I wrote this the other day (read: Practically a month ago) to win myself a copy of Going Rogue from PCgamer. I’m only posting it because, well, I won my copy.
If I had a jetpack, I’d go somewhere and do something with it, but I’d have to get away. Not because I’m a kid in a room with stars painted on the ceiling, but because having a jetpack is like any other good superpower: Always a weakness.
Jetpacks give your physical being freedom. A freedom to move into the Y-axis and enter a space known yet unknown. A place where no one else is but you, the birds and possibly a commercial flight. Your frail body goes wherever it wants and slips past every little mechanical frustration that they, the great architects of Earth, made for those without such liberty. The speed, swiftness, how it completely ignores the mangled maze of roads and slices through administrative searches, mocking every bit of established infrastructure with tails of puffy gray. Still, you’re going to be the only human going up and that’s how you’ll feel inside in the end.
Some people want to go to places and be themselves, but you can’t use your jetpack there. People fear and envy flying versions of themselves, but they’re too stupid to know how dangerous a real jetpack is. Besides, you won’t be human anymore, you’ll be the guy with jetpack. There’s a difference. Might start small, but it’ll get bigger, uglier and more distinct. Jetpacks don’t have five-star-safety-ratings and they never will. Only you can use it because you’re the only one trained in the craft. You can’t just give it to someone to try because there’ll be that one kid who blasts off and plays ketchup in asphalt. It’d be all your fault, of course. You should of known better because you’re the guy with the jetpack.
You fly on the wings of dangerous emissions. You’ll be the poster-boy of the industrial cloud of plant-slaying smog. When those titanic glaciers weep and the coast is swallowed by those tears, they’ll think of the guy with the jetpack. At first, people might like you, but once the envy sinks in like a flu-shot, they’ll find every reason in the world to hate you. You, who could do so much more than fly around. You, who wastes the gift of flight and covets it. You, the guy with the God-damn jetpack.
The only place you could go is to the sky and pray that there’s fuel up in the clouds. It’d be cold up there at rate you were going, a place with eternal air-conditioning. That jetpack is a curse, but once you taste the sky, you might never come down. That’s when you know you’re flying on real wings of liberty: when you make the choice to separate yourself from those people because you don’t live in their world anymore. Nobody else can make that decision because they’re on the ground.
Well, I’m the guy with the jetpack.
As for the rest of my blog, I find myself immersed in playing Starcraft, CoX and misc. games more than I feel compelled to write about it. I might get around. MIGHT.