Post by Purist on Aug 17, 2006 20:03:53 GMT -5
The ice cubes were colliding with each other like clumsy synchronized swimmers. I admit it; I was the culprit. I was wriggling the straw around my lemon ice tea because I was nervous. I bet we’ll all be fighting like these suicidal chunks of ice. I don’t even know what my manager is telling me and we’re supposed to be having a serious conversation about tomorrow’s match. The fog in my eyes cleared up when he snapped his fingers loud in my face and I heard it echo throughout my troubled dome.
“Yo, Roland. Repeat what I just said 5 seconds ago.”
I tried to joke around not only to pretend that I’m getting bored of the conversation, but also to divert my attention away from my worries. “You told me to put ‘Deadlegs’ in my AC, right?”
“Ha-ha-larious. How about I rip your contract and allow you to make a living as a stand-up comic?”
Continuing to play it cool and reassure myself, I quickly replied. “Yea, yea. We don’t need to talk here, DeBrey, I know who I’m up against and what I gotta do.” The small army of sweat that marched down my forehead was hidden by my black bangs, and I sighed in relief that I was able to keep the gung-ho persona alive. He shook his head a few times with his eyes closed, got up from his chair, and placed a twenty on his empty plate. I thought I heard him mutter “kids” as he stomped off. Before he disappeared out of the door, he turned around and pointed at me with a demanding finger, “It’s a big match tomorrow, kid, just as big as your old classic. I expect the same conclusion and nothing else from you.”
I know he didn’t like me; I was the replacement for his injured son. A massive explosion erupted in his cockpit during his semi-final match last year because he was stupid enough to only use a Moruken cooling system with his Gull2 boosters and jumping jacked up to 16 against an opponent with an 81G grenade launcher and other high-heat, rapid-firing weapons. He was seriously burnt, but fortunately the rescue crew arrived on time to save his life. I was only a mechanic back then, but his father immediately dragged me to the Board and told them that I was also a signed pilot so that I can pick up where his son left off. I can remember what he told me as we hurried down the hall to the hangar after the Board agreed to allow me to compete in his son’s place.
“All those sponsors and cameras want to see some victories, kid, and you’re the only one I know who can do the job competently.”
“But, I’ve never even completed a simulation before, Mr. DeBrey! I’ve only tested them for Thomas to use! And, Thomas is in critical condition…aren’t you going to see him?”
“I heard from Thomas that you got a lot of video games at home, boy, most of them AC titles. And don’t think that just because I’m old, I don’t know that MS-type equipment is available for those games. I’ve seen you move Tommy’s Raevengard into the field for him before he tests it, so you’re qualified. Unless you desire to give me back your wrench and head out the back door, you’ll comply and pilot Tommy’s machine. You have no choice but to help a man out.”
In reality, he was helping me. I was a highschool drop-out because I’ve always sought a career piloting ACs in worldwide competitions, so I spent all of my time carefully studying manuals and watching every single AC match that was on the TV and the radio. I don’t even like newspapers, but I forced myself to pick up a copy everyday just to see if there’s an article or two in it about Armored Cores. My mother was too busy and tired from her three jobs and didn’t have the strength to spare me a wise word or two about how foolish I was, and so I threw myself further and further into piloting my way to my dream. I don’t even think she noticed that I never seemed to have any homework to do.
As time passed by and all of my highschool peers entered their latter years of college, my family financial situation got worse and my mother finally found the breath to tell me to get a job. My father is a professional money-loser because he dwells in casino chairs, so we never bothered to ask him for any help. I couldn’t find any jobs because I didn’t have a highschool diploma, now that it’s a requirement, so I had to feed my mother many lies about a job that pays semi-annually everyday when I came home without a paycheck. “Tired from a hard day’s work,” I excused myself and headed for the arcade to clear my mind. The arcade was just a few blocks away, and I often go there to play Street Fighter: Last Generation.
I kicked the arcade machine lightly, just enough to get my anger out and not break the machine for fear of getting caught, as I lost to Shin Akuma for the 43rd time. If only the damn combo meter filled up faster! A Shinryuken could’ve done it! I had two cX of coins left in my pocket, and, feeling defeated, decided to leave the arcade to get myself something good to sip on. But something from a distance caught my eyes as I turned toward the exit. A huge screen and two booths with neon lights exploding from every corner glared in my direction. The words “ARMORED CORE: CRIMSON RHAPSODY” blazed across the top of the towering screen. I ran to the thing as if I had T2 boosters on my back.
The setup of the arcade machine looked like that of DDR’s, with a huge screen in the middle and booths for two players. The sim. had a screen that was almost as tall as I was. Each booth, which was separated by a few meters, contained a circular platform wrapped around by plexiglass panels, and inside the oversized tube rested many buttons, switches, and control sticks. It looks like an AC's cockpit…and almost like the controller I have at home for my older AC games...except 100 times better! I was in utter awe and stood frozen stiff, marveling at the creation like a kid with a sweet tooth drooling at the sight of a mountain of candy. I jammed my two cX into the machine without another thought. The front panel of the 1P booth slid smoothly across and granted me entrance.
“Player 1, design AC,” a robotic female voice announced. A ticker was eating time away on the bottom of the screen, and I rushed my AC’s build to the best of my ability while trying to figure out which buttons to use.
Umm… Hornet…98E2…Loris…93A2…Birdie2…Kokuh, no, Monju…81G…
“TIME OVER.”
"WHAT?! I’m not even done!"
“Auto-selecting equipment…AC completed.”
What? This thing doesn’t even have Amino! It’s gunna be as flimsy as paper! Kujaku’s okay…but my AC might get a bit hot while boosting…ah…lucky I got the Ragora to suppress those temperatures. And at least the Fairy was selected for its left-hand weapon…nice, I also got some inside rockets…too bad it’s not napalm, but they’ll do.
“Select difficulty level.”
“How about you select Thomas?” a voice from the rear projected. A person about my age hopped onto the 2P platform. He had dark brown hair and golden highlights that rose up to the tips of his spikes. His radiant eyes spelled “confidence” from every angle, and he shot me an arrogrant look.
“Player 2 AC completed.” He flashed me a smile and I was stunned as if I got hit by an LX blast. How the heck did he make his AC within seconds? Is he a pro at this game?
“Watch me fly.” he declared and motioned his head for me to shift my eyes to the screen. I turned to the screen to see a white AC with LH89F legs, Macaque arms, two Wyrms, two hangar HP handguns, Cronus core, and Cicada head. “You’ve got an interesting close range overheater, but I forecast a deluge of shells that will rain upon your AC and keep it quivering on all fours.” He shot me another smirk.
I quickly wiped off a river of sweat that gained speed as it descended down from my forehead. I then turned around a full circle to make sure that I knew where all the controls were. He better not be the Shin Akuma of this game...
"Players, please stand by."
“Yo, Roland. Repeat what I just said 5 seconds ago.”
I tried to joke around not only to pretend that I’m getting bored of the conversation, but also to divert my attention away from my worries. “You told me to put ‘Deadlegs’ in my AC, right?”
“Ha-ha-larious. How about I rip your contract and allow you to make a living as a stand-up comic?”
Continuing to play it cool and reassure myself, I quickly replied. “Yea, yea. We don’t need to talk here, DeBrey, I know who I’m up against and what I gotta do.” The small army of sweat that marched down my forehead was hidden by my black bangs, and I sighed in relief that I was able to keep the gung-ho persona alive. He shook his head a few times with his eyes closed, got up from his chair, and placed a twenty on his empty plate. I thought I heard him mutter “kids” as he stomped off. Before he disappeared out of the door, he turned around and pointed at me with a demanding finger, “It’s a big match tomorrow, kid, just as big as your old classic. I expect the same conclusion and nothing else from you.”
I know he didn’t like me; I was the replacement for his injured son. A massive explosion erupted in his cockpit during his semi-final match last year because he was stupid enough to only use a Moruken cooling system with his Gull2 boosters and jumping jacked up to 16 against an opponent with an 81G grenade launcher and other high-heat, rapid-firing weapons. He was seriously burnt, but fortunately the rescue crew arrived on time to save his life. I was only a mechanic back then, but his father immediately dragged me to the Board and told them that I was also a signed pilot so that I can pick up where his son left off. I can remember what he told me as we hurried down the hall to the hangar after the Board agreed to allow me to compete in his son’s place.
“All those sponsors and cameras want to see some victories, kid, and you’re the only one I know who can do the job competently.”
“But, I’ve never even completed a simulation before, Mr. DeBrey! I’ve only tested them for Thomas to use! And, Thomas is in critical condition…aren’t you going to see him?”
“I heard from Thomas that you got a lot of video games at home, boy, most of them AC titles. And don’t think that just because I’m old, I don’t know that MS-type equipment is available for those games. I’ve seen you move Tommy’s Raevengard into the field for him before he tests it, so you’re qualified. Unless you desire to give me back your wrench and head out the back door, you’ll comply and pilot Tommy’s machine. You have no choice but to help a man out.”
In reality, he was helping me. I was a highschool drop-out because I’ve always sought a career piloting ACs in worldwide competitions, so I spent all of my time carefully studying manuals and watching every single AC match that was on the TV and the radio. I don’t even like newspapers, but I forced myself to pick up a copy everyday just to see if there’s an article or two in it about Armored Cores. My mother was too busy and tired from her three jobs and didn’t have the strength to spare me a wise word or two about how foolish I was, and so I threw myself further and further into piloting my way to my dream. I don’t even think she noticed that I never seemed to have any homework to do.
As time passed by and all of my highschool peers entered their latter years of college, my family financial situation got worse and my mother finally found the breath to tell me to get a job. My father is a professional money-loser because he dwells in casino chairs, so we never bothered to ask him for any help. I couldn’t find any jobs because I didn’t have a highschool diploma, now that it’s a requirement, so I had to feed my mother many lies about a job that pays semi-annually everyday when I came home without a paycheck. “Tired from a hard day’s work,” I excused myself and headed for the arcade to clear my mind. The arcade was just a few blocks away, and I often go there to play Street Fighter: Last Generation.
I kicked the arcade machine lightly, just enough to get my anger out and not break the machine for fear of getting caught, as I lost to Shin Akuma for the 43rd time. If only the damn combo meter filled up faster! A Shinryuken could’ve done it! I had two cX of coins left in my pocket, and, feeling defeated, decided to leave the arcade to get myself something good to sip on. But something from a distance caught my eyes as I turned toward the exit. A huge screen and two booths with neon lights exploding from every corner glared in my direction. The words “ARMORED CORE: CRIMSON RHAPSODY” blazed across the top of the towering screen. I ran to the thing as if I had T2 boosters on my back.
The setup of the arcade machine looked like that of DDR’s, with a huge screen in the middle and booths for two players. The sim. had a screen that was almost as tall as I was. Each booth, which was separated by a few meters, contained a circular platform wrapped around by plexiglass panels, and inside the oversized tube rested many buttons, switches, and control sticks. It looks like an AC's cockpit…and almost like the controller I have at home for my older AC games...except 100 times better! I was in utter awe and stood frozen stiff, marveling at the creation like a kid with a sweet tooth drooling at the sight of a mountain of candy. I jammed my two cX into the machine without another thought. The front panel of the 1P booth slid smoothly across and granted me entrance.
“Player 1, design AC,” a robotic female voice announced. A ticker was eating time away on the bottom of the screen, and I rushed my AC’s build to the best of my ability while trying to figure out which buttons to use.
Umm… Hornet…98E2…Loris…93A2…Birdie2…Kokuh, no, Monju…81G…
“TIME OVER.”
"WHAT?! I’m not even done!"
“Auto-selecting equipment…AC completed.”
What? This thing doesn’t even have Amino! It’s gunna be as flimsy as paper! Kujaku’s okay…but my AC might get a bit hot while boosting…ah…lucky I got the Ragora to suppress those temperatures. And at least the Fairy was selected for its left-hand weapon…nice, I also got some inside rockets…too bad it’s not napalm, but they’ll do.
“Select difficulty level.”
“How about you select Thomas?” a voice from the rear projected. A person about my age hopped onto the 2P platform. He had dark brown hair and golden highlights that rose up to the tips of his spikes. His radiant eyes spelled “confidence” from every angle, and he shot me an arrogrant look.
“Player 2 AC completed.” He flashed me a smile and I was stunned as if I got hit by an LX blast. How the heck did he make his AC within seconds? Is he a pro at this game?
“Watch me fly.” he declared and motioned his head for me to shift my eyes to the screen. I turned to the screen to see a white AC with LH89F legs, Macaque arms, two Wyrms, two hangar HP handguns, Cronus core, and Cicada head. “You’ve got an interesting close range overheater, but I forecast a deluge of shells that will rain upon your AC and keep it quivering on all fours.” He shot me another smirk.
I quickly wiped off a river of sweat that gained speed as it descended down from my forehead. I then turned around a full circle to make sure that I knew where all the controls were. He better not be the Shin Akuma of this game...
"Players, please stand by."
