Megajoule

I hope not. But if so, it had one hell of a run, and was a high-water mark that will live on in the memories (and screenshots) of the players.
Much like this game as a whole.

I came across you taking the shot in Talos, on the station balcony, and figured out what you were doing - and then tried to get out of the way as quick as I could, out of respect. Glad you were able to get that pic and all the rest.

I've always pronounced it to rhyme with "water field", though with the Qw sound of course.
I suspect it's a nod to Quatermass (note similarly missing r) of British science fiction fame.

Did you keep the confirmation emails which (I believe, from my own experience) NCsoft would have sent you back when you applied the codes to your account?

Here's another for my fellow oldbies:
Remember when it was easy to run out of missions in the late 30s, unless you were careful and/or made sure to team a lot? (Back then, the only way to get missions was from contacts... and when they were all done, it was street grinding the rest of the way to 40. Couldn't exemp down and run with lowbies, 'cause that gave no xp.)

Oh, I agree - especially since (unlike many players, including some I know) I've held out against switching over to IOs as soon as one can, with the result that every five levels, it's off to the store again to turn the yellow and red numbers green once more. I won't miss that, really. And I've gotten pretty good at clicking out of the "combine" screen so I don't have to watch that animation over and over. But it's something slightly different to reflect that I may not see it again, ever, unless I go out of my way to. (Or record it. :/ )

Tiresome though it was, it was still one of those little rituals of City life.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And - like the baseless fabric of this vision -
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

-- Prospero, The Tempest



The curtain rises, revealing the familiar backdrop - a cityscape rendered in painted wood and canvas - and the cast take their places for one last hurrah.

First to take center stage is the city official with the thinning hair and rolled-up sleeves, his tie now undone and sporting a round "33" campaign button pinned to his dress shirt; he places his hand over his heart (see, he does have one!) and bows to the audience in humble gratitude. He is flanked on the right by a brunette in a gown of deep cherry red, and on the left by a Hispanic woman of vibrant middle age in a floral print dress; they both applaud, then take their bows in turn.

The big man in the trenchcoat and fedora is next, of course, with a broad smile belying his usual grim demeanor. He raises and pumps his big fists in the "victory" pose as the audience cheers. He also is grouped with two women: the perky gamine in the sleeveless cocktail dress (looking much healthier than the last time we saw her), and the blonde in the sparkly disco gown, who's traded her skates for an ordinary set of heels. He embraces one, then the other, and then all three join hands; he lifts one of theirs in each of his, and they bow deeply together.

The tall, thin man in the grey suit pushes the woman in the wheelchair (still in her simple out-patient clothes, but much more alert and focused, with a bouquet of roses in her lap and no tremor in her hands) onto the stage. He steps to one side and bows to her graciously, then to the audience, a faint smile passing his lips. As he guides his companion to the side of the stage, he and the big man playfully shadow-box for a moment, then shake hands in fellowship.

Next up are the burly longshoreman and the man of bronze. Both bow, applaud and receive their accolade, with the metallic giant pointing to members of the audience who've fought to protect the reactor and finishing with a "peace" sign. When they join the others, the detective and the dockworker share a back-slapping bear hug.

DJ Zero and the short man in the cream 80s suit take the stage; without his sunglasses and sneer, the latter seems much less ferret-like but still full of energy, rushing forward to the very edge and miming his love for everyone. He spends a couple of minutes working the crowd's flagging applause back up to a new crescendo, pointing at his fellow cast members and calling for more, then taking his place among them. Throughout the rest of the curtain call, he can sometimes be seen popping up behind the taller ones as if on a pogo stick. Zero, for his part, merely smiles and waves before fading off to the other side of the stage.

The Founder, standing straight and tall now with his long white beard groomed and the brass buttons on his revolutionary coat polished to a shine, and the Warden, his black PPD-like uniform immaculately pressed and creased, bronze shields gleaming, are next. They bow solemnly to the audience and to each other before moving aside.

The last and possibly unlikeliest pair are the grey-bearded partisan in flannel and the doe-eyed dancer of the wood. They clap and wave to the crowd, and she even does a little pirouette beside him before they take their bows.

Rather than walking off, the final duo are joined by the rest of the cast at the front of the stage. Everyone holds hands and bows again, and again. Some are visibly weeping by this point, but they all smile, even through the tears. They bow again, and raise their arms together, and step back as the curtain finally falls.


(( Thank you, everyone. ))

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And - like the baseless fabric of this vision -
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

-- Prospero, The Tempest



The curtain rises, revealing the familiar backdrop - a cityscape rendered in painted wood and canvas - and the cast take their places for one last hurrah.

First to take center stage is the city official with the thinning hair and rolled-up sleeves, his tie now undone and sporting a round "33" campaign button pinned to his dress shirt; he places his hand over his heart (see, he does have one!) and bows to the audience in humble gratitude. He is flanked on the right by a brunette in a gown of deep cherry red, and on the left by a Hispanic woman of vibrant middle age in a floral print dress; they both applaud, then take their bows in turn.

The big man in the trenchcoat and fedora is next, of course, with a broad smile belying his usual grim demeanor. He raises and pumps his big fists in the "victory" pose as the audience cheers. He also is grouped with two women: the perky gamine in the sleeveless cocktail dress (looking much healthier than the last time we saw her), and the blonde in the sparkly disco gown, who's traded her skates for an ordinary set of heels. He embraces one, then the other, and then all three join hands; he lifts one of theirs in each of his, and they bow deeply together.

The tall, thin man in the grey suit pushes the woman in the wheelchair (still in her simple out-patient clothes, but much more alert and focused, with a bouquet of roses in her lap and no tremor in her hands) onto the stage. He steps to one side and bows to her graciously, then to the audience, a faint smile passing his lips. As he guides his companion to the side of the stage, he and the big man playfully shadow-box for a moment, then shake hands in fellowship.

Next up are the burly longshoreman and the man of bronze. Both bow, applaud and receive their accolade, with the metallic giant pointing to members of the audience who've fought to protect the reactor and finishing with a "peace" sign. When they join the others, the detective and the dockworker share a back-slapping bear hug.

DJ Zero and the short man in the cream 80s suit take the stage; without his sunglasses and sneer, the latter seems much less ferret-like but still full of energy, rushing forward to the very edge and miming his love for everyone. He spends a couple of minutes working the crowd's flagging applause back up to a new crescendo, pointing at his fellow cast members and calling for more, then taking his place among them. Throughout the rest of the curtain call, he can sometimes be seen popping up behind the taller ones as if on a pogo stick. Zero, for his part, merely smiles and waves before fading off to the other side of the stage.

The Founder, standing straight and tall now with his long white beard groomed and the brass buttons on his revolutionary coat polished to a shine, and the Warden, his black PPD-like uniform immaculately pressed and creased, bronze shields gleaming, are next. They bow solemnly to the audience and to each other before moving aside.

The last and possibly unlikeliest pair are the grey-bearded partisan in flannel and the doe-eyed dancer of the wood. They clap and wave to the crowd, and she even does a little pirouette beside him before they take their bows.

Rather than walking off, the final duo are joined by the rest of the cast at the front of the stage. Everyone holds hands and bows again, and again. Some are visibly weeping by this point, but they all smile, even through the tears. They bow again, and raise their arms together, and step back as the curtain finally falls.


(( Thank you, everyone. ))

Thank you, sir, and fare well.

"If we should meet again, why, we shall smile; if not, this parting was well made."

Here are a few more things from the early days, concerning sidekicking. While this system was and is revolutionary in the industry in terms of letting people play together regardless of their current characters' levels, there were... problems with its original implementation. I mentioned the "invisible leash" in my first post; here are some more, since fixed:

* Finding a high-level character for every low-level that wanted to come along.

* Not being able to go into hazard zones with the rest of the team, even if sidekicked.

* Being summarily kicked from a TF if the person you were exemplared to disconnected, however briefly. Bad luck if it was original Posi, aka "the Positron Marathon."

* Getting no experience (only inf) if exemplared, even if it was just one or two levels.

Three years ago this month, Issue 16 fixed all of these, as well as giving us power customization. Thank you again, Paragon Studios!

SPECIAL #3 - OVERBROOK

(with the Watchmaker)

2007

The man known in this city as the Watchmaker sat on a bench and contemplated the fused lump of glass and metal and wiring in his hand. An hour ago it had been a tool of sublime power, like Archimedes' lever, which could move the Earth in the right hands - or the wrong ones. Now it was a paperweight.

Like so many others, including his own counterpart and nemesis, he had been drawn here in search of that slumbering potential. At first he thought that he had found it in young Miss Yin - but she was only part of the equation. The rest lay buried much deeper, not just in earth and rubble but in schemes and double-crosses, unreliable memory and questionable sanity. He'd finally uncovered the truth and brought it to light; for an achingly brief time he'd held it in his hands, a glittering jewel, ready to make his thought and will into reality.

But in that moment of triumph came despair, as he realized it could never be. He was too flawed, too mortal to be a god. He had seen the fate of the device's creator and knew the same awaited him if he dared to claim it for himself; the seeds of madness were in him too, even now, like a cracked wall that had merely been painted over. What mistakes would he make, what horrors might he accidentally conjure? Limitless power had been within his grasp... and the only thing he could do was give it up to be destroyed.

With a curse, he flung the useless thing into the nearby fountain. It sank with a hollow plunk.

"Make a wish?"

The question startled him; he'd been so intent on the ruined device that he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone. The speaker was a woman about his own age, late forties or early fifties, her face lined with wrinkles and dark hair shot through with grey. She wore simple, loose-fitting clothes - a blouse, sweatpants and sneakers - and sat in a wheelchair. There was a slight tremor in her hands, but her brown eyes glittered with humor.

Recovering from his surprise, he let out his breath in a bitter sigh. "Too late for that now."

"Never too late to make a new start. At least, that's what they tell me." Her smile was wan but sympathetic.

"'They' being the helpful, well-meaning doctors and nurses," he grumbled. The woman offered no demur. "Let me tell you something, my dear - they're nowhere near as certain or as all-knowing as they pretend to be."

"Who is, really?" she answered with a shrug. "I take it you've spent some time in a hospital."

"For a few months, yes. I was... not myself." But I was. I am he and he is me... He shook his head, dismissing the distracting thought.

"And now you're someone else. Not quite the same person as before." The woman sighed, leaning back in her wheelchair and watching the fountain bubble. "Some days you're not sure who you are. You have a box full of pieces of a life, and you try to put them back together, but they don't all fit anymore and some are missing. You look in the mirror, or at old photos, and you see an unfamiliar face. But the hardest part..." She swallowed. "The hardest part is being around those you knew, and all their expectations of how you should be. And you wonder how to tell them that the person they miss... isn't coming back. Not all the way."

"... yes," he finally said, stunned by this stranger's understanding and insight.

"I'm Brooke." She extended a hand; he took it, stilling the tremor, and brushed his lips across the back, making her smile. "A gentleman, mm?"

"I've been known to play the role," he smiled back. And a fool, and a king... stop it!

"Ah, but who are you, really?" she asked kindly, then held up a hand before he could respond. "I'm not asking for any secrets. I'm just saying, that's something you need to know for yourself, down in your gut. Until you do, you're standing on shaky ground. Never know when it might give way."

He relaxed and nodded. "Just so. I have been having trouble finding my footing of late. I keep tripping over things." His rueful smile turned serious as he considered Brooke again. There was something odd about the psychic impressions and feelings he was getting; they seemed to come from all around, not just the spot beside the bench. There was something there, but it was indistinct, elusive, hard to pick out from the background - shielded, perhaps? He concentrated...

The first and only time he'd tried this with Penny Yin, it had been like looking directly at the sun. This was more like gazing into a bottomless chasm, including the overwhelming sensation of vertigo. "Who... who are you?" he asked dazedly, drawing back from the edge before he fell in.

"I can't answer that. I'm still figuring it out myself." Again that sad, frail smile. "What you really mean is, 'what are you?'" She spread her arms. "Another broken soul, like you. Just a little... bigger."

"Impossible," he muttered, still shaken by his glimpse of the abyss.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" Brooke quoted wryly. "The evidence is before you; will you deny it?"

"... no," he finally said with an effort, pulling himself together. "Very well, I acknowledge your existence."

"A gentleman," she repeated. He didn't need to look at her with his eyes to know that hers were twinkling. She tilted her head, regarding him closely in turn. "I can tell you're not from around here. You had another life, before you came to this city. Do you want to go back to it?"

"Not really," he found himself admitting. It seemed so small and lonely now; he'd had his books and his tinkering to occupy him, but since stepping through that portal, he'd discovered not only a new world but new aspects of himself. The desire to explore - not just places to see and things to do, but finding the extent and potential of his own abilities. A need for companionship, and an awareness that while much of humanity was petty and venal and selfish, there were also those worth knowing and even admiring. And perhaps most surprising at all to a cynical old misanthrope, a wish to help others, to be of service... within reason, of course.

"Then you need to... need to..." She trailed off, looking to one side. Several seconds passed before she seemed to become aware of him again. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I need to do something," he suggested.

"Yes! You need to figure out who you are. Once you do that, the rest will follow."

"Easier said than done," he observed dourly.

"Don't I know it," she replied. "But it'll work out, you'll see. Never too late to make a new start."

He chuckled, a bit sadly. "I think this is where I came in, my dear." He took her hand again and squeezed it gently. "Thank you. I'll take your words to heart."

"Good." She squeezed back. "Do you have to go right away? I was going to watch the sunset, and I wouldn't mind some company."

"Of course. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

He settled back on the bench, noticing for the first time how long the shadows had grown while he'd sat there, lost in his regrets. The sun was already veiled by the shimmering curtain of the War Wall, tinting everything in sight - the plaza, the trendy new apartments, the construction yards and the donut shop - a warm amber. Soon it would pass behind the distant buildings and be gone entirely. But for this golden moment, even with an uncertain future before him and no clear path, he was at peace. He was content.

And though a casual observer might have seen him sitting alone, he was not.

(( And here it is at last, almost a year to the day after my last post - much later than it should have been.))

SPECIAL #3 - OVERBROOK

(with the Watchmaker)

2007

The man known in this city as the Watchmaker sat on a bench and contemplated the fused lump of glass and metal and wiring in his hand. An hour ago it had been a tool of sublime power, like Archimedes' lever, which could move the Earth in the right hands - or the wrong ones. Now it was a paperweight.

Like so many others, including his own counterpart and nemesis, he had been drawn here in search of that slumbering potential. At first he thought that he had found it in young Miss Yin - but she was only part of the equation. The rest lay buried much deeper, not just in earth and rubble but in schemes and double-crosses, unreliable memory and questionable sanity. He'd finally uncovered the truth and brought it to light; for an achingly brief time he'd held it in his hands, a glittering jewel, ready to make his thought and will into reality.

But in that moment of triumph came despair, as he realized it could never be. He was too flawed, too mortal to be a god. He had seen the fate of the device's creator and knew the same awaited him if he dared to claim it for himself; the seeds of madness were in him too, even now, like a cracked wall that had merely been painted over. What mistakes would he make, what horrors might he accidentally conjure? Limitless power had been within his grasp... and the only thing he could do was give it up to be destroyed.

With a curse, he flung the useless thing into the nearby fountain. It sank with a hollow plunk.

"Make a wish?"

The question startled him; he'd been so intent on the ruined device that he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone. The speaker was a woman about his own age, late forties or early fifties, her face lined with wrinkles and dark hair shot through with grey. She wore simple, loose-fitting clothes - a blouse, sweatpants and sneakers - and sat in a wheelchair. There was a slight tremor in her hands, but her brown eyes glittered with humor.

Recovering from his surprise, he let out his breath in a bitter sigh. "Too late for that now."

"Never too late to make a new start. At least, that's what they tell me." Her smile was wan but sympathetic.

"'They' being the helpful, well-meaning doctors and nurses," he grumbled. The woman offered no demur. "Let me tell you something, my dear - they're nowhere near as certain or as all-knowing as they pretend to be."

"Who is, really?" she answered with a shrug. "I take it you've spent some time in a hospital."

"For a few months, yes. I was... not myself." But I was. I am he and he is me... He shook his head, dismissing the distracting thought.

"And now you're someone else. Not quite the same person as before." The woman sighed, leaning back in her wheelchair and watching the fountain bubble. "Some days you're not sure who you are. You have a box full of pieces of a life, and you try to put them back together, but they don't all fit anymore and some are missing. You look in the mirror, or at old photos, and you see an unfamiliar face. But the hardest part..." She swallowed. "The hardest part is being around those you knew, and all their expectations of how you should be. And you wonder how to tell them that the person they miss... isn't coming back. Not all the way."

"... yes," he finally said, stunned by this stranger's understanding and insight.

"I'm Brooke." She extended a hand; he took it, stilling the tremor, and brushed his lips across the back, making her smile. "A gentleman, mm?"

"I've been known to play the role," he smiled back. And a fool, and a king... stop it!

"Ah, but who are you, really?" she asked kindly, then held up a hand before he could respond. "I'm not asking for any secrets. I'm just saying, that's something you need to know for yourself, down in your gut. Until you do, you're standing on shaky ground. Never know when it might give way."

He relaxed and nodded. "Just so. I have been having trouble finding my footing of late. I keep tripping over things." His rueful smile turned serious as he considered Brooke again. There was something odd about the psychic impressions and feelings he was getting; they seemed to come from all around, not just the spot beside the bench. There was something there, but it was indistinct, elusive, hard to pick out from the background - shielded, perhaps? He concentrated...

The first and only time he'd tried this with Penny Yin, it had been like looking directly at the sun. This was more like gazing into a bottomless chasm, including the overwhelming sensation of vertigo. "Who... who are you?" he asked dazedly, drawing back from the edge before he fell in.

"I can't answer that. I'm still figuring it out myself." Again that sad, frail smile. "What you really mean is, 'what are you?'" She spread her arms. "Another broken soul, like you. Just a little... bigger."

"Impossible," he muttered, still shaken by his glimpse of the abyss.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" Brooke quoted wryly. "The evidence is before you; will you deny it?"

"... no," he finally said with an effort, pulling himself together. "Very well, I acknowledge your existence."

"A gentleman," she repeated. He didn't need to look at her with his eyes to know that hers were twinkling. She tilted her head, regarding him closely in turn. "I can tell you're not from around here. You had another life, before you came to this city. Do you want to go back to it?"

"Not really," he found himself admitting. It seemed so small and lonely now; he'd had his books and his tinkering to occupy him, but since stepping through that portal, he'd discovered not only a new world but new aspects of himself. The desire to explore - not just places to see and things to do, but finding the extent and potential of his own abilities. A need for companionship, and an awareness that while much of humanity was petty and venal and selfish, there were also those worth knowing and even admiring. And perhaps most surprising at all to a cynical old misanthrope, a wish to help others, to be of service... within reason, of course.

"Then you need to... need to..." She trailed off, looking to one side. Several seconds passed before she seemed to become aware of him again. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I need to do something," he suggested.

"Yes! You need to figure out who you are. Once you do that, the rest will follow."

"Easier said than done," he observed dourly.

"Don't I know it," she replied. "But it'll work out, you'll see. Never too late to make a new start."

He chuckled, a bit sadly. "I think this is where I came in, my dear." He took her hand again and squeezed it gently. "Thank you. I'll take your words to heart."

"Good." She squeezed back. "Do you have to go right away? I was going to watch the sunset, and I wouldn't mind some company."

"Of course. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

He settled back on the bench, noticing for the first time how long the shadows had grown while he'd sat there, lost in his regrets. The sun was already veiled by the shimmering curtain of the War Wall, tinting everything in sight - the plaza, the trendy new apartments, the construction yards and the donut shop - a warm amber. Soon it would pass behind the distant buildings and be gone entirely. But for this golden moment, even with an uncertain future before him and no clear path, he was at peace. He was content.

And though a casual observer might have seen him sitting alone, he was not.

I'm sure that everyone still taking the time and trouble to post (or just read) here loves this game. But I'm also sure that there's parts of it that we won't shed a tear for, and may prefer to forget. What are they?

(Please try to keep this focused and fun - no "all PvPers" or "all RPers" or "ED".)

I'll start:

* The "layer cake" cave.

* (From the old days) "I'm getting too far from my mentor!" Often followed by "My mentor is no longer assisting me", everything suddenly turning deep purple, and a faceplant.

* Nemesis lieutenants stacking Vengeance and sniping at you with AoE from across the room.

* The Hollows, full stop.

* The Shadow Shard, full stop.

* Citadel's TF. "Oh look. Another Council base full of robots."

* Enemies respawning on top of my poor lowbies in the new Atlas Park outdoor hunts.

* Having to do the Mission Architect and Invention tutorials on every single character just to get them out of my contact list.

* Gold sellers. Some of them are still at it, even now.

Parochialism is universal. How many people, even business owners, in <country> think of <country on other side of planet> or even <neighboring country>, and the people who live and work and play there, in anything but the rarest and/or most abstract sense?

Was reminded of this last night, in play:

The very first time I fought and defeated a Clockwork Prince was on a defender, solo, and I was pretty deep in the orange if not red when I finally put it down. And so when it unexpectedly spawned a clutch of Gears, which promptly began zapping me, I distinctly recall saying in a mix of terror and delight:
"OMG, it had KITTENS!"

Zwillinger:

Thank you for this information, and for your continuing efforts on our behalf. You're awesome.

Two columns of greens.
Two columns of blues.
One column of awakens and break frees.
Anything else gets used as it comes in, handed off to someone else, or dropped in email-to-self for later sale.
Strongest tend to gravitate toward the bottom, for those panicked function key hits.

Tray 1: Brawl, Sprint, attack powers (weak to strong). Combat and non-combat travel powers (e.g., Hover and Flight) in the 9 and 10 slots.
Tray 2: the non-offensive powerset - defenses, buffs, debuffs, pets, etc. Rest goes in the 10 slot.
Tray 3 (usually added in the 30s): pools, macros, and other powers.

Tray 9 (upper right corner, under the health/end/xp and buff display): veteran and utility powers, used between missions or once per: Return to Battle, Mystic Fortune, Reveal, Mission Teleporter, Ouro Portal, Assemble the Team, etc.
Tray 8 ("angle bracket" under tray 9): Incarnate powers, temp powers (including Experienced while leveling), Inner Inspiration.

... it's not compulsive, it's consistent. *eyetwitch*

once again, sarcasm is too subtle for the internet.
guess I should have included some cane-shaking.

I'm rather fond of whoever it was that described dubstep as "two fax machines ****ing."

Kids today and their music, muttergrumble.

There have been so many that, unfortunately, have slipped out of memory - no matter how awesome they were at the time - "final stands" against whole rooms and so on, even the ones that ultimately failed but bought time for the rest of the team. Two I can name, though: one from back in '04, and one just this last weekend.

Getting Hover, and taking (slowly) to the skies for the first time.

Taking a character who was level 26 when the announcement came down, and who'd been sitting there since, and (with the help of double-XP) getting him 15 levels on Saturday and another 4 on Sunday. I probably could have made it an even 20, but I had other stuff to do. No farming, just teaming for tips, radios, and a Moonfire WST... and I had a blast the whole time.

Huh.
Looks like I got my 19 levels (almost 20) on my one non-50 just in time.

IMO, it might be enlightening to compare the "Asian model" of MMOs - extremely repetitive grinding, played not at home but in cyber-cafes, with long hours and regular infusions of cash expected, and the chance of (for example) not only failing to improve the enchantment on your gear, but losing all your gems and having to start over - with traditional gambling parlors.

Mahjong, slot machines, and now MMOs. The more things change.