Why Aren’t You Playing… Nexus: The Jupiter Incident

The year is 2004. The world mourns the passing of Marlon Brando, Ronald Reagan, Fay Wray, and Brian Clough. The Six Nations rugby championship is won by France. Facebook is launched. In the midst of this despair there is one spark of hope that prevents the world from collectively throwing itself off a bridge, and that is Nexus: The Jupiter Incident.

Saturday Storytime

Johnathan swore as the thrat burst out of the undergrowth in front of him. His finger tightened reflexively on his trigger and the assault rifle in his hand discharged a spray of mercury blobs at supersonic speed into a tree with a sound like tearing paper. The thrat danced briefly aside and turned to vanish into the undergrowth, its large hairy body moving with unnatural speed.

He sighed as he checked his tally. Five thrats down, three more to go. He silently cursed the corporate rep back at the base who sent him on this thrat hunt. Who needs eight thrats killed? Why only eight? Why did he need to harvest their tails? What does the corporation want with eight thrat tails? Sometimes he wondered if the world really was as messed up as the company grapevine always said.

A Letter to the Editor, Rock Paper Shotgun.

Historical Note: Alec Meer of Rock Paper Shotgun posted an amusing breakdown of the emails received by RPS daily, and I thought I’d share one of my many letters to the Editor.

Surely my Letters to the Editor should be in there somewhere.

Dear Sir(s) or, conceivably, Madam,

I note with dissatisfaction that yesterday’s article, “And Homeworld Went To… Gearbox?” quotes Gearbox extensively but has precisely zero column-inches devoted to the Grambly Gentlemens’ Homeworld Club, one of Britain’s foremost Homeworld-related country institutions and proud possessor of the largest and most potentially deadly brunch buffet in the civilised world.

The Fiery Gaze of Judgement: Star Trek

So, Star Trek: The Game of Star Trek. Any good? I employed byzantine trans-Atlantic Internet witchery to find out. Hours of play later, I present, for your inspection, my judgement.

Saturday Story Time

Tarrelar barreled through the undergrowth, stealth bindings shimmering the air around him. A tiny sprite, conjured for the moment’s purpose followed in his wake, repairing the broken twigs and erasing footprints. He controlled his breathing, remaining quiet, taking the path of least resistance but greatest speed, avoiding his pursuer with every bit of his woods-lore. He detoured around an expanse of mud – the sprite would get caught up filling in footprints that deep. A patch of dry leaves would have made noise so he skirted the edges. His physical quietness made his silenced bindings easy to maintain, without the sudden and obvious draw on the Power that would have revealed his location as clearly as the clear, bright snap of a branch on the quiet night.