Arizona very much. It was hot in a way that saturated everything, completely overtaking any sensation other than pure warmth. I was hoping California would be a little bit better. It was.

I had decided to move to Santa Barbara. I made plans to a couple of weeks before I left Arizona. You can't just take off right when you do it; someone's shed burns down and you leave town the same night? Not exactly terribly convincing for a jury. Though honestly I probably couldn't care less, I'll probably get caught some day and then I'll probably do some jail time and probably pay a pretty hefty fine, and then I'll probably see my parents and they'll probably ask me a lot of questions. The only thing that isn't probable is that I'll answer them. That I'm not sure about. At this point I'd say it's roughly fifty-fifty, a little bit more swung to the not-answer side. It's not that I wouldn't know what to say. “Mom, dad, yes, I burned things for a solid five years.” See? Not hard. Not hard at all. I'm an English major, I know how to phrase things. No, it's really more like...Christ, I don't know.

I looked at the clock next to the radio. It was 3:45; in about an hour the sun would be coming up. I still had roughly 3 hours left in the drive. I rolled down the window for the hell of it, even though it was pretty cold outside. The wind kind of felt like it was slapping me, but I didn't really mind. My hair blew back and billowed around my face. I hadn't cut it in months. It was sort of like a security blanket for me, I could hide behind it when I didn't want any conversation, which was always. It was basically a contemporary version of Holden Caulfield's red hunting cap. The only difference between him and I is that he had to learn how to miss people. I already know to do that. Or rather, how I can't.

I was hungry. Really hungry, in fact. I hadn't eaten since the previous morning, and that was nothing more than a pop-tart, not even toasted. As I drove I kept an eye out for a Denny's or something. I only had about 20 dollars left in my wallet, if that. I looked in my rear view mirror to see if there was anybody in the far right lane. There wasn't, so I got over. It was easier to see what was off the exits from there. There was a really big sign up ahead, though I couldn't quite make out what it said from where I was. I kept driving, but I tried to make sure I wouldn't miss it. An exit later, I was finally able to read it. “JANINE'S DINER OPEN 24 HOURS”. The sign was in the shape of a big, cartoony fire. I chuckled at the coincidence and edged into the offramp.

It took me a couple of minutes to find it, but I did and parked right in front. There were five other cars in the parking lot, two of them out of state. Three, if you counted mine. I got out of my car and pushed the glass doors open.

I immediately smelled smoke, but not the kind of smoke that you would smell from a fire. It was muskier, familiar. I looked around to quickly realize it was cigarette smoke. Of the three other patrons sitting in their booths, all of them were smoking. The waitress was, too. I guess that's why the sign was of a fire. I coughed lightly and sat in a corner booth, which was under the only light that was out in the entire diner. The waitress quickly came out and handed me a menu. In her other hand she had an unlit cigarette. “You wanna?” she asked, and it took me a couple of seconds before I realized she was gesturing towards the cigarette in her left hand. I shook my head, my hair moving away from my eyes. “No, uh, I don't...smoke.” It was kind of funny; an arsonist who doesn't smoke. She shrugged and left, leaving me to look at the menu. I want to say she smelled heavily of smoke, but I can't really. Everything did there. It was a uniform musk, an oppressive stench that stamped out all else. It was like the heat in Arizona, except somehow more outright insulting. It was like it wouldn't let me smell anything else, no matter how hard I tried. I coughed again, hoping it would make me feel better. It didn't.

The waitress came over again and I ordered a chicken fried steak. It came out a couple minutes later and it tasted like someone had dropped a tire into a deep fryer with some breadcrumbs. The fries it came with were kind of nice though. I finished it quickly and then got up to go to the bathroom. I pushed open the door and was relieved that it was relatively free of smoke, like a pocket of resistance in the empire of musk. I went over to a urinal and unzipped my pants. I hadn't rustled since the previous morning, either. I turned around and twisted the cold water faucet. I looked at myself in the mirror, my hair drooping as always. I pushed it back to look at my eyes. They were weird. Distant and out of touch, even if tried to look myself right in the eye. I wasn't sure why. I was tired and drained from a long drive, but I knew that wasn't it. I looked up to see that there wasn't a smoke detector in the bathroom.

I opened the door and passed through the borders of musk again and sat down at my booth. My fingers tapped at the table nervously, though I had nothing to be nervous about. The waitress came over and took my empty plate. “Want some pie?” I shook my head. “I'll get you your check then.” As she turned to go, I reached out my hand and said, “Wait!” She turned around. I had no idea what I was doing. “Uh...Can I...have a smoke?” She gave me a weird look, but took one out of its carton and handed to me. I nodded in thanks. “Got a light?” she asked. I took it out of my pocket and showed it to her. She left the table to go attend to the other patrons, one of which had gone when I was in the bathroom.

I looked at my lighter. It was blue, with a little inscription on it that said “James”. My dad got it for me on my 18th birthday. I raised my hand at the waitress and motioned that I was going to take my smoke outside. She waved her hand to show that she was fine with it. I opened the door and headed out.

I flicked the lighter on and just watched the flame for awhile. I do that a lot. Sometimes it brings me back to that day out in the driveway with the straw doll. Only sometimes, though. Most of the time it's just nice to look at it. I put the cigarette between my lips and brought the lighter to it. It caught, but I didn't inhale. In fact, I took it right out of my mouth. I let it burn while I sat out there, watching the smoke pour out of it. I went back in, and kept the cigarette behind my back as I headed into the bathroom. I looked down to make sure no one was in the stall. No shoes, I was good. The cigarette was pretty short at this point; I flicked a little ash into the urinal. Then I dropped it. I dropped it right next to the stall, the red hot tip of it touching the bottom of the door. I flushed the ashes down the urinal and then went back into the diner.

My bill was sitting at my table, it was only about eight bucks. I looked through my wallet. 21 dollars. I left it all there, it was the least I could do. I got up and pushed the glass door open. I stood there for a moment, letting the cold air from outside diffuse the oppressive musk. I looked over my shoulder to wave goodbye to the waitress, but she had her back turned to me. I went out and got in my car.

The sun was rising. It wasn't high enough to feel its warmth yet, but it would be soon. Soon.

Here I come, Santa Barbara.

Heck yeah you can play. you were one of the people I thought of when making this thread.

I like how focused it is, but still believable as an internal monologue.

I am hoping articles rooted in reality can have a go as well. This is my latest blog entry. All criticism appreciated.

BioWare And Their Fans
Recently BioWare released their latest game in the Mass Effect series. The game that would end an epic space opera on a scale never before seen. Mass Effect 3 was to be the final piece of the trilogy. Or so we thought.

 Day One DLC
BioWare announced that there would be a new character in a new downloadable package that would be available on release day. A rather common thing to do, but this character was not just a character. It was a Prothean. A character from a race long extinct which the entire universe builds on. In the first game of the series, the Protheans are believed to have created all the advanced technology littered around the universe. The mass relays, beacons and the Citadel. The race is hugely important to the background of the Mass Effect universe. Fans were outraged that such an important character was not going to be released with the game, rather being released as a cheddar grab. Were BioWare mad?!

When BioWare couldn't let the outrage among the fans slumber any more they finally replied:

OK, so the character from the most important race in the story isn't important for the story. So this character would not tell us anything about how they disappeared? Nothing about how their culture was? Of course it would. It is a living, breathing specimen of an extinct race that is instrumental to the set-up of the entire story. And then a former employee of BioWare said this:

Truth be told, day one DLC isn't a bad thing. Only when it is on the disk you purchase. So BioWare is stuck with undeniable proof that the character was actually created and had animations, models, textures and sound on the disk that is shipped. This has happened before and the developers never escape fan criticism for it. You have to pay to unlock content that you bought. There is no way you can explain that to be a good thing. However, the game was launched and it sold well. Then the second massive backlash hit BioWare.

 The Mass Effect 3 Ending
I won't go into details about the ending, because quite frankly, I have not played the game and the details of the ending are not the point of the article, but a detail here or there might slip without me realizing. Now that you have been warned, here we go.

The fans cried out that the ending they got did not match what BioWare had told them about it. This is what BioWares own site says about Mass Effect:

And yet, the ending does not reflect that. When you eventually get to the end of the game, it will show you one of three endings and the only difference is the colour of an explosion. Your previous choices through three entire games totalling at least 150 hours of gameplay has no effect on what ending you get. In fact, you choose there and then. Right before you get to see the fruits of your labour. Fans would naturally not sit idly by while this happens. Of course they will tell BioWare that this ending isn't up to par with what BioWare advertised to them. It is false advertising after all. And then the media rattle begins again.

BioWare And Their Fans
Suddenly the entire media explodes in a massive discussion rivalling even Mass Effects own story. A clash between the industry and the players where the gaming media largely seems to take to the side of BioWare calling fans "entitled". Now what does that even mean? According to Google it means to "Give (someone) a legal right or a just claim to receive or do something." But this is not what the media means. The major gaming news websites seem to think that the players are spoiled brats that think they are entitled to something they truly are not.

I know that where I live (Norway for the curious), the ending in Mass Effect 3 is different enough from what they advertised that I am entitled to get my cheddar back. The rest of the world might not be so lucky and this is the outcry we see from the players and now finally, BioWare has responded. The co-founder of BioWare no less. Here is an excerpt:

So it seems they have begun listening, but there is one thing they seem not to have quite understood about the medium even though they have such enormous experience in it. Here is an excerpt from the same employee that talked about the day one DLC:

This is where they seem to step wrongly. In games, you don't have an audience. You have one when you are performing in theatre. Your audience is watching you from their chairs in the room while you are standing on the stage. You have an audience when you are performing a musical piece and people are listening. If you have written a book, your audience might be sitting in front of open fire enjoying your work. This is not true for games.

Remember when Harry Potter is dead and Voldemort hugs Draco and he does that funny waggle? If you have seen the film, of course you do. Remember that awesome castle I built in Minecraft? Of course you don't. It was on my single player save. I took the brush from the painters hand and created something based on what the painter had done earlier. I am a creator and so are you if you play games. You are not a passive audience. You are an active participant. An equally good analogy would be a football game. The players on the field are shaping the match. The players on the bench are part of the audience.

Games are an entirely new field of study. It is a new medium. It is unique in that the audience of games are not listeners. There are story tellers that will create their own story with your game and tell that to an audience later, sharing their experience with others, but that experience is truly their own.

UPDATE [04:14, 22nd of March]: The day one DLC did not contain the mission, cinematics and conversations Shepard would have with the Prothean. Only the character model, sounds and so on. This puts the DLC in an entirely different light, but much of the criticism still stands.

Go for it, dude. General writing.




Got more that I've proofread.

Chapter One, Part Two


“Daisuke!” Obaa-san shouts, snapping me out of it before I go into full conspiracy theorist mode. She says that dinner’s ready, and to shut down the store for a while. I flip the sign on the door, shut off the lights, and head upstairs into our kitchen. The new girl is already sitting at the small table, hands folded politely in her lap, and her shawl finally off.

She’s sitting in my spot. I always sit across from Obaa-san. And Obaa-san will always sit in the exact same place. Why would she do that? That’s just rude. But at the same time, I don’t dare say anything for fear that my grandmother will tear me a new one.

I slowly sit down in the open place at the table. This is…weird. I mean, I get that it’s really a small change, but I’ve sat in that spot across from Obaa-san for as long as I can remember. It’s like someone is invading my territory. I’ve never had to sit in the tenant’s place before...

<Quit your sulking. It’s just a place at a table,> Obaa-san snaps at me, already knowing what I’m thinking. She sets down the dahi, and the pot of soup on the table and sits. Then she looks across the table at the girl. “You pray?” she asks in Common.

Oh no. If anything is going to go wrong, this is it. Obaa-san takes her prayer seriously. So if this girl says the wrong thing…

“Yes, but I’m not sure it would be the same way that you do.” She answers.

I translate for Obaa-san, and then she says, “You do your way.”

The girl nods and takes a deep breath, looking around as if embarrassed. What in the world is there to be so embarrassed about? You say a few words, and we’re good. Then we eat. C’mon, I’m hungry, girl.

“Ehiea su shiar-che masrueth siebnurh” She softly sings, in a kind of melody I’m unfamiliar with. Her hands are pressed tightly against each other, with her elbows straight out. The song goes on for about a half minute and then she just kind of leaves off and places her hands on the table.

<Oh cool, can we eat now?> I ask in Third. Obaa-san just glares at me.

“Very pretty. You done?” She asks the girl. She nods, and then Obaa-san gives the sign to eat. The dahi is good, as per usual. But the soup is different. I don’t remember ever eating it before, but my grandma never makes anything new.

“Very good!” Obaa-san praises the girl. So she made this? Obaa-san never lets anyone near her stove. First she gets a low room price with no bargaining, and now she gets to make dinner and pray? Who the hell is this kid?

“So, what’s your name?” I ask her. The corner of her mouth turns up, and she just kind of smiles quietly and waits for a second before Obaa-san interrupts.

<So how was work today, Daisuke?>

<Same as usual. No one ever comes in on that shift. You know that.>

<I noticed that you didn’t complain about that boy who always steals something. Did he not show up?> She asks, not looking up from her food. <Daisuke, help her.>

It takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about, before I look at the girl, who is not having a very easy time eating the dahi with her chopsticks. “Here,” I reach over and adjust the ceramic sticks in her hand so that they’re resting properly in her fingers. I try to move her fingers in the right motion, so that she gets a general idea, and then pick mine up to demonstrate properly. When I try to make eye contact with her, I notice that her face has gone almost as red as her hair.

“What?”

“Um, nothing. Different house, different rules. You know. Anyway,” she copies the movement I showed her. “That right?”

What a weirdo. Even the ultra-conservative shut-ins around here don’t blush like that just from someone touching their hand. I just go back to eating for my answer. I receive a rap to the back of the head with a cane.

<Answer the nice girl.> Obaa-san snaps at me, still not looking up from the spoonful of soup she has.

I give a heavy sigh and mumble an answer.

“Loud!” Obaa-san barks.

“Yes, you’ve got it right!” I shout deliberately. <That loud enough?>

“Hai.” Obaa-san answers quickly.

Now that we’re both thoroughly embarrassed, dinner goes on very quietly. Well, if nothing else, the soup is good. She was right. The wizen does add a good flavor to the fish, and lemmer broth is my favorite, so.

After everyone is finished eating, I hurriedly put my bowl in the wash basin and grab my sketchpad before heading downstairs to open the store back up for the night shift, when all the factory guys get off of their shifts. Three more hours.

I click through the pages on the tablet until I get to the drawing of the bird I found on the granite cliffs. The plumage was this great teal color, with black edging along the wings, tail and breast. Not much bigger than my hand, but man, could that little thing sing. I take the pen and continue to paint the color onto the screen. I kind of wonder what it would be like to draw on paper or canvas, like people used to before resources got too limited. Probably harder, since there’s no “undo” function on paper. But maybe the more tactile aspect of it would be better. I know that the professional artists (who mostly live in Central) tend to be able to scrounge together actual paint, but it’s ridiculously expensive, since only one company makes the supplies for them, and they live up in Second.

Haha, like I’m going to get to do that anyway. I’m going to be stuck managing this store after Obaa-san eventually dies—who am I kidding? She’s not going to die, she’s going to ascend to a higher plane or continue to rule the Third District with an iron cane. I don’t even know how old she is, or if she’s even my grandmother, or actually my great-grandmother. It’s a joke that she’s as old as The Lady herself, and she got here at the Founding.

But as I was saying, I’m not going to get away from this store unless I want to skip out and disappear like my dad did. I’d never abandon Obaa-san like that, so I’m pretty much doomed to the life of a grocery clerk who sneaks out to the surface in order to make a few scribbles now and then.

“That’s pretty neat, you know. I really like the color of the feathers.”

I jump and spin around to see the girl, shawl back on, draped over her hair and shoulders. She raises her eyebrows and does a split-second, one sided smile at what’s probably a startled expression. Dammit, you don’t just sneak up on someone like that! I look down at the tablet to see a dark black streak across the screen. I tap the undo button in order to remove the mistake.

“What?” I ask her. “What do you need?”

“Oh, uh, nothing. I just…um…could you help me bring my belongings over here from the motel? Your grandma said that she’d manage the store while you were gone.” Her eyebrows raise a little, and she bites her lip as she waits for an answer.

I look at her for a second. Why would I want to help her haul stuff around? That sounds like way more work than necessary. But she’s just standing there, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll go get the wagon,” I sigh. “But you’re helping to pedal.”

“Of course!” her eyes brighten and she nods. “I’ll go get my key!”

Why in the world did I agree to go do that? This is stupid. I follow her up the stairs and tell Obaa-san what I’m doing. She smiles and pats me on the back, telling me that she’s glad I decided to go with the girl. What is the deal here? All of today’s been weird.

I climb onto the seat of the wagon, putting my feet onto the pedals, and waiting for the girl to do the same. Once she does, and we go off, I pull the handlebars away before she has a chance to try and steer. It took me two weeks to build this wagon, I don’t let anyone else drive it.

“Okay, where are you?”

“Just down this street here, and turn down 32nd.” She points in the right direction.

Oh, so she’s at the Kamiya Inn. No problem. With both of us peddling, it takes hardly any time to get there. I corner the wagon into the parking space near the door so that the girl can get her stuff and we can go. She hops out of the wagon, and then just stands there.

“What now?”

“Aren’t you going to help me?” She looks up with an expectant look on her face.

“I got you here, didn’t I?” Honestly, kid. You managed to get your stuff into the room, you should be able to get it out.

“Pleeeeeeease?”

And next thing I know, I’m carrying one of the two heavy trunks out to the wagon. “What the hell have you got in this thing?” I ask as I throw it into the back.

“That one is my clothes and some art supplies. The one I’m carrying is my metalworking gear and some finished pieces.”

“Metalworking? I thought you came from Ag district?” Shouldn’t she be an expert in pulling weeds and growing trees?

“Yes. Someone needs to maintain the machinery, don’t they? You don’t just have every single person in the manufacturing plants, do you? Someone needs to run the grocery stores and sell the clothes and clean the streets, right?”

Alright, fine. She’s got a point. I just wouldn’t have pegged her for a repairman. Something about the flowy shawls and quiet demeanor just doesn’t quite translate well into a strong, metal-burning mechanic. After confirming that all she had was the two trunks, I climb back into the driving place of the wagon. I just want to get the hell back home so I can go to bed.

“Thank you for doing this,” she says quietly, almost inaudible with the noise from the pedal and the wheels. “I appreciate it.”

What is she going on about? It’s just a ten minute drive and moving a trunk. It’s not like I just pulled some super heroic stunt.

“I know that you don’t like me anymore. I’m not stupid. I don’t know why you’re angry, but I appreciate that you helped me anyway.” She says a little louder than normal for her.

It’s only now that I realize, she doesn’t have the typical Central accent. She comes down a little heavier on the consonants, and frequently puts a harsher sound on I and Y. All her other vowels are a lot more blended, however. Which means that she probably speaks that prayer language fluently, which means she probably doesn’t have a typical Central name.

“So, what is your name, anyway?” I ask . “Obaa-san interrupted before you could answer.” I try to make up for what she said before, proving her wrong, daring her to say that it’s obvious I don’t like her now.

“Eh, I don’t really like my name.” She says casually. I actually like being called Red better. Either Red or Mien’drh.”

“Red it is, then. But really, what is it? Why don’t you like it?”

“Because I simply don’t. Why do you want to know so much? My name just does not sound like me.”

“Oh, and Mi-en…durr…um, the other thing does? Sound doesn’t fit you at all.”

She looks at me.

“From what I’ve seen, anyway,” I quickly correct.

“Mien’drh is just a word, not intended to be a name. It is different. And you said you’d use Red anyw—“

A loud crash and crunching noise erupts from behind me, to the left. I look, and then there’s Takizawa, a higher up of one of the two gangs of our district. Oh hell. He’s riding in a wagon himself, swinging at us with a heavy pole. What the hell is his problem with me? Oh man, if Obaa-san finds out that I made a member of the East gang angry, she is going to be so rustled.

I remember loooong ago that i made a KH Fanfic. Might have to brush it up and see if i could repost it here.

If you want people to read it, then go for it.

Oh man I have so many unfinished stories that I've forgotten about I should post the-

>cleared out My Documents folder
>okay.jpg