Call me sergeant Seth Walker, call me Ishmael, call me Bill Murray in a David Twohy version of Groundhog Day, waking to misery after misery. Smoke. Klaxons. Guttering machinery. Spider-legs of electricity skittering across paneling. Scorched plasteel. Guts splashed like pea soup across walls.
Also: Aliens. Aliens that swarm. Aliens that lob grenades. Eventually even aliens that are grenades. Aliens on a human colony ship, like snakes on a plane, and, you know, about as intimidating. (Somewhere in a trunk with x-ray glasses and sea monkeys and moon monsters are Actually Scary Video Game Aliens. But not in this game.)
Did I say misery? Loves company. So I went and got some named "Harvey," which is long for HR-V, sort of like WALL-E, except not remotely. He's ix-nay on the conversation-ay, but that's alright, he'd rather just tag along and sign with his fists, which, by the way, are also guns. Nothing says "buddy" like the lumbering chug of servo-mechanics on your six. Go dual-wield gatlings!
Me, I'm the awesomely awesomest multi-tasker in the multiverse. Or on this ship, anyway, which it's looking more and more like I won't be leaving anytime soon. That's alright. I like it here. And now it turn out I'm a robotics specialist. Well, a robotics specialist with the improbable wizard skills of Tony Stark born on the planet Krypton with jedi powers. I'm like that guy in Man vs. Wild. You know, the one who gets his face stung off by a bee and pees in a snakeskin then has to drink it while his camera crew are just a couple feet away, probably sitting under umbrella tents with those little battery-powered squirt-fans, chugging plastic six-packs of Gatorade G2. Bring it on, Bear Grylls. I'm Teen-rated and I can still kick your butt.
I've been running all these missions to find people who can open doors that I, despite my ability to conjure robot grunts from scrap, can't. Instead, I have to walk from one side of a level all the way to the opposite end, scouting neon-lit corridors, sniping aliens, and snapping up "parts" scattered in battle or sprung from lockers and toolboxes. Did I say snap? I meant suck. Anything lying around, I just tap a button and wham, sticks to me, sort of like The Swan in Lost.
I saved this damsel a few minutes ago and escorted her over to a "safe hub" control center with gizmos and workbenches that let me fiddle the attack and defense ratings of all my kit. Then I left to go save someone else. Now she wakes up my headset.
Damsel: "Where are you? The navigational A.I. face thing. You know, the floaty hologram..."
Me: "Pilot?"
Damsel: "Yeah. It's kind of staring at me. It's really creepy."
Me: "Uh, lemme get back to you. I'm in a hallway somewhere. With aliens. Lots of aliens."
Story of my so-called life.
Next: Legos, weed-whackers, sappers, and "do the hustle!"
Hilarious review. Thanks for the laughs!