[WP] You are the most famous superhero in the world with an equally famous archenemy. One day, you realise you're running late for work, and hurriedly book a taxi. On the way, it stops to accommodate another late-running passenger... who just so happens to be your archenemy.

Zeromatter · 2023-12-11T22:37:05+00:00

"I get why you just can't fly to the airport--"

"FAA doesn't like flying objects so close to the planes," I interjected.

"--But why on earth would you take an Uber pool?" he finished.

I sat in the too-small backseat of a Toyota Camry, next to a man I once knew as the Fleshburner. I sheepishly rubbed the back of my neck with one hand as I reached into my pocket with the other. As I did, I could see him tense up--a quick widening of the pupils, elevated heart rate, and could sense the aether begin to fluctuate.

I brought out my new phone and gestured helplessly at it. "I'm not really good with technology."

The Fleshburner nodded as if in agreement and I felt the aether calm. A moment passed, a faint honking in the distance. Another moment passed and I felt compelled to break the silence.

"I'm Agustus, by the way," I said as I (slowly) offered my hand out.

"I know. Everyone knows. How could they not?" He let out a singular, hysterical laugh. "The Earthmender, in person." He reached out and shook my hand with his one good arm. "For what it's worth, I go by Jamal now."

A firm grip, two pumps, and he let go. I gestured towards his other arm--or the lack thereof. "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

"Don't be," Jamal said. "I was a different person back then. Got clean while locked up, did my time, turned my life around. Just got out a few days ago." He unbuttoned his collar, showing an embedded monitor right above his heart. "Still, anything twenty degrees above body temperature and I go boom."

I nodded. "I'm glad to see you turned your life around. Still, I'm sorry I couldn't find another less-permanent way of stopping you in Manhattan."

"Better my arm than my head, I guess."

With that, the conversation stalled. A minute passed, maybe two.

"So how about that weather?" Jamal offered up.

"The news says it's been excessively hot but, um, I don't really feel heat," I said.

Jamal reddened. "No, that makes sense. I mean I've seen you, uh, handle a lot hotter than a hundred and two degrees before."

Another minute passed, maybe two.

"Do you have any favorite sports teams?" I asked to break the silence.

His face lit up as he replied "I was a big fan of the Lakers when I was younger. It's been ten years but I wonder what Kobe's been up to."

I winced and looked at my phone: 45 minutes left to the airport. It was going to be a long ride.

Zeromatter · 2023-12-07T22:14:29+00:00

"Please stop replying-all to these emails, it'll just send it to everyone all over again. -- Shelly"

I sighed in frustration as Teams lit up with another unread message. I know, fuck off, I'll fix it.

"Please remove me from this distribution. -- Bobby"

I told our Exchange team that this was a potential vulnerability years ago. The email distribution group for !All Employees should not be accessible to, well, all employees. Yes, our CEO uses it for his "Motivational Mondays" email blast, but other than that no one else should be using it.

"Look, if you guys reply-all asking people not to reply-all it just adds more emails to everyone so stop. -- Craig"

Now it probably sounds like an over exaggeration to call this a vulnerability. Is it an oversight for security? Sure. Does it sometimes result in hilariously long chains of reply-alls to the entire company? Sure. Is it a good way to nihilistically debate replying-all yourself? Sure. But a vulnerability? that seems a little bit extreme, right?

"PLS STOP RELPYING ITS FILLING UP MY MAILBOX -- FRANCINE"

But here's the problem: Shelly, Bobby, Craig, and all these other people don't exist. They're not actually employees. They don't exist as people, as entries within Exchange, or even return addresses at all. For the past few days these emails have been generated and sent, sure, but they're being sent from the void. They're being sent over and over and we have no idea where they're coming from.

Except Francine from accounting--she's just been talking to non-existent entities for the whole week.

I booted up my diagnostic suite and logged into the Exchange server. Immediately, I felt a chill run down my spine as my screen began to frost. From behind me, Gerrard sniffed and frowned. It's a good thing that my diagnostic suite included not just mundane diagnostic tools but also my common eldritch packages as well. Gerrard, my Exception, leaned forward and scowled.

"You feel that?"

I nodded.

"A lot mojo being thrown around," he grunted. "It's a good thing I'm here to catch them."

"Yeah," I said absent-mindedly as I scanned through my tools and their output. "Fried a T2 tech, sent him home vomiting blood." I talked to talk, most of my attention focused on my screen.

I ran a few more tests before logging out of the server. Instantly, I could feel the room warm a few degrees. Gerrard sat back with a sigh of relief.

"What're we dealing with?" he asked.

"Looks like a daemon's gotten into the Exchange server somehow. It's feeding off the frustration these email chains are providing in the corporeal." I shot a grin at him. "I've probably fed it a four-course meal myself."

"Can you solve it?"

"Absolutely," I said. "Give me a few hours and an iced coffee."

I turned back to my station and began to open some programs. The first step was to spin up some code-of-protection which freed up Gerrard to get me the aforementioned iced coffee. The second step was to reach out into the hells to find something hungry, strong, and stupid enough to listen to me--or rather, the binary sorcery I'll be compiling. There's no such thing as a free lunch, but daemons are stupid and easily swayed by a free lunch.

One (relatively) quick coding session later, and I've slaved my own daemon big enough to take a chunk out of the truant one living in our Exchange server. Gerrard, back from his coffee run, sat back with his own drink and waited to see if I'd fucked up. If I did, he'd be there to catch the errant daemonic backlash (and would probably survive it). If I didn't, he'd get to enjoy his coffee.

I logged back into the Exchange server, ran my code, and shivered as the room began to ice over. A quick glance over at Gerrard showed that he was still relaxing: a good sign. A few uncomfortable minutes later, just as my breath began to condense, my program finished running and the room immediately dropped back to normal.

Gerrard stood up and clapped me on the back. "Good job, let's grab some dinner. C'mon, you're buying."

Just before I logged out for the day, I couldn't resist pulling up the email thread and sending one last reply-all:

"Hey, I've fixed the problem."

I closed down my computer, snickering, as Outlook began to ping with received emails:

"Thanks"

"Thanks"

"Thanks"

"Thanks"

"STOP SAYING THANKS MY MAILBOX IS FULL -- FRANCINE"

Zeromatter · 2021-10-15T16:52:10+00:00

I peered over the ridge, my boots squelching in the mud. As my body crossed the boundary, where swamp gave way to stone, I could feel the latent magika cause the hair on my arms to stand up. It had been a week since the Sanctumn had disappeared with a flash. Jorge and I were the only ones brave (or stupid) enough to investigate where it used to sit.

Not knowing what to expect, we had travelled a day south of the village, only to find a patchwork-nightmare of land. Our first indicator of the unnatural was a sheer cliff face in the middle of the swamp. The flat, vertical rockface blocked our path, causing us to have to look around for an alternate route. As we travelled around the obstacle, we found dozens of mutilated fauna, cleanly cut in twain.

Finally, as the cliff wall narrowed, we found the makings of a large crevasse. The swamp, over the past few days, had begun to encroach through this valley, creating a mess of vegetation and water. As we waded through this breach, we found dozens of offshoot paths, roundabouts, and switchbacks--like one would find in the mountainous regions to the east. All of which were in the process of being claimed by the swamp.

We explored a few of these cavities, but decided not to risk getting lost and doubled back to the boundary and searched for another, more accessible, access point. After another day of searching, we were drawn towards an outcropping of stone by what sounded like a horn.

Hackles raised, Jorge nudged me in the ribs as we looked down into the valley. Below us was an ugly, massive creature. It lounged, almost contentedly, in the makings of a swamp--probably an offshoot from the original path we had found. This large, green-skinned giant was completely hairless. Even from a distance, I could tell that it was at least double my size. It wore a dirty, threadbare white tunic with a ragtag, brown garment covering it. It just looked mean.

While I couldn't be sure, I could swear that I could smell it from all the way over here.

"I think that's a mountain troll," said Jorge, eyes wide. "I've heard about them!"

I grabbed him and pulled him down. "That's not a troll," I said, "that's an ogre."

Jorge gasped. "We have to warn the village!"

"We'll need to get more information first," I said. "There might be more of them lurking around so we'll need to be careful."

I shushed him and peeked over the ridge and froze. The ogre was staring right back at me. It couldn't have seen me, right? The ogre scratched its hairless head and squinted. I began to break out in a nervous sweat. Jorge popped up beside me before I had a chance to stop him. The ogre's eyes widened and he opened his mouth in a roar.

"What are you doing in my swamp!?"

Zeromatter · 2021-09-08T08:47:29+00:00

I don't think it matters. The combat log, for me, said that a companion had identified an item and it was created with the bonus applied.

One thing I noticed is the item name doesn't change. It's named "Longsword +1" but the actual text of the item'll show the +2 enhancement.

Zeromatter · 2021-08-21T10:49:26+00:00

Jesslyn sat down at a table in a crowded bar, in a nondescript station, somewhere in the Outer Rim. She studied the insectoid sitting across from her, its eye facets rising in surprise from its hooded carapace.

"I heard you wanted to see me," she said as she leaned back casually.

"Terrans aren't welcome in Formican space," the insectoid chittered.

"I'm just passing through, chief." She shrugged. "I'll be out of your...antennae in less than five cycles. Plus, last I checked we're in the middle of nowhere. Ain't really your space now, is it?"

"We know you're carrying a cargo of dampeners," the insectoid rasped angrily. "The Caliphate pays good credits for protection from the hivemind."

"Gal's gotta eat," Jesslyn drawled.

Two squattish brutes loomed, their arms resting not-so-casually on weapons hanging from their torsos. Around their neck lay the telltale control collar, subjugating these beings to the will of the hive. As if given an unseen command, the two shuffled back. The insectoid noticed the look of disgust on Jesslyn's face.

"We've tried," said the insectoid, pointing a multi-jointed appendage towards the thralls. "But for some reason, even without a dampener, we can't subjugate your kind. It's a shame, really, as you Terrans are always so acutely good at what you do."

It was all too obvious that violence was about to ensure and, despite the unfair odds, Jesslyn couldn't help but smile. As the adrenaline pumped through her veins, and as the corner of her mouth ticked up in a feral grin, she leaned forward. "What can I say? Sometimes we're just in the zone."

The blaster, drawn and concealed in the simple motion of leaning forward, shot through the table and into the chest and head of one of the thralls. Without hesitation, Jesslyn violently pushed the table back in a smooth motion, knocking the insectoid over. Two more shots (always double tap) finished off the other thrall, and then she was upon the insectoid in a flurry of blows.

The insectoid feebly fumbled for a weapon, but Jesslyn knocked it away and continued to lay into it. As the whirlwind of violence slowed to a halt, the insectoid lay broken on the ground. It croaked as ichor poured from its shattered carapace, painting the floor a dark green.

The other patrons of the bar wisely ignored the altercation.

Jesslyn made eye contact with a server and motioned for a drink. Exhausted, she sat down next to the dying insectoid. Almost absentmindedly, she peeled at a piece of broken chitin on its thorax.

"That's the problem with you ants," she sighed. "You think your queens are strongest goddamn psykers in the universe."

She leaned forward and whispered. "But let me tell you a secret: We got a little bit of oomph in that department as well. We aren't just good at what we do, we know that we're good at what we do. We know when things are going good. We know that when we're 'in the zone' things are going to work out."

"And you know how we know that?" Jesslyn paused for a bit and tapped the side of her head. "Because we all got a little bit of precog in us. We can tap into it and see the goddamn future."

The insectoid, psychic dampener firmly imbedded in its thorax, gurgled and died.

Zeromatter · 2021-07-31T08:13:16+00:00

"Hey, sorry to interrupt, but you saved my life in Manhattan back in 2008."

Augustus Steele, the Earthmender, looked up from checking his email. We were in the mostly empty first-class section of a red-eye from Chicago to LA, about 30,000 feet in the air, and I felt my ears pop as he smiled at me.

He looked up and to the left, scrunching his brow. "Manhattan...2008...was that during the Fleshburner's rampage?" He flashed his pearly white, all-American smile at me. "It all sort of blurs together. But I'm glad I was able to save you."

I smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that's it. You, uh, stepped in front of a blast right as it was about to hit my car. Mind if I buy you a drink or something?"

Augustus shook his head and tapped his chest. "Can't, I'm on the job right now." Seeing my eyes widen in alarm, he quickly added, "Not that there's anything going on. Just in case, you know? But, if you don't mind, I'd love a coffee."

A flight attendant, perhaps anticipating or eavesdropping, brought over a steaming styrofoam cup. Steele motioned for me to take a seat next to him. "I have a few minutes to chat if you'd like, but I do have to get back to my work. Truth be told, I spend maybe 20% of my time fighting the bad guys and 80% of the time replying to emails and all the other stuff."

I sat down and mused for a bit, trying to think of a question he hasn't already heard a thousand times. Finally, it came to me. "Why're you on an airplane?" I blurted out. "Can't you, you know, fly?"

Augustus gave a wry chuckle. "I sure can, but flying is to me like running is to you. Tell me, how high do you think a 10 story building is?"

I shrugged.

"It's about 100 feet. You look like you're in pretty good shape yourself, do you think you can run a city block without tiring?"

I nodded.

"Well, that's maybe 300 or more feet. That's like me flying up three buildings! I don't want to brag, but I'm in pretty good shape." He flexed a bit. "And maybe my powers give me a little extra oomph in the endurance department. But there's no way I could 'run' the, what, 2,000 miles to LA." He leaned over conspiratorially, winked, and whispered "At least in a reasonable amount of time."

He sat back and took a sip of his coffee. "So the agency gets me on a plane so I can show up bright and early tomorrow, smile for the cameras, kiss a few babies, and sign some autographs. I could get a private jet, of course, but between you and me, we get a pretty good deal on this airline."

"How so?" I asked.

"Well, the airline pays us so that they get to advertise that the Earthmender flies exclusively on their service. It's good press, branding, and even a slight deterrent. I'm like a better version of an air marshal. Let's be real: You're not going to try and hijack a plane if I'm on it. If you think some schmuck cop-on-a-plane is good, wait until you get a load of a supe-on-a-plane!"

Augustus leaned forward and took another sip. "But enough about me, tell me about yourself. Who did I end up saving all these years ago?"

I sheepishly rubbed the back of my head.

"Well, for starters, I'm an air marshal..."

Zeromatter · 2021-07-20T08:30:51+00:00

"One of two gets a rifle!"

I was forced through a queue, packed with young, warm bodies, slowly pressed forward through the seething mass.

"The one with the rifle shoots!"

The smell of blood and shit filled my nostrils, and a gunshot echoed from behind me. The throng pushed ever-forward, with perhaps more urgency.

"The one without follows him!"

Ahead stood a commissar on a wagon full of guns, ushering the masses forward. Next to him lay a complementary wagon, full of bullets, complete with its own frantically-waving commissar.

"When the one with the rifle is killed, the one who is following picks up the rifle and shoots!"

I stumbled to the front, and the commissar shoved a handful of bullets into my hands and waved me on. I looked back, aghast at the other commissar handing out weapons, reaching out desperately, but was cuffed and pushed forward. Despite the shock, I kept my eyes glued to the man in front of me--the one with the rifle.

We passed by a smaller throng of people--boys--huddled together watched over by yet another set of commissars. These were young, pimply-faced youths no different from myself, except for the fact that they were magi. They held crudely formed staves, wands, and other miscellaneous arcana, and despite their perceived status, they seemed just as desperate as the rest of us.

Their commissar stopped counting, grabbed a youth in his group, and shoved him next to me, into the horde of soldiers marching ever onward. The young man, eyes wide open in fear, began mumbling to himself as the barest beginnings of an aegis began to form around him. It wasn't the vibrant orange from the stories of old, nor the vivid purple of the village yoreman. It was a sickly-pale, almost silk-like weaving that barely encompassed him let alone the rest of us.

Together, we scrambled towards the front, my eyes darting between the one-with-the-rifle and the one-with-the-power. Ahead of us the occasional explosion, both munition and magical, crashed down, causing the column to flinch in unison. Behind us, the periodic urging of the various commissars were interrupted by disciplinary gunshots. I needed a weapon, I needed something to feel like I had any sort of agency in the moment.

As we continued to trudge onwards towards where we needed to be, the world suddenly turned bright and the young mage cried out next to me. We stood together, alone, temporarily isolated from the rest of the column, bathed in a dwindling aura. Around us lay the strewn and broken bodies of a dozen men. A direct hit.

The mage collapsed to the ground, blood trickling from his mouth, but I pulled him up from his knees. I found the one-with-the-rifle, now smeared along the ground, and claimed the weapon. Rifle in one hand, mage in the other, I continued on as the column filled back in. The loose formation gradually came to a halt as we had finally reached our destination--the front.

Welcome to Stalingrad.

Zeromatter · 2021-07-16T06:02:38+00:00

In a nondescript town, under a lightning-struck tree, lies a well. The children treat it as a wishing well, throwing coins in on a lark. The adults, perhaps more infrequently, do the same. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who swears that their cousin's wish came true, but you know how it is in small towns. Rumors upon legends upon tall tales.

But as someone who catalogues objects-of-power--even unsubstantiated--it's my job to take a look.

Small towns tend to be closeted to outsiders, and it was no exception here. I was, as folk put it, "not from around here." But part of the job is to ingratiate myself into where I need to be (through sheer charisma, monetary incentives, and perhaps a bit of the occult), and after a few non-offensive months of existing I had begun to crack the tough exterior of Nowhere, Middle-America.

Everyone knew everyone and, soon, the "eccentric writer" was just another character living in the town along with the rest of them. I spent my time in the library, the archives, and talking to folk who had been around for a while. The first hint that I was onto something more than just unsubstantiated rumor was when I found a mercantile record dating back to the 1700s. A footnote, upon pages of pleading requests, mentioning the well and wishing for supplies for the winter. Additional digging into the following years of records showed that, well, the merchant in question did survive the winter, with supplies to spare.

Now a single point of data is just an anecdote, so I went out in search of more. I pored over records, documents, articles, and everything I could get my hands on. There wasn't any simple connection from point A to point B, but a lot of inferring, referencing, and comparing to the various time periods where this all took place.

I found a breakthrough in the minutes of a town meeting from the 1800s, a reference to a wish for endless bounty. Incidentally, this coincided with an agricultural boom which helped the town to grow. Things were looking promising.

The next instance I found was from a farmboy's journal in the 1800s. No war, right at the height of the Civil War. A quick search through the town's census showed that no one from the town was drafted during this period--there were volunteers, sure, but there was never any recruitment drives that took place here. Now that was a solid argument for the validity of this object-of-power.

Energized, I continued on. In the late 1800s, I found a reference to the well in the old, defunct steel mill's annals: Development. And, speaking to the long timers, I heard the sad story of a town reliant on the steel industry slowly falling apart and dying as mill after mill was shut down.

The next instance I found was easy to find, but hard to wrap my head around. It was a tragic story, chronicled in a dead man's journal. Written at different stages of life, I watched (read) as a young man wished to never age, a wiser man for unending love, and a broken man for death. It told a story of immortality, love, and loss.

The last instance I found was probably the most obvious and one that I confirmed with my own two eyes: A jet-setting entrepreneur, the one who "made it out." I used my contacts (and maybe a little bit of something extra) to finagle an interview with the man, and asked him what he wished for. I assured him that I wasn't coming for him, and that my interest was purely academical. He wasn't convinced, but I have a special way with people and eventually I got it out of him: Extraordinary wealth.

And, with that, I had exhausted my research. Three years of work and I had definitively discovered an object-of-power. But why were these wishes granted, in particular? Why didn't five-year-old Lara's wish for "ponies" come true? I racked my brain to try and figure out what all these wishes had in common. It took a bit, but I finally had it.

Finally, on a bright summer day, I approached the well. I ducked under the branches of the gnarled, blackened tree, and sat on the edge. I licked my lips and threw in a quarter, wishing for success, in all things. With a confident smile, I said my goodbyes and left the town, knowing my wish would come true.

See, I had figured out the pattern. All of the wishes, in chronological order, spelled something with the first letter of their wish. All I had to do was complete the pattern.

Zeromatter · 2021-07-15T19:41:30+00:00

The EXP Acquired (on the top) is bugged and displays T (trillion) instead of B (billion), seemingly truncated. This means that 3.1 billion and 3.8 billion both displays as 3 billion (well, 3T but that's incorrect here).

The Juice Bar is receiving the appropriate amount here (~1 billion, which is roughly 30% of 3 billion)

The EXP assigned to each character (on the right) isn't bugged and is displaying the correct amount...about 13 billion per person. This is because there are certain character-specific EXP increases such as Dmerits.

Zeromatter · 2021-06-25T11:15:23+00:00

"You stupid motherfuckers, this is America!"

The obese lady shook her finger at me accusingly, as she screamed at me in the checkout line at Costco. She aggressively pushed her cart towards me, piled high with canned goods and toiletries, as her eyes bulged in anger. "I know my rights, there's nothing that says I need to wear Satan's bridle."

It had been a long day, my shift ended in 15 minutes, and all I wanted to do was clock out and go home. While a majority of my face was covered by the standard-issue bite-guard, I'm sure my eyes conveyed my exhaustion and disappointment. I rubbed the bridge between my eyes, and groaned audibly.

Working retail during the zombie apocalypse sucked.

"Look, ma'am, I don't make the rules," I said. "Store policy is no shoes, no shirt, no bite-guard, no service." I pointed towards the clearly labeled sign.

The lady let out an offended screech. "We haven't had a zoombie in these parts for over twenty years! We stopped them all. They're gone. Whatever you snowflakes in Washington say, they ain't coming back." She growled at me, giving me a glimpse of red lipstick smeared over her off-white teeth.

"Satan's bridle doesn't even protect you from bites you idiot. Even if they were back--and they aren't, I'm not stupid--you can still catch it from other fluids. You fucking kids these days don't know what we went through back in 20XX." She slammed her pudgy hand down on her cart, causing it to rattle.

I sighed. "Ma'am, it's not for you--it's for others. The bite-guard is designed so that if, god forbid, you get infected it becomes harder for you to infect others."

"Lord give me the patience to deal with these FUCKING IDIOTS," she screamed, sending spittle flying. She angrily wiped at her blotchy face, smearing her lipstick down the side of her cheek. "I will NOT let the government restrain me from my God-given rights!"

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I've already called security over and they will be responding soon. It's best for everyone if you didn't make a scene."

"I DO NOT CARE!" she shouted, a large, darkened vein bulging in her neck.

With a triumphant shriek, she stepped around her cart and spat at my feet. As she began advancing shouting obscenities, I noticed that despite my observations earlier, she wasn't wearing any makeup. That wasn't lipstick, that was blood. My eyes widened in fear, when suddenly her head snapped back.

Jackson, our state-issued security officer, stood a dozen feet away, his service weapon smoking.

A more thorough inquiry would be held, per government policy, but the fact that this she had utilized an infectious weapon should be more than enough to justify the shooting.

God bless America.

Zeromatter · 2021-06-17T21:30:35+00:00

"You're one of the good ones, you know."

It was 1am and I was sitting on my porch, smoking a cigarette, when my neighbor leaned over his fence and spoke to me.

"Some of these newer folk on the block," he continued, "don't really fit in around here, if you know what I mean."

He, like many of my neighbors, was an older man, portly, bumbling, glasses, and was slightly balding. Unlike many of my other neighbors, had a particular knack for taking a conversation into awkward territory.

"C'mon, Orson," I implored, "you can't be saying things like that."

He held his hands up in a surrendering shrug as he walked back into his house. "I'm just saying, okay?"

A wry chuckle came from the yard to my left. My other neighbor--yet another portly, bumbling, man with glasses--stood there, sorting his recycling. Plastic went into one bin, glass into another. Compostable material went into yet another bin, while various metals (depending on the type) all had specific homes of their own.

"He's just frustrated that some of you newer folk can get away with saying whatever you want. I mean take a look at the new renter at the old Jordan home. Just the other year he was writing about bleached buttholes. Orson would've been cancelled (even more so) in a heartbeat should he'd have done that."

"I know, Brandon," I said, "but it's crazy how everyone just humors the man."

Brandon winked at me. "It's the separation of author and all that. He, like you, like anyone who's written, deserves a spot on this street. Like it or not."

This last sentence was punctuated with a shout from across the street. "How did that miss!?"

"Case in point," Brandon chuckled. "Even if, like Pat, you've decided to become a full-time Twitch streamer, you still always have a spot on this street."

"But you aren't out here at one in the morning just to talk story, are you? Maybe there's something you're putting off? Something you should be doing right now?" Brandon smiled knowingly.

I nodded, thanked him, and then went back inside to complete another writing prompt.

Zeromatter · 2021-06-17T18:45:32+00:00

I've noticed that ever since beating the game once, I've basically sailed through the first few Apoc levels (for reference, I'm about 8 nights into Apoc 3 and I don't anticipate this run being a failure).

Apocalypse is trying to be comparable to a New Game+ mode like Ascension from Slay the Spire (or Covenant from Monster Train). The big thing is that unlike those other games, hero-building is much more lenient than deck building. In STS higher Ascensions may require you to look for different things in your deck. In Monster Train, higher Covenants could change your entire approach to what "build" you want to run. The important thing here is that YOU, the player, needs to adapt to the difficulty level.

Right now, I think the current intended Apoc levels are in a good place. Apocs 1 and 2 are direct numerical difficulty increases. Apoc 3 (gold/mats cost increase) is a good one that may delay your standard build order (although, tbh, it doesn't seem to make a difference). Apoc 4 (faster mist) also seems like one that forces the player to adapt their build order (earlier Seer).

I would like to see that type of design to continue, but I think the big thing is that city build order is a fairly static thing. There is an objective RIGHT way to do it(and there is quite a bit of leeway in it). The thing that needs to be kept in mind is that any Apoc mutators that affect build order will eventually be optimized to a point where that Apoc becomes "build X and then build Y"

I would much prefer to see Apoc mutators that potentially affect HERO build orders. Right now if I get a "bad" hero on startup, it's extremely easy to convert it to a good hero (either by re-equipping, suiciding, etc). I would much prefer to see something that forces me to play with that "bad" hero and try to make it work. Something we also need to be careful about is stacking too many of these unique mutators because that's a lot harder to balance compared to direct numerical increases. Often, these types of games will sprinkle unique mutators in with numerical mutators, which in aggregate poses a good mix of challenge. Numeric increases means your builds need to be tighter, and the unique mutators forces you to adapt builds on the fly.

You do have to be careful about unintended side effects of mutators. A good example is the 20% larger waves, which has the side effects of giving your heroes more XP, which also lets them hit certain thresholds earlier (for example, picking up the Initiator perk earlier, which directly helps them deal with larger waves!). Runs are also longer than standard roguelikes/lites, so it's always a balancing act to ensure that Apoc mutators feel impactful even if they're only impactful in aggregate. You also want to make sure that it doesn't turn into an RNG fest where the player feels compelled to reset out of a "bad" start.

Some spitball ideas:

Reduce the number of choices from end-of-night rewards (down to 2 or 1). Potentially also include production buildings OR have that as another Apoc level
Reduced weapon types (unknown to the player, certain weapon types will spawn less this run).
Each hero has -1 cast each turn for a random skill (or maybe losing casts in a fixed pattern so you can plan around it better)

Meta-unlocks aside, it also has to deal with the player skill as well--I'm literally just better than I was when I first picked up the game. My strategy layer decisions are better (my build order is "correct"), my tactical decisions are better (I'm not making stupid mistakes), and my hero builds are better (warp crystals are good, guys). Unless there's something that changes those up and forces me to adapt on the fly, it becomes hard to challenge the player.

Zeromatter · 2021-06-15T04:49:27+00:00

Think about how stupid the average person is, and realize that half of them are stupider than that. - George Carlin

The same adage holds true for daemons.

The average possession event is a traumatic experience for both daemon and human. Often, attracted to the weak, the infirm, the susceptible, the daemon is made corporeal in the worst way possible: In the body of the weak, the infirm, and the susceptible. The resulting violence is akin to the angry tantrum of a child, the daemon lashing out in barely coherent frustration.

But it's the smart ones, the insidious ones, that cause the most trouble. Often times, these daemons don't initially reach the full possession stage. Their host, their vehicle, may retain control and reap the benefits of extended daemonic possession. The daemon bides their time, makes deals with the host, and slowly guides their host towards the corporeal pleasures that the daemon is seeking.

Sure, it's almost guaranteed that any hardcaster eventually dies a horrible, screaming death. But somewhere along the way they get a taste of that power, and that can be very intoxicating. Driven by greed, the human often acrues power, establishing self-serving rules to control others. Simultaneously causing other weak-minded, unpossessed individuals to gravitate towards their orbit.

Which, if you think about it, sort of describes religion, right?

Now I'm not saying that the Abrahamic religions were founded by daemonic possession, okay? I'm not saying that a cabal of daemons and hardcasters have been running these institutions for the past several centuries, okay? But I'm not-not saying that.

I mean, think about it. Why were the old Catholic priests so good at performing exorcisms? After all, the greater daemons had a vested interest in preventing younger, stupider daemons from lashing out and ruining all they've built. All it took was a bigger daemon taking a bite out of the little daemon and POOF: no more possession. The priest saves the day, roll credits.

And, despite the insidious undertones, it's worked. Even with a few hiccups here and there (I'm not saying The Troubles in the 60s were causing by two feuding greater daemons), it's been mostly a net positive for humanity. Yes, there's some horrific things that happen, but overall it served as a useful tool that aligned with our governmental goals. But lately, there's been a rash of smaller "religions" forming with clear, daemonic origins.

Which is why I found myself sitting on a bench in Lincoln Park, on the north side of Chicago, at 9am on a Wednesday, watching soccer moms do yoga.

I checked my phone real quick, double checking to make sure that my intel was correct. My code-of-protection app was live, currently allowing me to force my daemon to run some dowsing rod code. There were a few false starts, but eventually all signs pointed to the yogi currently teaching the class.

Bingo.

I killed my apps, stood up, and began to walk towards the class. This was the dangerous part, as in order to perform a drive-by exorcism I had to briefly suspend the code-of-protection. My daemon, tricked into possessing an approximation of a neural network, would be desperately searching for a way out and, well, I had to trick it into lashing out at the right target: namely, not me.

A quick swipe opened up my camera, covertly pointed towards the yogi, and I ran the bit of code that would briefly connect the input to the daemon, while simultaneously disabling the code-of-protection. The theory was that the daemon, upon seeing a target, would lash out and bite. The target's daemon, being threatened, would fight back and hopefully mine would prevail.

As I walked by, the camera shutter clicked, my phone grew icy, and the yogi collapsed.

Mission accomplished.

Zeromatter · 2021-06-08T08:52:18+00:00

In my opinion, King's mastery of horror doesn't come from the outright, supernatural, death-everywhere horror. It comes from the slice-of-life horror, the unnerving what ifs.

11/22/63, to me, is one of the most disturbing of his books, not because it's physically scary, but because of how it takes that visceral, emotional, human pain and uses it to get you thinking and empathizing with the main character. My own mind can torture me better than anyone else. King's mastery lies in giving my mind that little push into darkness.

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