Ascendant

Well, I can tell you this: you're never, ever going to get a bugless issue. It's not, technically speaking, impossible any more than, say, being hit by a meteor which has been hit by lightning while you're standing on a four leaf clover and holding the winning lotto ticket is necessarily impossible, but the likelihood of that happening is so statistically unlikely that it might as well be.

It's not because the devs aren't talented (they are), or because the issue isn't tested (it is), but because we're dealing with a codebase that's... what, 8 years old from the first line of code was written? By this point, there's going to be plenty of people who are familiar with this code fragment or that particular function, but they've left for other job opportunities (There may well be a good documentation process in place, but I promise you, even the best written document or commented code is no substitute for having the person who wrote the code originally immediately available to you), and even if they haven't, odds are they don't know/remember/haven't thought of how some script they wrote to handle any interaction with some new, likely completely unrelated addition.

I deal with this kind of problem every day in my line of work, and believe me, no matter how hard you plan or test, at the end of the day, it's always your ability to forecast potential problems compared against what ends up being your list of actual problems, and the latter is always slightly longer. Around the office, we call this a failure of imagination, but we try not to take it personally, and instead, focus our shame and guilt towards finding and fixing the problem as quickly as possible.

I could regale you with stories of code debugging that would turn your hair white (Well, actually, no, it wouldn't-- code debugging stories for non-code writing people is every bit as exciting as watching someone fill out a crossword puzzle written in a language you can't read) but trust me, I'm going to win the lottery standing on a four leaf clover and then be killed by a meteor struck by lightning long before you get a bugless issue.

That being said, if you want to avoid dealing with a bug in release, log in and start reporting them in beta.

I look back on the times I got to play alongside Shae very fondly. My thoughts and condolences go out to her and her family in their time of loss.

Is there such a thing as backhanded support?

I'm pretty sure it's either Freedom or Virtue, and they both cater to different playstyles. Freedom is more game focused, while Virtue tends to be more RP centric, but you should note that these are both huge generalizations; there's plenty of overlap between the servers.

As TheOcho looked at the other team's Defensive Lineup, he realized the one, bitter truth he had hidden from everyone, even himself: There was simply no way he was ready for some football.

If I am a winner, I permit NC Interactive, Inc. and NCsoft Europe Limited to use my name, likeness, photograph, hometown, and any comments that I may make about myself or this contest that I provide for advertising and promotional activities. I also certify that I am at least 13 years of age and am eligible to participate in this contest.

Corn On Macabre
A sentient stalk of genetically engineered corn turned eco-terrorist; he's a vehement carnivore who cheerfully describes the mass execution of "meatlings" as "pest control". He's (understandably) angry that human beings eat his fellow corn on a regular basis, but absolutely furious that every year, millions of his people are cut down, boiled/fried in oil/microwaved/etc, and eaten purely as a side dish that most humans cannot even effectively digest.

Bring it: You Better.

Happy birthday, Roy!

Coming To Town

North Atlantic Ocean
8:24 GMT

The Lockheart X-52 is a vehicle that isn't slated to be “invented” for another 10 years; when that happens, it'll be a revolutionary way to invisibly deliver small groups of troops (read: spies) virtually anywhere in the world. The boys in TacSim and PsychOps are still trying to figure out how the disclosure that we can land troops virtually undetected anywhere in the world will play out against the paranoias of our collective enemies.

There are currently 3 copies of the as-yet-to-officially-exist aircraft: one at the Air Force's 37th Tactical Fighter Wing, where they try to figure if it's worth the cost Lockheart is asking, one at Lockheart's Mojave testing facility, where they try to figure out how to make it worth the cost, and the one I'm currently flying, which, frankly, is the only one actually earning its pay.

They call it the Sled because it bears an uncanny resemblance to an Olympic bobsled-- an elongated torpedo shape with a recessed cockpit well towards the rear of the craft. It has room for four, if necessary, but tonight I'm carrying enough ordinance with me to take up the other three seats.

It's built out of a composite carbon fiber that we won't "officially" discover for another 6 years; a material that keeps the hull light enough to give it an insane power to weight ratio, strong enough to handle the stresses of double digit G maneuvers, and grants it a radar signature comparable to a ping-pong ball. The skin is doped with the same long-chain polymer miracle that coats my Stealthsuit, capable of real-time adaptive camouflage, a trick that involves receiving light from one side of an object and sending it more-or-less seamlessly to a mapped display node on the other side. It's a poor man's invisibility, but an effective one none the less. As an additional plus, it's thick enough on the hull to protect the the heat the Sled builds up at Mach 4.

Here above the Atlantic, the VTOL lifters have been disengaged, as well as the Pulse Detonation engines that power the tiny craft to airspeeds exceeding Mach 1. Now, it's just the angry roar of a hungry, underslung scramjet hurtling it through the atmosphere. Right now, the Sled is a vehicle that doesn't fly so much as pummels its way through the air in a convincing impersonation of flying.

I'm not flying a plane so much as I'm riding a bullet.

Rudy's path through the towering thunderheads of his merging supercells works well enough; the Sled takes a battering from the winds, but the three redundant flight computers tweak the Sled's stubby flight planes subtly thousands of times a second, keeping the ride as something dangerously approaching smooth. The gut reaction when the Sled hits a bad patch of weather is to try to fly it myself, but that's a fool's bet. I'm a good pilot, damned good, in fact, but the Sled's third generation bio-computers are literally born to fly, and built to service this form only. I force myself to ignore the increasing bad weather outside and focus on my first target. His details spill across my HUD.

Derrick Partridge. Age 48. 173.6 cm. 81.4 kg. Wife (third), Debbie, age 23. Kids: Cody, age 16, and Kendra, age 14, both from a former marriage. Derrick is CEO of Cerberus Systems, a multinational weapons corporation that, four years ago, moved most of its manufacturing operations out of the US and into countries that turned a blind eye to child labor. The kids in Cerberus factories spend 20 hours a day building the weapons and ammunition that are often used to kill or enslave their fellow children in a half dozen different wars across the world that simply aren't profitable enough to earn global intervention.

Cerberus supplies weapons and ammunition to all sides of the conflict. They work on credit, too, and are more than happy to accept land as payment. This land goes towards building Cerberus factories, the shantytowns full of refugees fleeing the conflicts that supply workers to them, and all manner of infrastructure scams that supply food, water, power, and vices to them. Cerberus gets a cut of it all, a parasite that grows inside of an organism even as it kills them on multiple fronts.

To be fair, Derrick wasn't the person who started Cerberus on a path that put weapons in the hands of kids, that encouraged genocide in a dozen countries, or chained children to machines to work on his company's behalf even as his own children were attending the finest private academies in the world. The person who actually did that was the late Lawrence McCall, former CEO of Cerberus. He died of a gunshot wound between his eyes, in his bed a year ago tonight. The assailant is unknown to the world's law enforcement agencies in general, and politely ignored by everyone else with Level Theta or higher clearance.

No, Derrick isn't directly responsible for any of Cerberus' sins, but in the year he's been in charge since McCall died, he hasn't done anything to stop them, either.

There's a saying about those who don't learn from history, one that Derrick has already proven, one about to be demonstrated, in his case, to it's ultimate conclusion.

I key the Sled's course in on Virginia's last spotted location of Partridge, and now I'm riding a bullet seeking a final target somewhere in New York's Long Island. The air ahead is thankfully free of traffic; it seems I'm the only one dumb enough to fly in this weather. I'm not looking forward to ending Derrick's life, but he's had a full year to make good, and didn't.

I honestly hope that Derrick's successor takes the hint, and I don't have make a similar visit a year from tonight.

Welcome to Virtue! Enjoy your stay!

The Weather Outside is Frightful

0700 GMT
The Workshop

"Good morning, Nick," Virginia says as I enter the Workshop's Ops Center. She's beautiful as always, red hair pulled back in a pony tail, sharp green eyes teaming with knowledge, attitude, and just a hint of mirth.

Steady, old man, I caution myself, then recite to myself the oft-practiced litany of reasons Virginia and I will not ---can not--- ever be more than co-workers.

Still, I give her the smile that I do only for her. It makes my eyes twinkle and my dimples look merry (most of all, though, it causes the patch over my left eye to itch like the devil), but I do it because she needs to see that I still can smile. She needs to know that despite my yearly odyssey, I haven't checked out entirely. I don't know why, but for some reason, I know that it's absolutely vital. Maybe because I need her trust in me to be validated. Maybe because I need to show her that The Job doesn't have to rob you of your soul. Maybe I just need someone to believe in me.

"What have we got this morning?" I ask, as casually as if it was any other day of the year.

"Glad you asked," Virginia says, then ushers me into the Op Center proper.

Despite the years I've spent on The Job, Ops never fails to impress me. As big as a good sized movie theater, Ops is technological wonderland that makes NASA's Mission Control look like Frankenstein's lab. In addition to billboard-sized video displays on every wall, dozens of sophisticated holodisplays are steadily streaming the latest satellite intel or computer projections against all manner of threats across the globe, from a formative weather pattern in the Gulf of Mexico to a group of militants hiding behind a rock near the Pakistan/Afghanistan boarder, and every manner of menace in between.

The newest iteration of the standard S.L.E.I.G.H. satellite imaging package has a high enough resolution to measure a target's respiratory speed from orbit; using them, I can tell when a target is sleeping. Or know when they're awake.

"What's it looking like out there, Rudy?"

The Workshop's resident meteorologist, caught unaware, nods a brief red-faced hello before pointing at the holographic display of the Earth.

"Looks like you're in for some pretty interesting weather, Saint."

I bristle for a moment; then remind myself that all Rudy probably knows is that I used to be called the Saint because I once defended an orphanage in Medellín from the Cartel. I had refused a direct order to leave the area; proof of U.S. military personnel on site was definitely not part of the mission profile, but I've always had a soft spot for kids. Fortunately, they all lived. The Cartel's goons, not so much. The local goodwill I gained us from becoming an instant urban legend helped undermine Escobar, and more importantly, saved me from court martial.

But that was a lifetime ago.

I haven't been a Saint in years.

I let it pass in less than the space of an eyeblink; there will be time enough to explain the difference between Idealism and Obtainable Goals to Rudy later. I've got bigger things to attend to right now.

If Rudy notices the pause, he covers it well. "We're tracking several serious weather patterns-- nothing unusual for this time of year, mind you, but it'll make atmo piloting tricky in a few places. In particular, you'll encounter merging supercells over the Eastern United States, and there are a few emergent patterns in the Eurasian continent I'd like to keep a closer eye on. For the most part, though, I think I can guide you through them."

I nod in agreement. Tricky, yes, impossible, no. Besides, this isn't my first night out.

"Hermey, what about support?"

The cherubic blond air traffic controller looks up from his holographic radar projection, "Donner and Blitzen are fueled and ready on the pads, and should be suborbital about the time you hit the 90 Lat. They'll be tracking your ELFmitter all night, should you need 'em."

I nod again. The two hypersonic strike fighters are brand new this year, but I'd always had something similar following me. I haven't ever needed active air support, but it's good to know I can bring the Thunder and Lightning on demand, if need be.

"Virginia," I say, and, just like that, she's somehow by my side.

"Sir?"

It's the only time during the year she ever calls me sir. I used to think it was because she respected the man she was addressing, or at least, the mission he was trying to accomplish. Over the past few years, however, I've come to understand that it's her way of calling me back to the man I was. Her way of saying, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

I hold the datacube in my palm. She takes it, gingerly, understanding what it is, what it represents. She's done it often enough now that this has become our own annual tradition.

"I'll need everything you can give me on the people on this List, a fastest-path plot to their current locations, and Priority Alpha airspace clearance to everywhere in between," I hear myself say. It's the same script every year. The people on the List are worst people alive, people who do horrible, unspeakable things for money, or power, or, even, just for fun. They're also people who, for whatever reason, enjoy some sort of protection from the justice they deserve, a protection that won't save them tonight. It seems like each year, the list is longer.

I guess it's lucky for me that tonight is one of the longest nights of the year.

Of the twelve on the list, only two are leftovers from last year. An impressive turnover, but still also, a challenge to do better this year. Next year, I plan to have nothing but newcomers.

She takes the cube, nods, starts to walk away. She makes it three steps before she pauses, deviating from our tradition.

"I heard once that you used to keep two Lists," she says, not looking back. Perhaps, not daring to.

I close my remaining eye and think back to then. There was a time when I fought my battles standing up, when I only took out those who were fighting back. But somewhere along the line, the man they used to call the Saint realized that who I was then and who I am now wouldn't recognize each other if they passed on the street. The man I was then would wage a war from an orphanage in Columbia and take on the worst the cartels had to offer. The man I am now realizes it's much easier to kill them in their sleep the night before.

"The Nice can look out for themselves tonight," I reply.

(Because it was only a matter of time before someone in Hollywood decided we needed a "darker, grittier, reimagination" of Santa Claus, I thought I'd beat them to the punch.)


It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

0630 GMT
The Workshop

It's nearing the end of the year, just a few dozen fading hours are left in first decade of a new millennium.

I'm ready for it. As ready as any man can be.

I don't know how many more years I can keep this up; I feel like I've been at it for centuries already, and at times, when the howling arctic wind catches me in just the right way, the man-made cracks in my bones ache like hell. No, I don't know how many years I can keep this up, but I know, at least, how long I will.

As long as I possibly can.

I have other duties, other responsibilities. This isn't my job, it's a reward they give me for doing my job. I know this. I understand it, but this moment is never far from my mind the rest of the year. When I'm discussing the finer points of satellite intelligence interpretation down in SIGNIT in September, or when I'm spending July arguing for more funding from a U.N. that would rather be throwing the money at olive branches, or even when I'm coaching the best and brightest of the Academy's graduation class on how to survive their first wet op in February, I'm thinking about today.

Yes, I think about it even as soon as February.

Especially February, because the previous year's work is still fresh in my mind. What I did right. What I did wrong. And, most importantly, what I can do to skew that ratio this year.

It's crazy-- at least, charitably speaking, it's unhealthy-- how much I look forward to this time of the year. I can't help it, though. I'm like a kid at--

The comlink buzzes, as it has every year since I agreed to take this job. These days, it's the few things I have that approaches a tradition, and who am I to argue with tradition, especially during this time of year?

"Nick," the voice says on the other end of the line, "You're a go."

In all years I've been getting The Call, I still don't have a name to go with the voice on the other end of the line; even my considerable resources can't penetrate that particular veil of secrecy, but I know he speaks for the U.N. council that secretly oversees the Supreme Legal, Espionage and Intelligence Global Headquarters. He doesn't say it out loud (and I don't blame him; even over an Encrypted Low Frequency transmitter, there's too much risk the words could be recorded somewhere to come back and haunt him), but I can hear even through the scrambler that he's wishing me good luck.

He knows, as well as I do, that this is my reward, not my job.


And, he knows, as well as I do, that this is what my job should have been from day one.

Great work, Bayani! So, when can I put it on my pull list at my local comic book store?

Happy Birthday, Dayn!

Congratulations! That's awesome!

Crey's bad news, but there's really nothing you can do until you get hard evidence, which they've managed to purchase away from everyone else at the last moment. Crime is pretty much recession proof, after all (if anything, hard economic times encourage it), and as long as they can manage to flummox Paragon City's legal system (and let's face it, it's hardly starting off with a spotless track record), they'll be posting record gains alongside of Extensive Enterprises and Stane Industries every quarter.

Crime might not pay initially. but if you're large enough, the economies of scale make it pay off eventually.

I think you need to contact the person at the absolute very least, and not continue with the idea unless you get consent or a least an apathetic "whatever". If your idea is good enough, and they're a good sport and have no objections, you stand an excellent chance of having them play along, which increases the immersion for the other people involved. If you're really lucky, they'll have suggestions on how their character would react/behave/whatever to make it even better or feed your ideas. If they say no, there are enough people playing the game that you can probably find a willing substitute.

Alibi

Ravensbürg Concentration Camp, Germany
December 22, 1944

Crom observed the Camp below him as he did every hour. It was close enough to his camouflaged temporary base of operations that he could easily make out individual guards and prisoners through the standard-issue Kriegsmarine binoculars he had enhanced for clarity, focus and nightvision. The “base” he had built secretly overlooking the German Camp was just a small room dug out of a few square meters of dirt, but Crom was certain that it would accomplish his goals without discovery. Furthermore, once he departed it for good and was actually On Site, a series of explosives would render the immediate area indistinguishable from a random artillery shelling.

The evening was unexpectedly chilly, and Crom noted the pain in his deliberately broken, imperfectly healed bones. He quickly recalculated his transit times to take into account his reduced mobility.

Timing, after all, would be everything.

His objective would be difficult even in the best of circumstances, but to his advantage, the Germans kept to schedules if they were part of a religion governed by a particularly unforgiving god, which, upon further reflection, he admitted was probably true in a sense. Still, as far as Crom was concerned, predictability was a weakness well evidenced by history. He was thankful that he Germans had seemingly failed to notice that particular drawback.

Robot drones, launched from the extensively rebuilt U-Boat Crom had taken from Ross Island to the coast of Europe, had dutifully mapped out the area surrounding Crom's target for days. They flew quietly on pulse jet engines, the champagne pop of their engines' firing every half second easily lost in wind between them and the surface more than a kilometer below. They obediently relayed their findings back to a heavily refitted U-Boat a hundred kilometers south. The Lothar unit aboard the automated vessel studied them and transmitted its suggestions back to the drones, which passed them back down to the portable Lothar system in Crom's makeshift, one-room base.

The drones also tracked the movements of axis and allied units, from bomber squadrons to individual platoons, and reported what they found back to Crom via a signal he had designed specifically to sound like common static. Crom took some grim amusement that among all the superpowers fighting in the conflict, he alone had the full view of what was happening.

The camp was moderately fortified, designed to keep people in and relying on the rest of Germany to keep them out. It wouldn't take much to get in, but it would take an army to get out. In that respect, Crom suspected he would have little concern.

Crom examined the output from Lothar, and considered it against what he was personally able to observe through the binoculars. Tonight, he noted, everyone was in their proper places.

Yes, he thought as he noted the positions of the nearby Allied forces, tonight is definitely the night.

He pressed a button, and watched the chaos unfold.



They seemingly came from nowhere, which was, of course, not true. In truth, the squad of soldiers erupted out of the ground as if given birth by it. They had been buried in the road, just over the rise of the hill, for over a week, dormant, quiet, but most of all, unexpected.

The soldiers trudged towards the gate of the camp, their guns firing occasionally, never needing more than three bullets to kill a given target. Round after round of enemy bullets tore into them, but they continued striding forward, killing anything that dared try to stand against them.

By the time they reached the front gates, their US Army uniforms were in tatters-- not surprising, since that had been more or less their condition when Crom looted off of a full platoon of former American “heroes” unfortunate enough to happen across his path to the Camp. The sophisticated rubber compound that composed their faces was enough to make them look human from a distance; by the time an observer noticed how lifeless their expressions were, or how empty their eyes were, they'd be dead.

Across the Camp, alarms sounded, and soldiers moved to counter the seemingly unstoppable American soldiers moving inexorably towards the main gate. Even as they did, drones above the Allied command post fifty kilometers north flooded the radio waves with static, and the Lothar system aboard Crom's refitted U-Boat began barking instructions in a surprisingly convincing imitation of the Allies' local radio operators.

Within the hour, every combat capable Allied asset within twenty kilometers would be at the camp. By the time they arrived, however, Crom expected there would be little for them to do.

Crom hurried down the ridge towards the Camp, sticking to a path he had selected days ago, and personally run enough times that he was familiar with every possible obstacle or snare. His very skeleton protested at this-- many of his hastily healed bones were literally grinding against his muscle tissue, but that, he conceded, was to be expected.

The night was briefly lit up as the invincible “American soldiers” detonated the camp's main administration building, precisely on time. From his current vantage point, Crom was able to make out the chaos in the camp a few hundred meters away. Guards, painted in amber hues by the flames from the burning building, were rushing to assist the dwindling defenders at the Camp's front gate. Once the flames died down, he crossed the 50 meters of no-man's land that stretched between the forest and the camp, then spent a few terrifying moments cutting away at the outer fence.

He expected that history would record this as being the the only time someone had ever willingly broken into a concentration camp, then chuckled and discarded the thought. If he was successful, history would never know his actions tonight.

Once in the Camp, Crom kept low, ignoring the protests of his malnourished body and battered frame as he ducked between the prisoner housing buildings, gagging at the pervasive stink of human waste and death. He finally made it to his objective: solitary confinement. The boxes were only a square meter in size, built by efficient German engineers to be too cramped to afford sleep to the occupant, too hot to ensure their prolonged survival.

There was still a guard there, although his attention was clearly directed towards the conflict at the main gate. Crom crept to within a few meters, then pulled what had once been Erikson's Luger and took careful aim. A sudden explosion gave him cover enough to fire the weapon, and the guard was dead before he hit the ground.

Crom examined the dead guard for a moment before turning his attention to the solitary confinement cells. There were no locks on them, just a U-shaped metal rod that kept the door's latch in place. Crom removed the first one, and opened the cell.

The stench hit him like a solid blow. The man inside was old, beaten, and covered in his own filth. Across his frail body were wounds, untreated and infected, seeping pus. He held up his hands defensively, assuming from long experience that Crom was another German intent on visiting violence upon him.

“Please, I am to be having no threat to you,” the man said in broken German.

“I know,” Crom answered in fluent Yiddish.

Upon hearing his native language, the man's eyes lit up with hope. “You're not a German?” he asked.

“No,” Crom replied, “I'm not a German.”

“Then you're here to rescue us?”

Crom considered the question for a moment.

“I'm here to rescue us.” He gestured to the prisoner quarters, and then to himself.

He waited until a protracted staccato of machine gun fire could cover the sound of the gun's report before firing the Luger at the prisoner's head.

“Unfortunately,” he whispered with genuine sadness, “I'm not here to rescue you.”

Welcome back, QA! Good to see you again!

Also, while it's not a cartoon, and it doesn't air on Saturdays, I have it on good authority that the teens of Paragon City watch this.

I was actually fortunate enough to talk with Orioson about this event a few days ago, and I got a bit of a behind-the-scenes sneak peek. The work they've put into it so far is pretty mind blowing, and they're doing a lot of things I've never seen attempted in an RP event.

Frankly, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a bit jealous.

My prediction: Awesome.

Well, I just crunched the numbers to get there from Chicago. Outside of selling one of my 3 remaining kidneys (and I'm pretty sure that's the bare minimum I need to operate my 2 spleens), there's no way I can get there.

Any chance you guys might start doing GenCon Indy again? Or, alternatively, host a "Let's Fly Ascendant to the West Coast"-type fundraiser?

Email sent! I'm tired of being "Not Applicable".