1054: Death Means Nothing in Miami

So, after being repeatedly bugged by almost everyone I know to try Hotline Miami, I tried Hotline Miami. Actually, to be more accurate, I sat down to play some Hotline Miami several hours ago and somehow here I am at 1am having completed it. What happened there?

I had been warned of the strange time-distorting properties of this curious little game by those who had played it, but having experienced it myself this evening… yes, there's something very odd going on there. A genuine feeling of, for want of a better word, "addiction" — of not wanting to stop until you've seen it through, even if the level you're on is ridiculously difficult. My "Die 1,000 times" achievement attests to the fact that I apparently did spend quite some time on it this evening.

But allow me to back up for a moment for those who are unfamiliar with Hotline Miami and its dubious charms.

Hotline Miami is basically that game the Daily Mail have been worried about for years. It's a straight-up game about murdering people with a variety of implements. It's gory, it's gross… and after about five or ten minutes of playing, it completely desensitises you to the acts of wanton violence you're committing. It then shows its true (neon) colours — despite its hyper-violence, it's actually a sort of puzzle game, a sort of lightning-fast strategy game, a sort of… I don't know. I don't like throwing this word around as it's rarely true, but I have a suspicious feeling that it's *whisper* unique.

The setup of Hotline Miami is that you, the faceless, nameless protagonist, repeatedly receive strange phone calls from a variety of sources. The phone calls themselves seem relatively innocuous, but when you get to the location you were told to go to, you apparently feel a strange urge to don an animal mask and then slaughter everyone who is there. Which is sort of convenient, because everyone there also wants to slaughter you.

You work your way through the levels by killing all the enemies. You have to scavenge weapons from dead enemies or the environment, and guns only have a small amount of ammunition in them when you do find them. Melee kills are silent, whereas attacking with a gun will often bring enemies running. When enemies are unaware of your presence, they follow very simple, predictable patterns. All you have to do is complete each stage of each chapter by killing all the enemies, at which point you'll receive a score breakdown showing how you did. The better you score, the better your grade and the more stuff you unlock.

Unlockable stuff includes weapons, which show up randomly in the levels, and masks, which you can equip before the level starts. Each mask has a special ability — one provides larger amounts of ammunition in guns, for example, while another makes your bare-handed attack (which normally just knocks enemies down, necessitating a ground attack to finish them off) a fatal strike. After unlocking the latter, I found that I didn't really use the others all that much. Perhaps I'm just unimaginative.

There is a plot that gradually unfolds as you progress through the levels. Like the swirly, pixelated, colourful visuals, it is rather vague and dream-like, and the end leaves a large number of questions. There are a few nice twists and turns, but it's not really the star of the show here — it simply provides a loose justification for the various top-down locations in which you visit and kill everything.

Hotline Miami is tough. There are levels that will repeatedly kill you over and over and over again — a thousand times or more, apparently — but somehow it will keep you playing in that same, inescapably compulsive way that Super Meat Boy encourages "just one more go". The fact that respawning after death is completely instantaneous helps this somewhat — there's no real feeling of being "penalised" for dying, it's simply part of the learning experience for each level. Death ceases to become something that makes you want to throw your controller out of the window, and instead becomes an exhortation from the game to try again and do better. It's still frustrating — I called the game (or possibly myself) "dickhead" a good few times while playing — but the important thing to note about it is that when you die, it's usually your own fault rather than that of the game. This is the sign of a well-designed difficult game — one where you accept that you'll make mistakes and learn from them, rather than where dying repeatedly simply makes you want to switch off and play something that repeatedly massages your ego, gives you a cuddle and tells you everything is going to be all right.

Anyway. That's Hotline Miami. If you have no issue with your games being borderline abusive in terms of difficulty, hyper-violent with little to no remorse, and leave you feeling like you've had some sort of drug-fuelled experience for several hours, then you should probably check it out. Conveniently, it's 50% off on Steam this weekend. How about that.

You should also check out this "two-headed review" over at Games Are Evil.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to sleep… and probably have some very peculiar dreams.

1053: Kira Kira, Sparkle Sparkle

Having completely and utterly 100%-ly finished classic visual novel Kana Little Sister, which you can read all about here (and in the book I'm still fully intending on writing and have already written just under 3,000 words of), naturally I immediately started on a new project, and one of a markedly different tone.

Kira Kira (which, apparently, is Japanese onomatopoeia for "sparkle sparkle") is a game about a bunch of high school kids (natch) who decide to put together a band. I haven't got far enough to know whether or not their band is particularly successful, but given the intro sequence showed them well and truly rocking out with suitably ridiculous hairstyles and outfits, I can only assume that they enjoy at least a small degree of success. Given that there is also a sort of sequel called Kira Kira Curtain Call, too, it's probably a fair assumption.

The reason I'm playing Kira Kira now is actually because of a completely different game I picked up a while back called Deardrops. Deardrops is also about a bunch of high school kids who decide to put together a band — I think, anyway, as I haven't played that one at all yet — but a fellow (and considerably more experienced) VN enthusiast on Twitter recommended that I play Kira Kira first, because some of the characters have cameo appearances in Deardrops. Got all that? Good.

I like this sort of "crossover" idea, and apparently it's not all that uncommon — I understand that the story of Kana Little Sister is depicted as a movie in another game by the same developer called Crescendo, which is also in my growing pile of shame. (I have a sub-pile purely devoted to VNs, but given that the damn things are so time-consuming yet enjoyable, I'm not getting to anything outside it at the moment! That's… fine by me, to be perfectly honest. But I digress.)

Anyway. Kira Kira. As I say, I'm not all that far into it yet so I'm hesitant to say too much right now, but so far early impressions are very positive. Coming off the back of Kana Little Sister's 640×480 visuals and distinctly synthesized music — both of which are great, I hasten to add, just obviously dated — the super-sharp, crisp visuals, glorious digital music, quality voice acting and wonderfully atmospheric ambient sounds of Kira Kira make it obvious that this is a much more recent production. It's a much more multi-sensory, "multimedia" sort of experience, and it makes a massive difference. Kana immerses the player with its compelling story and interesting characters despite its relatively simplistic aesthetics; Kira Kira has, so far, immersed me with its presentation — it's a bit early for me to comment on the characters and plot so far, but they seem to be an interesting enough bunch.

Kira Kira isn't just interesting from an audio-visual presentation perspective, however. No, the way it's written and the way the text is presented is quite interesting, too, adopting a full-screen "novel" style similar to that seen in Kana Little Sister rather than the more common "adventure" (smaller text box, larger, unblocked image) interface seen in many other titles.

In terms of the way it's written, it seems to be quite wordy so far, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It allows the player to understand the thoughts of the protagonist quite deeply, and the narration is presented almost as if the protagonist is talking to the player at times — not quite breaking the fourth wall, but certainly testing its structural integrity. Maejima-kun, it seems, thinks about things a lot, including his feelings about people, the things he's seen and where his life is going. His introspective nature makes the beginning of the game seem rather slow paced — it's a good hour or two before the OP video plays — but, as I say, I have no issue with this personally; he seems like an interesting character thus far, so I'm happy to have the opportunity to get to know him. Plus on subsequent playthroughs, the "Skip" button is right there if I want to fast-forward through all his exposition.

What's really interesting about the writing, though, is that it provides a uniquely Japanese take on something that is peculiar to the Western hemisphere — rock music. The setup of the game is that the school's "Second Literature Club", which Our Hero is a member of having quit the tennis club some time back, are struggling to think of something to do for the upcoming cultural festival. Naturally, after Our Hero and the resident squeaky-voiced, faintly annoying ditzy girl Kirari attend a live show by local legends "STAR GENERATION" (the capital letters are important), they decide that forming a band is The Right Thing To Do, despite the fact that none of them play an instrument or indeed know anything about music whatsoever. Enter Our Hero's friend, a fan of punk music that hasn't been to any live shows himself, who decides to educate the club with an informative video about The Sex Pistols and the punk movement. The club are understandably rather bewildered about all this, having hilariously little understanding of culture outside of Japan ("R&B? Isn't that music for black people?") but decide that yes, they'll give it a shot.

That's as far as I've got so far, but it's an intriguing setup with potential for plenty of hijinks — yes, hijinks — along the way. I'm looking forward to seeing how it progresses — and to hearing more of the excellent soundtrack.

1052: Kiss, Kiss, Fall in Love

During November, as you know, I was writing non-stop fiction in my own NaNoWriMo spinoff. This doesn't mean I wasn't doing anything worth talking about in my spare time, however. You may recall that a relatively short while back I well and truly "got into" anime and had some enthusiastic words to say about a number of different series. I thought I'd share my thoughts on one more that I finished at some point in the middle of last month: Ouran High School Host Club.

This was a recommendation from my anime-enthusiast friend Lynette, who has been the source of many good recommendations to date. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect from it, though armed with my relatively limited knowledge of "host club" culture that I'd picked up from playthroughs of Yakuza 1, 2 and 3 (I'm still yet to tackle 4, but I'll get there) I had a general idea.

(For those unfamiliar with this particular quirk of Japanese culture, host/hostess bars are establishments in which patrons can come in and settle down for a pleasant evening's chat with a host/hostess of their choice. Their chosen companion will ply them with drinks and food and attempt to get them to spend as much money as possible, though if Yakuza is to be believed there's every possibility that the host/hostess and their client will strike up a genuine friendship "and maybe more" in the process — good for the people and good for the business, too. It is, it should be said, rather different from prostitution.)

Anyway. Ouran High School Host Club revolves around a group of bored, rich male students at a very exclusive high school (the titular Ouran Academy) who formed their own host club in an attempt to entertain the equally bored, rich female students. The club covers a diverse array of "tastes", ranging from pretty boy Tamaki to the borderline-incestuous twins Hikaru and Kaoru via the… whatever the male equivalent of "loli" is embodied by the childish, cake-loving "Honey".

Enter Haruhi, who is a girl. Haruhi stumbles upon the Host Club's premises — the disused music room — and inadvertently breaks an incredibly valuable vase in the process. She is saddled with a debt that she couldn't possibly repay, so the club agrees that if she joins as a host and entertains the girls of Ouran Academy, they will let her "work off" her debt.

Thing is, certain members of the club initially don't realise that she is a girl, since she first appears dressed in a boy's uniform and sporting a rather boyish short, shaggy haircut. Hilarity, as you might expect, ensues, and the series progresses as Haruhi and the gang get into a series of increasingly silly scrapes, all the while learning new things about each other and their backgrounds. The rich kids of the Host Club learn about Haruhi's poor background, her deceased mother and her cross-dressing father — one of the more memorable characters in anime I've seen recently — while Haruhi learns to come out of her shell a bit, and solidifies her own idea that gender doesn't define her personality.

At heart, Ouran High School Host Club is a very silly show. The characters are heavily exaggerated, and the visual aesthetic is very stylized — everyone has noses that you could cut glass with, for example, and the show isn't afraid to pop up captions to explain various things or even to put big flashing arrows over the top of something that will become important in a few minutes' time. Similarly, the show is a textbook example of anime not being afraid to have characters that defy the laws of physics for comic effect — there's lots of exaggerated facial expressions, black clouds looming around the depressed and angry people suddenly becoming inexplicably huge. The whole thing is presented with an almost childish degree of enthusiasm, and the energy is relentless. It's perhaps for this reason that I actually found it difficult to watch more than one episode at a time, whereas conversely I can and will watch a whole bunch of slower-paced stuff in a single sitting. (I devoured the entire series of AnoHana in one go, for example, but that's a story for another post altogether.)

As well as being silly, though, there's a tender heart beating within. The characters have very real affection for one another and their relationships deepen and blossom as the show progresses. It manages to pull this off without dropping into the realms of cliché, either, except where it is deliberately lampshading romantic clichés — usually through the identical twins duo of Hikaru and Kaoru.

The show is gloriously, gloriously camp, managing to pretty much out-gay both Bayonetta and Space Channel 5 (both of which are games, I know, but they're the yardsticks by which I measure relative campness) but it also knows when to show restraint. There's a time and a place for shenanigans and prancing around, it seems to say, and a time for people to be serious. The good pacing that the show enjoys means that it builds to a very satisfying payoff come the end of the series — and not necessarily in the way you might expect, either. I shan't spoil it for those who are planning to watch it, but suffice to say it's worth sticking it out for the whole run, even if the seemingly-relentless chaos of some episodes feels like it might be a bit much sometimes.

In short, I enjoyed it a lot. It doubtless won't be to everyone's taste — what is? — but I found it a lot of fun. Give it a chance if you're looking for something a little bit different from the norm.

1051: Take This, Right in the Feels

(With apologies to Jeff Green for the gratuitous use of "Feels".)

I was going to write something positive and happy today as a counterpoint to 1) yesterday's post and 2) the amount of anger that has been circulating on the Internet yet again today, this time as a result of an ill-conceived PR stunt by Square Enix. I'm not going to get into that now, because everyone yelling about it is already getting very tiresome. But I decided there was something else I wanted to discuss instead.

Instead I wanted to talk a bit about something which started up during the course of the last month — the Take This project, an attempt by a bunch of games industry professionals (including my good self) to do something positive about the stigma surrounding depression, anxiety and other mental health issues. Over at the site, numerous people are sharing their stories of their experiences with these issues in an attempt to encourage others to do the same, and to help people realise that they're not alone with the feelings they might be experiencing. Here's my contribution — more will probably follow in the near future.

I may well post something along these lines over on Take This at some point in the near future, but for now I thought I'd share it here.

I wanted to talk a bit about crying.

If you see someone else crying, chances are you'll start feeling pretty shitty too. It's not a nice thing to watch, particularly if you don't know what caused it. There's that air of immense awkwardness around the situation, particularly if a stranger's involved, where you're not quite sure if you're "allowed" to talk to the person and see if you can help with what they're upset about, and generally the whole thing is something most people like to avoid whenever possible. There's also an element of gender stereotyping that comes into play, too, where it's somehow "more okay" for women to cry than men. (I don't agree with this at all, but "big boys don't cry" is still a real stigma that stops many men from effectively expressing their emotions.)

But consider how that person who is in tears is feeling. It's sometimes difficult to judge from outside, because only the person who is crying knows exactly what they're feeling. Crying isn't always an unpleasant thing, either — sometimes it is a sweet release from pent-up emotion that has been bubbling away inside that person's head. Of course, sometimes it is outright hysteria, too — a complete inability to deal with a particular situation and a desire to simply let rip with some absolutely raw emotion. Only the person who is crying knows, and they're often not really in a position to talk about it while it's happening.

Oddly, though — and this is where I might lose a few of you — sometimes it's desirable or even enjoyable to cry. The feeling of being affected so profoundly by something that you actually want to weep is oddly intoxicating at times, and it can, at times, be outright pleasant.

It's not as strange as it initially sounds, though. How else can you explain the fact that most forms of media boast a "tearjerker" genre or equivalent?

Most recently, I've been playing a visual novel called Kana Little Sister, which I talk about in greater detail over on Games Are Evil here. Kana is described as an "utsuge" — a "depression game", or a title that is specifically designed to elicit "negative" (for want of a better word) emotions in its audience, in this case sadness. (Other examples include Silent Hill 2, which evokes reactions ranging from slumping back in one's chair and sighing to crying bitter, bitter tears.) I have played through Kana five times now, and even though you know from the very outset that the titular little sister character is going to die at the end (spoiler: except in one ending), it still gets me every time, and the tears fall without fail.

This doesn't make me feel bad, though. It's a perversely enjoyable experience. I like responding to something in this way. I like the feeling of being overtaken by emotion and being physically affected by a work. It's an impressive mark of how much something has engaged me fully if it can make me cry — or if, for that matter, it can make my pulse race, or generate that hard-to-define feeling of "butterflies in the stomach" that a good, epic final confrontation in something like an RPG can sometimes manage.

Even now, though, as open as I generally am about this sort of thing, there's still a slight feeling of embarrassment when it happens. It's perhaps because when you cry, you're making yourself quite vulnerable. You're "letting go", turning off the safety switches that let you behave "normally" in polite society without breaking down into tears every five seconds. If you do it around someone else, you're showing a great deal of trust in them — trust that they won't laugh at you for having emotions in the first place, and trust that they won't think any less of you in the future because of your reaction.

Basically, I think what I'm saying is that you shouldn't be afraid to cry — regardless of whether you need to or just want to. So, you know, let it out.

1050: I Said A-Snark, Snark, A-Snarkitty Snark, A Snark-Snark-Snarkitty-Snark

Another day, another day of snark on the Internet. This time the sources were twofold: firstly, the Pope joined Twitter (and, apparently, his first tweet will be on December 12, begging the question why the account has been set up and announced now) and secondly, it emerged that Kate Middleton (or whatever we're supposed to call her now) is pregnant and suffering from "acute morning sickness", apparently.

Neither of these things are of particularly earth-shattering importance, and both of them can be easily ignored. I have spent most of the day ignoring them both completely, and am only mentioning them now out of frustration — not at the things themselves, of course, but rather at the reaction to them.

The Pope's presence on Twitter was, of course, greeted by numerous sarcastic replies and fake retweets; the news of the "royal baby" (as it is now known) was greeted by general disdain and constant repetition of "THIS ISN'T NEWS". Well, whether or not it is is a matter of opinion, of course, but if you don't think it's news and have no wish to contribute to making it news, you could always, you know, stop talking about it.

I don't know if my weariness with this sort of thing is just a symptom of getting older or general fatigue at having seen so much snark over the past couple of years in particular, but either way… yes, I am tired of it. Because it doesn't let up, either. You can unfollow and block the people who are being a pain, but they'll get retweeted and quoted; you can close your social media windows altogether, but then you can't talk to your friends. (And when you are, at least for the next couple of weeks, a long way away from your nearest friends, yes this is a big deal.)

It is probably related to my general fatigue with the Internet-based slacktivists (previously discussed here) who rant and rave about a particular issue (usually, at the time of writing, sexism) until they're blue in the face but then don't appear to actually do anything beyond declare certain blog posts and articles "mandatory reading" and then ignore any attempts to actually engage in discussion or education.

The ironic thing with this behaviour is that it drowns out the actual message they're trying to convey. In the case of the fervent anti-sexism brigade, who are quick to splatter anyone who disagrees with them with the "privileged white male" brush — perhaps fairly in some cases, perhaps not in others — it means that the underlying message of tolerance, acceptance and equality gets lost in all the noise of people shouting and screaming and demanding that everyone unfollow a particular person on Twitter because they said something they don't agree with. (It wasn't me.)

Not only does it drown out the message they're trying to convey, it makes me care less, which is the complete opposite of what they're trying to do, surely. I don't know if anyone else feels this way, but I certainly do. The more these people froth at the mouth and shout and bellow and point fingers and demand that people read this article by their friend, the less of a shit I give — because I don't want to be associated with them. Not because I disagree with their ideals — as I've mentioned a number of times previously, I agree with what they're arguing for in most cases! — but because the confrontational, aggressive way in which they try to get their points across is just so completely loathsome to me that I don't want anything to do with it.

So I block them. I literally silence them. Which is exactly one of the things that they complain about, usually without any sense of irony that their own furious, righteous anger is itself intimidating and silencing people who genuinely want to discuss, engage and understand these complex, non-binary issues in greater depth.

I didn't take the decision to block a bunch of these people lightly, and I occasionally feel guilty that I have done so. Many of them are supposedly "respected" figures, and some are friends with people that I consider to be friends. But I haven't unblocked them.

Why? Because I have tried to engage them in discussion. I have tried to see these complex issues from a variety of different perspectives and talk about them accordingly. I have tried to have a rational, reasoned debate. And yet the last time I attempted to do this — I forget the exact topic now, as I unfollowed the Facebook comment thread shortly afterwards feeling genuinely upset — I was shouted down with the words "get a grip". No attempt to engage. No attempt to discuss or debate. No attempt to help me understand their points of view. A simple shutdown.

I gave up at that point. That is when I wrote this post. That is when I simply decided to avoid confrontation altogether and "stay out of trouble", as it were.

This isn't how it should be, surely. People should be aware of these issues and feel able to discuss them openly without fear. Fighting hate with hate is counter-productive and achieves nothing except alienating people like me while causing both "sides" of the debate to dig their heels in and argue ever-more aggressively.

1049: Season Finale

It occurs to me that while I was spending the last month doing creativey things, a lot of things happened and, being dedicated to blogging 1,500-2,000 words per day of the narrative nature, I really didn't have the time or energy to devote any blog space to these things that were happening. So let's rectify that today.

The main thing that has happened is that Andie and I are moving (back, in my case) to Southampton very shortly. And yes, I mean very shortly — our new rental starts on December 10 (pending references) and to be honest I'm not convinced it's quite sunk into my own mind yet. Hopefully writing this will convince me that yes, it is happening and yes, I need to do that thing with the boxes I hate so much. (Packing them, obviously, not sticking them up my arse.)

Those who have been paying attention and/or following me for a while will know the rough chronology of what happened to me over the last couple of years — my wife and I parted ways; I failed to find a new job; ran out of money; moved back in with my parents; gradually built back up to full-time freelance employment that earns enough to live on; met Andie; moved back out, to Wiltshire this time; witnessed the catastrophic collapse of the second website I'd been a regular contributor to (GamePro this time — the first was Kombo); secured my current gig and, well, here we are.

Both Andie and I had been becoming a little despondent at our relative isolation. Andie was a few minutes down the road from her job, which was convenient, but neither of us really had any friends in the area. We spent a day celebrating the Queen's jubilee earlier this year in which we got to know our immediate neighbours a little bit, but I found the whole thing painfully awkward and certainly wouldn't count them as "friends".

My true friends were (well, are) still in Southampton, as it happened, meaning that any time I wanted to spend time with them there was a 1.5-2 hour drive involved. Andie's friends, meanwhile, were scattered everywhere from Southampton to Australia, so we decided that looking to move back towards the South coast would be a good idea. (Australia's a bit far.) Since I can work from anywhere, it was up to Andie to find a job in the area suitable for her talents, and she hates job hunting almost as much as I do. Possibly more. Thankfully, though, she successfully managed to score a position recently, and so our quest to find a new place to live began.

House hunting is rubbish, as everyone knows, but we happened to be down in the area anyway last weekend as I'd taken us away on a short break to celebrate Andie's birthday. We made some appointments and called in at a few estate agents to make some enquiries, and decided that if we found a place that looked acceptable, we would just take it rather than faffing around for weeks. Largely because we didn't have weeks.

The first place we saw was a reasonable (if rather small) house that was in shitty condition, and probably wouldn't be ready in time for when we wanted to move in. Next we saw a decent (but, again, small) house with an abnormally narrow staircase that would have been all right were it not for its location, which suffers something of a dearth of parking spaces.

Then we saw The One. A flat in a good, conveniently-located area with awesome large rooms (including a massive kitchen) that looked to be in excellent condition. It costs a little more than we're paying right now in Chippenham, but that was an expected part of the move, plus given the location I'm probably going to get rid of my car once we're in place, which will save some money.

It was pretty apparent that The One was The One after we gave it a cursory once-over, but we still had a couple more to see, so we went and had a look just to make sure. One was a nice-quality flat in a great location, but the rooms were far too small. The other was another nice-quality flat in a not-so-great location, but again the rooms were a bit small and the layout was a bit weird.

So, The One it was. Assuming our references come back all in order shortly, we'll be moving in mid-December, meaning we'll hopefully be in place well before Christmas. Then, once 2013 starts, we can really feel like a new stage of our lives is starting.

You have no idea how much I am looking forward to this. It feels like things are finally starting to fall back into place. I realise that, of course, I'm probably cursing myself by uttering those words, but what the hell. I can't wait to be back in that slightly crappy town that I still consider to be "home"; to be near my friends and to be able to actually socialise with people without having to make plans weeks in advance.

I'm extremely grateful to Andie for her major part in making all this happen. Without her, I wouldn't be back on this path to "recovery", for want of a better word, so I don't know, everyone bake her a nice cake or something. Or just come to our inevitable housewarming party! We might have a Wii U for everyone to play with by then.

See you in December, Southampton.

Shit, that's this month. ARGH

1048: HELLO

Hello! I'm back. Yes, it's me. You know, Pete. The guy who runs this blog. I'm not writing in character or being creative any more. Well, I am being creative. Sort of. Just not in quite the same way I spent the last month. It's back to my normal ramblings from now.

It occurs to me every so often that I write an absolute buttload of words every day. Seriously, if we could power the world on words, I could probably power a small city on the number of words I produce each day. I don't have to produce this many words each day, as only a portion of them are for paid employment but, you know, I like it. So I do it in my spare time, too. You probably knew that already, particularly if you've been following this blog for even a fraction of the 1,048 days I've been writing daily nonsense, or if you've been good enough to check out what I've been doing with the rest of the team over at Games Are Evil.

Occasionally I get the urge to write something for a purpose a little bit less amorphous than that of this blog, and consider writing a novel, or a game, or something else with lots of words in. Unless I specifically set myself a target, though, those things can and do fall by the wayside. My hard drive and Google Docs account are filled with half-finished (or barely-started) novels; I have at least a few awesome game intros that I've made, too. (There's also one three hour-long game called The Adventures of Dave Thunder that was lost to a catastrophic computer failure a few years back, which I've never quite forgiven Sony for, even if it was my own fault for not backing the bastard up.)

Recently, a games writer released a 50,000 word ebook on the subject of a single video game. I'm not a big fan of the writer in question, to be honest — and no, there shall be no bitchy blog post explaining why, they just rub me up the wrong way — so I have very little intention of actually reading (let alone purchasing) said book. However, what I have found is that the mere existence of this ebook has given me a bit of a nudge to start on something that I've been considering doing for a while. Said nudge is a result of the ineffable law of Well If They Can Do It I Certainly Can Too combined with the fact that I knocked out over 50,000 words of creative writing over the course of the last month without breaking too much of a sweat. Which is nice.

This is what I'm going to do: I'm going to write a book on the subject of the visual novel medium. Regular readers will know that I'm hugely enamoured with this largely Japanese subgenre of gaming, and you may even check in regularly on my weekly "READ.ME" column on Games Are Evil each Sunday. The visual novel medium has a lot in common with anime, but is very much its own distinct thing. And there are books on anime out there — so why not visual novels?

READ.ME is by far my favourite thing to write each week (scathing reviews of particularly awful mobile apps aside) and thus I figured it's a natural extension to 1) write more about something that I genuinely love and 2) spend some time delving deeper into the background of the medium and its cultural context. Rather than focusing on a single game for the entire book — which is probably possible in many cases, given the depth of their narratives — I have decided to take a "collected essays" approach in which I tackle a selection of different titles, each of which exemplifies a particular theme, narrative style or tone. This gives me the excuse to play a wide variety of different titles as well as write more about the ones that I've already played (and, in some cases, written about) to death. It also means that the complete project can be broken down into smaller, more easily-manageable targets rather than being a single, daunting task.

So yeah. That's the plan. I've already started, having bashed out 2,500 words on Kana Little Sister today (with more to come when I've seen its other endings) and lined up several other chapters while their subject matter is fresh in my mind. We'll see how it goes. To Scrivener!

1047: Final Chapter

[This is the last part. Back to "normal" blogging tomorrow! Go back to the start!]

A moment's silence.

"I'm not quite sure what else I can tell you," I say.

"I think you've told me plenty," the kindly voice tells me.

I've been coming here for a while now. I think it's helping. Having a safe place in which I can tell my story has certainly helped me to leave things in the past and look forwards rather than backwards.

The owner of that kindly voice is the only person who has heard my whole story as I have just finished relating it. I'm still not quite sure how I feel about that. Sometimes I feel like I should tell Alice, or my parents, or my friends; other times I feel like I should keep this all to myself just in case it makes me seem like I've completely lost it.

I sigh to myself.

I did completely lose it. The story I've just told is proof of that, surely. Even looking back on it with the benefit of hindsight as I have been, I'm still not entirely sure what was truly real and what was simply the creation of my own mind.

"It all felt so real," I say out loud.

"Oh?" says the kindly voice.

"Yes," I say. "It was… like I was there. Well, I was there. But not. It was like it was really happening; like I was really there with those people."

The voice says nothing. I know by now that this is one of those times I'm supposed to figure things out for myself, but I'm not sure I have the answers. I've started now, though, so I can't just leave it hanging there.

"Perhaps they were real in some respects," I continue. "I mean, obviously Alice is, but the Alice from another world? Perhaps she was real too."

"Go on," says the voice, its tone soft, warm and supportive.

"Aril was obviously someone I dreamed up from somewhere," I say. "I don't know where from. But he… I'm not sure. He always seems to come to mind when I'm trying to be calm and rational about things."

"Yes," says the voice. "I'd agree, from what you've told me. And what do you understand by that?"

I pause and think for a moment. It's sort of obvious, looking back on it now. Perhaps it was even obvious to me at the time.

"Aril is part of me," I say. "He's an aspect of myself that I wasn't entirely comfortable with, but part I wanted to explore."

"Go on," says the voice.

"He's the kind who generally stays calm and rational under pressure," I say. "But he's not infallible. Even he could get rattled. When I… when he thought that part of me had disappeared he wasn't sure what to do."

I feel silly relating that now. I didn't go anywhere. No-one went anywhere. But for that short period, I saw things from a different perspective. It helped me to understand a little better. Perhaps that was why it happened.

"And what about the others?" says the voice. It hasn't changed its tone.

"Alice," I begin. "The Alice who was with me through all that… she was the things I admired about my sister. Her strength. Her confidence. Her assertiveness. Everything that I'm not."

I pause.

"Or rather, everything that I thought I could never be," I correct myself. "Because I'm here now, of my own free will. I'm saying these things because I want to, not because I'm being forced to. That sounds like something she'd do."

"I'd agree," says the voice. "And Laura?"

I consider my next words for a moment.

"Laura was what she appeared to be," I say. "Unpredictable. Acting without reason. But reliable despite all that."

"And what did she represent?" says the voice.

"Chaos," I say, without hesitation. "Or rather, the ability to deal with chaos. The ability to deal with the unexpected; the ability to accept the fact that sometimes things happen beyond your control; the ability to accept that sometimes things don't make sense."

There was another pause. I became aware of the ticking of the clock in the corner of the office.

A sudden slamming noise. I recognize this. It's time to finish.

I sit up and look at the face of my therapist Dr. Noakes. His face matches his voice well. He's a middle-aged man, slightly built, with thinning grey hair and a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard covering most of the bottom of his face. I went through a few therapists before I settled on Dr. Noakes here, but there was something about him that set me at ease and made me feel like I could finally tell my story.

Now that I've finished telling that story, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.

"So what's next?" I ask.

"That's up to you," says Dr. Noakes. "I know that being able to tell your story has probably been a big help for you. But is that all you want?"

"I–" I begin, but then trail off. I'm not quite sure what I want now.

"It's okay," he says with a friendly chuckle. "I don't expect an answer now."

That's good, because I don't have one to give.

"I'll take a week or two," I say. "Get my head together, figure out what I want and if there's anything else I want to work on."

I'm pretty sure there are things I would like to work on. The underlying things in my brain that led to this whole situation in the first place aren't going to just go away overnight after all. But already, over the time I've been telling this story to Dr. Noakes — how long is it now? — I've been able to come to terms with some truths about myself that I wouldn't have been able to accept before.

That's good, I guess.

"Fine," says Dr. Noakes. He extends his hand. I grasp it firmly and assertively — Other Alice would be proud of me — and shake it. "Make an appointment if or when you're ready to come back and I'll be happy to talk more."

"All right," I say. I release his hand and turn for the door. I open it.

Then I pause.

"Thanks," I say. Then I walk out.

As I step out into the street, the bracing, cold air is refreshing. I start to walk.

I feel good.

It's strange to think that way, but I'm suddenly conscious of it.

I actually feel good.

Up until now, I've been living my life feeling like something has constantly been pushing down on my from above. That weight on my mind made me want to hide away, to keep away from everyone and eventually led to the situation I just finished telling to Dr. Noakes. It made me want to keep my face hidden, to walk along the street staring at the floor.

But today I feel different.

Rather than turning my head downwards, I walk down the street with it held high, looking straight ahead. The streets are quiet at this time of day, but I don't feel afraid of the few people around me; I don't feel ashamed of myself; I don't want to hide from them.

I know that this feeling will probably pass and that I won't feel this good all the time. But for now I'm determined to enjoy it. I'm determined to embrace the person I am, and to move forward with my life.

I'm still faintly ashamed of what I put myself through — and of the way I treated my family — but ultimately, you can't go back and change things that have already happened. You don't get any do-overs, but you can get a second chance to make things right. And that's what I intend to do.

I pull out my phone from my pocket, scroll through the address book and find my sister's name. I tap the screen to call her, and she picks up after three rings.

"What's up, Josh?" she says brightly.

"Nothing," I say, a slight smile on my face.

Right then, it was true.

1046: Chapter 29

I became aware of being awake, though my eyes were still shut. I could tell it was dark. I wasn't sure how long I'd been asleep or even where I was right now. My eyelids — no, my whole body — felt heavy. I was so exhausted. I wasn't sure if I could move.

I tried.

I couldn't.

I groaned. That came out all right. Eventually I managed to get my eyes open. They felt like they'd been glued shut.

My body ached like I'd never felt before. I was utterly exhausted and felt like I could have probably slept for a whole lot longer. I just lay on my back and stared at the ceiling.

Images of what had happened flowed through my mind as I gazed upwards. Reality flowed into fantasy until I wasn't sure what to believe any more. What was real? What was just the creation of my own jumbled mind? What had actually happened?

I couldn't make sense of it.

I closed my eyes again.

I wasn't sure if I actually fell asleep again, or if I just lay there for a while, but when I opened my eyes again I felt a little bit better, like I could move. It wasn't easy, but I managed it.

I sat up very slowly, my back aching as I did so, and lifted my heavy-feeling legs down off the bed. They made a dull "thump" sound as they hit the floor.

I rubbed my face and took a deep breath. Then I glanced over at the clock radio, more out of habit than anything else now. Assuming those previous times I'd looked were real.

I groaned again. It wouldn't do to get bogged down in this kind of thinking. Not now. I could think about things and make sense of it in the morning. For now — what?

I blinked a few times and the digits on the clock radio, which had been nothing but a blur to my sleep-filled eyes until now, read — of course — 2:30. I don't know why I was expecting it to read anything other than that time.

I pushed myself off the bed and stood up unsteadily. I felt like I was waking up from a coma and learning to walk again on atrophied limbs, but I knew that wasn't the case. It was just tiredness and exhaustion, brought about by my own stupidity.

I staggered to the door and opened it, then out onto the hallway. I knew where I was going. I'd done this lots of times before. Only this time… This time I knew for sure what I'd find.

Before I knew it, I was outside Alice's door. I reached for the handle and was about to open it, but then reconsidered. Instead, I tapped on it three times and waited for a response. There was nothing for a moment, but then I heard the distinct sounds of movement from within, then a "click". The faintest hint of light came out from the tiny crack beneath the door, and I heard a soft voice say "come in."

I opened the door quietly and stepped inside. Alice had turned her bedside lamp on, and it was casting a faint glow over her corner of the room. I could see she was sitting up in bed, her back against the wall. She was holding the covers over herself so that just her head and arms were poking out. It was sort of cute, even with her bruised face. She smiled at me as I came in.

"Hey," she said quietly. Her voice sounded cracked and dry. "Can't sleep?"

"No," I said, sitting down at the end of the bed, not looking at her.

We were both silent for a moment. Rather than feeling awkward, though, it just felt nice to be in each other's company, to know that neither one of us was alone.

"I don't blame you," she said eventually. "I really don't. I know how guilty you must have been feeling."

I said nothing right away. I wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"I'm still sorry," I said. "You must think I'm pathetic."

"No!" she said. "Not at all."

I wasn't convinced.

"I think I'm pathetic," I said calmly. I was surprised how calmly I said it. It felt like something I should say with anger or despair, but no; it just… was. "When I got away, all I could think about was how I didn't deserve to be the one who survived."

"But we all survived," she said. "No-one died."

"Yes," I said. "I know that now. But I didn't at the time. I got so caught up in my own shit that I didn't even stop to find out if you were all right or not."

"It's okay," she said softly. "It's all right."

"Is it?" I asked. "I'm not sure if I could say the same if this was the other way around."

It was my honest opinion. I really wasn't sure how I would feel if I had been the one put into hospital by the accident, and that a family member had all but abandoned me.

"We're different people," she said. "You know that. I'm not upset. I understand. I…"

She paused a moment.

"No. I don't know how you feel," she said. "You obviously feel like shit. And not just now. Before all this happened. I could tell that you were upset and sad and lonely, and I didn't do anything to help. I'm sorry for that."

"It's not your fault," I said. "It's not anybody's fault."

I knew this to be true now. Some things just happened. Some things had no reason. Some things just were. This was the essence of chaos. This didn't mean that you didn't have to take responsibility for things that were your fault; it just meant that certain things happened regardless of what you did. Some things happened unpredictably and without reason; they just happened.

I had no real reason to be miserable, to be suffering, to be angry at the world as I had been. But I was. It was just the way I had been built; the way that random chaos had determined that my body and mind would be put together. I had a loving family and a small but close-knit group of friends who clearly cared for me enough to talk me out of doing something really stupid. These people cared for me even though I was a self-absorbed dick.

I covered my face with my hands and let out a sob. I didn't want to cry, and I'd been holding it back, but it burst out and wouldn't stop. I felt Alice move on the bed next to me, then I felt her arms around me.

"It's okay," she said. "You're going to be all right. You're safe."

Her words were soothing and calming, but still the tears came.

"I'm sorry," I whispered breathlessly. "I'm so sorry,"

"Stop being sorry," she said. "What happened happened. All we can all do is move on. I'm not mad. Mum and Dad aren't mad. We're just happy that everyone's safe. These bruises will heal, and then we can all get on with our lives normally."

"Yes," I said. That sounded nice. It had been getting hard to remember what a "normal" life was, particularly as my delusions had continued to grow and take over my life.

I knew that the bruises and scars were not the only thing that needed to heal, though. The rational part of my mind took over and told me to calm down. I took some deep breaths. The flurry of sobs slowly came to an end and I felt like I was regaining my strength and control over my body.

"I," I began. It was difficult to get the words out. "I."

Alice didn't say anything, but she continued to hold me.

"I need some help," I whispered. Then I started to cry again. This time the emotion washed over me with such force that I collapsed onto Alice's bed and just sobbed into her duvet. Alice pulled away before she was dragged down with me, but continued to sit by me. She rested her hand on me as I curled up like a baby on her bed and just cried and cried and cried.

Everything that had ever hurt me was coming out. Flashes of memories; repressed things from my past; images of my recent delusions. All of them swirled together and assaulted my senses. I felt like I was under attack, but at the same time it was a sweet relief to let all of these things out.

Those words I had said; I meant them. It was the first time I had admitted it to myself, much less anyone else.

I had thought I could handle life by myself. But my experiences had proven beyond a doubt that wasn't an option for me. More than that, though, it had proven to me that it didn't have to be that way. I didn't have to feel bad about wanting to ask others for help. I didn't have to get through everything on my own. I didn't have to be lonely.

As I felt Alice's comforting hand on my side while I continued to lie on her bed and cry, I knew that I'd taken a step forward into a new world. Not through a "gate", but instead a new world in which I could come to terms with the person I was, and begin to heal. A world in which I wouldn't have to be alone, and wouldn't have to be afraid any more.

1045: Chapter 28

The word hit me like a bolt of lightning. It excited and terrified me.

My name. How long had it been since someone had said my name? How long had it been since someone had actually acknowledged my existence, since someone had shown that they had the slightest idea who I was, since someone had shown me that I mattered to someone out there? There it was. My "weak connection" to this world, strengthened once again with just a single word.

"Joshua," she said again. "Please."

I knew it was selfish. I knew that I didn't deserve to be liked, loved, respected, acknowledged. I knew that it was better for everyone if I just faded into obscurity, to be forgotten. What I did was not something you can forgive; everything I felt from that point on was my fault, my punishment.

"Joshua," she said again. I could have sworn I heard another voice along with hers, but there was no-one else around in this eerie scene.

Or was there? I looked over my shoulder again to check, but sure enough, there was only Alice.

Aril and Laura and Alice were asking me to come to terms with so much. To accept that what had happened wasn't my fault, that it was the fault of chaos; the fault of random chance; the fault of no-one. There was no-one to blame, least of all me, and that there was nothing I could have done differently.

But that wasn't true. I could have done something differently. I could have stayed with them. I could have waited in that wreckage rather than fleeing like a coward. I could have called for help. I could have done something to save them. Instead, I chose to look out only for myself, and the guilt was tearing me apart.

"Joshua," she said again. Every time she said it, I felt stronger. Every time she said it, it felt like more voices were adding themselves to hers, but still I could see no-one; still I was unaware of any other presences.

And where were they now? I thought. What was the result of my running away? I had escaped that horrific situation, and to what end? I had just assumed that they–

I had just assumed–

I had believed–

I didn't even know if they were alive or… dead.

Tears came to my eyes as this thought occurred to me. My selfishness really knew no bounds. I had been so wrapped up in my own personal self-pitying that I hadn't once tried to find out whether or not they were still alive, whether someone had been able to save them, whether my guilt was justified.

My parents. Alice. They had taken the brunt of the damage from the crash, but somehow I had walked away from it. Didn't it stand to reason that they, too, might be able to pull through?

"Joshua!" came Alice's voice again. Once more, it felt like she wasn't alone.

I thought back to my ride home with the stranger, and seeing the ambulance's blue flashing lights marking the site of my sin. How had that ambulance got there so quickly? How had someone known that it had happened? How did–

Was this, too, the work of chaos? Random chance? Things happening without a reason? And if so, was it possible that, as much as it had the power to destroy lives and take away precious things, it also had the power to save?

"Joshua," said Alice's voice. It seemed softer this time, but full of warmth. There seemed to be echoes, repeating her words after she'd said it. "Joshua. Joshua. Joshua."

Dammit. What was this?

Did I really want this? Would the pain really go away if I jumped?

I looked down into the murky depths below. It would be so easy to just let go. It would be so easy to just leave this all behind. But–

"Joshua, please don't do this," said Alice's voice. It sounded different. Weaker. Weary. Scared. But unmistakably still her. "Joshua, please. I'm here. It's all right. I'm here. And so are–"

I looked over my shoulder again.

Alice was standing there, but not the Alice who had been there a moment before. This Alice was bruised and battered, with stitches and bandages on her face. This Alice was wearing some baggy, loose-fitting clothing that was easy to put on. This Alice was holding herself up on a pair of crutches and looking absolutely exhausted.

"Alice?" I said in a voice barely more than a whisper. "Is that really–"

Time seemed to stand still. Could this really be–

"Yes," she said. "It's really me. Please look at me. Please see. Please understand. Please come back to me — back to us."

Us?

I looked at Alice. Her eyes were full of tears and she looked like she would keel over at any moment. I twisted my body and turned around atop the barrier to look at her more closely, but I didn't step down — not yet. I needed to understand for sure.

"Joshua," she said. "You don't need to do this."

As I looked at her, the ominous dark mist surrounding us seemed to lift slightly, and colour seemed to slowly fill the world, as if someone was adjusting the controls on a television. As the world — my world — gradually came back into focus, I could tell that Alice was not alone. Flanking her on either side were two figures in wheelchairs, and behind them was a small group of people. A group of people whom I thought I recognised.

A group of people who had had my back all along. A group of people to whom I had reached out for help. A group of people who–

"Joshua," she said again. "You see us, don't you? All of us."

"Yes," I whispered.

"Joshua," came my mother's tired-sounding voice from one of the wheelchairs either side of Alice. "Please come down."

"Joshua," came my father's voice from the other side. "Don't do this."

As they spoke, my vision became clearer still, and I saw that the figures either side of my sister were indeed my parents. They looked even more bruised and broken than my sister, but they were still fighting on. Chaos hadn't taken them; chaos had, perhaps, saved them.

Tears came to my eyes again.

"Oh, God," I said. "I'm sorry."

Those two words weren't enough. But within them was everything I'd been holding inside. My guilt at leaving them behind. My lack of concern for them. My focus on myself. My shutting out of everyone dear to me, and my embracing of a world that was full of self-inflicted horrors; but a world that was mine.

I wailed, and stepped down off the barrier. I couldn't stop the tears. I sank to my knees before my sister and parents, and cried. I cried, and cried, and cried. It didn't feel like it would ever stop. It felt like my soul was pouring out of me; like my very life force was flowing out of my tear ducts and plopping onto the pavement. It was exhausting, but refreshing at the same time, because I knew that these tears were not for an ending; they were for a beginning.

I heard a "clack, clack, clack" sound as Alice hobbled over on her crutches to me, and I became aware of being surrounded. I felt a hand on the top of my head and one on either shoulder. The feeling gave me a sense of comfort.

I was home.

Joshua blacked out, but he was all right — just exhausted. We decided to take him home. One of his friends from college had picked us up from the hospital in his car, so we loaded him into the middle seat at the back and put our parents either side of him, with their wheelchairs folded up and put in the boot. I sat in the front.

"So," I said, turning to his friend, a guy with messy brown hair and glasses. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"I can't say for sure," he said in a low voice. "But we didn't see him for a few days. We just thought he was ill. But then we heard about your accident, and we got worried. We tried to go over and visit him, but he wouldn't let anyone in. The lights were all off in the house, but we knew he was home — some of us wandered past and just looked in on him occasionally, and we saw him through the windows sometimes. But he still wouldn't see anyone."

"Uh-huh," I said. I winced as one of my bruises throbbed a bit.

"Then a couple of days ago, he came to us," he said. "He just wandered in like a zombie, said nothing, gave us a piece of paper and then ran away. Hang on."

He fumbled in his chest pocket and withdrew a crumpled, ragged-looking piece of paper.

"He gave us this," he said.

I unfolded the scrap of paper and looked at the words on it. A couple of lines down I started to cry.

"Yeah," said Joshua's friend. "Pretty intense stuff, huh."

The note was like a confession and a suicide note all in one. He felt sorry to be alive — what a horrible way to feel! — and just wanted the pain to go away. The note ended with his plans to be at the bridge, and asked anyone reading it to come at the time he'd written and stop him. It had ended with just one word.

"HELP."

"What does it say?" asked my mother from the back seat. I turned around and looked at them. It looked like Joshua was sleeping soundly, so I passed the crumpled note to her. Within a moment she was in tears, too, as was my father, who was reading over her shoulder.

He'd been in pain. A different kind of pain to what we'd been feeling, but still pain. He'd been blaming himself for what happened to us when really it was no-one's fault at all. He'd been feeling guilty for running away from what must have been a horrible sight. He'd started to think he didn't deserve to be alive. That must have been awful. I couldn't even begin to imagine how he felt.

I'd always been a bit harsh towards my brother in the past, as he'd always been a bit of a loner and didn't have many friends besides the group who'd shown up today. But I could tell now that he needed help and support, not a little sister taking the piss.

I hoped I could help him feel safe. I probably wouldn't be able to do it by myself, but I hoped that I could at least play a part in his recovery. I didn't want him to feel that lonely again.