"Why rain?" he asked himself as he trudged along the rain soaked footpath, "Who creates a entire world only to have it rain all the time?"
Entering New Chicago always got Scott down. The place seemed designed to irritate him specifically on multiple levels.
The fact that his virtual hand was now reaching for a virtual packet of cigarettes inside his virtual trench coat pockets instinctively was just another example of how the designers of the world just seemed to be hell bent on annoying him without respite.
He didn’t smoke. He never had. Yet the strong narrative drive of this fictional world meant that he was compelled, whether he liked it or not, to be forever dressed in a worn grey trench coat and trilby, to be forever drenched to the bone in an endless downpour and forever fidgeting for a smoking habit he didn’t have.
Calling the place "New Chicago", whilst technically true, seemed to be an odd attempt at … wit… in the worst sense of the word. The world may be nothing more than a fantastical figment of cutting edge digital imagination but the end result was that nothing was ever new within the virtual city.
Everything within New Chicago was old… and, once again as if to specifically irritate Scott, not a historically consistent old. All the cars were from the 1920s. All the fashion was from the 1940s. Every building was either a brownstone from the end of the 18th century or a 1950s carriage style dinner.
A beggar from a nearby alley whispered "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings… gets wings".
Scott didn’t take any notice.
He actually had quite a lot of time for the non player characters (NPCs) that inhabited this world as they seemed to be surviving in an environment that he found pretty close to intolerable but that didn’t mean he wanted to get dragged into their endless looping conversations yet again.
Every alleyway that he passed contained one of three variations of NPC: A beggar, a mugger or a hooker.
Despite how intimidating and dangerous this might sound, each was actually quite benign in their own way.
The beggars were one of the first and oldest types of NPCs to be added to the world. They weren’t actually ever in need of anything, as the thought of even digital beings suffering permanently of hunger unnerved the world’s creators enough to skip past that level simulation, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a job to do.
Originally that job was just to ask the expected questions of passers by such as "spare a dime?" or "gotta cigarette?". It didn’t take long however for the virtual beggars to notice, much akin to their real life counterparts, that this wasn’t a particularly effective strategy to extract money out of people… so they opted for a better one.
Recognising that the holiday season (and the associated movies) is a motivational source for a lot of positive and, more importantly, philanthropic desires within people, all the beggars swapped their usual pleas for donations across to tear jerking renditions of popular holiday film moments… hence one could expect to be regaled with all sorts of cinematic recreations as they strolled the streets.
"We bare our souls and tell the most appalling secrets", "Why did you shoot Rosemary?" and "Oh Captain, my Captain" echoed from nearby alleys as he passed.
He gritted his teeth in an embarrassed grimace as he passed one of the hookers.
"Hey there honey. Wanna tickle the slippery bishop sweetie?" she asked in a sultry tone.
Every time they opened their mouths, something even more bizarre would emerge. A euphemism that was almost guaranteed to make one question the nature of the universe around them.
It wasn’t their fault of course. The designers of the world wanted to keep the world suitable for as wide a demographic of users as possible and couldn’t risk someone getting offended by a more… realistic… offering of adult services thus the hookers were instructed to always use a euphemism wherever possible.
This would have been a grand plan except for the small detail that the designers didn’t take the time to upgrade the girl’s knowledge of literature or popular culture to match the new requirements. Without any source material to base the euphemisms off, the hookers were all forced to make new ones up as they went along… which is how Scott now arrived at the surreal situation of being asked with a completely straight face if he wanted to "balance a corgi on the milkman’s pants?"
It came almost as a relief as he was confronted by the third and final of the popular alley inhabiting folk.
"Give us all your money… or I’ll hurt ya!" growled the lanky man dressed entirely in black.
Muggers came at the possibly surprising insistence of the Diz’Porn FoxTube Limited corporation. They wanted to provide everyone with the uplifting dual thrills of beating one’s fears and seeing the bad guys get their comeuppance. This meant that as soon as Scott so much as lifted an eyebrow in response to the threat, the mugger suddenly crumpled before him in a disturbingly moist example of servility, staggered backwards in fear and sprinted as fast as his damp wobbly legs would carry him.
Scott decided this was enough street theatre for one day and ducked into one of the diners that appeared on every other street corner.
An Elvis velvet print on the wall, red and pink checker pattern as far as the eye could see and a constant stream of customers giggling like children as they asked "for what she’s having". Yep. New Chicago represented nothing he wanted to be a part of.
He sat down in one of the quieter booths near the end. The familiar pink blur of a waitress came into his peripheral vision and he looked up.
"Hiya hun. What can I get for…" the waitress stopped mid sentence as a huge smirk broke out across Scott’s face.
"If you so much as hint at a wise crack, I swear I’ll punch you so hard on the nose that you’ll be sucking soup through your ears…" the waitress continued angrily before pausing in a small grimace, looking like an internal fight to finish the sentence there was being lost "… sweetie."
The waitress looked slightly deflated as the last word slipped out but quickly regained "her" composure.
Femininity wasn’t the first term that came to mind as Scott studied the waitress.
Oh sure all the expected pieces were in place for the role of waitress: a fitted but hideously domestic dress in a lurid shade of pink, a hair style that was wound so tightly that it probably served as a facelift substitute and a pair of shoes that practically screamed the death of many a young girls childhood dreams.
It was the distinctly masculine features hiding behind the lip gloss and mascara’s lashes that gave one pause.
Distracted briefly by the disturbing overgrowth of body hair popping out from under the waitress’ collar, Scott replied innocently "I would never dream of such a thing… sweetie".
A small giggle escaped his pursed lips.
"Look, not everyone can be the manly gruff detective avatar you know. They didn’t have any other avatars free so I got stuck with this one…".
Another battle briefly rages within before the deflated ending of "….sweetie."
The waitress shot Scott a stare that hinted at quite a lot violence for anyone who drew any more attention to the forced word that was just uttered.
"Fear not Ducas," Scott smiled, "I wont tell a soul of your predicament".
Entering New Chicago always got Scott down. The place seemed designed to irritate him specifically on multiple levels.
The fact that his virtual hand was now reaching for a virtual packet of cigarettes inside his virtual trench coat pockets instinctively was just another example of how the designers of the world just seemed to be hell bent on annoying him without respite.
He didn’t smoke. He never had. Yet the strong narrative drive of this fictional world meant that he was compelled, whether he liked it or not, to be forever dressed in a worn grey trench coat and trilby, to be forever drenched to the bone in an endless downpour and forever fidgeting for a smoking habit he didn’t have.
Calling the place "New Chicago", whilst technically true, seemed to be an odd attempt at … wit… in the worst sense of the word. The world may be nothing more than a fantastical figment of cutting edge digital imagination but the end result was that nothing was ever new within the virtual city.
Everything within New Chicago was old… and, once again as if to specifically irritate Scott, not a historically consistent old. All the cars were from the 1920s. All the fashion was from the 1940s. Every building was either a brownstone from the end of the 18th century or a 1950s carriage style dinner.
A beggar from a nearby alley whispered "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings… gets wings".
Scott didn’t take any notice.
He actually had quite a lot of time for the non player characters (NPCs) that inhabited this world as they seemed to be surviving in an environment that he found pretty close to intolerable but that didn’t mean he wanted to get dragged into their endless looping conversations yet again.
Every alleyway that he passed contained one of three variations of NPC: A beggar, a mugger or a hooker.
Despite how intimidating and dangerous this might sound, each was actually quite benign in their own way.
The beggars were one of the first and oldest types of NPCs to be added to the world. They weren’t actually ever in need of anything, as the thought of even digital beings suffering permanently of hunger unnerved the world’s creators enough to skip past that level simulation, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a job to do.
Originally that job was just to ask the expected questions of passers by such as "spare a dime?" or "gotta cigarette?". It didn’t take long however for the virtual beggars to notice, much akin to their real life counterparts, that this wasn’t a particularly effective strategy to extract money out of people… so they opted for a better one.
Recognising that the holiday season (and the associated movies) is a motivational source for a lot of positive and, more importantly, philanthropic desires within people, all the beggars swapped their usual pleas for donations across to tear jerking renditions of popular holiday film moments… hence one could expect to be regaled with all sorts of cinematic recreations as they strolled the streets.
"We bare our souls and tell the most appalling secrets", "Why did you shoot Rosemary?" and "Oh Captain, my Captain" echoed from nearby alleys as he passed.
He gritted his teeth in an embarrassed grimace as he passed one of the hookers.
"Hey there honey. Wanna tickle the slippery bishop sweetie?" she asked in a sultry tone.
Every time they opened their mouths, something even more bizarre would emerge. A euphemism that was almost guaranteed to make one question the nature of the universe around them.
It wasn’t their fault of course. The designers of the world wanted to keep the world suitable for as wide a demographic of users as possible and couldn’t risk someone getting offended by a more… realistic… offering of adult services thus the hookers were instructed to always use a euphemism wherever possible.
This would have been a grand plan except for the small detail that the designers didn’t take the time to upgrade the girl’s knowledge of literature or popular culture to match the new requirements. Without any source material to base the euphemisms off, the hookers were all forced to make new ones up as they went along… which is how Scott now arrived at the surreal situation of being asked with a completely straight face if he wanted to "balance a corgi on the milkman’s pants?"
It came almost as a relief as he was confronted by the third and final of the popular alley inhabiting folk.
"Give us all your money… or I’ll hurt ya!" growled the lanky man dressed entirely in black.
Muggers came at the possibly surprising insistence of the Diz’Porn FoxTube Limited corporation. They wanted to provide everyone with the uplifting dual thrills of beating one’s fears and seeing the bad guys get their comeuppance. This meant that as soon as Scott so much as lifted an eyebrow in response to the threat, the mugger suddenly crumpled before him in a disturbingly moist example of servility, staggered backwards in fear and sprinted as fast as his damp wobbly legs would carry him.
Scott decided this was enough street theatre for one day and ducked into one of the diners that appeared on every other street corner.
An Elvis velvet print on the wall, red and pink checker pattern as far as the eye could see and a constant stream of customers giggling like children as they asked "for what she’s having". Yep. New Chicago represented nothing he wanted to be a part of.
He sat down in one of the quieter booths near the end. The familiar pink blur of a waitress came into his peripheral vision and he looked up.
"Hiya hun. What can I get for…" the waitress stopped mid sentence as a huge smirk broke out across Scott’s face.
"If you so much as hint at a wise crack, I swear I’ll punch you so hard on the nose that you’ll be sucking soup through your ears…" the waitress continued angrily before pausing in a small grimace, looking like an internal fight to finish the sentence there was being lost "… sweetie."
The waitress looked slightly deflated as the last word slipped out but quickly regained "her" composure.
Femininity wasn’t the first term that came to mind as Scott studied the waitress.
Oh sure all the expected pieces were in place for the role of waitress: a fitted but hideously domestic dress in a lurid shade of pink, a hair style that was wound so tightly that it probably served as a facelift substitute and a pair of shoes that practically screamed the death of many a young girls childhood dreams.
It was the distinctly masculine features hiding behind the lip gloss and mascara’s lashes that gave one pause.
Distracted briefly by the disturbing overgrowth of body hair popping out from under the waitress’ collar, Scott replied innocently "I would never dream of such a thing… sweetie".
A small giggle escaped his pursed lips.
"Look, not everyone can be the manly gruff detective avatar you know. They didn’t have any other avatars free so I got stuck with this one…".
Another battle briefly rages within before the deflated ending of "….sweetie."
The waitress shot Scott a stare that hinted at quite a lot violence for anyone who drew any more attention to the forced word that was just uttered.
"Fear not Ducas," Scott smiled, "I wont tell a soul of your predicament".
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