#distinction more apparent and legible and visually pleasing)

[timeloooop]

this is a common theme found in a lot of lutece-fics but id love to see your take on the twins talking about and comparing the differences between their lives pre-particle and pre-columbia!! (you write them with such nuance and understanding and subtle eeriness it rlly hammers home the way they feel like . fae-like almost)

Last week, Robert existed.

This week, Robert still exists, but not in his world. Existence is less a question of evidence and more a non-compulsory attendance record. Robert remembers jumping through the tear: the unstable perimeter was a soft blue (blue, no doubt, because it is the smallest color; it spreads so easily and thinly, like butter) and buzzing from static electricity (a theory: two realties too similar will repel each other just as two negatively charged electrons do) that lifted the fine hairs exposed on Robert's neck and the backside of his hands. He also remembers seeing himself jump. He remembers first existing in this reality seven days ago, and he remembers existing in this reality thirty-one years ago, age four, ginger hair pooling past each shoulder (both longer than he ever remembers and as long as he remembers) and over a green striped shirtwaist with thin pleats (he both does and does not remember wearing as a child).

Robert's memories, it seems, are recessive. When entering another reality, the primary inhabiter's memories are dominant and chiefly expressed. All at once, upon entry, Robert inherited Rosalind's memories. A super majority of which are the same; most of his life is her life. Such unity provides stability. It is the smaller, intricate details that thin and scatter from him—like butter, like blue.

Immediately after Robert's arrival to Rosalind's reality, The Lutece Device short-circuited. Tears have been weaker and erratic, their strength and longevity far depleted.

In the shared Lutece laboratory, Rosalind slowly runs a rubber-gloved hand along a pair of thick fibre optic cables that are connected to the field conductor stationed in the middle of the room. Any fissures, no matter how minuscule, would be highly detrimental to the output levels. Luckily, they're easy enough to detect, if present at all: fissures in the cables, when touched, feel like tiny shocks beneath the skin even while wearing protective gloves.

Robert stands below the corresponding collider dome affixed to one of the two main metal pillars. His arm is raised above his head to reach the collider's conductive surface. In his hand, he holds a modified oscilloscope that translates the electricity levels emitting from the dome into decipherable green wave lines. He reaches for a dial just left of the collider to recalibrate the output, but it's absent. There is no dial. He rubs his hand around the flat slab of metal, groping for that which is not there. Blood trickles from his nose. The dial is on the right. He remembers the dial is on the right. A familiar yet foreign pulsating pain swells deep behind his eyes. Something clatters to the floor. He looks, Rosalind looks. The oscilloscope. The hand that was holding it is pinching the bridge of his nose.

Rosalind is near Robert in three quick strides. Her speed towards him physically imitates the sensation of falling backwards. Or, an alternative hypothesis: he is falling backwards. His head is light. Everything considerately and considerably softens in sound just as all noise feels shrill and distant. Splotches of black begin to enter his vision. He should sit down. Fortunately: his body may well already be rapidly approaching such a destination. Unfortunately: the impact will hurt. Fortunately/Unfortunately: he likely won't be conscious for it. Rosalind grabs the end of Robert's tie and pulls—hard—altering his fall trajectory to the opposing direction (i.e. towards her) and averting a collision with the metal pillar.

Twenty-two seconds later—Rosalind times it—Robert comes to. His lips feel wet. His chin, too. He's low. They're on the floor. He's cradled in Rosalind's arms.

«What did you think?» «Right.» «Right.» «Right is right.» «Yes...» «Left is left.» «And up is up and down is down. Now nothing is left: what did you think?» «Nothing is left.» «Yes.» «No.» He must think this correctly: «There is no dial on the left.» «I see.» Rosalind plucks a white handkerchief from a hidden pocket in the lining of her suit jacket and wipes the blood from Robert's face. That is a new habit of hers. She didn't have a handkerchief with her during his previous fit and had to leave his side to locate one. Robert finds this amendment equally touching and maddening. How often is she worrying about him? To divert her attention to him, with a mind like hers—like theirs—is like siphoning all the heat of the sun to hatch a single chick. He would like her to worry less. His eyes crinkle-twinkle:

«B positive.» «I’m trying.» «No, my blood is B positive, should the bleeding cease to stop and I require a transfusion.» Rosalind rolls her eyes. Robert smiles. «What de trop detail. You know we share the same blood type.» «Precisely so: we share everything. Including the same sense of humor.» Rosalind hides away a smile, poised and composed, in much the way a lady is meant to carefully fold and store her undergarments—as though the smile itself is, to her, far too defamatory or revealing. «Lean forward.» She hooks the side of her index finger beneath Robert's round chin and the pad of her thumb presses into the small dip of skin below his lower lip. The fit of her thumb in the delicate dip of his chin feels identical to her own chin. She finds this familiarity not likable or unlikable, simply likely (a cursory note: the skin of his face is smooth, as smooth as hers; might Robert's hormone levels prevent him from growing a beard? they've been together for a week and she's never seen him shave or any evidence of shaving (no hair trimmings clinging to the shallow basin of the bathroom sink, no razor resting alongside her perfectly parallel hair fasteners)). She tilts his head down.

«It is commendable your sense of humor still remains intact given your current state. But it is your other, more physical senses I worry for.» «I see, I hear. Yes, I smell blood. Yes, I taste it. An alarming state, but I propose the opposite would be far worse.» «Seeing and hearing blood?» «No, I mean, not smelling or tasting the traces of blood present on and in my person.» «Hm.»

Despite their similarities, there is still an entire lifetime of Robert's that Rosalind is not privy to. Not in the way he is to hers. For her, it's guesswork or interrogations. She's envious. She's curious. «Do we differ?» A perfect flash of overlap surfaces in Robert's mind. Of his world and of hers, different and alike; his nose does not bleed. «At university, they would not admit you due to your perceived gender. You told them there was a mistake in your application. You were, in fact, Robert Lutece, not Rosalind. For four years, you dressed like me.» She smiles. «I wore a lot of ill-fitting trousers.» «You had to be me. Let me be you for a time.»

[doshmanziari]

2019 Mega Drive Explorations [1]

It takes me a long time to do some things and I’ve finally gathered up a bunch of Sega Mega Drive / Genesis titles that I’ve been meaning to play, hopefully through their entirety, or replay and take as many screenshots as I can. These aren’t going to look like most other screenshots you’ll see online, though; I’ve been using an NTSC filter because I believe it’s the visual format in which these games look best. So, let’s take a stroll through the material so far.

Super Hydlide (1989)

This is one of the best “old style” action-RPGs I’ve played. I’ve gone in with barely any prior knowledge, and I think that’s how to best experience it. Spoiling yourself on the extent and workings of its mechanical systems would, I think, turn it into nothing more than leveling up and finding the next place to go. The range of overworld which you’re initially able to explore is fairly restricted, and, as the action-RPG designation suggests, there are no randomized battles. Because of details like your need of food and sleep, or the encumbrance limit, though, it’s a deep relief to return to a town after some exploration in a way that reminds one why this trope of wilderness vs. domesticity caught on. You might just find yourself exhaling when your enter an inn. In another game, your character’s attack would likely be assigned a hitbox straight ahead of the sprite, but Super Hydlide locally assigns it to your right arm/hand, and it’s a welcome quirk in a game with super basic combat. There is no in-game map (or, if there is, I haven’t found it yet), and so -- as with Simon’s Quest -- I’ve been drawing my own on a sheet of gridded paper.

Above: the same screen at different times of day.

I hope that this blog’s emphases and its audience make the claim that I think Super Hydlide looks amazing at least appreciable. Everything has just enough detail to render the object, being, or space as categorically legible while retaining ambiguities, and there’s a variety where you might not expect it, like the grass around the building above, that gives each screen a kind of visual grain that an ornate and time-worn carpet might have. Complementing this is a soundtrack that seems unaware of the console’s audio capabilities in a way that another contemporary Mega Drive release, like Sword of Vermilion, certainly was not. That’s fine, though; the sound’s smallness, with those lite approximations of exclamatory synth brasses and the percussion’s dusty, dinky punches, enhances the cute visual aesthetics: people, monsters, and buildings you could hold in a pair of cupped hands. Especially remarkable is the overworld theme, “Chaos Separator” -- almost three minutes long, a duration that was basically unheard of at the time.

Atomic Runner Chelnov (1992)

Chelnov has me torn between wanting to share either as many screenshots of it as I can or as little. It’s so stunning to behold that exposing anyone who hasn’t played it to its sights seems like a disservice. It’s in extreme contrast to the game’s original arcade version, too, which may as well be a different game. Every stage is a stream of layered ornaments, and continuing to play to see more of this is motivation alone. At first I thought the graphic theme was one of a general “exoticism”, with ziggurats settled above lava giving way to stepped Mayan pyramids, but then the penultimate stage threw architecture designed by Antoni Gaudí my way, making me wonder if the theme is more broadly “eclectic” -- choosing certain settings and motifs for their dazzling power alone. This is one of those run ‘n’ gunners where your character will keep running unless you stop them -- but you soon have to start running again anyway, since the screen keeps moving right and only stops for bosses. It took me playing through half of the game to figure out how to turn around. Please, if you want to give Chelnov a look: consult a controls FAQ.

El Viento (1991)

If you’re looking for level design that’s a mixture of the mundane and the out-of-control, El Viento might be for you. One moment you’re walking through an open sewer channel, exploding the occasional fish; the next, you’re navigating a bundle of platforms that feel way too closely packed together for your character’s sprite size as you attempt to outrun a never-ending flood of rats that move at speeds never before recorded. One moment you’re going through an apartment’s door into an empty interior; the next, a tank bursts through the opposite wall and just starts hammering you with missiles and bullets, giving you only five feet of space to work with. It’s the second in a trilogy of games, which includes Earnest Evans, a game perhaps most notable for all of its footage making it appear that the players are incompetent on purpose, but which in fact plays more or less the same no matter how good you are. Grave sacrifices were made so that the titular character could be a composite sprite. El Viento’s level design hews closely to Earnest Evans’, with the important difference that its protagonist, Annet Myer, is controllable.

Even with its problems, El Viento is charming. It’s nice to play a videogame with a female protagonist who’s not creeped on by the artist(s) (perhaps we can, in part, thank technical limitations for this). The palettes and style of pixel art bear an uncanny resemblance to Master of Darkness, released for the Game Gear and Master System, and give each stage a distinct, almost dirty granularity. For me, El Viento gets especially interesting around the fourth stage, a ship’s engine room (or... factory?) that’s preceded by a short segment that has you crossing water on top of a cartoon-eyed dolphin. The level design transitions to looking like a network from Metroid Fusion -- a knotty maze with small destructible points that cause chain reactions, oddly small platforms, moments where you’re not sure what’s interactive and what’s not, and low ceilings underlined by spike-beds that necessitate you make use of a crouch-dash mechanic that feels like it shouldn’t work the way it does. It’s a hardly perfect yet precious occurrence of extinct, or endangered, level design, and the developers apparently had a confidence in letting it, as it were, speak for itself, because there’s not a single enemy to defeat throughout.

Jewel Master (1991)

Wanting to hear Motoaki Takenouchi’s incredible score, one of the Mega Drive’s best, in its intended context was almost totally my incentive to play Jewel Master. It’s a fine, somewhat haphazardly designed action game; not bad, not memorable, but for the music. You acquire different rings, some optional, as you go from stage to stage, and can assign them to a total of four active slots on an equipment menu. Different combinations will lead to different effects -- or you might want to leave a ring on one hand on its own. It’s a neat idea in the abstract. In practice, you’ll often be better off sticking to one set-up per stage until a boss demands a switch. The level design is pretty uninspired, and it increasingly makes artificial attempts at challenging the player by burying you under swarms of suddenly-appearing monsters. When this happens, you just have to hope that you can make it out alive. There’s not a whole lot to look at, either: the stages’ environmental peculiarities and palettes are minimal to an extreme, although I do love that the protagonist’s sprite seems to take a cue from Rastan’s by only moving his legs when he walks.

Gynoug (1991)

My experience with, and interest in, shumps, is next to nonexistent, so I don’t have a ton to say about Gynoug. Why’d I bother? Well, because of the weird and grotesque enemy and boss sprites, which combine the mechanical, exoskeletal, and visceral. The first miniboss is like a floating snapping turtle... except without legs, and a head that’s a toothed skull. Later, in stage two, you’re confronted by the bow and head of a ship that reveals itself to be the hat atop a colossal, wrinkled face. Maybe it was expecting too much to hope that the settings would match the bestiary’s inventiveness, but only stage three and four wowed me. If it’s not a game I’m going to be returning to any time soon, it was worth going through once.

That’s all for now. Other titles I’ve been exploring and will write about at some point include Alisia Dragoon, Cadash, Chakan: The Forever Man, Elemental Master, Light Crusader, Mazin Saga: Mutant Fighter, Mystic Defender, Shining Force 2, Splatterhouse 2 and 3, Two Crude Dudes, and Ys III.

[zanytimetravelenthusiast-blog]

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