Flash Fiction: Executive Sandwiches

Flash Fiction: Executive Sandwiches — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the Terribleminds challenge, "Making a Sandwich."

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It was 2 a.m., and the rest of the nation was sleeping. The light from the large fridge bathed him in garish, cold light as he dug out the fixings. He placed the containers on the wide steel counter, closed the fridge door and tightened the cinch of his robe. The kitchen staff seemed to have moved the bread, though, and he was looking for it when a familiar face entered. "Don't you ever sleep, Phil?" The man in the suit shrugged. "I could ask you the same question, sir." "I can't seem to find the rye bread. Any ideas where it might be?" "I'm afraid not, sir. I do have something important we need to talk about, though." The man in the robe rolled his eyes. "Can't even enjoy a snack in peace... Ah! Here it is." He pulled the loaf of rye bread out of the cabinet. "You want one? There's plenty of fixings." Phil thought about it for a moment. "Sure. But no pickles, please." "More for me. So, what's on your mind?" Phil laid his tablet down next to the cutting board. "They made their move, sir. There's been another bombing. Twenty-seven people killed. Twelve of them were Americans." For a moment, the butterknife stopped spreading mustard across the bread. Green eyes framed by smile lines swept over the report on the tablet. A heavy sigh broke the silence, and he resumed making his sandwich. "Sir?" "Philip, I am not going to make this decision on an empty stomach. I hate to say it, but my fellow Americans, God rest their souls, will be just as dead after I eat as they are now." "For a man who campaigned on a platform of compassion and..." "Really?" The President set down the butterknife and looked evenly at his Chief of Staff. "Can we not have yet another conversation about how I'm deviating so much from my campaign platform and focus on the task at hand? What do we know about the bomb?" "Early forensics indicate it was a vehicle bomb. Probably some sort of van or truck parked next to the restaurant." "Anybody taking credit for it?" "Not as yet, but..." "Let me tell you what we're NOT going to do, Phil." The President jabbed the mustard-covered knife at the other man. "We're not going to mobilize a single ship, plane or soldier until intelligence corroborates the claim when it inevitably comes in. We do this smart. We don't go off half-cocked and invade the wrong country. Understood?" "Yes, sir." "Let me be honest with you, Phil. It's the least I can do after a decade of my shenanigans." He counted out three slices of meat for each slice of bread, dropped a slice of cheese on each and put the assembled sandwich in the toaster oven. "Yes, I ran on a platform of compassion and goodwill. And it's that goodwill that should let us get other countries involved in the investigation behind what happened tonight. But whomever is responsible, it's a declaration of war. And in war, casualties are inevitable. I hate the fact that it was civilians, and I'm going to give the families of the victims every concession and courtesy I can. But in my ten years in public office, I've never really had to go to war. Not like this. And I'd rather not have you second guessing my every move while I get this country ready for it. I'm going to get enough of that from the press." "Yes, sir." Phil paused. "Dave... I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting this." "I think I did, at least on some level, as soon as I took office. Sooner or later, someone was going to try and push this country again. We consume too much, and give back too little. We scream too loudly about religion and freedom, but say next to nothing about hunger and oppression in other countries." The toaster oven dinged, and Dave carefully pulled the sandwich out of it. "Here you go, Phil." "Thanks. It does smell delicious." Smiling, Dave handed Phil the plate. "I knew you couldn't resist ham and swiss." Dave started making another sandwich for himself. "So we find out who did this, who's hiding them and who's ultimately responsible. We go at this like a surgeon, not a butcher. If we must take this country to war, let's do it as quickly and precisely as possible. Agreed?" Phil had to move a bite of his sandwich into his cheek to respond. "One hundred percent." "Good. I knew I could count on you." Dave put a little extra mustard on his sandwich, and opened the jar of sliced pickles. "So, there have got to be at least half a dozen countries whose intelligence agencies will have interests in helping us out. We'll need to speak to their directors. And I want the Prime Minister on the phone as soon as possible. I want him to know I don't hold him personally responsible for this. His people were killed, too." "Yes, sir." Dave began toasting his sandwich. "And, just to be safe, we should talk to the Joint Chiefs. We'll need plans ready to put in action as soon as we have the intelligence we're after. I don't want this to be a strictly in-house operation, either. So prepare presentations for allied powers and include their potential forces in our plans." "That makes sense." The President rubbed his eyes, and then slightly smiled. "I knew something was keeping me up tonight other than indigestion. But shouldn't you be at home, Phil?" "I was up late playing poker with some of the staff. We were about to call you when Secret Service said you were down here." "Oh, they can be such busybodies." Dave shook his head. "I better put the coffee on, too. It's going to be a long day for all of us, I think." The toaster dinged. "Let me do that, sir." Phil smiled. "You enjoy your sandwich."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Concert: An Amaranthine Short

The Concert: An Amaranthine Short — Blue Ink Alchemy

No ICFN this week, I simply ran out of time doing other projects. It shall return next week! In the meantime, here's a piece I wrote years ago to compliment the game which was, at that time, under development by Machine Age Productions. It's a story of the Amaranthine, and it may whet your whistle for even better stories on their way to you in the Amaranthology.

---

The band had some kitschy, trendy name that they thought set them apart from the pack. It simply made them sound like another pop-emo-rock fusion outfit trying to be someone more successful. Trevor wasn't certain why he'd come down here to see them live. He didn't even like this sort of music. But he'd caught a glimpse of one of their tacky posters, and suddenly he HAD to be here, in this crowd. He hadn't paid, of course. If you knew the city the way he did, you could find ways into anyplace that weren't watched, alarmed or locked. He slipped through the bodies of the crowd, some of the contact welcome, others jarring. The first opening act was leaving the stage as the second was coming on, the one he'd come to see. The girl behind the drums was tightening the bass kit, the guy with the emo fringe setting up his keyboard. Neither of them were familiar. Just two more in the sea of faces that was the indy music scene. Then the other two members came on stage. Trevor recognized them both. He'd been born and raised in this town, and while he didn't know where he'd seen them before, the sight of them was like an icepick in his mind - cold, clear and sharp. The girl tuning her bass, to him, seemed out of place up there, in skull motif bikini top, short jean skirt and high-heeled boots ending just below her knees. The last time he'd seen her face it had been shining at him from within the confines of a habit. A nun? Where did he know a nun from? All of the nuns he'd known in school were wrinkly old gargoyles, not the rock nymph casually ignoring all of the whistles and cat-calls. And the guy next to her... He wore a similar fringe to the keyboardist, skinny jeans, a shirt with wide horizontal stripes, combat boots without laces. The Fender in his hands was beaten and stained, decorated with skater stickers. But the face behind that pomade-slicked hair... Trevor knew that face. The kid stepped up to the microphone. The lights came down, spots on the band. Trevor's hand trembled. "Bless me Father for I have sinned!" The band came slamming down on their first chord, and it was like Trevor had been kicked in the gut. He heard the words again, this time a whisper, and in Italian.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession." The figure in the other side of the booth kept to the shadows. The monsignor did not mind. Let the good people of Florence have their privacy, he thought, as long as they give their burdens to God and their florins to my church. "You are safe in the house of God, my son. I will hear your confession." "I have killed seven people." The monsignor paused. "Are you a soldier, my son? A soldier is expected to kill in dark times, and we live in dark times indeed." "No, Father, I am no soldier. Not in the sense of marching in rank and taking orders. I am a soldier in a different sense." "How do you mean?" "You have served the Medicis for quite some time, Father. I'm sure you're aware of their coming exile." "Yes. Their loss will surely diminish Firenze." "That is one opinion. Another is that a French toad in control of Firenze is something the people do not want. Many of the Medici's loyal supporters will assist them in remaining here longer than is healthy for the people." "I am afraid I do not understand, my son." "You are their confessor. I cannot have them falling under my blade having confessed their many sins." The blade came through the wicker screen without warning, cold steel lancing across the Mon Sengior's throat. Blood flowed freely down the front of his robes, staining the black of his oath and the violet of his station with crimson. He grasped the wound and collapsed, gasping but clinging to the last bit of life left in him. "Your soul will go to God, Father. You will not see these parishioners again. Perhaps in time, you will consider this a favor. Good night, sweet prince."

A power chord on the bass shocked Trevor back into the here and now. He glanced around the crowd. Had anybody else seen that, felt that? What had just happened to him? He turned back to the stage. The lead singer was staring right at him. He was singing his over-emotional lyrics, barely audible over his too-technical guitar playing, and he was staring directly at Trevor. Trevor blinked. No... the eye-line was off slightly. He turned to look behind him. Fiona. The boss's daughter. The connection clicked into place. He'd seen the poster in Fiona's room. That's why he'd come here. Fiona was a fan. Fiona, who had been trying so hard to please her father. Fiona, who had long been promised to the son of the boss' rivals in Chinatown to a bright young man who, despite being half-chink, had impressed Trevor with his politeness and poise. Fiona, who was getting moist at this punk's attention. Trevor faded through the crowd. He waited until the songs were over. Then he moved through the darkness towards the backstage area. The band was tossing back water from bottles. The singer turned to Trevor as he approached. "Sorry, man, gotta wait for us to come to you at the merch table." "I'm not here for your merch." The singer blinked, trying to clear them of the haze caused by some illegal substance. The other band members looked on, the drummer and keyboardist wide-eyed and frozen with uncertainty. The bassist, however, merely backed up a pace, taking a long sip from her water bottle. Her eyes never left Trevor's face. "What, are you an agent or something?" The singer hooked his thumbs in his skinny jeans. "You wanna sign us?" "No." Trevor had gotten good at never telegraphing his punches. It was something the boss loved. Once he'd knocked out a 300-pound Sicilian with a single punch. The fat bastard had screamed at the boss to let him have another crack at Trevor, to have a fair fight. The boss had laughed in his face and demanded his money. 90 days overdue was 89 too long by the boss' count. So when he hit the singer with a right cross to the face, nobody saw it coming. The drummer & keyboardist were on their feet, gasping in shock. Not the bassist, though. She was smiling. Somehow, Trevor didn't need to see it. He could feel her smile. "You were eyeing up the pretty blond behind me, weren't you, boy?" Trevor hauled the punk up by his trendy shirt. He punched him again, with the left, breaking his nose. The blood flowed freely, almost eagerly, just as it had down Trevor's robes. Trevor saw red. He punched the singer again and again. Every time, he heard another voice, saw another face, always the same face but different times, different places. "Requiescat in pace." Punch. "Does Columbus even know where he's going?" Punch. "The British are coming!" Punch. "Fuck you and your Arch-duke." Punch. "I don't think Hitler has what it takes to lead." Punch. "How dare they destroy the Buddhas! They're sacred relics!" Punch. By the time Trevor came back to his senses, the singer's face was a mess, bruised, bloody and swollen. He let the unconscious punk slip to the floor. There was commotion towards the front of the venue, bouncers fighting through the surging crowd to get to him. The bassist placed her empty water bottle by the stage, fingers sliding over a splotch of red on her skin. "You got blood on me." Trevor caught his breath. "Sorry. I don't know what..." "No. But I do." She took his hand. "Let's get out of here." Trevor was pulled towards the backstage door. "Wait. Who are you? How do I know you?" She smiled over her shoulder at him. "I've been waiting five lifetimes to hear you ask me something like that. It's about time you woke up to what you really are."

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Concert: An Amaranthine Short

The Concert: An Amaranthine Short — Blue Ink Alchemy

No ICFN this week, I simply ran out of time doing other projects. It shall return next week! In the meantime, here's a piece I wrote years ago to compliment the game which was, at that time, under development by Machine Age Productions. It's a story of the Amaranthine, and it may whet your whistle for even better stories on their way to you in the Amaranthology.

---

The band had some kitschy, trendy name that they thought set them apart from the pack. It simply made them sound like another pop-emo-rock fusion outfit trying to be someone more successful. Trevor wasn't certain why he'd come down here to see them live. He didn't even like this sort of music. But he'd caught a glimpse of one of their tacky posters, and suddenly he HAD to be here, in this crowd. He hadn't paid, of course. If you knew the city the way he did, you could find ways into anyplace that weren't watched, alarmed or locked. He slipped through the bodies of the crowd, some of the contact welcome, others jarring. The first opening act was leaving the stage as the second was coming on, the one he'd come to see. The girl behind the drums was tightening the bass kit, the guy with the emo fringe setting up his keyboard. Neither of them were familiar. Just two more in the sea of faces that was the indy music scene. Then the other two members came on stage. Trevor recognized them both. He'd been born and raised in this town, and while he didn't know where he'd seen them before, the sight of them was like an icepick in his mind - cold, clear and sharp. The girl tuning her bass, to him, seemed out of place up there, in skull motif bikini top, short jean skirt and high-heeled boots ending just below her knees. The last time he'd seen her face it had been shining at him from within the confines of a habit. A nun? Where did he know a nun from? All of the nuns he'd known in school were wrinkly old gargoyles, not the rock nymph casually ignoring all of the whistles and cat-calls. And the guy next to her... He wore a similar fringe to the keyboardist, skinny jeans, a shirt with wide horizontal stripes, combat boots without laces. The Fender in his hands was beaten and stained, decorated with skater stickers. But the face behind that pomade-slicked hair... Trevor knew that face. The kid stepped up to the microphone. The lights came down, spots on the band. Trevor's hand trembled. "Bless me Father for I have sinned!" The band came slamming down on their first chord, and it was like Trevor had been kicked in the gut. He heard the words again, this time a whisper, and in Italian.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession." The figure in the other side of the booth kept to the shadows. The monsignor did not mind. Let the good people of Florence have their privacy, he thought, as long as they give their burdens to God and their florins to my church. "You are safe in the house of God, my son. I will hear your confession." "I have killed seven people." The monsignor paused. "Are you a soldier, my son? A soldier is expected to kill in dark times, and we live in dark times indeed." "No, Father, I am no soldier. Not in the sense of marching in rank and taking orders. I am a soldier in a different sense." "How do you mean?" "You have served the Medicis for quite some time, Father. I'm sure you're aware of their coming exile." "Yes. Their loss will surely diminish Firenze." "That is one opinion. Another is that a French toad in control of Firenze is something the people do not want. Many of the Medici's loyal supporters will assist them in remaining here longer than is healthy for the people." "I am afraid I do not understand, my son." "You are their confessor. I cannot have them falling under my blade having confessed their many sins." The blade came through the wicker screen without warning, cold steel lancing across the Mon Sengior's throat. Blood flowed freely down the front of his robes, staining the black of his oath and the violet of his station with crimson. He grasped the wound and collapsed, gasping but clinging to the last bit of life left in him. "Your soul will go to God, Father. You will not see these parishioners again. Perhaps in time, you will consider this a favor. Good night, sweet prince."

A power chord on the bass shocked Trevor back into the here and now. He glanced around the crowd. Had anybody else seen that, felt that? What had just happened to him? He turned back to the stage. The lead singer was staring right at him. He was singing his over-emotional lyrics, barely audible over his too-technical guitar playing, and he was staring directly at Trevor. Trevor blinked. No... the eye-line was off slightly. He turned to look behind him. Fiona. The boss's daughter. The connection clicked into place. He'd seen the poster in Fiona's room. That's why he'd come here. Fiona was a fan. Fiona, who had been trying so hard to please her father. Fiona, who had long been promised to the son of the boss' rivals in Chinatown to a bright young man who, despite being half-chink, had impressed Trevor with his politeness and poise. Fiona, who was getting moist at this punk's attention. Trevor faded through the crowd. He waited until the songs were over. Then he moved through the darkness towards the backstage area. The band was tossing back water from bottles. The singer turned to Trevor as he approached. "Sorry, man, gotta wait for us to come to you at the merch table." "I'm not here for your merch." The singer blinked, trying to clear them of the haze caused by some illegal substance. The other band members looked on, the drummer and keyboardist wide-eyed and frozen with uncertainty. The bassist, however, merely backed up a pace, taking a long sip from her water bottle. Her eyes never left Trevor's face. "What, are you an agent or something?" The singer hooked his thumbs in his skinny jeans. "You wanna sign us?" "No." Trevor had gotten good at never telegraphing his punches. It was something the boss loved. Once he'd knocked out a 300-pound Sicilian with a single punch. The fat bastard had screamed at the boss to let him have another crack at Trevor, to have a fair fight. The boss had laughed in his face and demanded his money. 90 days overdue was 89 too long by the boss' count. So when he hit the singer with a right cross to the face, nobody saw it coming. The drummer & keyboardist were on their feet, gasping in shock. Not the bassist, though. She was smiling. Somehow, Trevor didn't need to see it. He could feel her smile. "You were eyeing up the pretty blond behind me, weren't you, boy?" Trevor hauled the punk up by his trendy shirt. He punched him again, with the left, breaking his nose. The blood flowed freely, almost eagerly, just as it had down Trevor's robes. Trevor saw red. He punched the singer again and again. Every time, he heard another voice, saw another face, always the same face but different times, different places. "Requiescat in pace." Punch. "Does Columbus even know where he's going?" Punch. "The British are coming!" Punch. "Fuck you and your Arch-duke." Punch. "I don't think Hitler has what it takes to lead." Punch. "How dare they destroy the Buddhas! They're sacred relics!" Punch. By the time Trevor came back to his senses, the singer's face was a mess, bruised, bloody and swollen. He let the unconscious punk slip to the floor. There was commotion towards the front of the venue, bouncers fighting through the surging crowd to get to him. The bassist placed her empty water bottle by the stage, fingers sliding over a splotch of red on her skin. "You got blood on me." Trevor caught his breath. "Sorry. I don't know what..." "No. But I do." She took his hand. "Let's get out of here." Trevor was pulled towards the backstage door. "Wait. Who are you? How do I know you?" She smiled over her shoulder at him. "I've been waiting five lifetimes to hear you ask me something like that. It's about time you woke up to what you really are."

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Up And Coming

Up And Coming — Blue Ink Alchemy

Thought I'd change it up from the usual anonymous pen. I've mentioned that I, like many writers, have difficulty focusing at times. I know that, in spite of the time occupied by the dayjob, writing must happen. I've been ramping up because of several projects I want to complete in the very near future and while I still don't have a set schedule completely nailed down, I'm certainly closer than I was, say, in December. I'm really glad I was able to submit a story for the upcoming Amaranthology. Just the possibility of sharing the same storytelling space with the likes of Chuck Wendig and J.R. Blackwell makes me incredibly pleased and more than a little scared of not measuring up. I'm going to make it a point to read more of my fellow anthologist's works as well. Either way, it's an honor and I can't wait to see it in print. I'm still looking for ways to weaponize make more of an impact with my opinions/reviews. I have an article or two to draft up and pitch to folks. The thing that trips me up, though, is all of the unfinished fiction sitting in my Dropbox. Can I really be both a geek journalist and a fabulist? Would it be better for me to focus on one and relegate the other to blogging? I'm not sure. It's another one of those insecure uncertainties that bothers me. Timeless Tales and Cold Iron are some of that aforementioned unfinished fiction. I mean, they're both finished, but I'm not putting them out into the wild as they are. They need edits. Hell, they need editors. The shorts are being worked over somewhere in the dark corners of the 'Net and eventually I'll work up the guts to give someone the novella a solid thrashing. After that? Definitely some sort of electronic release. Maybe Kickstarters. They seem to be working out for people. The big thing, though, is the Citizen in the Wilds rewrite. It's daunting. I've already written the damn thing at least three times, trying to get it right. It's like the Darth Vader of my writerly existence: I know there's good in it. And after this run it may be worth something, at the very least submitting to publishers again. The thing is, fantasy fiction in general and young adult fantasy fiction in particular already has a bunch of Tolkien wannabes. Elves and dwarves abound. When was the last time something actually new was released into the wild? I hope I'm not alone when I think people want to see a new world, fully realized and filled with mystery, one that figuratively (or perhaps literally) lives and breathes. Re-conceptualizing the world, its inhabitants and the places and destinies of the characters I've thrown into it are why I'm rewriting it yet again, hopefully for the last time. Send encouragement, Internet. I think I'm gonna need it. Leave encouragement below, Internet. I think I'm gonna need it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Game Review: Deus Ex: Human Revolution

Game Review: Deus Ex: Human Revolution — Blue Ink Alchemy

A few months ago I finally got around to reviewing Deus Ex, a RPG-shooter that empowered a player to make choices while being unfortunately hindered by its technology. After a sequel that didn't go over as well for many reasons, it would be a while before a third installment would come along. With a decade's worth of improvements under its belt, Deus Ex: Human Revolution arrived last year with promises to deliver an authentic experience for fans of the old game while introducing new players to something with a bit more depth than your usual modern military shooter. These promises, along with the knowledge that this is actually a prequel to the original game, made me a little trepidatious when I first booted it up.
I like how the shades are the projection surface for your HUD. The year is 2026, and prostheses once limited to medical applications have expanded into the realm of human augmentation, allowing those with the means and a tolerance for constant maintenance and drug intake to do things normal humans could only dream of. At the forefront of this new push in technologies is Sarif Industries, and its security is the responsibility of Adam Jensen. On the eve of a landmark hearing before Congress, Sarif is attacked by augmented mercenaries and Adam is mortally wounded. Saved from the brink of death by the very technology he tried desperately to protect, Adam must undertake the task of tracking down the metallic murderers and uncover their employers. As it bears the Deus Ex title, you can expect Human Revolution to contain similar conspiracy theories, locations envisioned for a near future and interesting character turns. To its credit, the game does hit all three points, but it doesn't quite reach the depths of the original. The plans of the opposing forces in Adam's life can often be discerned relatively quickly. There are not as many locations to visit, and in fact you revisit the two main hubs once apiece rather than going to new places, an unfortunate result of a budget or deadline getting cut during production. I'll deal with different character points as we go along, as this is likely the place where Human Revolution both shines the brightest and needs the most polish, if that makes any sense. The good news for fans of Deus Ex, or in fact any stealth-based game, is that you will be rewarded for tactical thinking and moving unseen. With multiple routes to reach an objective and a system that rewards experimentation and improvisation, the core gameplay is incredibly solid, even the cover system and the finishing moves - which can be very satisfying to pull off on an unsuspecting guard that just walked past you reporting everything's clear. The non-lethal weapons work just as well as their lead-slinging counterparts, making the challenge of completing the game without taking a human life actually seem appealing (at least to me). And the best boss fights happen in the form of conversation trees, where discerning the other person's emotions and choosing the right response becomes just as arduous and fulfilling as shooting them. One of the unfortunate concessions that had to be made to new players was a limitation on the number of role-playing game options available. While the augmentation system does allow a measure of customization early on, allowing players to purchase upgrade points as well as giving them as XP rewards yields more than enough elbow room to round Adam out in every area, especially considering some of the upgrades are completely useless. Speaking of Adam, his conversation animation and those of other characters occasionally felt a little jilted or unfocused, a problem that thankfully never occurred during one of the aforementioned talk bosses. The rest of the gameplay is so good, however, that these flaws can be overlooked without too much trouble. The non-talk boss fights are perhaps the biggest problem I (and many others) have with Deus Ex: Human Revolution. With a game system that offers a plethora of ways to approach an obstacle, limiting one's choices in a boss fight to "shoot the bastard" feels like a major dumbing-down of the source material. There are a few ways with proper planning beforehand to make these fights less of a chore, but at first blush they really throw the game off of its otherwise excellent pace. The ending of the game, as well, feels watered down. Rather than building up to a climax that empowers the player to make an informed choice through conversation, we are presented with a series of big red buttons. Getting railroaded in this way really undercuts the freedom of choice espoused in the original, to this game's detriment. While many of the decisions made in bringing this game to players disappoint or even infuriate, Deus Ex: Human Revolution is enjoyable to play for 90% of the time and does offer real replay value, outside of any DLC. On its own, it's competent and executed well despite some glaring flaws; when compared to some of the other modern shooters out there, it shines like brushed chrome. It's a much more worthy addition to the Deus Ex library than Invisible War, and I'm looking forward to playing it again, on the hardest difficulty level, without killing a single human being save for the boss fights. Hoo boy. Stuff I Liked: Adam's a much more sympathetic protagonist than your run-of-the-mill soldier or space marine. He has support characters that are interesting without being irritants. Stealth gameplay is executed well and I liked getting little XP bonuses for taking the time to explore and taking down enemies quietly. And it's always fun to move things like vending machines and copiers around in an office building or housing complex just for the heck of it. Stuff I Didn't Like: The boss fights and ending made me feel railroaded and didn't quite jive with the Deus Ex vibe. Some of the animations aren't as smooth as they could have been. A couple stereotypical accents eek through here and there. Stuff I Loved: A well-balanced main game engine underscored by an excellent soundtrack and beautifully rendered aesthetic. The talking bosses were a great departure for normal shooter gameplay, lending even more concreteness and immersion to the experience. Writing high above average for modern shooters and a definite respect for the original Deus Ex without being pandering or an act of fan service. Bottom Line: It isn't perfect, and some of the aforementioned flaws may seem like deal-breakers. But if you go into it with the right mindset, Deus Ex: Human Revolution will definitely scratch the itch that hasn't really been scratched since 2000. It's definitely worth your time to check out if you're a fan of the original or of good RPG-shooters in general, especially if you can pick it up on sale.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Let Go Of Your Hate

Let Go Of Your Hate — Blue Ink Alchemy

Star Wars, as a franchise, is just a bit older than I am. I've gone through phases where I've loved it dearly and loathed its existence. I've appreciated the ability George Lucas had to conceptualize a universe that felt lived in and diverse, and palmed my face at the utterly stupid things he made come out of the mouths of his characters. And in this cynical, Internet-fueled, post-Plinkett world of critics and criticism, it's trendy to hate on things, older things being remade even moreso, and Star Wars most of all. But is it really worth hating? I mean, yes, Lucas going against the final product he originally gave the world in '77 is utter bullshit. And there are some monumentally stupid decisions that were made in Attack of the Clones. But let's rewind the clock. Come back 13 years with me to the premiere of The Phantom Menace in theaters. I wasn't as experienced, hardened or jaded as I am now; I'd yet to go through a few experiences that lead me to who I am today. However, I still tended to watch movies with the mindset that if the things I liked outweighed the things I didn't, I'd declare it an overall success. Since it was harder for me to focus on aspects I disliked, I maintained my focus on Liam Neeson, Ewan MacGregor, Natalie Portman and the lightsaber fighting more than I did Jar Jar, Jake Lloyd, the tedious plot points and the tepid, stilted dialog. In fact, when I saw the movie for the first time, I liked it. Yes. I liked The Phantom Menace when it first came out. And there's no reason I should be ashamed of that. I know I've pointed you in the direction of a certain Z-list Internet celebrity several times, so this may come as something of a surprise. But I don't always agree with Bob Chipman. I don't like G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra as much as he did, I think he can get a bit nitpicky when it comes to superhero movie hype (then again, somebody has to as we can't all be gushing fanboys) and I don't quite understand the sheer amount of bile he continues to spew at first-person shooter video games. However, I highly recommend you check out his episode of Escape to the Movies where he discusses The Phantom Menace and why hating on it is a zero sum game. In addition to all of that, there is a part of me that loves pulp adventure without a hint of irony, especially pulp science fiction and fantasy. I know that Flash Gordon and Krull are cheesy as hell, and there are elements of Stargate and the new Star Trek that go for broad, somewhat shallow action and adventure instead of deep character-driven introspection. I'm okay with that. In fact, I think that when we eschew that sort of entertainment entirely we lose some of the whimsy that gave rise to science fiction and fantasy in the first place. And The Phantom Menace had that. Yeah, the kid's acting was wooden, a couple story points were unnecessary or tedious, making the Trade Federation obvious stereotypes was an ignorant move and I still want to flatten Jar Jar with a cricket bat. But when the movie stops trying to tie into existing Star Wars canon while ignoring the hard work and imaginations of its own expanded universe and just lets itself be Star Wars, it's fun. Chases though space ships are fun. Duels with laser swords are fun. Big, flashy space battles are fun. These are the things that Lucas showed us way back in the original Star Wars (I guess I should give up and just call it A New Hope), and The Phantom Menace tapped into that whenever it stopped getting in its own way. It's not great. In fact, it's kind of mediocre. I'd still watch any of the aforementioned movies before The Phantom Menace. But I think it's better than we've let ourselves remember. I think we should weigh the good as well as the bad. I think it's time we let go of our hate.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Mr. Caine

Flash Fiction: Mr. Caine — Blue Ink Alchemy

My attempt to write an unlikable protagonist.

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The phone always rang at the worst times. And in this case, it was the worst person calling. "This really isn't a good time." "Then why didn't you let it go to voice mail?" Her voice, as always, had tinge of obliviousness that he simultaneously thanked and cursed her for. "Because I know you don't call this number unless it's damned important." "I'm calling because it's your son's birthday this week." He glanced to his left, placed a finger to his lips and shook his head. "Yes, I know. It's Thursday." "He said he'd really like it if you were there." Oh, God damn it. "I'll do what I can. I'm out of town at the moment. Business." "Oh?" She sounded genuinely curious. "Where are you?" "It's best if I don't say." You wouldn't like 'in an empty office building nobody ever uses except for things like this' as an answer. "Look, my clients are sensitive people. They don't like people knowing where they are at times like this." "And you have to be there in person? You can't arrange things like this from your office?" The office I don't have? "They trust me. They prefer to have me close by to coordinate things on site. They need me." "I just think your son needs you, too. That's all." He rolled his eyes. "I really do not have time for this. I will do my best to be there. Okay?" "Oh. Okay. Do you want to talk to him?" For fuck's sake... "No, I can't right now. I have to go." He hung up before she could say another word. The man in the chair made a noise. The duct tape made it as hard for him to form words as it did for him to get out of the chair. The estranged father put his cell phone back into his coat pocket. "Sorry about that. Now, where were we? Oh, right, you were about to tell me what you've done with Mr. Vugatti's merchandise. Let's talk about that, okay, Steve?" There was another muffled protest from Steve. The man shook his head and reached into the toolbox he'd brought along. He selected a pair of pliers, grabbed Steve's left pinkie finger with them, and pulled until something snapped. Steve's scream was distorted by the tape. The man reached up and yanked it off. "I'm sorry, Steve, what was that?" "You... you bastard... just... just let me go and... and I'll tell you." "No, no, Steve, it doesn't work like that. You tell me what I want to know, and then I set you free. Have you never played this game?" "Game? This is my life, man!" "Steve. Steve. I need you to focus." He broke the other pinkie. Steve howled. "Where's the merchandise?" "I... I gave it to someone. For safe-keeping." "Well, that was probably smart. You're a smart guy. So do the smart thing, and tell me who this person is so I can get Mr. Vugatti's stuff back, okay? I mean, if you'd sold it like you were told to do you wouldn't be here, and I know you don't want to be here." "He... he works down at the docks." Steve had to spit blood out of his mouth. He'd already been hit a few times before the phone rang and the duct tape went over his mouth. "Pier Sixteen. His name is Terry. He'll know... he'll know which container the merchandise is in." "Good. That's good, Steve. I can work with that." He put the pliers away and closed the toolbox, turning away. "Wait! Wait! You said... you said you'd let me go!" The man stopped and turned back. His suppressed Nighthawk 1911 was in his hand. "No, Steve." His tone was sympathetic. "I said I'd set you free." He raised the gun and fired. The suppressor made the gunshot slightly louder than a snap of the fingers. Steve's head snapped back, then rolled forward, blood and mucus seeping from his mouth and nose. Sighing, the assassin unscrewed the suppressor, slid it into his coat pocket and holstered the gun as he fished out the phone. "Lilith." "Hello, Mr. Caine. I take it you were successful?" "Yes. Have Mr. Vugatti's people come around to their office building to clean up Steve. I have to track down another lead." "You know he won't be happy with another delay." "He's the one who wants professional results. If he doesn't like it, he can find someone else do clean up his mess." "I understand, sir, I was simply making sure you were aware of the client's inclinations." Mister Caine got into his sedan, placing his toolbox on the passenger seat. It was the only name he gave in professional circles, the only name by which Lilith knew him. By the same token, he didn't know her real name, nor how she'd found him after the CIA had burned him. They didn't like the excuse of 'incendiary devices are tricky' when an entire floor of a hotel had burned and nearly taken the whole building after he'd misjudged the device's mixture. "I'm fully aware, Lilith, thank you. After you get off the phone with his people, I'll need a personnel manifest for Pier Sixteen. First name Terry." "I will get right on it. In the meantime, may I suggest you make time for your son's birthday party?" "Lilith, I told you. Listening into my phone conversations is rude." "Keeping your line secure is difficult, sir. If I am listening I can ensure nobody else is. The fact remains that your son has asked for you to be there." "If you heard my name, or his, that would be a serious breach of security. Think about that. That's your job." "My job, Mr. Caine, is to keep you alive and working. And if you see your son, you might remember why being those things are good for you. No more excuses." She hung up. Caine fought the urge to shoot the phone.

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Blue Ink Alchemy