To: Quintin Smith
From: Leigh Alexander
Subject: Far Cry 3
Dear Quintin:
We need to talk.
I don't know what's become of you. This thing you've been doing, it's gotten out of control. I don't even know you anymore.
I was with you in the beginning: You were a callow youth who quailed at the sight of blood, rich tropical vistas blurring to the rhythm of your panicked breath. Your security blanket — the militaristic elder brother who was going to make everything OK — died with a sanguine gurgle under your hands. You ran with the terror of a hunted animal through jewel-green foliage, the whip-sting of gunfire chasing your heels, and I sat on the edge of my seat. When you stumbled, I cried out. The merciless branches, the horrific, alien tropical landscape buffeted you carelessly, and I felt your pain. When you fell, my stomach turned.
And now, not even 10 minutes later:
You accepted a generic tribal tattoo — oh, sorry, tatau — without complaint. You have a radio, a fully-functioning tablet and generous access to vehicles, so you could try to contact your family; you could try to get a ride to the mainland, get to an embassy, call for help and let your family know your brother has died, that everyone you love is being held hostage by pirates. You could spare a tear, even.
Instead you are agreeably slaughtering tapirs for backpacks. You have draped yourself in weaponry, suddenly cogent and interested in leading an assault on some pirate base — wait, though, you'll assault the base after you have collected all the flowers at its outskirts. OK. This island is making a monster out of you, Quintin. A monster who wants to build wallets and collect cocaine baggies. What the hell's become of you?!
Sorry. Unbridled emotions misfiring everywhere, because video games. I'm talking about Far Cry 3.
Let me back up: The scene is my living room. You are putting on Far Cry 3, a game I hadn't planned on becoming interested in, and yet I begin a cheer (my single semester of high-school inadvisably spent as a basketball cheerleader is among my dark secrets): Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap, clap-clap-clap-CLAP! And you finish, after a pause, uncertain: "Far Cry?"
The cheer starts out enthused, ends up confused. Oh man. How appropriate for this game.
Are we going to have to start listening to Skrillex now?
Save me,
– L
