you will never find true happiness

might be liches on some'a you bitches...

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 08:24:25 GMT

...but there ain't no liches on meee.

By which I mean I just stayed up past four in the morning to beat Baldur's Gate 2. Which has been eating my soul. Apparently I do still have a huge dorky crush on this game.

Throne of Bhaal, here I come.

ETA: Seven months since I last posted, wow. Uh. Happy day-after-independence-day?

Y HELO THAR ENDGAME

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 03:04:58 GMT

BWAHAHAHA EAT IT, GLaDOS.

Oh shit I have to be awake and alert in less than six hours fuuuuck.

HAPPY NEW YEAR MAGETS

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 17:52:08 GMT

“Bam, headshot,” Zoey mutters under her breath, watching the Witch flop back, dead. Her Australian accent could use some work, probably.

Louis is giving her a funny look. “Team Fortress?” he asks. “Really?”

She ejects the expended casing, reloads. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” she says, switching back to the pistols.

They fall silent for a few minutes—not that it’s quiet, with all the gunfire and screaming and assorted zombie noises. A Smoker grabs Francis and Zoey backs up, swinging the rifle off her shoulder again, puts one bullet through his tongue, another through his head.

“Thanks for standing still, wankah!” Louis yells, off to her left.

She finds it vaguely unfair that he does the accent so much better.

Bill gives them both an exasperated look and breaks out the pipe bomb.

They make a run for the saferoom, Louis covering with a few wild bursts of gunfire. Francis drags him in and slams the door shut, barely missing his feet.

There’s a few minutes’ relative quiet as they reload and bandage themselves, listening to the (slightly farther away, now) assorted zombie noises.

“So what’s your primary?” Zoey asks, because she can’t not, now. “Demoman? Pyro?”

Louis grins.

TWO GREAT FLAVORS TASTE GREAT TOGETHER amirite?

...z-zombies

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 02:51:32 GMT

Speaking of things I probably shouldn't 'ship...

Also this game is awesome. ♥ zombies. ♥ ♥ badass AI.

I'm all of, like, six minutes in, playing as Louis, and I think I'm in love. With the game. Louis is pretty awesome, too, but...game.

Also happy christmas and new year and whatnot!

last week I exercised my rights as an American

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 21:43:23 GMT

So I think I might be beyond help. I think I'm slashing Far Cry 2.

Motherfuck.

...

...

In unrelated news: Obama, fuck yeah!

christ fucking jesus how does this even happen?

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 16:28:13 GMT

So apparently my cousin got arrested t'other day.

It gets better.

Apparently, she went to the Republican National Convention to protest capitalism.

Capitalism.

Seriously. Her dad had to pay bail. And now they're hoping that the state'll drop the charges, else she has to go back for more hearings and it'll all wind up on her record.

This is so fucking funny I don't even know where to start.

(I think the saddest/funniest part is where my aunt is proud of her. Proud. Ahahaha...)

...well crap

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 15:14:04 GMT

...another addition to Things Fangses is No Longer Allowed to Do in University:

- Not allowed to read Cable & Deadpool in the University library. I will giggle like a maniac and I am incapable of snickering quietly enough to avoid offending the librarians.

- Same goes for youtubing Whose Line clips. Dammit.

well, crap

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 13:07:52 GMT

So I just completely lost any hope of taking my calculus class seriously.

I finally realized what the professor's accent and syntax reminded me of and spent the rest of the class mentally reformatting his lecture into Yoda-speak.

"Get this solution directly, we cannot. Rewrite the problem, we must."

this year I resolve to fail less

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 04:50:48 GMT

[is now twenty-one -->]

daaamn

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 03:56:15 GMT

Three years, tehluggage. Can you believe it?

...pretty impressive, I think.

h-holy shit guys

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Mon, 05 May 2008 13:48:20 GMT

So, uh, I have this thing. Where I don't cry or sniffle or even get teary-eyed over anything. Books, movies, computer games, you name it. And I've always sort of, y'know, been confused about people who do. Just doesn't make sense to me.

I picked up a used PSP from a friend for a price a little south of "dirt cheap" and okay, Crisis Core 'cos I've never played a Final Fantasy before and I have a soft spot for Zack. And I just beat it while waiting for my truck to get inspected. Horrible timing? Horrible timing.

Anyway, I whupped Genesis' ass (easiest fight in the game, whut) and then sat back and let the cutscenes roll. Had to pause somewhere most of the way through the Lazard/Genesis scene to, y'know, pay and drive home, which was a really good thing because holy shit the entire rest of the ending killed me.

Cissnei. Aerith. Tseng, jesus, I didn't mean to 'ship him with Zack, it just sort of happened. And then Cloud. And Angeal. And CLOUD. And...tech demo for the original FFVII on the PS3. Hm.

Vital stats: level thirty-seven, twenty-five percent of supplemental missions complete, eighteen hours, thirty-one minutes total.

And I'm still amused that I had way more trouble making Aerith's flower wagons than I did beating the last boss.

my feet hurt

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 01:57:04 GMT

Today was not a good day.

In a nutshell, it was kind of a clusterfuck. Screw universal health insurance, someone needs to reform our hospice system!

I was on call last night, ten PM to six AM. The pager goes off at five-thirty, half an hour before my alarm was set. I hear echo-level call and yeah, okay, hauling ass.

So this guy - seventy years old, patriarch of one of the big Cambodian clans around here - has stroked out god knows how many times in the past week. Afterwards, he came home to die, because apparently that's what his religion says to do.

The doctors gave him twelve hours. That was three days ago.

He died probably around midnight, one o'clock this morning. His family - something like a dozen strong - washed the body and performed the funeral services. Then, not knowing what to do with the body, they called 911.

That was the first mistake.

Once 911 figured out he was pulseless and very much lacking in the breathing department - on account of having died hours earlier - they instructed the family to begin CPR. It was still in progress when we arrived, so naturally we were obligated to take over.

At this point, half the family is in hysterics, watching us hammer on this dead guy's chest and force tubes down his throat. One of them says he's got a DNR, but no one can produce a hard copy, so our medic finally raises our hospital on the radio and asks for permission to cease and desist.

All told, it took about an hour from getting paged out to finishing up on-scene.

This country fucking sucks at in-home end-of-life care. That family should have had a number to call, someone to pick up the body, a funeral home, something other than 911. Which, for the record, is designed with live people in mind. Not dead bodies. Occasionally our live people become dead bodies en route, but we try to avoid that, we really do.

I can't think of anything offhand that sucks more than that did.

Unless, of course, it's the fact that that whole incident was over around seven o'clock, at which point I sort of stuck my head under the shower, then changed my shirt and went to my other job for another double-shift.

semi-monthly fic? sure, why not.

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 03:04:15 GMT

So I just got around to reading 188 and 189 of Kateikyo Hitman Reborn and hoo, the awesome-level just got cranked up to eleven. Or - no, the entire TYL arc jacked it up around twelve to start with. Thirteen, maybe? I dunno.

In any case, I was so excited I drabbled myself. What.

He is in every steel-girdered ceiling, every concrete hallway and metal-plated wall. This building belongs to him, iron-boiler heart, circuit-board brain, hollow corridor bones, cabled muscle and piping veins.

Shouichi is never more powerful than here and now.

It was a mistake for them to retaliate like this, a mistake to challenge him here, in the base built for him, from him.

He can hear every heartbeat’s indecision, every caught breath and muted footstep, and here, he acts. Power thrums through him because he owns this battle. Systematically, he narrows his margins of error, bearing down on the probability of loss, arranging all further battles to the greatest advantage.

The Vongola are not like the Millefiore (strongest alone, weakest when forced into cooperation, ambition-hungry and split solidly down the middle). The Vongola prize their unity, their greatest strength in each other—that is why the Millefiore have been picking them off one by one, isolating them from their own and slowly driving them into the ground.

Solid strategy.

He hears Storm’s cry like his own (their shared element lends him false empathy) as he lets the Rain fall away, Gamma’s report of their earlier conflict still fresh in his mind.

This is his element, as much as Storm is, a whirling awareness of every square inch of the tunnels and chambers that surround him.

This is Shouichi’s battleground now.

I didn't even particularly like Shouichi until this chapter. And I'm definitely bandwagoning Spanner - is my soft spot for badass geeks showing yet?

braining with the wtf, no really

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 04:02:36 GMT

...AKA More Obscure Genfic, Now With Mind-Boggling Subtext.

Still ME, still spoilers - more for Noveria than for anything else. Uh, tehluggage says this doesn't suck?

The One does not hate the pale-tasting biped who rips into her mind, searching for information the One has no reason to conceal, lost in grief for her Many, deaf to her cries.

It hurts, this unwelcome invasion, but there is something beautiful in the shape of the alien’s mind—asari, it calls itself, and the One knows the word from before she hatched. The One reaches back, tentative, wary, tasting the unfamiliar patterns of this new species.

This asari is broken, the delicate coils of thought and memory turned back on themselves, twisted to another’s will and crying out in silent agony with every step it takes—it is many times older than the One, and it was wise and compassionate, once.

The One cries out as it plunges into her mind, ruthlessly single-minded now, in the moment of its victory.

But as their minds mingle and blur, the One learns much, unable to shrink away from the violent, uninvited contact.

The asari is One among its own people, protector of its own Many. The word Matriarch means nothing to the One, but she understands in spite of herself. What she would not do to have her Many back, to hold their song close to her own and keep them safe from harm—

It is the same instinct that drove the asari, once, before its song was twisted and broken, before something ancient and ugly shattered its bright mind. The One, heir to the memories and knowledge of countless generations of Ones before her, remembers that menace, old and singing with stale malice, and it makes her shake.

The One sees their faithless silence ripped ragged through the asari, their return writ large on the beautiful chaos of the mind pressing into hers. And it is curiosity more than compassion that moves her in that moment—she sings, low and sweet, as she would to a smallest Many, fitting her wordless query into the asari’s shattered consciousness, conveying her awe and sorrow that such an exquisite being could be brought so low.

She tastes shock, metallic against her antennae, and the contact is severed abruptly, unceremoniously, the sudden lack of connection deafening against the One’s mind.

She retreats into herself, her own song quiet against her skin. The asari One cannot hear her like this, cannot understand her without the primitive blending of their dissimilar minds and the One is too young, too weak to initiate contact.

Time passes—the Many cry out and she hears them, cannot keep herself from answering, even though they are deaf to her, blind with rage—and the asari returns.

It brings others with it, its own kind and intruders, synthetics void of song or pattern, sleek voids against the One’s well-honed perception.

And when the Other cuts them down, swift and brutal as a krogan butchering Many, the One sings the asari’s dirge, feeling its mind go incandescent, shadows of its former glory lit up suddenly, a symphony of strength and wisdom the One can only hope to someday match.

As its song dies out, beauty flaring fitfully against the backdrop of its own death, the One reaches out with all her strength.

Be remembered, she sings, pressing close as the asari slips away. This One will remember.

...I think I 'ship that now. No really what the hell.

MY CAPSLOCK IS STUCK

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 03:20:15 GMT

HEY GUYS HEY GUYS LOOK AT THIS

i AM DOUBLE-POSTING BUT THE CAUSE IS JUST, MY FRIENDS. THE CAUSE IS FUCKING JUST.

....EEEEEEEEE!

obscure genfic? obscure genfic.

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 15:20:18 GMT

This is my I Aten't Ded ficpost. Hi.

Mass Effect - Shepard and Anderson, sort of right at the end of the game. Spoilery.

“Commander Shepard.”

The medbay is crowded, but some kind soul had managed to set aside a private room for the hero of the day. It’s cramped, but it’s not the organized chaos of the main floor, silent but for the steady beep of the monitors.

Shepard’s about as pale as his sheets, doped up on enough painkillers to knock out a krogan, a salarian nurse marking down his vitals. He’s still mostly conscious, though, bright green eyes sleepy and unguarded.

“Cap’n,” he murmurs.

The salarian excuses himself as Anderson takes a seat next to the hospital cot. “How are you feeling, Shepard?” he asks. “That was quite a beating you took.”

“Feels floaty,” the Commander admits. “Hate drugs.”

“You’d be feeling a lot worse without them,” Anderson reminds him.

Fractured clavicle secondary to multiple gunshot wounds, complicated by four broken ribs and a truly impressive hemothorax, according to the asari in charge of Shepard’s treatment. Anderson doesn’t point that out, though. Shepard’s experienced enough that he could probably rattle the list off without asking. If he weren’t drugged to the ears, at least.

Shepard blinks, making a visible effort to fight off the meds. “Meant to say thanks, sir,” he manages after a moment. “Couldn’t’ve done it otherwise.”

“My pleasure,” Anderson replies. His knuckles are bruised, but Udina’s face is a lot worse and he can’t remember the last time he actually got to hit someone. After a while, he’d forgotten how good it felt.

That gets him a whispery laugh. “You punched him out, didn’t you,” Shepard asks, with a crooked smirk.

“Had to get to his console,” Anderson points out, shrugging. “He wasn’t just going to step aside peacefully.”

“Bet that felt good,” Shepard says sleepily. “Been wanting to do that since I met him. Beat me to it.”

Anderson shakes his head. “I think he’s going to try to have me court-martialed,” he replies, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. “They’re already scheduling you for a meeting with the Council as soon as they can get you on your feet again—”

“Gimme a day’r two,” the Commander murmurs. “They gonna listen to me now?”

“We can only hope,” Anderson agrees. “It’ll be informal, though—no speeches and no medals. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Good,” Shepard says, feelingly.

It’s pretty obvious that it’s hard work for the Commander to stay awake now, let alone hold up his end of a conversation, and Anderson stands up. “Enjoy your time off, soldier,” he tells Shepard, gingerly patting the uninjured shoulder.

“Always do,” he hears Shepard mutter as he leaves.

FANGSES has gained +6 Geek Points

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 02:52:02 GMT

So I now have Proper EMS Uniform Pants, complete with fiddly loops for trauma shears. Wow. At least they're comfy.

That, however, is not the point of this post.

I'm well aware that a fair amount of my flist hails from the ever-expanding and slightly batshit Naruto fandom - which, to be fair, gets its inspiration from the ever-expanding and fairly batshit Naruto manga. But I digress. Point is, I haven't read the manga since, oh, around chapter three forty five or thereabouts. It's just not holding my attention anymore, and from what I hear, it just keeps going downhill from there. Renaming the series to 'Sasuke', you say? FAIL, Kishimoto, FAAAAIL.

Bottom line is, I haven't written anything new and Naruto-y since...holy shit, not since May. And I can't guarantee as I'll ever get around to writing anything else Naruto-y in the future, or even that I'll ever bother to get up to date with the newer stuff unless there's SURPRAISE TEAM TEN AWESOME in which case all bets are off, so. I'm sorry, but it's probably time for me to face the music.

You may now commence defriending at will! I don't do drama and will not cry, I promise.

TO THOSE FEW OF YOU WHO DID NOT FRIEND ME SOLELY FOR THE NARUTOFIC: Hi. Would you be interested in more KotOR, Mass Effect, Jade Empire, Assassin's Creed, and/or ridiculous crossovers between any and all of the above? Also, obscure mangas, movies, and random-ass TV shows.

And in other news, since I am currently swamped at work, starting up new courses, and working on applications to transfer back into college next fall, now is obviously the perfect time to start revamping the journal, posting new fic, and becoming more active in my shiny new fandoms. Hurr.

so I bet you thought I'd forgotten. HAH.

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 03:46:55 GMT

I had a note I was going to put here and it was long and witty and probably awesome but I don't know what I did with it. FAIL.

I also had this mostly written about a week ago but then I panicked and rewrote, like, the entire second half of it. Hopefully it doesn't suck!

...edited on account of HTML fail. *headdesk*

She never really smiles.

That’s the first thing he notices about Captain Anderson’s new XO—her mouth’ll quirk a little, maybe, and then she’ll shake her head and turn away—but she never really grins. Or laughs.

It’s kind of sad, he remembers thinking. She’s got an awfully pretty face, with that bright red hair and those vivid green eyes. She’d probably be gorgeous if she ever broke that stoic military mask.

But he supposes she’s got a right to make whatever expressions she likes, being a Commander and a war hero and all.

He still wonders what it’d take to make Shepard crack a smile.

***

She’s competent as fuck-all, to borrow one of Joker’s favorite phrases.

He’s watched her talk desperate men out of massacres, take on impossible odds with that big shotgun of hers, mow down geth and their allies across more planets than he cares to count.

And it’s not just that, either. It’s in how she talks to the crew, drawing them out in conversation, quieting their fears, preparing them for the next challenge. All without a break in that military stoicism.

It’s pretty impressive, he thinks. Captain Anderson used to get by on bull-headed camaraderie alone.

So it sort of startles him when she doesn’t talk to him like she does to the others.

***

She talks to him like he’s a friend, not a Lieutenant.

It’s been a while since anyone did that—he’s gotten used to it, enough years of military service and you sort of forget you’re anything else—and it catches him off-guard.

He takes a certain amount of…something—comfort? Amusement?—from the fact that it seems to surprise her almost as much as it does him.

For his part, well. He understands attraction—he’s never met anyone quite like Commander Shepard before—and it’s pretty hard to miss that he’s attracted to her.

Honestly, he sort of wonders what kind of guy wouldn’t be.

***

She makes him worry.

Which is patently ridiculous—given sufficient motivation, she could probably snap him in half.

As Wrex had pointed out, he remembers with a certain amount of chagrin.

And she hardly needs him to look out for her, not when she’s already got the entire rest of the crew dedicating themselves to watching her back, and most of them handier with a firearm than him.

But he learned long ago that just because a thing was stupid didn’t mean people didn’t do it.

So he watches the snow fall out past the hangar-bay doors and waits for them to come back.

***

She chooses him.

He remembers scrambling to get the nuke armed, shaking his head and thinking that this wasn’t where he wanted to die, not here, not in a stinking, marshy trench designed for the sole purpose of breeding krogan.

And he’s really not ready to die, he thinks, but neither is Ashley and if one of them’s got to go, well—

The deep, floor-rattling BOOM of Shepard’s shotgun right then was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

Of course, the sound of Saren’s little rocket-platform was a good deal less welcome, but they scraped themselves off the floor and got the hell out of there. She’d hauled him onto the Normandy and then they’d both collapsed onto the floor of the cargo bay.

I couldn’t—, she says, and stops.

She doesn’t look like Commander Shepard right then, swearing under her breath and swiping at her eyes with a gloved hand.

***

She never stops fighting.

He doesn’t know anyone else who’d stand up to the Council like that, would snap in Ambassador Udina’s face, pulling herself back together in the wake of Virmire.

It’s almost frightening to see her fold up afterwards, head cradled in her hands as she flops back against the locker, but then he remembers that she’s more than just Commander Shepard, now. She’s also a tired, frustrated woman upon whom the fate of the galaxy rests.

He’s not much good at optimism or offering comfort, but he does his best, gives her a hand up—

The ship lurches around them and all of a sudden he’s sort of got her pinned up against the lockers—her face is so close, eyebrows raised, eyes wary but not warning him off and what the hell, he thinks, why not?

He leans in.

***

She’s simply incredible.

There really isn’t any other way to say it.

It takes her all of an hour to work her way around Normandy’s lockdown, waiting tense and ready in the cockpit as Joker fires up the engines and gets them the hell out of there.

And it’s like something’s come alive inside her again, she’s back with them, once again quietly confident of their eventual victory.

But there’s still so much ahead of them, even—or maybe especially—now that they’re coming up on Ilos, catching up to Saren, and every day carries the risk of death or failure or worse—he’s never really thought about all the things he’d like to do before he dies, because that’s a sure-fire plan towards becoming the next one to kick the bucket, but there’s always that one thing, just that one thing.

That’s why he finds himself hesitating outside of Shepard’s quarters once Normandy is well on her way to the Mu relay and Ilos.

***

And she can smile, he finds out.

It’s a funny expression on her, wry and a little crooked just before he finally kisses her—he can feel it against his lips when she pulls him in, one hand wound firmly in the collar of his fatigues.

That’s the other thing about Shepard, he thinks. When she decides to do something, it’s never by halves.

They hit the bed and lose most of the clothes right off, and—well. It’s kind of messy and rushed for his tastes, a little desperate around the edges and they don’t have much time but damn, he finds himself thinking, why didn’t we try this sooner?

And then he sort of stops thinking entirely. In a good way.

She’s up and getting dressed while he’s still trying to get his brain back in gear—a bit of a blow to the pride, that, but she’s Shepard, after all.

I’m, he says. Stops. Tries again. I’ve never met anyone quite like—

The staticky crackle of the ship’s intercom interrupts him. One of these days, he’s honestly going to strangle Joker a little.

***

She survives.

More than that, she wins—fighting uphill against appalling odds, jumping the relay in the fucking Mako, rallying the Alliance to come play cavalry to the Council’s flagging defense, and finally kicking Saren’s turian ass clean off the Presidium tower itself.

The tower’s going to pieces around their ears—at least, that’s what it sounds like—and massive chunks of Reaper come juggernauting through the walls, shattering the heavy pillars like brittle ice—I guess Joker came through, Kaidan thinks, and then he’s a little too busy trying not to get mashed under thousands of tons of Reaper carcass.

He takes a whack on the head and things go all swimmy and unpleasant—Wrex drags him another few meters, under a chunk of ceiling that’s fallen solidly against one of the pillars, a makeshift shelter.

Shepard—, he says, struggling to his feet, because if she’s hurt, if she's dead—

The krogan shoves him back down. Don’t be an idiot, Wrex growls, succinctly level-headed.

Fortunately for all of them, it doesn’t take the hastily assembled search and rescue teams long to find them.

And she’s guarding her side, and there’s a pretty nasty cut gushing blood down the side of her face and neck, staining her armor, but she’s alive, she’s on her feet even.

That’s enough, he thinks. That’s plenty.

***

It’s not an ending, not really—there’s still the looming threat of the Reapers, an ugly unknown hanging over all their heads—but it’s happy enough, in spite of the heavy casualties they’d taken wiping out the geth, taking down Sovereign.

He’s okay with that.

They take a few days to get things splinted and stitched up, iron out a few piddling details with the Council, pick up a few medals, listen to a few interminably boring speeches—fortunately, all they had to do was stand there and look pretty. Shepard and Anderson did the talking—and then it’s back out again.

She sits them all down again in the comm bay, outlines the situation. It’s not really news to any of them—Reapers, threat, wipe out all known life, no one else she’d rather have for a crew, dangerous mission, not getting paid enough for that kind of risk—and he’s pretty sure no one has to think about it too much before agreeing to stay on.

This time, they’ll take the Reapers on by their own terms, bring the fight to their doorstep. This time, they’ll have full support from both Council and Alliance.

Hell, he thinks, looking at her, in her element, outlining the mission ahead in quick, clear terms, remembering her in battle, those Reapers won’t know what’s hit them.

***

She waylays him later that evening, just after shift-change.

I could get used to this, he thinks.

...why hello there, December

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 04:15:07 GMT

Long story short, I caved and have acquired an xBox 360 and a copy of Mass Effect.

This, however, is not news. What is news is the fact that I just beat it.

It's probably worth noting that this is all tehluggage's fault. Also, I had a crack OTP before I even bought the game - Tali/Liara, because it is made of geekery and win and xenoporn.

Bioware continues to be fucking awesome. I finished the game in a little over twenty hours, but that was the bare-bones, no sidequesting, only-made-it-to-level-thirty-five playthrough I always do first.

Basic plot is awesome and also giving me all sorts of fascinating crossover ideas. Because the Reapers? Are definitely the True Sith. And I never thought I'd be saying this but thank you Obsidian, for making such appalling hash out of K2's ending. Siccing Revan on the Reapers would probably not end well but hey, that's why god invented the "destroy droid" power, right?

Anyway, I played through as a female infiltrator (the sniper rifle is our frieeend, yes), colonist and war hero. Eden Prime was a piece o' cake, once I'd actually figured out how to use the controller and, y'know, zoom in to aim the rifle, and the missions on the Citadel were entertaining.

After that, things got fun. I started out on one of the uncharted planets looking for Liara - she wasn't there, but a nest of the sandworm things were. Whoo, that was fun. Anyway, when I actually made it to Therium, things went pretty smoothly.

And then I made the monumental mistake of attempting Noveria next. Twenty deaths in a row before I slunk off, reloaded an earlier save, and went for Feros first. Ow, my pride. That last fight, with the Matriarch and her Huntresses and her geth was totally not designed with snipers in mind.

So I beat a quick retreat, did Feros, got some better weapons an' ammo, leveled up a whole bunch, got my only evil points in the entire playthrough (totally not my fault I only have five grenades!) and then tried Noveria again. Took 'em all out in the first try. Soproud.

Also, mind-controlling sentient plants. For the win?

After Therium, Feros, and Noveria, all that was left was Virmire. Otherwise known as the Planet of Character-Death-y DOOM. Just when I was really starting to like Ashley, too. It's kind of like the Rakatan planet from K1, only longer and prettied up more. I still think it's funny that I ran that entire first part - the one you're supposed to do from the Mako - on foot, sniping everything from the safety of two hundred yards' distance.

Aaand then there was endgame. Woogh. Challenging, fun, a thoroughly good wrap-up of the plot, while still leaving plenty of room for ~~fic~~ a sequel. Also, hot sex scene. No lie.

...of course, I did have to do the entire final boss battle with nothing but a pistol. GodDAMMIT, Saren, get off the fucking ceiling.

CONCLUSION. This is a true BioWare game - the plot is fun, the characters are kickass, the romances are highly entertaining, the combat system is tough, but not impossible by any means, and the game as a whole is one hell of a ride. Also, the graphics are droolworthy. You should go out and buy it. And then write fic.

...also this was totally the right thing to do with I've got a project and a final in Calculus and a practical exam for my EMT recert all coming up on...Friday, Wednesday, and Saturday, respectively. *headdesk*

...uh.

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 02:46:57 GMT

...it's November again?

...

Pardon my French, but when the hell did that happen?

[<-- MADE OF FAIL]

askljhf HEROES!!1

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 02:03:14 GMT

Oh man. Oh maaan. The seventeenth century ain't gonna know what hit it! I'd almost feel sorry for Kensei. But. It's Hiro. ALSO HOLY SHIT KENSEI IS SARK my poor brain.

Claire needs more Zack. And Bennet officially owns that copy shop. Also, needs more Claude like NOW.

...does look like the older generation of heroes is getting picked off systematically - pro'ly Molly's Big Bad. That's Sulu and Ol' Lady Petrelli marked - Bennet'd be next, I suppose, depending on whether or not he counts, being non-powered an' all. Though we still don't know if Ol' Lady Petrelli has powers...

Yey, Andooooo!

And MOLLY HAS TWO DADDIES! Oh man did I call that or what. Mohinder's a bit twitchy, huh. And Parkman made detective! Albeit by cheating but hey, I'm down with that.

...ALKSJDSDI SNEAKY MOHINDER IS SNEAKY OH MY GOD t-teaming up with Bennet yesss.

The new characters look interesting, too - still wondering just exactly what Maya's power does, other than insta-kill. Which...isn't as useful as it sounds. And I'm guessing Claire's gonna get a shock - probably the bitchy cheerleader or the guy who nearly ran her over.

...Nathan's going crazy. This...does not surprise me as much as it should. Aaand now Claire has a stalker. Perfect.

In conclusion: lawl, convenient amnesia.

re: 3:10 to Yuma

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 01:54:01 GMT

Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.

In other news, 3:10 to Yuma was...better than I'd expected. Batman, Wash, Captain Jack Aubrey and that kid from ~~Big Trouble~~ Get Over It in a Western? Complete with snarky dialogue, fairly kickarse gunfights, plenty of subtext, and more crazy than you could shake a stick at.

So, I had today off - first time in ages, whoo - but I'm working tomorrow, and on call Sunday, then I have class and work Monday and so on and so forth.

...it's been over a month since I last updated this journal, huh.

FANGSES has gained a level!

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sun, 29 Jul 2007 10:31:32 GMT

So that birthday kinda sucked. Worked all day. Worked the day before. Am working today and tomorrow. One of my coworkers had a seizure, then flipped out when the pharmacist called the ambulance, then flipped out again when the manager pointed out that she'd have to see a doctor before she could come back to work. And the other boss wound up in the emergency room with a horrible allergic reaction to something or other, so I'm working on my own today, seven-thirty AM to five-thirty PM. And I was supposed to have tomorrow off, but it looks like that's not happening either.

And mysteriously, this birthday is still superior to my fifteenth. (I think it was my fifteenth.) At least I have my internets back?

W00t, twenty.

fuuuck

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 13:16:43 GMT

Okay, so. My internet sucks. I'm on 56K dialup, as a lot of you already know, and it fails hardcore, but it usually gets the job done (albeit in roughly eighteen times the time and frustration as any normal internet). Until now.

Friends, Livejournalers, countrymen, lend me your - wait, wrong speech. Uh, my dialup has given up the ghost and will take some time to fix. As things are now, I'm snatching a few minutes on the high speed downtown before work, which is...inefficient.

Long story short, my internets are dead. Hopefully they will be un-dead (less dead?) by the weekend (though still dialup, woe), when I will hopefully resume my normal internet-addict activities. Until then, don't break anything.

I don't use this icon enough.

double posting again

thesnarkysophist@gmail.com — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 09:00:55 GMT

I think I might be a horrible person.

I was on call tonight - again - and the tone went out at three-thirty AM (yes, I just got back) for a gunshot wound to the head. I get there, size the dude up, and the first thing I can think of is that those Hollywood special effects guys really do know what they're talking about. Guy managed to blow the back of his skull off pretty good, but his face was still more or less where it was supposed to be and he was breathing, which...surprised all of us, to be frank.

Sun's coming up and I'm still a little jittery off the adrenalin rush. Actually, I'm kinda hungry.

...yeah, probably a horrible person.

ETA: Oh, hey, it's my birthday in a week. Sweet.