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Chapter #0 - Recap

Added 2021-03-27 09:01:00 +0000 UTC

The Tale of the Mad Scientist - Lewd Gamedev Edition

Chapter #0 - Recap

It begins at the Inter-market. An ocean-sized crowd flows through its venues in high speed yearning for both basic needs and fanciful affectations.

Inside a relatively new but quite busy venue, there's a booth. Not just one booth, but thousands of them. However, there's something about this one booth that catches the eye.

Shyly placed in front of the booth, a soapbox is trying its best to support a 21" LCD monitor. Standing just behind it and facing the crowd speeding down the corridors, a curious figure blabbers loudly while pointing excitedly at the screen.

The Mad Scientist. Young and fearless. Her lab coat hanging from her shoulders. Her eyes darting through each face in wonder at their number while she displays her dearest inventions with slightly shaking hands.

A sighting so common at the inter-market these days, it has near to no effect on the waves of millions flowing in and out of the venue. A small bunch of bystanders, however, dare themselves to pay her some attention.

She presents her treasures earnestly. A short tale about ditzy characters hips deep in shameless hijinks. A bouncy pair of toys that engorge and jiggle when tickled. A fruit-shaped gizmo that feels like it's about to explode at the first misplay. A cryptic attempt at a puzzle that deserves all the big words used to describe it. A handful of enthusiastic clapping can be heard among many more lukewarm ones.

Perhaps it's the lewd illustrations displayed on the monitor that holds the audience captive. Perhaps, it's the quirky flavor of life permeating the characters while they romp about. It could even be the naive euphoria surrounding the speaker that invites those that approach to come closer. There's something there, certainly. Something intangible. Something injecting life into a promise made out of collected hopes and dreams.

As the sun arcs through the sky, a small pile of coins begins to gather inside a hat resting against the left side of the soapbox.

The tingling of freely given gold sparks something within our second character. From the comfort of the shadows, the mad scientist's oldest friend and fiercest foe.

The Ghost of the Consumed Past.

A thick layer of clothes, jackets and vests shrouds his presence almost as much as the shadows he just emerged from. His face shows no joy nor passion. It can't remember how.

The bell has rung. The bout begins. A move must be made. It might as well be his.

The ghost approaches quietly in his quest to pinpoint what is the deal with that business. The hat on the ground is his first target. He sees that the coin pile is actually bigger than he anticipated. "Why", the ghost mutters in a low tone, tipping his hat down to shield his eyes from the sunlight being reflected by the monitor's glossy screen.

His gaze shifts to what the mad scientist is holding in her hands. Prototypes, she keeps calling them. Nothing but scraps, concludes the ghost in return.

"Could it be... The screen?", ponders the ghost. He glares at it, passively scanning each image as they come. They cannot convince him to even take his hands out of his pockets. There's some spirit in them, he concedes, but all of it has been built wrong. Wrong and sparse.

"'Tis but a scam!", he concludes with a snark before turning around an retreating back into the shadows.

The small audience jitters. Hesitant back-steps begin to take place. The mad scientist pretends to pay it no mind, but its futile. The ghost needed not to say a word, and her heart would still be wrenching itself at just the sight of her own reflection in his eyes.

She needs to do something. Anything, before everyone is lured away by the blisses and sorrows of their own lives. She juggles her precious prototypes, repaints them, stack them on top of each other. A slow clap is generously given for the effort rather than the result. Overall, fruitless. Her personal crowd thins out even more.

The few dozen that remain are now even fewer. She can't blame them. She's lacking in fundamentals. Even the very first fundamental lies far from her understanding. One's either born hustling, or dies hungry.

Despair is about to overflow from her soul and into her world. She lowers her head. Her chest stops moving. It is as if her breath is being held hostage by the billion synapses jolting through her brain. You can go back to living after we're done, her neurons would say. A moment passes. A spark of madness shines through her eyes.

Now, she makes her move.

The mad scientist takes a deep breath and puts the hat on her head, with the coins and all. She turns around and retreats deep into her booth, leaving the soapbox to bear the weight of the monitor, and every expectation of the crowd, all by itself.

Silence.

And then, even more silence.

The small audience shrugs. It has happened before. She had hidden herself completely from her beloved supporters in the past, safe from a few whispers here and there to those that seek her in the depths of the hole she keeps digging herself into.

The sun continues its march. The orange tinge of the inexorable end begins to color the sky.

A shard of amber light peeks through a hole in the booth's curtains and lands on the mad scientist's notebook. Its beauty reminds her that she used to love that color.

The gentle passing of a lazy summer day into a soothing evening was painted orange.

The fresh air that flooded her lungs after stepping out of the daily concrete was painted orange.

But now, orange's a warning light. She's running out of time. Nothing has been accomplished yet and the day is already rusting away.

Her hands clutch her tools as tightly as they can. "Keep it on", her heart whispers, "I can take it". "There can only be light at the bottom of the abyss", her mind exclaims.

She dives deep down further.

The mad scientist's following dwindles to nothing but memories and the unassailable believers in miracles. A gentleman of such kind, who's been there since the beginning, pockets his hands and takes a step away from the tomb which was once a booth. He's done so much, endured so much, but he must also be on his way. As he leaves, he can hear the mad scientist whispering. Promises yet unfulfilled echo through his mind. He has heard it all before. He shall never be forgotten.

The world rages on. Venues of the inter-market that used to be lighthouses for the lost souls find themselves vacant and haunted. Bouncer-laden indoor spaces and tycoon-owned closed gardens take over whatever remains of the hopes and dreams of old. The few sites that manage to evade the ever-growing wealth's grasp do it so by either sheer cunning and trickery or by debasing themselves to the point of degeneracy. They now harbor thousands... No... Millions of independent creators trying to find shelter from the calamities that chased them into the inter-market. Some can only reach stable ground at the very bottom, as far from the light as one can get. A spot in the sun becomes a luxury yet to be made into a brand.

"Is there anyone there", asks a former admirer of the mad scientist. A whisper comes out of the booth's innards.

"Yes", she says. "A couple days more", she pleads.

It's been months.

It's been a whole year.

The lost soul takes a good look around, sighs and leaves. Truth be told, the mad scientist's booth was never in much of a prime spot. However, it could very well be sitting in the bottom of a ravine for all the knocks on the door it's been getting.

Is the booth even open anymore? Will the mad scientist ever return to the front stage? Even if she does, will she manage to make do? Will all the promises ever find deliverance? Will any of them?

No one knows. No one can know. And thus, it seems, that the ghost really was the one that laughed last.

Purple begins to take over the sky.

Orange does not seem quite that bad anymore.