Terracotta Monkeys

This was the Writers’ Games Practice event entry. I wasn’t able to finish the rest of the story, but it was fun to do.

They command attention, leaving spectators breathless in their presence.

 

Fuck ‘em, thought Marty Vilken, gazing down at the regiment upon regiment of terracotta soldiers, each one unique, each one carved with such precision that people speculated that they were based on real men. Fuck ‘em all to hell.

 

  He was only here because Joanie had insisted. Seeing the Terracotta Army had been on her bucket list, back when such a thing was a blue sky suggestion and not a dream that faded with every round of chemo. 

 

 When the hour came, she’d told him to go in her place.

 

  “I’ll use your eyes,” she’d said. “I’ll be with you.”

 

But she wasn’t with him. No warm hand in his. No excited giggle as she flitted from exhibit to exhibit. No awe in a place where people gawked at the power and artistry of a man who’d lived over two thousand years ago. Just an empty space beside him, and a hole where his heart should be. But he was here, as promised, a year and a half too late, staring at an army that had never fought a war, and never would. An empty, pointless relic, just like him.

 

“Hello,” a child’s voice said, clipped and awkward, from a tongue unused to western pronunciation. “Hello, sir.”

Marty looked down, to find a pair of black eyes peering up at him. A boy, he wasn’t sure how old, beaming with pride. He looked familiar. Another passenger on the tour perhaps?

 

  “What?” He grunted. 

 

The boy paused, and looked back at the couple standing a few feet away, the man with his arm around the woman. Marty quickly looked away.

 

“How are you today?” the boy asked, a sentence learned by rote, if tone was any indication. 

 

“Fucking fine, kid, how about you?” Marty turned away.

 

To his disgust the kid turned with him. 

 

“I am well,” the boy said, his frown probably something to do with the ‘fucking’. Marty doubted that had come up in his classroom. “What is your nome?”

 

“What?” Marty asked.

 

“Your nome?”

 

“My nome? Do you mean my name?”

 

“Yes, your nome.”

 

“My ‘nome’ is none of your fucking…” He stopped, Joanie’s voice in his ear. She’d loved kids. Loved them so much she’d overcome his objections. He’d wanted to tell her they could try, but by then the doctor’s report had come, and nothing else had seemed important. “My name is Marty, kid.”

 

“Mister Kid,” the boy said, smiling. “My name is Zheng Lao. I am eight years old.”

 

“Good for you,” he turned again, but found himself again facing the parents. They swelled with pride. Marty grunted. He’d gone out of his way to avoid this, deliberately picking a tour aimed at Chinese tourists. Even the tour guide couldn’t speak English. The man had been communicating in signs and gestures – even pulling at Marty’s hand until a sour look had made him snatch it away. Sour looks and turned backs didn’t seem to be working on the kid, though. Again, the boy followed him around.

 

“Mister Kid, how you like China?”

 

“It’s fucking wonderful. Now I know why there’s so many of you. It’s so boring you’ve got nothing else to do.”

 

“I don’t know this word ‘fucking’.”

 

“Ask your parents,” Marty said, walking off. Perhaps the international language of ‘leave me the fuck alone’ would translate. He felt the kid watch him go, heard him return to his parents and start twittering in Mandarin. 

 

In his head, Joanie sighed. Mr grumpy-pants, she whispered.

 

Marty shook his head and stared at the tomb of a man who’d thought you could take it all with you. 

 

Apparently ‘go fuck yourself’ needed a better translator. The kid found him on the bus, smiling once again.

 

“What you think of Emperor Qin?” The boy asked, coming to sit beside him. His parents, still looking on in cautious awe, took the seat in front of him.

 

“Seems like a wanker,” Marty grunted. “Only a real dickhead would bother that many people just because he died.” 

 

Joanie had insisted on not bothering anyone. “Just bury me in my wedding dress,” she’d said. “I waited long enough to put it on.”

 

Marty grimaced. “Just leave me the hell alone, boy.”

 

It seemed that was one sentiment that just wouldn’t translate. The boy settled in beside him, asking him question after question from the beginner’s english handbook.

 

“Where are you from?” 

 

“Fuck off, boy.”

 

“I do not know this place. I am from Xi’an.”

 

“What do you do for a living?”

 

“I mind my own damn business.”

 

“I do not know this. I go to Xi’an Gaoxin No 1 Primary School.”

 

“What is your favourite thing to do?”

 

“Not bothering strangers.”

 

“I do not know this. What…”

 

It went on, and on. Marty took to looking out the window praying the next moment they’d reach his hotel. He didn’t hold out much hope. It had taken the best part of an hour to reach the museum. With the kid beside him, it felt longer.

 

When the bus finally stopped, he all but tumbled out, pushing past the kid, his parents and all other passengers, thinking of nothing but the booze he could order from room service. It was only when he looked up that the horror sunk in.

 

Xi’an Qinling Wildlife Park

 

Marty froze. 

 

No. No! It must be some mistake.

 

But it wasn’t, the other passengers stepped out, laughing and smiling. This was clearly an expected stop. Zheng and his parents stepped down, along with the tour guide.

 

“We can’t stop here,” Marty said, grasping the thin man by his shoulders and all but shaking him. “Not here!”

 

The guide stared at him, glasses slipping down his nose. He said something in Mandarin, waving his hands. 

 

“What is matter?” Zheng asked, his voice high-pitched enough that with the scent and muffled sounds of animals all he could hear was Joanie.

 

“Not here… not here…”

 

“Is something wrong?” Zheng asked.

 

“I can’t… I…”

 

You can, Joanie’s voice, clear as day. You must. She sounded so firm, and he could picture her so clearly – hands on hips, chin out, mouth set, the look she gave him when she was determined to have her way. I loved what I did, and so did you. There’s a reason you proposed to me at the zoo.

 

He had no answer. He let go of the guide’s arms and stepped away. Waited patiently in line. Stepped through the gate like a zombie. Looked up when he was inside.

 

It wasn’t the same as Sydney, and he was thankful – Taronga Zoo’s broad gates and harbour views would be too much for him – but the familiar smell of animal brought back memories of her hair, her smile. She’d positively glowed inside her workplace.

 

  “It’s the best job in the world,” she’d told him, over and over. “Even when I’m cleaning up poop.”

 

  He’d believed her. He still did.

 

The cages were smaller than in Oz, and looked less comfortable. He could hear Joanie tut-tutting in his ear, upset by the poor conditions.

 

“Bigger animals later,” Zheng said. “We drive around to see them.” The kid was constant at his side, and for once it didn’t bother him. It felt good to have a presence beside him, even if it wasn’t the one he wanted. 

 

He walked on in a daze until they reached the monkey enclosure. This, nine thousand kilometres away, had been Joanie’s place. Her home. Her heart and soul apart from him. 

 

In their cages the little primates jumped and played, dancing along the sticks and ropes that had been laid out for them, up the trees that grew up to the wire roof cutting off the sky.

 

Joanie used to spend hours looking at them. Laughing at them. Watching them with an awe he never felt except when he looked at her. 

 

Eighteen months he’d kept the tears at bay, scared that by losing them he’d be losing her. He’d lost her. Even now his heart screamed at the thought, but he couldn’t stop the wetness flowing down his cheeks. Maybe he’d never stop. Maybe he’d never be whole again. He didn’t want to be whole. He didn’t want to be a person without her.

 

He felt something soft and warm in his hand, and looked down to find Zheng’s hand in his. The little boy looked up at him, smiled, and looked back to the monkeys. Marty looked back too. They leapt from branch to branch, soaring with grace and poise.

 

Party Cancun

Rossino’s wriggling wakes her. Her little brother’s sleepy twitches are enough to rock the hammock they share. Most days Rosa would sleep through it, but not today. Today her stomach bubbles.

It’s a good day, she reminds herself, looking up at their lopsided ceiling. Mama worked hard to get her this job. She should be happy. Another income. Maybe soon they’ll be able to afford a mortgage. Briefly she imagines their new flat – a place where the roof doesn’t leak, where the door fits properly.

Besides her, Rossino snorts again, his gentle breath warm against her ear. Rossino and David don’t care what her new job means. Corn bread and squash, brushing their teeth under the pump outside, today her brothers will have to make their own way to school. Rosa’s not sure Mama should trust them. She remembers what she was like at that age. School seemed so boring, so unimportant, but Mama had insisted every morning. It’s only now that she understands why.

Her brothers aren’t old enough yet. They still dream of playing football for Mexico. It’s a hope that gets them dancing every morning, practicing shots and blocks and goal celebrations. She’s seen their skills. There’s only so many misses you can blame on a scuffed ball and broken, hand-me-down shoes.

Jesus. That’s who really had a chance. He could twist and flick his way to goal in the blink of an eye, at least until… Rosa frowns. Today she doesn’t want to think about her big brother.

Her uniform is different from Mama’s; instead of a neat skirt, she’ll be dressed in pants and a t-shirt, ironed by Mama yesterday. Next time she’ll have to do it herself. The bosses don’t want their employees looking sloppy. Rosa doesn’t mind. Mama’s talked her through the process. It doesn’t sound hard, and there’ll probably be someone in the hotel’s laundry to help her. The material is soft and supple, but it feels thin, as though it’s gone through too many washings. Who had it before her? What happened to them? Promotion, sacking or death – all equally likely.

The bus ride to the strip takes twenty minutes. Out the window the world changes – first shacks, then apartments, then shops for the tourists, their merchandise bright like the piñatas Mama buys once a year. Stepping off the bus is like landing on another planet. The Hotels are so tall; sky high and higher, story upon story of dry rooms, soft beds; luxury upon luxury. Mama had warned her, but still the strangeness strikes her. Do the tourists think it strange? She can see them out the window. Boys in board shorts, girls in bikinis, running around like nothing could hurt them. Is this what the world is like for them? Is this what America is like?

Her friend Maria wants to go there more than anything, but Rosa’s not so sure. She likes Mexico. Mama and her brothers are here. She’s not sure she’d want to step into such a different place, and there are stories. She’s lucky she’s not pretty. Pretty girls get courted by the cartels. She’s seen the men pretend to care about them, showering them with gifts and promising America. She’s seen their faces afterwards. Mama is always warning her about such men, but her bent nose keeps her safe. Too safe really; it would be nice to have a boyfriend.

Mama leaves her at the laundry door, smiling to help soothe the birds flapping in Rosa’s stomach.

“It’s okay,” Mama assures her. “Do what you’re told, and you’ll be fine.”

Miguel Alvarez is waiting for her, his moustache thick on his upper lip. He stands straight as a streetlamp, holding a clipboard between his palms. His paunch has its own gravity. Rosa can’t stop looking at it. How can such a narrow man have so much belly fat?

“The guest is always right,” he tells the small group of new employees clustered in the corridor behind the lobby. Some wear skirts, some are dressed like Rosa. “If a customer has a question you must answer it quick-fast. If you don’t understand them, you must point them to someone who does. There will be a supervisor in each area. You will meet them soon. Do as they tell you. Our job is to make sure the guests have a good time. If you cause one of the guests to have a bad time, you will be fired.”

The last word sends a ripple through the group. No one wants to be fired. Rosa feels her stomach tense. There are so many things riding on this. In her head she practices the English phrase ‘can I help you?’ The words sound so strange, not at all like Spanish.

They separate into teams. Miguel Alvarez leads Rosa and another girl outside. The sun is bright and Rosa can just catch the scent of the sea over the mixing aromas of chlorine, sunscreen, and the sickly sweetness of cocktails. The pools are huge and packed with people, some dancing, some drinking, most fooling around, doing backflips and pushing each other, like Rossino or David would, if they ever got to come here. Most of them are her age or a bit older. All of them are smiling. Rosa smiles too, as Miguel Alvarez instructed. Smiling attendants make the guests feel good, and the guests are always right.

It doesn’t take her long to learn her job. Hand out towels, collect them, point the guests to the free sunscreen. Her immediate boss is Jose. He smiles like a model.

“This is a good job,” he tells her. “Out in the sun, beautiful girls, not too much vomit. This is the best job.” He sounds like he means it.

Jesus’s voice pulls her from her work, a low murmur so familiar it stops her heart. The memory of that night comes back to her, three years gone in an instant. Her brother yelling – angry at their dirt floor. Their sheet-iron walls.

She turns and spots him skulking, too short as always. He’s standing in a corner, talking to two boys, one white, one black. They don’t have shirts, but Jesus makes up for it. He’s the only one in sight with long sleeves. He looks thinner than he did when she last saw him, his mouth harder, his jaw unshaven, a tear-shaped tattoo under one eye. He has both hands in his pants pockets. She can’t hear what he’s saying.

He doesn’t see her. She’s not sure if that makes her sad or relieved. What can she say that Mama hasn’t already said? Nonetheless, she watches him, rejecting the rhythm she’s found in her work. This is more important. This is familia.

The two boys nod, and one of them pulls something from his shorts pocket. Jesus takes it, nodding too, and looks around one more time, his hands pulling something out of his own pockets. He sees Rosa and freezes. His eyes look tired, bloodshot. There’s something in them. Something she doesn’t have a name for, something that remembers the better days, before the cartels. Before everything was broken. For just a moment he’s her brother again, and then the pain descends, the anger. His lip curls. He looks away. Frowning, he hands a small package to the paler boy and walks off. He doesn’t look back.

By the cabana, Rosa can’t move. She knew. She’d always known what he did, but to see it… To see him… Her heart thunders.

“Hey, senorita,” says a voice near her, drunken and loud. “What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?” The speaker is big, fat, Hispanic but American. He has a large group of friends waving at him.

She’s lingered here too long. He thinks she works at the bar.

“Me? No…” she stutters, “I go get…”

She stumbles off, reeling, too confused to care if he thinks she’s rude. She’s halfway to Jose before she remembers she’s supposed to smile.

Jose grins enough for both of them, his teeth white and bright in the sun. She doesn’t know what to say.

“I saw…” she begins. “A boy… a man… I think there are drugs!” Why is she saying this? Does she want Jesus in trouble? She does, she realises. She wants him punished. For Mama’s sake, for her own, for Rossino and David growing up without a big brother.

The words come out too loud. Jose stares at her, then grins.

“Of course pretty lady! The guests, they like their fun. The drugs make them happy. And then when they’re happy, bosses are happy. And when the bosses are happy, Jose is happy.”

Jose never seems to not be happy. He smiles and chatters all afternoon, calling Rosa ‘pretty lady’. She says nothing. Her mind isn’t under the warm sun, her ears can’t hear the drunken laughter. She’s far away and long ago, in a shack with a broken down door.

Over the Top

Dorian will never be comfortable with crows again.

 

At home the black birds had been mawkish, laughable as they perched on the old tree stump by Covington’s Hitch. On their final day before shipping out, he and Denny had thrown rocks at them. Well, not them specifically, more at the stump, pretending, as they had so many times before, that it was a wicket and it was nine down on the final day. As usual, Dorian missed by a mile, but Denny hit the wood so often it was a wonder he’d only made the second eleven.

 

Now Denny was dead.

 

He’d got the news yesterday, a terse and dog-eared missive from Father, ordering him to write to Aunt Bridget.

 

Write and tell her what? That was the question that bothered him. Well, that and his right foot, which hadn’t stopped itching. He’d borrowed Wilkins’ pen, pilfered ink from the lieutenant’s private store, and scrounged paper for the letter, promising favours he knew he couldn’t return. That was all right though,

Denny was worth a few broken promises. The problem was he hadn’t the damnedest idea what to say.

 

And thus he sat, curled up beneath the edge of the trench, listening to the crows as they cawed above him. In the quiet hours, when the guns had stopped, they gathered like flies, their beaks like pickaxes digging into Haversham’s body.

 

Haversham? Was it Haversham out there, smelling like rot and pig’s swill? Or was he closer to Mitchell? He tried to remember. No. It must be Haversham. Mitchell had fallen closer to the southern trench. There was no point in taking a look. They were both a week dead, and the crows were thorough. The rats too.

 

Carefully, Dorian checked his lunch package. He’d asked Stevens to wrap it up tight, but the little monsters always seemed to find their way through. He’d woken up to them nibbling his feet this morning. Aunt Bridget would be horrified. Once Denny had managed to sneak a rat into her sitting room. Dorian had never heard anyone scream so loudly. Denny said the beating had been worth it.

 

Good old Denny. Half of Dorian’s punishments had been Denny’s fault, but he couldn’t begrudge him. They’d had some times together!

 

They wouldn’t have any more. The thought cut like a knife. Somewhere Denny’s body was lying, cold as the frost they had this morning. Was he cut down like Haversham, inches from the trench, so that all of his mates would have to spend days looking at him? Smelling him? Watching the crows whittle him down to bone?

 

He blinked away tears. The lads here didn’t need to see him blubbering like a girl. Huntington-Payne had spent a whole afternoon weeping after Mitchell had gone down, but that’s what one could expect from an Eton boy. No backbone. Dorian was a Wellingtonian through and through. Denny had been too. His cousin would be ashamed of him if he broke down now.

 

Still, best not to mention Haversham and Mitchell to Aunt Bridget. She was only a woman – and a fussy one at that, always fixated on the least important things. What did it matter if one’s tie was a little crooked as one came down to dinner? She’d yelled at him for half an hour over that one, Denny giggling behind her back the whole time.

 

His eyes itched again. What the Dickens was he supposed to write?

 

Perkins’ voice came as a relief.

 

“Look lively, Kingsley. The captain’s on his way!”

 

Perkins arrived a moment later, his blonde hair slick and dirty beneath his helmet. It’d been raining off and on for a week, and the mud stuck to everything, including remains of the pale curls Perkins used to be so proud of. Dorian can remember him fussing over them on the way basic training, convinced they would endear him to every female he met. He had to cut them short when they got here. Dorian had never seen a man more afraid of a pair of scissors.

 

“The captain? What does he want?” Dorian hadn’t seen Captain Phillips for a week. It was a good thing. Phillips was a short, barrel-chested man who reminded Dorian of every schoolmaster he’d ever had. Keen on discipline, not so keen on pranks. He had no proof, but he was sure it was Phillips who had Denny reassigned. And now Denny was dead.

 

“I don’t know, but he’s hauling a shiny new gun around. Matthews thinks we’re getting ready to go over the top!”

 

“Matthews has been thinking that for weeks!” Matthews was another one who blubbered at the drop of a hat. A London boy, naturally. Dorian wasn’t even sure where he went to school.

 

“He might be right this time,” Perkins told him. “Quartermaster’s got a whole heap of new rifles, bayonets so sharp you could shave with them!”

 

“Maybe I should borrow one,” Dorian quipped. “My razor’s so blunt it’s almost unusable.” It wasn’t much of a joke, but Perkins smiled.

 

“You can do that after we’ve shown the jerries what-for!”

 

Perkins still hung onto the keenness that made Dorian sign up all those months ago. It had seemed so obvious at the time; a quick trip over the channel, a few weeks of fighting. They were supposed to return home as heroes. Maria Hooper would have looked at him like he was the finest man in the British Isles. Maybe then her crotchety vicar father would have viewed him a little more kindly. Maybe then she’d let him kiss her properly.

 

Then he’d come here. Months of waiting. Months of mud. Months of rumours, mostly bad. He’d heard Darrow and Dilbert were both dead, and Mumford was in hospital, his guts hanging out. They didn’t expect him to make it. And then Haversham and Mitchell had been shot – for nothing more than a stupid dare.

 

Haversham had been so sure they could make it. Three minutes, he’d said. If they went at dawn the jerries wouldn’t be fast enough. Three minutes for six shillings – some excitement to sharpen up the months of waiting. Haversham had been so sure.

 

That had been the last time Captain Phillips had been here. Yelling at them for not stopping it. It seemed so foolish now. Six shillings was a stupid thing to die for. But Dorian had never really believed they would die, until they did. Now every day he had to watch their corpses stripped.

 

Had Denny also thought he was invincible? Dorian shook his head. The captain was coming. Mulling wouldn’t help him get ready. Phillips was almost as bad as Aunt Bridget at spotting clothes out of place. He didn’t have her caterwauling high notes, but a chap didn’t need a dressing down on a day like today.

 

He stuck the paper into his back pocket, the words ‘Dear Aunt Bridget’ the only words on the page. He’d finish it later. Perhaps by then he’d have figured out what to write.

 

He wiped his eyes and tucked in his shirt. There was nothing he could do about his scuffed boots. Hopefully the cloying mud would cover them. If they’re going over the top perhaps it won’t matter so much. Phillips might be too distracted to notice.

 

The top. He glanced up at the wooden edge of the trench. For a week he’d been trying not to think about it, ever since Haversham and Mitchell had clambered their way up the ladder. They’d taken one step, two, and then the gunfire had come.

 

Haversham had dropped like a stone, blood red on his face. His body, eyes blank in his head, had landed just out of reach.

 

Mitchell made it further, his little frame darting this way and that as the bullets buzzed like bees around him. He’d nearly made it, but the jerries got him in the end. Dorian remembers his gasping breaths, the little sighs he’d made. He’d wanted to go up, pull Mitchell’s body down, but by then the Captain had been called. He’d ordered them to stay where they were. Instead they had to listen to Mitchell dying, weeping, calling for his mother.

 

Thompson had shot himself in the foot the next day, the damn coward. Even weepy Huntington-Payne hadn’t been that yellow. It just went to show you never really knew a man until the chips were down. Dorian hoped he got hanged.

 

“Ten-shun!”

 

Dorian straightened up immediately, forcing himself to forget the long hours he’d stared at his own revolver.

 

Phillips appeared, his fussy little face stiff beneath his officer’s hat. Even in a trench the man was perfectly turned out. Aunt Bridget would approve. Denny always laughed at him behind his back, laughed at his perfectly polished shoes and fastidiously trimmed pencil-thin moustache.

 

Denny wasn’t laughing any more.

 

Dorian wanted to say something about that, but he couldn’t find the words.

 

“Ah, Kingsley, there you are,” Phillips said, his hands behind back. The man strutted like a peacock everywhere he went. “Are you ready?”

 

“Ready for what, sir?”

 

“For the top, of course!”

 

“Yes sir!” There was nothing else he could say, not with Perkins practically vibrating beside him.

 

“Excellent!” Phillips nodded once, and then nodded again, like a pigeon bobbing. “Hold here a moment, Kingsley. Perkins, I told you to gather the men. Hop to it!”

 

Perkins flashed a salute, and then he was off like a greyhound down the stretch, gone before Dorian could blink.

 

The captain changed the moment Perkins was out of sight. He dropped his stance and brought his hands to the front, rubbing them over each other. Furtively, he glanced this way and that, but they were alone. Haversham’s stink made this an unpopular part of the trench. That’s why Dorian had chosen it. He’d felt the need to write his letter in peace.

 

“How are you feeling?” Phillips asked, chewing his lip.

 

“Fine, sir.” Dorian enunciated the words carefully. He had the overwhelming desire to punch the man. He could do it too. Punch him or shoot him. Leave his body up with Haversham’s. Phillips was the reason Denny was dead. He could feel his revolver at his hip.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Kingsley. How’s your cousin?”

 

Dorian wondered if he’d heard him wrong.

 

“My cousin, sir?”

 

“Yes, your cousin! Dennis! How is he?”

 

“Dead, sir. His unit was hit by artillery.” The words felt bitter on Dorian’s tongue. He laid them out coldly – an accusation and a warning. If Phillips said one word, just one more word, he’d be sharing Haversham’s fate.

 

But Phillips didn’t say a thing. Instead he went white. His mouth flapped open and closed like a goldfish. His hands stopped their twisting and he stood stock-still, his eyeballs in danger of popping out of his face.

 

“Dead?” He whispered. “But I sent him to… He was supposed to be away from the front!”

 

Now it’s Dorian’s turn to gulp stupidly. Phillips had sent Denny away to keep him safe?

 

Denny had complained so much. Whined for hours that Dorian would get all the glory, back when glory had meant something more than mud and bad smells and Mitchell’s whimpering cries.

 

“Why?” The word comes out with a breath, Dorian’s not even sure he said it aloud.

 

“Why?” Phillips spat, straightening. His eyes went back and forth, as though searching for anyone who might overhear.

 

“Yes, why?” Dorian insisted. He had to know. His hands uncurled from their fists. He felt like lashing out, not to strike, but to grab. He needed an answer. Why?

 

Phillips almost didn’t answer. Dorian saw it on his face. The man stood up even straighter, his hands going back behind his back, but he blushed at the same time. His head shook back and forth, like he didn’t want to catch Dorian’s eyes.

 

“As it happens, I knew your aunt. Bridget, what. We were… friends. A long time ago.”

 

That seems like all that Phillips felt comfortable saying. He snapped into a salute. Dorian echoed it automatically – the long hours of drills coming back to him. Long hours when Denny was by his side.

 

And just like that, the lead was back in his guts. He could hear the crows cawing above him, cawing like they had at Covington’s Hitch. The letter to Aunt Bridget burned in his back pocket. Haversham’s stink filled his nostrils. He still didn’t know what to say.

Bogeyman

This is my response to the #MeToo movement. It’s not very good, but I wanted to say something.

 

The cameras flash like strobe-lights, one after the other until it’s hard to keep my eyes open. I need to keep my eyes open. The steps to the courthouse are worn and uneven, hundreds of years of anxious feet, some innocent, some guilty. I wonder how many of the climbers had their hearts trembling in their chests. More than me, certainly. It’s a strange thought, and in an odd way, comforting. Only not very much.

 

The questions are worse than the flashes.

 

“Anna, how do you feel?”

 

“Anna, what do you say to people who say you’re making it all up?

 

“Miss Jones, Mr Marooq has called your accusations racially motivated, what do you say to that?”

 

“Miss Jones are you Islamophobic?”

 

Islamophobic. Racist. Two things I’ve never considered myself. They say rape changes you. Has it turned me into something I hate?

 

I feel my brother Lucas’s hand stiffen around mine. He wants to say something. Knowing him he wants to say everything, and probably follow it up with a punch or two. I grip his hand tighter. God knows I don’t need him in prison. I need him here, beside me, making sure that I don’t faceplant onto the stone steps.

 

Tyrone pushes ahead of us, his dark, clean-shaven head at least three inches above most of the crowd. He wasn’t supposed to be my QC. My first barrister was to be Erik Edelman, old and white, but when Darik’s lawyers came up with the racism line the QC decided to give me a more ethnically diverse attorney. I hate the cynicism of the move, but Tyrone’s frighteningly competent. His soft voice is calm and soothing, even when he’s grilling me like they say Darik’s counsel will. I shudder. I’ve been spending the last months dreading it almost as much as I’m dreading Darik’s face looking back at me. I’ve tried to avoid imagining the expression he’ll use, but my thoughts race there anyway. Will he be calm and reserved, like he is before a penalty kick? Or furious and raging like he is when he misses? Or, worse, will he smile that horrible little smile he gave me as he stood over me. Tyrone says he won’t be able to speak to me, but what if he does? What if he…?

 

Suddenly I feel sick. I sway. It feels like only the press of the crowd is keeping me upright. Tyrone looks back, and is instantly beside me.

 

“You’ll be alright,” he whispers, giving me a small smile. His hand grips my other arm, making me flinch. Six months and I still don’t like to be touched. He lets go immediately. “You’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than you know.”

 

I don’t feel strong. I feel weak, so weak, just like I did on that horrible day. I feel as weak as I did in the days afterwards, sitting through police interviews and line-ups. As weak as I did telling Dad, and then, after he’d forgotten, telling him again. Eventually we gave up trying.

 

“It’ll only hurt him,” Lucas said.

 

I know that’s true but there’s still a part of me that wants him to know. Dads are supposed to be there to protect their daughters, or, failing that, they’re supposed to comfort them. There’s nothing he could have done, even before the dementia, but the idea of another person on my side would really help. I grip Lucas’s hand all the tighter.

 

Inside the building things are better. Most of the media are held outside by the uniformed security guards, their eyes fixed into the blank stares of men who’ve seen it all before. They probably have. How depressing is that?

 

The courtroom itself is packed, but at least it’s clear of cameras. I feel their absence and so can the remaining press, packed like sardines into the public benches. You can almost feel them longing for their lenses. A picture’s worth a thousand words, and there’ve been so many words written about this, so many opinions. I’m a liar. I’m a victim. I’m brave. I’m making all of this up for attention. The truth is a rare and many-splendored thing, but falsehoods are cheap and easier to deal with. Only two people know what happened that night, and one of us is lying. Who should the world believe? The talented, good-looking prince of football or a little girl who drank too much and trusted the wrong person?

 

Cameras or not, I can feel every eye on me. The whispers match the ones in my head. The ones that make me wonder if I didn’t just imagine all of this. That I wasn’t just a stupid drunk girl. That maybe I deserved it.

 

“Stop that, sis.” Lucas is a wall beside me. “Don’t get caught up in your head. Don’t worry about what they’re saying. People are idiots. Thinking Darik’s a champion because he can score a few goals. We know the truth. And you’re going to tell them…. If you want to that is.”

 

He looks at me. The same look he gave me when we were little and I’d fallen off my bike. The same look he gives me when he wonders if he’s being too overbearing, too big brother.

 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says. “They have the DNA. They have the witnesses. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

 

But I do. I was the only one in that room. I was the only one dumb enough to think ‘no, I’m too drunk,’ meant ‘no, I’m too drunk.’ I was too drunk. Too drunk to be alone with a famous footballer. Too drunk and too dumb.

 

“You have to go,” Tyrone says, with two uniformed stewards beside him. The shorter one’s a woman, about forty, and she’s the only person I’ve met today who’s smiled at me. She gives me the careful, cautious smile of someone wondering if they’re doing the right thing.

 

“This is Nancy,” Tyrone says. “She and Liam will take you to where you need to go.”

 

“You’re not coming?”

 

“No. We talked about this. Lucas and I will be sitting here. They’ll bring you into the witness stand and then you’ll have to swear to tell the truth, just like we practised.”

 

We did talk about it. I remember the conversation. It had been repeated again and again. Where to go. What to do. What to expect. But I didn’t expect this. Not like this. I don’t know what I was expecting. Not all these people. Not all these distractions. Not the weight of every eye resting on my shoulders.

 

Lucas squeezes my hand. “I’m serious, sis. If you think you can’t do this…”

 

He is serious. My big, bullish brother, who’s taken all kinds of crap at work because of me. He’d take me home right now if I wanted it. Do I want it? I look back at the crowd. There’s a girl wearing an Aston Villa jersey. If looks could kill they’d be doing my autopsy.

Six months ago I was her. A superfan keen to meet her hero. Keen to have a drink with him. Keen to flirt.

Now? I have no heroes left. No one to look up to. Only people to disappoint, and I’ve disappointed everyone.

 

“You’re doing it again, A. I can see in your head,” Lucas says. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is. You’ve done nothing wrong. Testify, or don’t testify, the only bad guy in this is the wanker with the thousand pound watch and dipshit haircut.”

 

Nancy’s grin spreads out into something broader. My brother, ladies and gentlemen, able to cheer anyone up. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I still have a hero. Someone I haven’t yet disappointed.

 

I swallow down the balloons bursting in my chest, and nod. Lucas squeezes my hand one more time.

 

“You’ll be great,” he whispers. “We’ll get this over with and then I’ll take us both out for ice cream. I’ll even let you pick the toppings.”

 

He grins so sincerely I feel my lip twitch in response.

 

“I’ll see you soon.” Tyrone looks up at from his papers, but I don’t know if he even sees me. He has the look of someone focused on their own thoughts. “I wouldn’t put you up there if I didn’t think you could do this.” Perhaps he thinks that’s comforting, because he nods like the whole thing is settled.

 

Nancy and Liam lead me off towards the right-hand side of the courtroom, to a door beside the jury bench. They’re currently empty. According to Tyrone the jury arrive moments after the judge. It saves them from being unduly influenced or something. I stare at the twelve chairs right up until the door closes. Twelve strangers are going to ordain the rest of my life. Will I be the justified victim or the tale-telling racist? A dozen minds decide.

 

“Cup of tea?” Nancy asks, leading me to a grey-walled room just big enough for a pair of chairs, a coffee table and a mini fridge in the corner.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

She hands me a tray of biscuits. Liam puts the kettle on. He’s about twenty-five, blonde-haired and broad, and there’s a wariness to his face that makes him hard to like. It feels like there’s something he wants to say to me.

 

“Milk? Sugar?” Nancy asks

 

“Both.”

 

Nancy pulls the milk from the fridge and hands it to Liam. “Will you be able to handle things from here?”

 

Liam nods. “I’ll call you if I need help. Go take care of the jury.”

 

Nancy goes and we’re left in silence save for the jostling pre-tea noises, the kettle boiling, the milk pouring. The sense that Liam wants to talk grows with every moment, but he says nothing. Just watches the kettle boil with the same twitching hesitance Dad uses when he’s about to blow his lid. It makes me so nervous I almost choke on the first gulp. I start coughing. Liam makes no comment. He just sits and stares at me, his green eyes unblinking. Eventually it’s too much.

 

“What?” I ask, staring right back at him. “Have I got something on my face?”

 

“Figures you’d worry about something like that,” he snaps.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like what you look like. It’s probably real important to you and all.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Oh, I think you understand just fine!”

 

“I really don’t. Have I done something to offend you?”

 

“Me? No. Just the whole bloody country!”

 

“What?”

 

“Does it make you feel good? Dissing a man like that? Does it make you feel important taking down a champion?”

 

Darik. He’s talking about Darik. Why does my whole life suddenly revolve around him?

 

But Liam isn’t finished yet. “Women like you… You think you can…”

 

“That’s enough.” You could cut steel with that voice. In the doorway Nancy looks like a roaring lion, her teeth bared and her orange hair springing out like a mane. Even Liam seems to sense his mistake. He pales.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I was just saying…”

 

“I know what you were just saying!” Nancy snaps. “We are not here to judge our guests. We are here to be impartial. Miss Jones is a witness. Our job is to make sure she can give testimony, not berate her for doing so!”

“But…”

 

“There are no buts! I have to take Miss Jones to the stand. When I get back we’ll be going to talk to HR. If you can’t be professional, you’ll have to find another line of work.”

 

Liam stiffens. “So this little tramp’s going to put two good men out of work?”

 

“If you think that then we have very different definitions of good men. Miss Jones, if you’ll come with me please.”

 

I put my tea down, and feel Liam’s eyes like knives in my back. My hands are shaking. This isn’t as bad as that day, but right now I don’t have the blur of alcohol dulling things down. Now I’m fully awake, and fully aware that someone hates me. More than one person. The whole country. My head spins. Maybe I can’t do this.

 

“I’m so sorry, Miss Jones,” says Nancy. “Liam should never have said that. Hell, he should never have thought it! He’ll be out on his ear in no time. You have my word.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say. It’s not. The carpet here is black and worn. It won’t make much of a stain if I throw up.

 

“Are you all right?” Nancy says, reaching out to support me. “You’ve gone very pale…”

 

“I’m…” The word ‘fine’ sticks in my throat.

 

“Here,” Nancy says, guiding me into a chair. “Do you want me to go fetch your QC? Your brother?”

 

But that would leave me alone here, with Liam just a few metres away. I lurch towards the courtroom.

 

“Miss Jones. Miss Jones.” Nancy grasps my arm again. I flinch away.

 

“Sorry,” she says, moving around to get in front of me. “Please, lass, slow down. Stop. I know Liam was an arse, but I really don’t think you should go into court in this state. You look like you’re about to faint.”

 

Do I look like that? I feel like I’ve fainted already. I feel like the last six months have been a terrible dream and I want to wake up so badly I can barely breathe. I let her lower me into yet another chair.

 

The chair feels good under me. Solid. Dependable. Two things long absent.

 

“Is that better?” Nancy says, a mother in her voice. She’s a mum, suddenly I know it. I can feel the tears on my cheeks. Forget Dad. I want Mum. Her arms around me. Her scent in my nostrils, not the last, bitter sharpness of over-scrubbed hospital corridors and stinking chemo, but the real smell, hers and hers alone. Face cream and perfume; the feeling of love and happiness.

 

“Oh dear, it’s alright, hon,” Nancy croons.

 

But it’s not alright. It hasn’t been since that night. Not since Darik ruined so many things. I hate feeling like this. I hate being the victim. I hate not being the person I was before. Not being calm, not being confident. I can’t even watch football without feeling sick to my stomach.

 

“If you let me go, I’ll explain things to the judge,” Nancy says. “We’ll be able to do things on a different day. Perhaps you won’t even have to come to court. Perhaps you can testify via video.”

 

Video testimony. Tyrone suggested it as an option, but apparently it makes it less likely a jury will convict, and I want to see Darik convicted so badly. I want him punished for what he did to me. I want to expose him for what he really is.

 

The door ahead of us opens. The girl in the Villa jersey is still out there, still thinking of Darik as a hero.

 

A man steps through the door, dressed like Nancy, but as tall and slim as she is short and round. He looks angry for a moment, then concern crosses his face.

 

“A rough one, eh?” he says, in a Yorkshire accent.

 

“This one isn’t her fault,” Nancy says. “That little worm, Liam, dug into her. I won’t repeat what the bastard said. I told you I didn’t like him.”

 

“You’re telling HR?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

 

“Trust me, Paul, he deserves it. Be a dear and tell the judge there’s been a delay. Miss Jones may be too distraught to testify.”

 

The man pushes open the door again, and the girl with the lion on her chest looks back at me. For a second our eyes lock, tears in mine, naked hatred in hers. She looks so sure. So certain. So much the person that I used to be. A bad man, a stupid decision and suddenly I can barely function. What would have happened if Darik had met her that night? Would it be her here instead of me?

 

What if he meets her tonight? He’s out on bail. He could go anywhere. What if she has a drink with him? What if tomorrow it’s her weeping and sobbing?

 

The door opens again, and this time Tyrone’s on the other side of it.

 

“What the hell did you do to my witness?” He snaps. I can see Lucas jumping up and down in the seats behind him. Perhaps non-lawyers aren’t allowed to cross the barricade.

 

“Not me,” Nancy says. “A prissy nobody who’ll be out of a job in minutes.” She sounds angrier than anyone I’ve ever heard.

 

“Who did it is hardly the point,” Tyrone says. “If you’ve interfered with my witness, that’s grounds for mistrial.”

 

“Indeed,” says the judge, still in his wig. Tyrone at least had the sense to take his off. White hair and curls aren’t a good look for everyone.

“A mistrial would be putting undue strain on my client,” a tall woman argues. She too is in a wig, but unlike the judge she pulls it off. She looks like she could pull off a dress made of garbage bags.

 

“Your client, the rapist,” Tyrone sneers. He kneels down beside me, and visibly restrains himself from reaching out for my arm.

 

“Alleged rapist.”

 

“This is hardly the time for that,” the judge snaps. He slides with some difficulty into the chair beside me. He reaches out. I flinch away. Too many men are too close to me. I feel sick. I look up again, and catch a glimpse of Villa Girl, now straining to see what’s happening.

 

The judge continues, “What matters now is that Miss Jones is properly cared for. We can look at alternatives. Video perhaps. Or a closed court.”

 

Suddenly it hits me that Darik must be in that room. I’ve spent the last six months trying to forget his face. Trying to pretend that this day would never come, and yet now he’s just a few metres away. My rapist. The man who broke me. The man who smirked as he did it. The man who will be out and about tonight. Ahead of me Villa Girl turns and whispers to her friend.

 

“I’ll do it,” I say. No one is more surprised than me. “I’ll testify. I’ll do it now.”

 

“Now?” Tyrone says. “Anna if one of the stewarts abused you-”

 

“That doesn’t matter,” I say, and for once it’s the truth. It doesn’t matter that Liam was a dick, or that half the country hates me. What matters is that Darik is punished, that he never does this to anyone else.

 

“If the witness has been compromised, we should consider a mistrial,” says the defence counsel. “It might colour the jury’s opinion.”

 

“While causing undue stress to your client, of course,” Tyrone says.

 

“Your Honour…”

 

“You can’t have it both ways, counsellor,” the judge says. I turn to find him peering at me. “If Miss Jones really thinks she can do this, then I see no reason to prevent her. I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, a brief adjournment, then Mr Laurence can call his witness.”

 

I turn back around to see Tyrone nod. Everyone else moves to leave, but he stays on his knees.

“Are you really sure about this, Anna?” He whispers. “We can delay things. A video would be an understandable option.”

 

“I’m sure,” I say, standing. My hands don’t shake as I reach down to help him up.

A tragedy in two parts

It’s raining when they bury her. Big, cold drops slide down Jim’s back and make him feel, just briefly, like someone’s watching.

No one’s watching. Mags wanted a private funeral, just him and the kids. They’re all too wrapped up in their grief to pay attention. Some families huddle together in hard times, but the Aarons are a cemetery – stone blocks etched with memories and decaying things underneath. Now the single peacemaker is gone, the single starlight extinguished.

Jim’s hands shake. No more soft words saying ‘he meant this,’ or ‘she didn’t mean that.’ Now people will have to say what they mean, and he’s never been good at that. He could never find the right words. Words were Mags’s thing, like cooking and dancing and singing along to the radio.

He’s throwing the radio out the minute he gets home. Doesn’t want to hear her songs without her singing them; her soft voice rich and earthy, wobbling over the high notes. She always scolded herself over her warbling, scolded him for telling her she sounded fine. She did sound fine. He’s not sure there’s a life after this one, but if he gets the choice he’ll spend forever in their kitchen, reading the paper and listening to her sing as she bakes cupcakes.

He makes up his mind on the way to the car. No need to bother the kids. They’re grown now. They have their lives. He doesn’t want to be a burden.

The wake is a misery. People coming up; saying they’re sorry. What does that even mean? If Mags were here she’d tell him he was turning into a crotchety old man. He tries to picture her scolding him, but her voice comes out distorted, scratchy, like they haven’t tuned into the right channel.

He slips away after the last guests leave. Malcolm and Henry are too drunk to notice, and Joyce is running around after her kids. They don’t need him, not some ornery old man who always says the wrong thing. They need their mother. He needs their mother, so bad he can barely breathe.

He pauses as he puts the key in the ignition. Listens to Joyce hollering, to the TV on, to the rain thrumming on the windshield. For a moment he doubts. But he can see the long years stretching out before him, years of empty beds and silent kitchens. He can’t bear it.

There’s a big oak down on Fuller Street. They used to walk past it on warm days when the kids were young. Once they paused under it, stopping to buy ice-cream from Mr Whippy.

He looks back briefly as he leaves the driveway. Fifty years it’s been their home. He remembers her smile when they bought it. Her hand in his. He reaches out for her, just like he has a thousand times, but finds only empty air.

The oak on Fuller Street. As good a place as any.

Eternal Step

Genuine question: What do we like about rogue-like games? That ever-popular sub-genre of procedurally generated dungeon crawlers, where every play through is different and every death means another trek back down to the ignominy of the first level.

Is it the joy of every small victory? Of passing your previous corpse and feeling the warm warmth of success pass through you? Or is it the numbing comfort of doing the same thing over and over again, albeit in slightly different iterations, so that we get lost in the action and reaction and pass into a happy daze of oblivion?

Whatever your pleasure, you will find it with Eternal Step – as rogue-like a game as it is possible to be. Dungeons, enemies, loot – all can be found in the corridors of this challenging but still entertaining game, which will draw you back for just one more try, because you almost had it and, next time, you definitely will.

Following the adventures of a nameless blonde youth on his trek up a mysterious tower, fighting slimes, skeletons and even jack-o-lanterns with nothing more than your weapons and your wits, it’s the subtleties that will draw you in. A mighty hammer is powerful, but slow and ponderous; a thief’s rags might keep you safe from traps but is it worth the paltry protection? Take your time. Plan your strategy. Assemble the best equipment you can only to have all of it striped away by a death that could so easily have been avoided.

It’s all very absorbing. Fight enemies. Pick up the cards that are the games way of delivering loot. Assess your equipment before escaping to the next dungeon to start all over again. With currently a hundred levels between you and the final boss, it would be a long game even without the constant spectre of death hanging over you, but the difficulty is unforgiving. After hours of absorbing entertainment the best I’ve gotten to is level thirty and that was a streak of luck worthy of a lottery-winning leprechaun. Don’t worry. I’ll be diving back in again.

Having said that, the game is not without problems. Little things mostly, that nonetheless irked. For all its good qualities, the game can be a little obtuse and counter-intuitive. A lot of the upgrades were left unexplained, leaving me to guess at what things were meant to do. The inventory is difficult to use, and you can’t swap out weapons mid dungeon unless you get a new one, meaning that my big hammer, handy for dispatching foes at a distance stayed resolutely out of my reach when I needed it. Most irritatingly there’s no way of knowing how many potions you have stored, so you can end up in the middle of a battle completely unaware that the press on the R button will not give you the support you need.

But the frustrations, such as they are, are minor things, easily overlooked in the fun of the challenge. A solid game that reminds us of the appeal of a classic genre, Eternal Step is well worth the price of admission. 8/10

Assassin’s Creed Chronicles: China

Let’s face it, Assassin’s Creed hasn’t had the best year. After the highly entertaining Black Flag breathed new life into a fast stagnating series, Unity was to be a new game on a new console generation. An ambitious and experimental vision that crashed like its terrible servers, and chugged like your Mum at a whisky-drinking competition, it was a game snared with the pride of Icarus – flying high with good ideas, only to be brought down by hubris and poor design choices. AC Rogue, the series’ rarely-mentioned last-gen offering was technically competent, but suffered from a fatal allergy to original thought – garnering solid ‘mehs’ from gamers everywhere.

All in all, not a year to be proud of for Ubisoft’s flagship franchise, but will the arrival of Assassin’s Creed Chronicles – a three-part series of 2.5D platformers – make up for their parent games’ flaws? The short answer: No, nothing will repay us for the mess of AC’s recent failures, but that doesn’t mean that Chronicles isn’t worth you time, especially if – like me – you foolishly purchased the season pass for Unity and they come bundled for free.

Set in China in 1526, and following the adventures of Shao Jun, concubine turned assassin, it is, without a doubt, the art style that sets this tale apart from other Creed games. Painted in the style of Chinese watercolours, the scenery is genuinely beautiful and beautifully compelling. It feels like playing through a piece of art, summoning the time and place far more completely than Assassin’s Creed’s more usual method of hitting you over the head with a history textbook. But atmosphere isn’t everything, and, much like Rogue and Unity before it, it’s in the story and gameplay that the wheels start to come off.

Shao Jun is seeking revenge for her slaughtered brethren, a plotline not on the shortlist for the ‘most original motivation’ Oscar, but with the right characters, the right villains, and the right narrative even the most boring tale can be made new again. Unfortunately AC Chronicles: China eschews all of these and instead produces one of blandest protagonists of the series (yes, including Desmond Miles), who has pages of motivations (see the wiki, seriously), but comes off as blank and shallow. The villains – an interchangeable conga line of Templers referred to as ‘The Tigers’ – don’t do much better, and after hours of playing I could not, at gunpoint, remember any of their names. The plot is kill go here and kill this guy. Now kill this guy. Now run away from this thing – not forgetting to collect these random objectives we’ve set up, ostensibly to encourage you to explore. Sure. It’s a platformer. Sure. It’s short. But even with minimal dialogue Abe, Sonic and Mario all manage to have more personality than this.

The gameplay is functional (not a given from Ubisoft over the last year), and occasionally fun, as you climb, hide, and assassinate guards, using and a number of tricks and gadgets to make your way as stealthily as possible towards your targets. Careful planning, good timing and some tactical thinking will get you through most situations, although the old AC fall back of fighting your way out when you get spotted is a no-no, as fighting is hard and finicky. In fact ‘finicky’ is a good word for most of the gameplay as it’s easy to jump the wrong way, or stumble into the vision cone of an enemy and have to start again from scratch. Detection is particularly annoying as you get rated for your performance of each level – a feature that has enhanced no game ever – and your ratings affect what upgrades you receive. To the game’s credit, the levels are sprawling, many-pathed things, but the frustrations of being detected meant I had little motivation to explore.

All in all, AC Chronicles: China is another example of good ideas and beautiful scenery squandered, and while being nowhere near as disappointing as Unity, the sense that it could be so much better lingers over the whole experience. I leave it neither anxious for the next instalment to arrive, nor disgusted at the waste of my time, and give it the most unhelpful of ratings – a seven.

7/10

Gratuitous Space Battles 2

Gratuitous (adjective): Done without reason, uncalled for

It’s an important definition, and a very telling name, because the space battles in GSB2 are a little bit pointless – sparkly and pretty to look at, but ultimately redundant.

This isn’t a game where split-second decisions decide the fate of galaxies, or a single well-placed shot takes down a Death Star. Your position in battles is purely observational, as you watch your carefully assembled fleet triumph or be annihilated – but it’s in that careful assembly that the fun’s to be found.

Four races, five ship types and hundreds of possible modifications – this game that delights in the minutia, as you must design your ships, your fleet, and your stratagems to achieve victory.

The experience begins with the ship builder, where dozens of different hulls offer a plethora of choices. How many weapons will each hold? How much power and manpower will it take to run them? Do I have enough space? Should I choose rockets over lasers? Nukes might do more damage, but can I really afford to sacrifice my shields? These are the questions that will haunt you, as you try to piece together the most effective combination.

With literally thousands of modifications, both operational and aesthetic, it’s the sheer depth of content available that’s perhaps the most impressive, and the most daunting. It feels stupid to be criticising a game for having too much stuff, but to a newcomer this variety can be overwhelming, and if you’re not the kind of person who delights in the little things, all of this choice might scare you.

But the decisions don’t stop with the designing the ships, next you need to put them together. Designing your fleet is another exercise in micromanagement. How many Dreadnaughts should I use? How will I defend them? Do I have carrier space for my Fighters? What strategy should I assign my Destroyers? It’s an intricate process, and requires wells of patience and a keen mind for strategy.

The battles themselves are gratuitous indeed, with your inability to influence tactics while watching your stratagems succeed or fail turning them into nothing more than watching numbers click down – pretty numbers, I’ll grant you. If you’re keen to learn from your mistakes, it’s the after battle report that you’ll want, showing effective weapons, ship types and other pertinent data.

After the battle, it’s the research budget you’ll be interested in. Smaller fleets, cheaper ships or more honourable victories with grant you more research funds – deciding whether to bulk up your armaments or try to skate through by inches is just another example of the pro-and-con analysis that makes up most of the game’s challenge.

Research unlocks new ship designs, new upgrades, even new species to play as, adding more choice to a game already bulging with content. With more equipment available, you can choose to improve your ships – a necessary step as the fleets you will face become more and more expansive, and the strategy required to beat them more nuanced.

So that’s the game play – plan, upgrade, assemble, watch what is essentially a cutscene, research and plan again – it’s a repetitive system, and your enjoyment of which will probably depend on your personality. If you love strategy, and have patience enough to micromanage all the features, than this game will happily absorb hours of your time and days of your attention. So yes, I can imagine people who would love this game. I am not one of them.

Don’t get me wrong – I did have fun with it. Upgrading, assembling, and strategising do all have a certain charm, but I lacked the interest and discipline to really get sucked in. My experience was not helped by a few glaring bugs, which at one point hindered me from saving new ships, and at another filled my modified vessels with bloom. I don’t know how common these issues will be (at time of writing the game had only been out for a few days). A couple of the design decisions were also detracted from the experience – losing battles seems to have no negative consequences, and the visual customisation suite (which is massive) is finicky to use. In fact ‘finicky’ is a good word to use for this game – too many details and not enough motivation to go through them.

7

My other blog

So, outside the comforting world of pixels and button pushes, I actually have another life. And in that life I’ve had an education. Sadly that education has not (for a variety of reasons) provided a job, and, equally sadly, I’ve started to forget the education.

For this reason I’ve started another blog – one not quite as trivial as this one – which will cover topics of science and epidemiology. I have boldly decided to call it http://www.depressivesguidetoepidemiology.wordpress.com

You are welcome to read it

Things I’ve learned from Video Games

The human brain is a wonderful thing. It’s a processor more intuitive than any operating system, more complex than any microchip, and more handy than any must-have gadget, but in the end, it’s only as good as the data it contains. Information can come from anywhere – books, conversations, and yes, even video games, filling our minds with specks of knowledge even as we twiddle away the hours. The trick is to distinguish hard fact from digital fiction – here are four things I learned from video games, and four things they lied about.

Metro 2033:

What I learned: You can burn away spider webs.

You might think this is a minor thing to cling on to, but I live in Australia, where we must give daily tribute to our spider overlords so they won’t crawl into our socks and eat us while we sleep. Sometimes I walk through six webs going to the clothesline, only to find they’ve reassembled themselves before my trip back. Sometimes they run across the inside of your windshield and all you can do is pray that they won’t drop on you until you get to a traffic light. Sometimes the only way I can get to sleep is to imagine all of those webs burning, and the little bastards weeping as they watch their homes go up in smoke.

While it’s technically true that spider silk doesn’t catch fire (although dust and particulates caught in it might ignite), the intense heat does cause the webs to contract – clearing a path in both Metro, and several other games (a Zelda one from memory), a satisfying result for someone who gets chills every Golden Orb season. While Australia’s climate doesn’t really allow wholesale burning as a method of pest control, using fire to exterminate them in games is both satisfying and scientifically accurate.

What’s Bullshit: Gas masks

I suppose I could start with monsters, mutants and aliens, but that’s part of the story and therefore excusable. What’s less accurate is the whole ‘I’m wearing a gas mask, so I’m safe from radiation’ logic. Radiation isn’t stopped by a gasmask (although wearing one may stop you from ingesting radioactive dust) – it, well, radiates out from contaminated materials, mutating cells, and not in the Stan Lee superpower kind of way. Radiation poisoning followed by aggressive cancers is the diagnosis for anyone who spends too much time wandering Moscow’s nuclear blasted streets.

Realistic Shooters (Pick One)

What I learned: Machine guns heat up.

Okay, before you have a go at me, I know that most shooters are about as close to actuality as a marshmallow pony is to a racehorse – but not everything they tell us is complete crap. Machine guns, for example, genuinely heat up with constant firing – a phenomenon that, in real life, doesn’t come with a convenient cool down bar.

The physics behind this is simple: bullets are fired when the gunpowder inside them is ignited – a process that produces heat. Repeat the process hundreds of times a minute and the heat produced becomes intense enough that it can ‘cook off’ bullets in the chamber – making them fire even if the trigger isn’t depressed. To prevent this from happening, most machine guns have cooling systems, but sometimes even more drastic measures are required – like soldiers carrying spare barrels to replace those too hot to use safely.

So yes, despite how irritating it is to have to pause in the midst of cutting down waves of enemies, this is one aspect of the games that actually mimics real life.

What’s bullshit: Silencers silence guns.

Admittedly, video games aren’t the only ones to get this wrong – TV, movies and even some books all apparently believe that sticking that thin black cylinder with instantly muffle the sound of a gunshot. The reality is far less impressive, because reality has to deal with the fact that guns, real guns, are astronomically, ear-splittingly loud.

This isn’t to say that that silencers make no difference – they certainly do, but there’s a reason that they’re officially called suppressors – because they suppress the sound, but don’t eliminate it entirely. They’ll turn an obviously gunshot into a something that might not be a gunshot, but it’ll still attract the attention of anyone standing on the other side of the room. Not that handy a trick if you’re trying to stealth-save a macguffin by silently taking out the guards.

Assassins Creed

What I learned: Pirates had a republic

Actually, the storied history of Nassau isn’t the only thing I’ve learned from a series that prides itself on historical accuracy (with the exception of the Assassin-Templar dynamic and a few cases of artistic license) – but it demonstrates a bigger point, and one that, now I come to say it, does seem kind of obvious: Historical figures were people too.

Sounds dumb, I know. But there’s a difference between knowing things and actually understanding them. Before I played the games I knew that stuff happened in the past (pictured mostly in black and white), but I didn’t really think about what that might mean. AC gave those figures faces that moved and actions that I could watch happen – as opposed to reading about in a book, or listening to a lecture. The games let me be a part of stories that have shaped our world, and made me realise the significance of them. Blackbeard waxing lyrical about the innate freedoms of man might have been a pile of hogwash, but seeing him, and watching his story unfold gave me an appreciation of history that 20 years of education had thus far failed to.

What’s Bullshit: Early guns were accurate (and waterproof)

Nothing starts out perfect. Every new idea on earth will take some time to reach a point of real efficacy, and guns are no exception.

Early guns (or muskets) needed an open flame to ignite the black powder, which had to be refilled after every shot, and fired lead balls that bounced and wobbled along smooth barrels, making accuracy a joke. That’s why early militaries were so keen on firing salvoes, because multiple muzzles were about the only way they could guarantee they could hit what they were aiming at.

Water was also a problem – it could extinguish the necessary flame meaning that every time Ezio goes for a swim, he’d have relight his weapon. Edward may have had access to flintlock pistols – which required no slow match, but still used powder that would become contaminated by water, rendering them useless. In short, there’s a reason that swords were still the go-to weapons in all these games.

Simon the Sorcerer

What I learned: Gold isn’t magnetic

I’m showing my age here, but this nineties point and click adventure was one of my first forays into gaming. After retrieving a magnet from somewhere, and gathering a rope from somewhere else (it’s been a while, okay), we were all set to retrieve gold from the hole atop a dragon’s hoard when Simon gives voice to one of my first lessons in gaming, namely that gold isn’t magnetic – a statement that doesn’t seem to hold much weight, as immediately you start pulling up riches like it’s going out of fashion.

I know it seems like a little thing to finish on, one very puny fact in an old and often-overlooked game, but in some ways this is the most important example on this list, because, for me, it’s the one that started it all. After I heard Simon’s pronouncement, I went and looked up this obscure reference (in an actual encyclopaedia, the internet not being a thing in our house at that point), and found that yes: gold really isn’t magnetic.

What’s Bullshit: Miniaturisation

I’ll admit, as a fantasy game, there isn’t a whole lot of realism to be found. Druids can’t turn into frogs, sausages isn’t a magic word, and using a watermelon to sabotage a sousaphone is unlikely to end well (why yes, I am waiting for the remaster), but one thing that’s definitely impossible is shrinking down in size.

Despite Ant-man, Honey I Shrunk the Kids and any one of a dozen or so series dealing with miniaturisation, there are some massive problems with suddenly being small – the easiest to explain being your sudden inability to breathe.

Without going into too much detail (and I could, this is my wheelhouse), the circulatory system depends on haemoglobin molecules in the blood combining with oxygen molecules. If you (and your haemoglobin) were to shrink, but the oxygen around you remained the same size, it would no longer be able to bind to your haemoglobin and pretty soon you’d be suffocating.

But the whys and wherefores of miniaturisation aren’t really the point. I had to study for years to learn why shrinking is impossible, but to learn that gold isn’t magnetic it only took a game that didn’t take itself to seriously.

Every time I learn something from video games, I think back to Simon the Sorcerer, because for the first time games had taught me something I wouldn’t have otherwise gotten to know, opening a door to greater knowledge, and that is what learning is all about – opening doors and showing us things we’ve never seen before.