Returning from hell never to be the same again

The Face of

The nights I've spent playing Doom have driven me into a deep, subconscious madness. Every time I hear that growl, that strange guttural snore, of the inactive Imp, my skin crawls and beads of sweat begin to form, my heart races and I'm thrown straight back to those long nights wasting ammunition and time scouring levels for that last secret area because I can't stand that little voice laughing at me, scoffing at my mistakes, mocking me and my futility.

I had simple reasons for pushing through, crawling through the labyrinthine hellscape to reach the demon at the end of the game, and prove that I am a god amongst evil.

Come my birthday and the sweats started again. I peeled off the wrapping paper and looked over the cover, those foreboding, jagged letters burning past my eyes and into my soul. The laughing was starting again.

I knew what was ahead of me, a weekend of playing with the devil again. And again I was going to enjoy every last moment of it.

From waking up in that stone sarcophagus, crushing skulls of those poor souls lost to the power of hell, to actually going to hell and ripping and tearing my way through those monsters again and again, even with no end in sight, redefining the term serpentine as their fireballs and energy waves flew past me by mere inches as I closed in with with whatever barking iron I had in hand.

Again I heard those laughs, those cthulian incantations rising in my mind to pummel me into submission. Their hymns only drove me harder to kill, until I had nothing more ahead of me.

Time came when the final demon fell and the exhilaration and adrenaline had come to a close, and I fell back in my bed and relaxed, proud of my accomplishment. But I needed more.

Doom was not the only prize I received that day.

When Final Fantasy Meets Science Fiction

Time was that I played a game called Halo, a story of a super soldier gifted with powered armour fending off aliens and viral monstrosities, and now leading into a cybernetic society hellbent killing our stalwart hero and his demigod girlfriend.

Guardians continues that story, splitting it between Master Chief and his rag tag team of Spartan allies as they chase down said demigod, and Spartan Locke who has been tasked with bringing Chief back into line, the romantic killjoy that he is.

Regardless of his intent, the game opens with a wonderful scene of badassery, freefalling out of an aircraft onto the slope of a mountain while shooting, stabbing and generally parkouring their way through Covenant and Prometheans, soldiers and vehicles alike.

Then the game begins. I make the first move and my first thought is... "Are we under water?"

These super soldiers trudged their way through snow, cement in their shoes, arthritis apparent in all joints, rust ruining the joints of their suits. I wonder to myself "Has it always been this way? Have Halo games always been this slow grind amongst firefights? Have my years of frantic commotions been seemingly immobile?"

Hell. The realisation hits me. The Demons have persisted in my mind. Their gift of agility haunts me, frustrating me as I try to defeat this handicap, all while wondering if I will have the same problem in other games, to be forced into a quagmire that doesn't exist.

These are the demons that will now forever haunt me, as I reminisce on my time returning to hell, never to be the same again.

Heh.  Cute.