I love getting deployed at the beginning of a mission and watching everyone frantically input their strategems to gear up b4 we start getting swarmed. Everyone’s always got an important role they play.
I really genuinely appreciate that even tho there’s no “classes” in this game, everyone on the team generally feels different, and yet at the same time manages to unite everyone rather than alienating a specific class type due to some kinda bias or animosity (although i will say i get stepped on a lot by peoples mech suits..) and as the mission progresses the players are fleshed out.
And all the animations for our characters regardless of being a top down view, are very solid and good at relaying information about what ur doing. I dunno Im really kissin ass right now but im just very pleased with the quality of the games assets, sound effects, music and art direction. its just all around satisfying.
The summer collection ‘88 Un Autre Monde (another world) endeavours to merge visions from greatly differing worlds. The world and visions of Jules Verne (high-tech visions from the year 1870), the world of the African Massai, Nuba and Wodaabe tribes, whose way of life is still primitive, closely earth-linked and basic, but which posses a rich culture and fantastic body ornaments. Reminiscent of the Flinstone family (Pebbles, Bam Bam and Dino), of submarines and uniforms, impressions from “Blue Velvet” and “Angel heart”, prehistoric figures and even inspiration from Sado, Walter’s dog, have lent the collection the necessary essence of humour and fun, it’s aggression and strength. Clothing for active, strong and ‘fantastic’ people, who have an interest in the past, but are already living in the future.
The silhouettes are nicely rounded off and inspired by helmet-wearing divers, together with a touch of folklore. The outsides of the models feature various details that are sometime subtle, sometimes aggressive. Navels, buttocks and sex are accentuated; there are even rubber nipples on some items. Hand-knitted pullovers and cardigans feature check patterns and stripes, dogs and bones, African armbands and necklaces and body paintings. Prehistoric creatures, “safe-sex-bones" and figures from 2001 are featured in sweatshirts, t-shirts and trousers. Black, shiny straw hats, bones in the hair, T.Rex.-and Bam Bam caps. Diver’s and pilot’s goggles, telescopes and cameras inspire spectacles. Basic colours, shades of red, blue and green mixed with beige, off-white, green, navy, blue and black. Fabrics feature Vichy checks and square patterns. Cotton gabardine trousers, cool wool, Swiss cotton, crepe, silk, leather and rough, checked, elasticised folklore-look are all featured.
seagulls that circle overhead, their caws growing louder and louder the closer they get to you. you look at their beaks as they glint in the faint, clouded-over sun. you can’t help but feel like a meal.
the tides never seem to work quite as the naval charts suggest, and since you were young, your mother told you to never play in the shallows at low tide, for waves could easily surge violently at any moment. there have been six drownings of children under six this year.
walking the dusty streets at night compels you to tug up the collar of your jacket to protect you from the icy eyes burning their way into the back of your head. deadbolt chains clink, locks click shut. a woman sees you and with a whimper of animal fear, slams the warped wood shutters. you take one glance up at the crescent moon and break into a run, hurrying ever faster on your way home.
driftwood homes will pop up along the shoreline in the shallows, under the icy shade of the cliffs. they’re tiny things, just misshapen piles of driftwood, lashed together with twine and fishing wire. a sleeping bag occupies one, a rusty, (and is that blood?) salt-warped pocketknife is the only resident in another. they are gone by the time high tide rolls around.
you’ll be sailing on a tepid day when you notice a small island, wrapped in its own solitary cloak of fog. your friends will sometimes see it too, but nobody can ever agree on its location or size. it disappears when you return to shore.
the local “fauna” is composed of rats, hungry and sea-swelled. their eyes are cold and black and they steal scraps of cloth to build tiny, bizarre shrines of pebbles and gull feathers and blue, maggoty chunks of what is unmistakably human meat.
you hate visiting the weekly market. the air smells chokingly of fish, but not of fish. it’s the same smell that comes off the water in thick clouds at night, roiling aimlessly at first, but working its way into your nose and eyes and ears like it has a mind of its own.
long lost divers’ helmets wash up on the shores occasionally. when you find one it’s encrusted with salt and sand and lined all over with deep, wide grooves. every body you find has its fingers fractured and dislocated and smashed to slivers from clawing.
there are endless black cliffs that soar over the sea too. the sun will break for a moment and the whole world underneath you will glow red. you tell yourself it’s from the sudden illumination, that your eyes are playing tricks, but it really does look as if the light is emanating from the stone itself.
it’s become a common occurrence for hundreds of sharks to beach themselves in rows, their slimy, slithering bodies wriggling frantically and aimlessly away from something nobody else can see. sometimes they’ll continue this pathetic display for hours before they drown in the air. you and a few other girls can never push enough back into the water, and the rest perish, tainting the beach with rot for weeks to come.
hundreds of pearls like teeth fused together in huge, misshapen lumps are tossed on the waves, floating to shore to be snatched and coveted by wispy-haired, wide-eyed young girls with tar in their hair and sand under their nails. they smile at staring passersby. their teeth are numerous, sharp, and iridescent, and grow in bubbling clusters at odd places in their gums.
you’re swimming, and even after you’ve left the water you can feel the imprint of cold, faint hands on your thighs. the slick touch of seaweed twines around your dreams for weeks and weeks.