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tugrikI'm not much of a videogame player, overall. I'll sample lots of things, and enjoy them quite a bit -- but rarely tend to stick with any long enough to earn the title of 'avid gamer'. I enjoy new technology demos, and any real excuse to log in with other roomies/players and bash heads a while, and laugh about it later. I really can't get into the "wow, 200+ hours of gameplay!" it's-really-the-final-one-now Fantasy type titles. The closest I came was Ico, which caught me with its beauty and utter appreciation of quiet places. The 'six hours to win it' helped, too.
There's one defining factor of what keeps me returning to the one game I really do play too much.
Teamwork.
-----------------
The air is heavy; that's the only way I can describe it. Saying it's foggy or misty just doesn't cut it; there's a weight to the atmosphere around where I stand. Behind the lip of a hill, I'm within earshot of the enemy's base. It's only by the grace of human inattention that I can be this close -- they've forgotten to patrol the backside of this ridge. They call this place Quagmire, and for good reason. Even though I'm within a rock's throw of heavily suited defenders clustered around a swampy flag-base... all I can see of them is the occasional friend-or-foe tag in my HUD, when one of our engineer's sensors sweeps past.
Off in the distance I can hear the thump of mortars landing, shockwaves muted by the thick air. Our heavy offense is doing it's job, keeping the enemy's attention swayed towards the action. Their attacks are futile at best; the building holds well, the engineers inside keeping repairs, and heavily shielded defenders peeking out of windows to return fire. The truth of their mission is only one of distraction -- every heavy whomf pulls a few percent more of the flag defender's attentions away.
A tap of the comlink, while I hide in the bush. Target the enemy flag... I'm in position winks in the face-screens of the heavies raining explosive on the distant base. 30 seconds to run follows a moment later. Command Acknowledged resonates a deep voice in my left ear... and it's only a moment later that the awful whistling sound is heard, and my world lights up.
----
Back 'home', our flag hangs damply in the humid air, surrounded by metalclad soldiers, all watching into the mists. Many are new; many are nervous. Unwilling to venture the few miles of swamp only to be in the grips of the enemy, they're happy for the feeling of safety-in-numbers. A few creature comforts of a mobile inventory station or two are surrounded by various motion sensors and cameras... an attempt to keep the silent death of cloaked scouts away. All the sensors in the world aren't as good as simply having more pairs of eyes, so between quick conversations, they all watch outwards, each scanning their own piece of the horizon.
A red triangle pops up; someone unwise enough to stray within the range of a pulse sensor. Incoming Enemy! shouts a nervous voice, in time with the screaming rip of a chaingun fired in panic. It's but a moment later before the others see the tracers, and the distinct foomp! thunt! poom! of grenade and mortar launchers sounds out from the group, like some studdering rhytm. The thick mists hide any sight of actual explosions... but the pounding sounds of high explosives tearing pits in the hillside fill the area like a fourth-of-july celebration gone haywire.
The little red triangle winks out.
The sound of guns spinning down gives way to silence, and nervous panting inside of face-masks. A moment later; a soft chuckle... and then a hearty laugh. The tromping of heavy armor walking back into patrol positions is accompanied by a quiet banter, a thanks and good spotting! between fellow soldiers. It's like a relief of pressure. They know it's far from over, but the feeling of being supported by your fellow warriors is a good one.
Back on my hillside, the scroll of my remote comms unit blinks a line past. Our flag is secure.
-----
The mortar-rain continues. The sounds are deafening; either I'm too close, or some of our heavy offense is having targetting difficulties. No place to back off to unless I want to miss this opportunity... so I just hunker down, and hope friendly fire remains true to its name. Watching the timer, the countdown ticks below ten... then five. I'm already out of my hole and on a leap over the ridge when the call comes out... Cease Fire!
Midair I cut my jetpack... and turn on the sensor jammer. The comforting feel of lift gets replaced with a stomach-churning weightlessness, accompanied by the loud buzzing of the ECM generator strapped to my shoulders. I can't count on the distant mortar rain to clear out all the hidden sensors, and if just one sees me... there's a 20MW plasma turret with my name written all over it a mere 50m away. I land hard, letting my light armor soak up some of the punishment, and hit the ground running. disrupt the enemy defense! is my last shout out before my comms completely die under the jammer's inflence. I'm now a blank, unidentifyable by either side save for the logo on my shoulder. Vulnerable. Motion is my friend.
I'm already running between enemies. The fact there's no red triangle seems to grant me passage... that and the fact that there's a hell of a chaingun war going on immediately to my left... a trio of medium-armored soldiers storming the little tower that holds their generator. I'm counting on that distraction to help them ignore me running through; maybe the'll think the lack of triangle is a system glitch, and in all this fog that *might* be their team's uniform they see. Most of the defenders I pass are already on their way towards the gens. A sharp left, and I'm in the small shelter housing the flag.
A snap turn; become one with the wall. Watch. Listen.... nobody followed. No sign of sensors; a lot of black scarring suggesting one of the mortars from a few minutes ago landed here, and cleared out any hardware present. Turning off the jammer for a few long, tense seconds... the energy of my suit rebuilding... if anybody poked their head in here now, I'm *dead*. I wait as long as I dare... 5 seconds... seven... and then run forwards, at the flag. Reaching out...
BOOM. The feeling of one's head hitting the roof really sucks, even when properly armored. I'm lucky that the mine I didn't see was a bit off to my left... instead of being torn to bits, I got flung up and out, and have ended up on my backside 10m from the now-empty flagbase... the dirty rag of the enemy in my hand, a scrape on the roof showing where I hit on my inadvertant flight. The armor is moving wrong; I can tell it's very damaged. I'm probably not doing much better, but it's amazing what adrenaline will do. That explosion was heard; I don't have to verify it, I just know. I'm already on my feet, jammer running, out the door. The first mortar hits the wall in front of me... and I make a big karmic-bank withdrawl as it bounces off with a metallic klank!, and into the pocket of a base I just left. The defender was too close; it'd not yet armed. I'm five paces ducked around the blastwall of the flagbase when it goes off, and it still hurts.
I'm already hearing Cover our flag carrier! on the commlink before I can even shout for help. I can see a group of three green triangles in the mist 300m ahead of me, and I run for it. The world's lit up behind me, a cacaphony of tracerounds and smoking grenades in flight, but it's an empty fog they shoot into; my pack giving them no HUD-marker to aim at.
My earlier luck fades out on me... as the jammer disengages. I didn't recharge long enough.
The sound of a turret warming up is one that only a field engineer can truely appreciate. For the ones of us challenging their defenses, it's all about fear. Stealth is sacrified for speed; the rapid power-up and lockon making a servo whine unmistakable even in the depths of a heavy firefight. Some say the designers of these little hellpots spent months perfecting the sound to induce the most terror. If you can make your target flinch, they just may fail their 'dodge' roll something fierce.
That whine comes from four areas at the same time. damn.
-------
He's got it! Quick, get those shells in there! The field engineer whips out a laser pistol, and a harmless green beam shines through the fog, barely reaching its target; the now empty flag stand. Inside the visor of the heavy armors, the two warrirors see a set of dots... and a predictive circle above, showing the arc. Lift... aim... whumf! Mortars away... heading down the sighted line. The icon representing the enemy flag, now in their own team's posession, barely makes it forwards of the target zone before the sounds of impact are heard. The green targetting laser shuts off, and the engineer runs forwards, almost in a panic. Damn... those turrets are still online... he's going straight into them! is shouted back. Faster than his heavy companions, he runs straight for the turret array.
-------
There's not much I can do. I'm still on foot; the suit's energy only slowly returning, and I need to save the boost for clearning the first arm of the swamp some 200 m ahead still... that is, if I'm alive. The chilling whine of turret-servos gives way to the inevitable crackling fhzzOT of plasma... and I jump right, hoping to fool the predictive aiming. To my surprise... no shots come.
Where there were three green triangles pointing me home... there are now two. The third flickers high and to my left... and I can see the searing turret-bolts following skywards, desperately trying to catch my teammate, who's now turret-bait. Some sub-task in the back of my mind registers damn, he's good... I can hear the studders of the turret motors as I rush by, making constant minor corrections. It's amazing how hard it is to predict the flight path of someone skilled at making tiny boost-corrections through the whole of a jump-arc.
A moment later, past the killzone, those two triangles have turned into name-icons floating over 600+lb bipedal armors that materialize out of the thick mist with my approach. They're still firing as I pass. One takes time to salute with her free hand, the other bucking backwards with the next mortar's launch. We will cover you. Her voice is as soothing as it is professional.
------
I don't spare a single cell of my energy reserves as I boost over the swamp's edge. The farther I can get, the better. I land midfield, on the far side of a slight rise, the last of the jetpack's force puffing out, making for more of a downhill skipping than anything resemling a landing. It's easy to roll with the speed when you're in powered armor; a few light jumps turn into a high-speed controlled fall, down the slope, into the next plain. By the time I'm at a normal run, I'm greeted by three more green triangles. Our snipers had left their posts, and joined in the chase. It's good to have your flanks covered by someone who can move as fast, or faster than you. The energy packs they wear have been rerouted, no longer powering their long range pulse-rifles, giving their jetpacks the extra oomph mine don't have. For a change I don't mind how much of hot-shots the sniper corps usually are, as one gingerly flies backwards aside me, covering my rear.
The curve of beacons marking our flag is like a banner over the city gates welcoming home a hero and his escorts. The waves and salutes of flag-defenders is just plain fun; a few of them dancing a silly jig in their heavy armors, much to the detriment of the turf they stand on. It's a quick moment of joy, a small party; they know it won't last, as there's a wave of red coming across midfield, in vain hopes of retrieving their dirty cloth they call a flag. Angered and led only by the desire to chase me down, they're ill prepared to work together... they'll get torn into shreds by our defenders. Jogging quickly past, I head directly for our flag to cash in my prize. I hope I can turn around in time to watch the fun of our Heavy D at work.
Sweaty, panting... hot and sticky in this suit, walking into a small shelter amid the brackish swampwater and muddy terrain... it's amazingly quiet. Two steps forwards, and a reaching out of a hand filled with wadded cloth.
Palm down; let go. The red banner drops to the floor, and the base of our flagstand flashes.
Diamond Sword Scores!
One down... five more to go.
Tribes rocks.
There's one defining factor of what keeps me returning to the one game I really do play too much.
Teamwork.
-----------------
The air is heavy; that's the only way I can describe it. Saying it's foggy or misty just doesn't cut it; there's a weight to the atmosphere around where I stand. Behind the lip of a hill, I'm within earshot of the enemy's base. It's only by the grace of human inattention that I can be this close -- they've forgotten to patrol the backside of this ridge. They call this place Quagmire, and for good reason. Even though I'm within a rock's throw of heavily suited defenders clustered around a swampy flag-base... all I can see of them is the occasional friend-or-foe tag in my HUD, when one of our engineer's sensors sweeps past.
Off in the distance I can hear the thump of mortars landing, shockwaves muted by the thick air. Our heavy offense is doing it's job, keeping the enemy's attention swayed towards the action. Their attacks are futile at best; the building holds well, the engineers inside keeping repairs, and heavily shielded defenders peeking out of windows to return fire. The truth of their mission is only one of distraction -- every heavy whomf pulls a few percent more of the flag defender's attentions away.
A tap of the comlink, while I hide in the bush. Target the enemy flag... I'm in position winks in the face-screens of the heavies raining explosive on the distant base. 30 seconds to run follows a moment later. Command Acknowledged resonates a deep voice in my left ear... and it's only a moment later that the awful whistling sound is heard, and my world lights up.
----
Back 'home', our flag hangs damply in the humid air, surrounded by metalclad soldiers, all watching into the mists. Many are new; many are nervous. Unwilling to venture the few miles of swamp only to be in the grips of the enemy, they're happy for the feeling of safety-in-numbers. A few creature comforts of a mobile inventory station or two are surrounded by various motion sensors and cameras... an attempt to keep the silent death of cloaked scouts away. All the sensors in the world aren't as good as simply having more pairs of eyes, so between quick conversations, they all watch outwards, each scanning their own piece of the horizon.
A red triangle pops up; someone unwise enough to stray within the range of a pulse sensor. Incoming Enemy! shouts a nervous voice, in time with the screaming rip of a chaingun fired in panic. It's but a moment later before the others see the tracers, and the distinct foomp! thunt! poom! of grenade and mortar launchers sounds out from the group, like some studdering rhytm. The thick mists hide any sight of actual explosions... but the pounding sounds of high explosives tearing pits in the hillside fill the area like a fourth-of-july celebration gone haywire.
The little red triangle winks out.
The sound of guns spinning down gives way to silence, and nervous panting inside of face-masks. A moment later; a soft chuckle... and then a hearty laugh. The tromping of heavy armor walking back into patrol positions is accompanied by a quiet banter, a thanks and good spotting! between fellow soldiers. It's like a relief of pressure. They know it's far from over, but the feeling of being supported by your fellow warriors is a good one.
Back on my hillside, the scroll of my remote comms unit blinks a line past. Our flag is secure.
-----
The mortar-rain continues. The sounds are deafening; either I'm too close, or some of our heavy offense is having targetting difficulties. No place to back off to unless I want to miss this opportunity... so I just hunker down, and hope friendly fire remains true to its name. Watching the timer, the countdown ticks below ten... then five. I'm already out of my hole and on a leap over the ridge when the call comes out... Cease Fire!
Midair I cut my jetpack... and turn on the sensor jammer. The comforting feel of lift gets replaced with a stomach-churning weightlessness, accompanied by the loud buzzing of the ECM generator strapped to my shoulders. I can't count on the distant mortar rain to clear out all the hidden sensors, and if just one sees me... there's a 20MW plasma turret with my name written all over it a mere 50m away. I land hard, letting my light armor soak up some of the punishment, and hit the ground running. disrupt the enemy defense! is my last shout out before my comms completely die under the jammer's inflence. I'm now a blank, unidentifyable by either side save for the logo on my shoulder. Vulnerable. Motion is my friend.
I'm already running between enemies. The fact there's no red triangle seems to grant me passage... that and the fact that there's a hell of a chaingun war going on immediately to my left... a trio of medium-armored soldiers storming the little tower that holds their generator. I'm counting on that distraction to help them ignore me running through; maybe the'll think the lack of triangle is a system glitch, and in all this fog that *might* be their team's uniform they see. Most of the defenders I pass are already on their way towards the gens. A sharp left, and I'm in the small shelter housing the flag.
A snap turn; become one with the wall. Watch. Listen.... nobody followed. No sign of sensors; a lot of black scarring suggesting one of the mortars from a few minutes ago landed here, and cleared out any hardware present. Turning off the jammer for a few long, tense seconds... the energy of my suit rebuilding... if anybody poked their head in here now, I'm *dead*. I wait as long as I dare... 5 seconds... seven... and then run forwards, at the flag. Reaching out...
BOOM. The feeling of one's head hitting the roof really sucks, even when properly armored. I'm lucky that the mine I didn't see was a bit off to my left... instead of being torn to bits, I got flung up and out, and have ended up on my backside 10m from the now-empty flagbase... the dirty rag of the enemy in my hand, a scrape on the roof showing where I hit on my inadvertant flight. The armor is moving wrong; I can tell it's very damaged. I'm probably not doing much better, but it's amazing what adrenaline will do. That explosion was heard; I don't have to verify it, I just know. I'm already on my feet, jammer running, out the door. The first mortar hits the wall in front of me... and I make a big karmic-bank withdrawl as it bounces off with a metallic klank!, and into the pocket of a base I just left. The defender was too close; it'd not yet armed. I'm five paces ducked around the blastwall of the flagbase when it goes off, and it still hurts.
I'm already hearing Cover our flag carrier! on the commlink before I can even shout for help. I can see a group of three green triangles in the mist 300m ahead of me, and I run for it. The world's lit up behind me, a cacaphony of tracerounds and smoking grenades in flight, but it's an empty fog they shoot into; my pack giving them no HUD-marker to aim at.
My earlier luck fades out on me... as the jammer disengages. I didn't recharge long enough.
The sound of a turret warming up is one that only a field engineer can truely appreciate. For the ones of us challenging their defenses, it's all about fear. Stealth is sacrified for speed; the rapid power-up and lockon making a servo whine unmistakable even in the depths of a heavy firefight. Some say the designers of these little hellpots spent months perfecting the sound to induce the most terror. If you can make your target flinch, they just may fail their 'dodge' roll something fierce.
That whine comes from four areas at the same time. damn.
-------
He's got it! Quick, get those shells in there! The field engineer whips out a laser pistol, and a harmless green beam shines through the fog, barely reaching its target; the now empty flag stand. Inside the visor of the heavy armors, the two warrirors see a set of dots... and a predictive circle above, showing the arc. Lift... aim... whumf! Mortars away... heading down the sighted line. The icon representing the enemy flag, now in their own team's posession, barely makes it forwards of the target zone before the sounds of impact are heard. The green targetting laser shuts off, and the engineer runs forwards, almost in a panic. Damn... those turrets are still online... he's going straight into them! is shouted back. Faster than his heavy companions, he runs straight for the turret array.
-------
There's not much I can do. I'm still on foot; the suit's energy only slowly returning, and I need to save the boost for clearning the first arm of the swamp some 200 m ahead still... that is, if I'm alive. The chilling whine of turret-servos gives way to the inevitable crackling fhzzOT of plasma... and I jump right, hoping to fool the predictive aiming. To my surprise... no shots come.
Where there were three green triangles pointing me home... there are now two. The third flickers high and to my left... and I can see the searing turret-bolts following skywards, desperately trying to catch my teammate, who's now turret-bait. Some sub-task in the back of my mind registers damn, he's good... I can hear the studders of the turret motors as I rush by, making constant minor corrections. It's amazing how hard it is to predict the flight path of someone skilled at making tiny boost-corrections through the whole of a jump-arc.
A moment later, past the killzone, those two triangles have turned into name-icons floating over 600+lb bipedal armors that materialize out of the thick mist with my approach. They're still firing as I pass. One takes time to salute with her free hand, the other bucking backwards with the next mortar's launch. We will cover you. Her voice is as soothing as it is professional.
------
I don't spare a single cell of my energy reserves as I boost over the swamp's edge. The farther I can get, the better. I land midfield, on the far side of a slight rise, the last of the jetpack's force puffing out, making for more of a downhill skipping than anything resemling a landing. It's easy to roll with the speed when you're in powered armor; a few light jumps turn into a high-speed controlled fall, down the slope, into the next plain. By the time I'm at a normal run, I'm greeted by three more green triangles. Our snipers had left their posts, and joined in the chase. It's good to have your flanks covered by someone who can move as fast, or faster than you. The energy packs they wear have been rerouted, no longer powering their long range pulse-rifles, giving their jetpacks the extra oomph mine don't have. For a change I don't mind how much of hot-shots the sniper corps usually are, as one gingerly flies backwards aside me, covering my rear.
The curve of beacons marking our flag is like a banner over the city gates welcoming home a hero and his escorts. The waves and salutes of flag-defenders is just plain fun; a few of them dancing a silly jig in their heavy armors, much to the detriment of the turf they stand on. It's a quick moment of joy, a small party; they know it won't last, as there's a wave of red coming across midfield, in vain hopes of retrieving their dirty cloth they call a flag. Angered and led only by the desire to chase me down, they're ill prepared to work together... they'll get torn into shreds by our defenders. Jogging quickly past, I head directly for our flag to cash in my prize. I hope I can turn around in time to watch the fun of our Heavy D at work.
Sweaty, panting... hot and sticky in this suit, walking into a small shelter amid the brackish swampwater and muddy terrain... it's amazingly quiet. Two steps forwards, and a reaching out of a hand filled with wadded cloth.
Palm down; let go. The red banner drops to the floor, and the base of our flagstand flashes.
Diamond Sword Scores!
One down... five more to go.
Tribes rocks.
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Date: 2002-03-11 07:15 pm (UTC)Well told.