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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Rogyue
My nose doesn't not like the Y key. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Mai. Despite the fact that our break room has become infested with Street Fighter lately.
Walking up in a bathtub full of ice or in a room devoid of furniture and locked? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I catch references all the time, but I release them back into the wild as well.
The person below me thinks I'm really, scary, weird. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Well, the game and the keys are going to my friend. He can do whatever he wants with the keys.
If I decide that I want the game, I'd have to upgrade to Vista/7 and get a proper graphics card, bump up the RAM as well. But, I don't want to play Starcraft. I'm good. But, if I want another copy, I'm allowed one more at $10. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Pretty much, but damned bartenders always bring me a shaken dirty martini.
The person below me loves to run around naked through their neighborhood in the middle of the night. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It's been in an open window for the past week. Next installment:
In the dead of the forest surrounding the only direct road to the military compound lining the airfield outside of Elizovo sat uneasy and restless legions of soldiers, trained by the motherland to fight a nonexistent war against a failing super power. For the first time since pulling myself out of the icy waters, I placed a final check-in call to the Orion Collection Company, extension 77254, and informed them of my approximate position before shutting down my lifeline. I still love hearing it, though. "Our extensions don't have five numbers." Yes, they do. Do the transfer. I don't know why it took me ten years to realize that Private Number handled the automatic switching of the X.25 telephone network, and all the other world exchanges. How else could they handle the arbitrary changing and updating of the algorithm-based extension numbers, let alone securing calling me from a different private number each time a call came through to my phone. A number, that when deciphered in a phone bill, turned out to be unregistered. Or even more strangely, never registered. On a whim, and mostly because I hated being alone, I turned on my cell phone. In a few moments, it picked up the roaming satellites and flashed me voicemail from the San Diego nerdmobile. The afternoon was progressing moving into nightfall, where the dead of night had progressed into early morning. Arthur had called to find out where I had found a Don't Ask, Don't Tell Marine to serve as evening and morning escort. The decision to return the voicemail fell on completion of securing a helicopter. I couldn't face anyone possibly hearing me within the five-mile radius of the complex. I was more expectant of a phone call from Private Number, but they were insistent on me securing a helicopter from a remote military facility. From what could be observed in treetops, I found the nearest helicopter to be reached one of two ways: over a fence, past the guards bunker, past weapons bunkers, four hundred feet in open terrain to the helicopter; or, around the fence, over the fence, past two fighter jets and three hundred feet in open terrain to another helicopter. I chose the less "open" route. This whole situation was my fault for not taking out that psychotic pilot the other times I encountered him. It was distrust, but more of a definite loathing fueled by the machinations of instilled hatred. And I'm very annoyed that he's allowed to fly. Who dumps their fellow agent in the ocean to be scooped up by the enemy? I'll tell you who, the same psycho that's hovering over me while I'm trying to jump a fence silently. "Need a lift, Agent?" He's raised their attention already, there's a scramble for weapons and aircraft and a rope ladder near my head. I'd hate to hitch a ride with this man, but he's already raised enough of a ruckus that I can't handle anything without help. I wouldn't be able to spin up the pilfered helicopter in time to take off before being turned into swiss cheese, both myself and the helicopter. Or worse, just obliterated. Relunctantly, I reached off the fence and clutched the ladder. Safely in the helicopter, I confronted the pilot. "What the fuck was that back there? Did you think dropping me into the ocean was funny? What's to stop me from just dropping you right now?" "You were going soft, kid. Becoming too dependent on us to help you out. You made it 30 miles from the drop zone, with enemy encounters and all the way to a military facility," he reached over and punched my shoulder. It stung. I wasn't going to be able to take him down even if I wanted, "You've got drive, kid. And we've seen your work. It's very good, but your training isn't complete. You're stubborn and emotional, even though you don't think you are. Lucky you learned to swim, eh?" Pfft. Lucky I learned to swim, right. We climbed straight up and shot over the steep curvature of the Earth, cutting that distance between Elizovo and St. Petersburg. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I'm on laptops. I can't really just upgrade the graphic cards on any of them. I'd have to build a rig, and I'm not doing that for a game. For any game.
I'd do it for video rendering, animation and other design things, but never for a game. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Pretty much, he's just a dick. Anyway, still working on it since I'm still technically sick even though I am working...
We were quiet on the ride, sounds of the rotors humming overhead. At some point he turned to me and extended a hand towards the dashboard. His hand was met with the cold steel of the Glock, "I know this seat doesn't disconnect, and I know that switch kills the rotors. Whatever training you think I need, now is not the time." "Shoot me, then." He flicked the switch and killed the rotors. The helicopter began a fast descent and restarting the rotors wouldn't have done anything to cushion the fall. The last glimpse I had of him was his throwing a parachute at me and dropping away from sight out of the cockpit. I scrambled the chute on, and pushed out into the rushing air, violently wrenched upward as the canopy extended beyond the future wreck of the helicopter. In the distance above me, the pilot floated in a direction away from me, but his gun pointed down at my chute. "Best not land near the wreckage," he yelled very muffled in the windy descent, "and don't follow me, or I'll puncture that chute of yours." We were still quite a ways up. I watched the helicopter drop to the earth, exploding in a small ball of fire and dust as it clambered through a forest below. The helicopter touched down in a forest just north of Chalna, in the Repulic of Karelia of Russia. I lost sight of the pilot in the clouds, and found myself descending upon the northern outskirts of Petrozavodsk. Nothing compared to the first town where I had pulled myself out of the waters, this was a bustling city in the eastern portion of Russia, stretching along Lake Onega and just under 200 miles from my intended destination. I contemplated catching an up-draft and riding that chute as far as I could get it to go, but nature failed in providing me sufficient up-drafts and actually accelerated my descent towards Petrozavodsk. I'd only been in Russia once before about half a decade prior, and it was on legitimate business. I found out then what I knew now, it was impossible for an American to blend in, particularly if that American wasn't of a white ethnic background. Although, my legitimate business only placed me in the Moscow offices at the time, but it was enough of a culture shock to instill a sense of knowing in future ventures. But, in a way often seen in commercialized cities, I missed Moscow. There was beauty in St. Petersburg as well, but all of these little towns and cities scattered through the Russian countryside defiled the notion of imagined nostalgia I had for the country. Imagined because I knew it wasn't a manifestation of my own memories, but of that drilled into my memories by the training a decade ago. Publicly, the Cold War had stopped over three decades before, and the semblance of an American super power had managed to keep its citizens believing their country was still number one. But, the war raged and intensified in silence and deceit. What had been prior handled by soldiers and satellites and informants had relegated to the larger private industries. Private Number provided the network of dirty work handlers for thousands of contacts the world over, and Russia wasn't one of those worthy clients. They refused to acknowledge Private Number as a threat, merely seeing it as an annoying wasp hovering around the under hang of a roof, seeking to make a nest before being washed away by the garden hose of espionage. But, the foot soldiers of Private Number were a different breed of assassins. They hailed from all walks of life, and trained until they lost the adoration of humanity, hardened into tools of the trade. Devoid of emotion. Most of them. But, I lacked the ability to be devoid of emotion. I found myself complaining through several assignments. I could be cold, uncaring and deceitful, but I always felt bothered by having to do anything outside of my normal lifestyle. But, I was an assassin for hire, and the targets were increasingly difficult to corner into dark allies. This one, in particular, was no different. A diplomat, steeped too deeply in the corrupt scandals he created, started cheating his own employers. Skimming a bit of the luxuries for himself, thinking he was being slick, attending those parties. I specialized in making things seem like accidents. But, this job required me to perform my duties out in the open of a luxurious gala event. I hadn't begun to decide how the task was to be completed, or how I expected to walk out of that heavily guarded event without being shot myself. Somewhere in the next 200 miles, I had to acquire body armor and a tuxedo. Somewhere in the next 200 miles, I wanted to acquire a sniper rifle, but I wouldn't be paid if I didn't carry out the task to the specifications given. I touched down in a thick forest just outside of Petrozavodsk, suspended a couple of feet over the forest floor. The Comic Con carpoolers decided to call, "Mike! What's up, other than me?" "What? Where are you?" "Russia. In a forest right now, a few miles north of Petrozavodsk. I've been hired by a private organization to kill a diplomat in St. Petersburg, but it's still 200 miles away and I don't know how I'm gonna get there." I was once told that when the perfect cover of ineptitude is created, the best way to conceal one's practices was to do it in truth. "Okay, we're just checking in to see if you were gonna be available to pick us up, or should we wait on the Marine again?" I swung out and grasped onto a tree limb, cutting the parachute lines and attempting my descent to the forest floor, "Yes, expect the Marine. I know he's got my minivan, but I'm really not anywhere near San Diego at the moment." "Are you in trouble?" "No. But, I will be back in time for the cosplay meet-up tomorrow. 1PM in the Sails Pavilion, right?" I hated climbing trees, but it was a required task favored over the simple drop to the forest floor. I couldn't afford to have a sprained or broken ankle. The Glocks clinked in my pockets, like ice in a drinking glass, as the rustling continued while I made my way down the giant trees. I should have grabbed a bit of the parachute line before I started the descent. "I should have..." always seemed to be sitting in the back of my mind. I wasn't cut out for this work, but I couldn't escape from it either. "Yeah, dude. You're out drinking, aren't you?" The clinking, it sounded like ice, right. "Yeah. See you tomorrow?" The reply was positive with a hint of concern. But, in the 200,000 attendees of Comic Con, it's easy to be lost in the filter of the crowd. It was possible to go the entire five days without seeing your friends. I had only managed to do this for the first two days, and relinquishing my minivan to a US Marine for transit between the convention center and my buddies' hotel. The helicopter crash had served as a big enough distraction to allow movement into the city. Once beyond city limits, I blended quickly into the crowd. Evening had fallen, and it had been hours since I last slept. Devoid of cash but full of plastic, I found my options being anywhere on the street, somewhere in the forest, or taking my chances in a hostel. I was taken aback by the beauty of the city, quaint and reminiscent of the early Stalin era, but still possessing a very Soviet feel. The tree-lined streets almost hearkened back to the America I knew, and even possessed the cold-shouldered citizens likened to that of Los Angeles or New York. But, I could smell the lake. Sweet smelling as it was, but I couldn't be distracted. I wasn't on vacation, I had an objective that still needed to be met. The gala event was occurring within the next few hours, and I still had to find a tuxedo, body armor, a car and a shower. On a block near the center of town, I found a hostel. After a bit of broken Russian, I managed to secure a few minutes in the shared bathroom so I could at least wash away the stench of the last several hours. Once cleaned off, I dropped some American dollars I found wadded up in one of my pockets on the hostel management and disappeared back into town. In a quiet alley, I found a fine specimen of a driving machine, a mid-90s BMW 325 colored in sleek midnight black. Oh, to find it with keys in the ignition, no such luck. But, after a bit of work from the lock-pick kit I always carried on my person, I found myself inside the car. A bit of wire work underneath the dash brought the vehicle to life, and I found myself quickly zipping down alleyways and streets headed for St. Petersburg. My phone's GPS gave me an estimated arrival time of three hours, so I made haste to the nearest shopping center in hopes of finding a ready-made tuxedo I could just buy. After dropping into a currency exchange outlet and swapping out several hundred dollars for several thousand rubles, I took the suggestion of the exchange clerk and dropped in on a local tailor. With a tuxedo pressed and folded in the backseat, I merely lacked the body armor. I wanted to draw no further attention to myself, and fearing that any more time spent in the city would increase my chances of being caught in a stolen vehicle, I set out for St. Petersburg, ensuring to take any and all bypasses of document checkpoints along the way. (Last edited by Stitch on 08-08-10 06:31 AM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Based on the sequel to Private Number :
Based on Juice : Based on Final Regression : So, all I've learned is that my style changes between the same three authors. (Last edited by Stitch on 08-09-10 08:06 PM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Yeah, no. You want my "best" spam, find it yourself. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Entire songs. Look them up online. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Sorry, my profile's locked down for a reason. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Well, so far, this character hasn't been mentioned and he has been seen, but I won't say who it was.
Anyway, decided to simplify the way I draw their hands, but still working on defining what makes them part of my world. This is Alexander Wu's little bro. Drawn in India Ink on Bristol paper, which means...no digital work other than the font.  |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Most of us just go and come back and find no need to tell anyone. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I always check Last Posts. It's the only way I know if I'm answering something or not. Then I mark everything read, and I'm done until the next time. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Old news. Read this a long time ago, so I don't find it funny now. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I like breaking chains. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Had an interview today. Got hired an hour and a half later. I work for NFL.com, but it's still the NFL. Short-term quality assurance gig testing the site. Don't exactly know what yet, but it pays more, so I'm happy.
Last day at Activision is tomorrow night. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Activision wasn't permanent. Project is ending in three weeks. All Activision QA jobs are on a per-project basis.
Order is in, I'm still getting my order regardless since I've already paid for it. I still get my free game too when the project I was working on hits stores. NFL pays more, but it's only six weeks on the project. However, it's more technical, so it actually strengthens my resume and skills where Activision didn't. Activision's gig was for a single project, lasting about four months. I was there for three and a half. And then after that, I don't know. I still have unemployment, and a possible interview at MTV. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Whenever they notify me, so don't know.
Also, I love this theme: (Last edited by Stitch on 08-27-10 04:45 AM) |
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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
