The answers to all of life’s problems are contained within Street Fighter. Just thought I’d throw that out there.
What once started as a mere (and mediocre) arcade game in the
late eighties has evolved into a worldwide phenomenon, and a standard in the
gaming universe -- a role model to follow, and the solid foundation upon which
an entire genre is built. Basically, if
you rolled all of the major deities of every religion into one, you’d get the
holy equivalent of what Street Fighter does
for the gaming world.
The premise is simple enough: fighters from all over the world
gather for a huge tournament, in which battles can take place anywhere --
ironically, little of the fighting is done in the streets. Apparently, there’s some sort of overarching
storyline to the series, but it’s pretty much a moot point; all ANYONE needs to
know is that people are getting together to beat each other up.
And who are these people?
A pair of martial artists trained in a toned-down version of an art of
assassination who shoot fireballs from their hands and spin around like
helicopters; a huge Russian wrestler who, once he gets his hands on you, sends
you spiraling into the air before dropping you on your head; a Chinese Interpol
agent with thighs as thick as tree trunks, whose kicks move at roughly the
speed of sound; an American colonel with a flat-top hairdo, twin U.S.A. flags
tattooed on his shoulders, and throws red, white, and blue boomerangs of
energized wind. So basically, it’s what
would happen if the world’s countries were turned into real people, and
subsequently given drugs. Lots and lots
of drugs.
But damn it if that isn’t the most successful formula in gaming
history. Street Fighter 1, released in 1987, wasn’t very good at all (nearly
impossible to control, and even harder to beat), but it was a start; Street Fighter II, on the other hand,
changed everything. Two players fighting
competitively in the arcades, with combos, vivid and unique characters, and
fast-paced yet strategic action…many a pair of pants were soiled at the sheer
amount of excitement the game had to offer.
To this day, Street Fighter has
an absurdly huge following; tournaments have been held for years, with
thousands of dollars up for grabs; names have been made by the dexterity of
one’s fingers -- Daigo Umehara, otherwise known as “The Beast”, is both a
veteran and a veritable demon at the game; countless fans have been made, and
remade. And Capcom, the company
responsible for starting the craze, has raked in profits as well as catered to
the fans: it released roughly a DOZEN different upgraded versions of SFII, and released a few new branches to
the universe: the Alpha series, a
much-adored prequel, and the EX series,
an early (and largely unsuccessful) foray into the 3D world.
Then came SFIII. Not one, not two, but three different
versions were released, with the third being, arguably, one of the most adored
fighting games in history. Faster, with
2D effects that are unrivaled even today, fine-tuned and aggressive game
play…it’s the game of choice for high-level and tournament players, and
undoubtedly will go down in history as one of the series’ highest points.
And then came 2009 with Street
Fighter IV in our hands.
And so it began again.
“Hey, did you hear the news?” I asked, turning away from the
computer. “They officially announced the
home console characters.”
Richard, my brother, and my senior by two years, walked into the
room after a long day at school. As
usual, he seems gruff and ready to crack a joke at my expense, but I’m always
ready to brush it off -- and crack a joke in retaliation.
“Home console characters?” he repeated, stroking the dogs
jumping at his legs. Suddenly, his eyes lit
up. “Dudley?”
I shook my head, and did my best to restrain a smile. “Not quite.
Dan, Sakura, Cammy, Fei Long, Rose, and Gen.” I pointed to the screen,
showing off some of the game’s official art.
Dudley, a classy boxer from earlier in the series is not among them.
Good thing, too. I hate
Dudley.
Rich groaned and pulled up a chair. “They all suck. They should have let me pick the characters.” He
played with the bill of his cap. “Capcom
doesn’t know what they’re doing.”
“I doubt that,” I countered.
Rich shook his head. “Eh,
I think I’m gonna get an arcade stick when it comes out. The 360 pad is terrible for fighting games.”
“Arcade stick?” I repeated with a tilt of my head. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna be
playing this game for a long time; I want maximum
precision.” He flipped the TV on,
and despite his divided attention he kept the conversation going. “Besides, I’ve heard that the game’s really
hard to get used to, even for the pros.”
I scratched my head in disbelief. “That’s not what Capcom’s been saying in all
the interviews. Supposedly, it’s
supposed to be easy for people who’ve never played Street Fighter before to get into.”
“Well that’s not what the pros have been saying on the forums,”
Rich argued. “So, either it’s really
easy, or it’s really hard, huh? Somebody’s bullshitting.”
I nodded. Our operation
was a two-man process back then: in anticipation of Street Fighter IV -- the latest release, following a decade-long
hiatus -- we had tried to absorb as much information as possible. I checked press releases, interviews,
official posts, blog posts, and countless gaming sites for valuable data; he
watched videos of the game -- already released in Japan in arcade cabinets --
on YouTube, no doubt to cement his game play prowess, and scoured the forums of
the most accredited Street Fighter
junkies he could find.
The gaming world had caught on fire, and we were victims of
third-degree burns. This would be our
first proper game in the series to own (seriously, at least); in anticipation,
I -- grudgingly -- bought a used copy of SFIII
for “training”; together, we watched tournament videos, and marveled at the
glory of two brave fighters having it out.
We, and undoubtedly countless others, would make predictions and toss
out theories, as well as declare which characters we would use.
“I think I’m gonna main Guile,” I declared. And so went our verbal contract: to declare
your main was to take his hand in marriage; once one brother laid claim, the
other could never, ever touch him.
“Tch. Fine, Guile’s
stupid anyway. I’m goin’ with Ken all
the way!” Rich proclaimed with a cocky grin.
“Ah, choosing the inferior version of Ryu, I take it?” I
taunted.
“Shut the hell up! Ken’s
cool!”
Unfortunately for Rich, he was about to find out just how uncool
Ken really was.
***
How do you tell a normal person from a nerd?
Dress? Sure. Hair?
Probably. Build? Depends.
The way he talks? Definitely.
Nerds are incredible.
Give them a subject, and they will devote unhealthy amounts of time and
energy into pursuing it. They (or should
I say, we) make their own worlds, their own communities, their own lingo, all
for the sake of their precious hobby.
The SF community is no
different. A number of the special moves
in the game have needlessly complex Japanese names -- Shoryuken (Rising Dragon
Fist), Hyakuretsukyaku (Hundred Rending Kicks), and a perennial favorite, the
Tatsumaki Senpukyaku (Hurricane Kick).
Thanks to the nerds, a player no longer has to tie his tongue in a knot
every time he tries to say the name of a move; the Shoryuken, for example, has
been shortened to dragon punch, or DP; the rending kicks, to Legs. And it goes beyond that: each individual
button press in the game ties to a different type of attack: punches and kicks
ranging from light to medium to heavy, and modified by whether or not the
character is standing, jumping, or crouching.
Trying to string all of those together in order to post a sweet combo usually
involves saying something along the lines of, “j.hp, c.lp, c.lp, c.mk, qcf+hp” --
and that’s actually one of the simpler combos in the game.
Rich’s concern with SFIV was
whether or not it would be hard to control -- if it would give him broken
wrists if he so much as jumped. Since
its release, I can only assume that he’s happy with the end result…for the most
part.
The main problem with the game -- from Rich’s perspective -- is
that it caters to both the hardcore and the casual players at the same
time. There are things that you can get
away with that shouldn’t happen, but do; shortcuts were added to the game to
make inputs easier, but unfortunately for Rich, they’re easily exploited, and
put a damper on his efforts. And, even
if he’s doing phenomenally well in a match, all it takes to break him down is
an “Ultra Combo” (Ultra for short): a high-power special move that builds up as
the character takes damage, resulting in some last-minute (and heart-rending)
upsets in a match.
And then there are the Ken players. So numerous are they, so wild in style, so
unrefined, yet so deadly, that annoyed fans often cry in agony at any chance
they get. For these “Shoryukids”, the DP
is their greatest weapon: interrupting all attacks with high damage and
combo-smashing potential…but, only if they land it. If blocked, then without fail they will taste
the sting of justice.
Justice. That’s what Rich
calls it, anyway.
“I’m dancin’ on your head!
Look at me, I’m tap dancin’!” said Rich with a laugh as his character,
Seth, plants his heels into the top of a Ken’s scalp.
I nod silently, my eyes fixed on the screen. A few months have passed, and my brother has
a definite handle on the game play, able to unleash some savage combos if the
opportunity arises. Of course, he has
one particularly glaring weakness.
“God, this Ken is so STUPID!
Why are all Ken players so stupid?” Rich asked rhetorically as, after
blocking a DP, he throws the Ken to the other side of the screen. “You shouldn’t do that, it’s un-SAFE!”
I nod again. I can pretty
much already see what’s going to happen in this match.
Rich began his final advance, ready to bait the Ken into another
sloppy attack, block, and counter while he’s open -- his bread and butter
strategy.
And as his lanky character moves into position, I begin counting
in my head. Five. Four.
Three. Two. One.
“Take THIS!” shouted Ken, as the camera zooms in dynamically on
the blond brawler. He leaned back for a
heavy blow, and struck with a savage uppercut -- the first hit of his Ultra.
Normally, it’s easy to stop, and easier to punish. Its range is limited, and judging by the
other player’s style thus far, he’s a bit too inexperienced to use it
effectively.
But not this time. No, he
hit his mark perfectly, freezing Seth in place -- and leaving Rich gaping in awe
as his avatar is beaten down in a series of kicks.
“SHINRYUKEN!” roared Ken triumphantly as he launched the final
attack of his Ultra: a mighty uppercut that sends both himself, and his
captured foe, into the sky in a spiral of flames.
And poor Seth, charred to a crisp, has lost the match.
“You got cocky,” I said with a short laugh. “As usual.”
Rich, furious, began swearing wildly, and slapped his hands atop
his arcade stick. For a few seconds, he
looked like he might start crying.
I sighed. Rich’s arcade
stick: a huge black monstrosity sprawled across his lap. One large lever, eight buttons -- supposedly,
the epitome of fighting game control, purchased thanks to a windfall of
birthday money. It’s the symbol of his
devotion to this craft; to romanticize it, the symbol of his burning passion,
and a love of battle.
But I could be wrong.
Maybe he just wants to stomp on people’s heads.
“God damn it…I HATE ULTRAS!” he raged, slapping his hands on the
stick so hard his palms turned red.
“Hate Ultras, hate Kens, hate this game!”
I shrugged. “Well, what
can you do? You already bought it. Or should I say, I bought it for you.”
Rich shot me a look.
“Grab your pad. Let’s play.”
I frowned. This is going to suck…
***
Funny thing about video games: they can turn you into a jerkass.
When you spend a lot of time with a game, you tend to notice
its…nuances. Sure, when you first lay
your hands on the disk, you feel a rush of happiness -- you can’t wait to get
it in the tray. And for the first few
hours, it’s like a dream come true. Street Fighter’s no different. The first fights are just a mere learning
process, a chance to fall in love with the game at first sight and never look
back.
Then the angelic glow dies down, and you realize: the game isn’t
the second coming you dreamed about. It
has flaws, problems, exploitable mechanics, unusual glitches, and gameplay
imbalances.
And the price of entry is staggering. In order to get truly good at the game -- in
order to step out of the kiddy pool and into the big boys’ territory -- you’d
better be willing to put in a lot of time and effort. That combo I mentioned earlier, if one could
call it that, is nothing special; there are others out there that rely on
nearly every mechanic of the game simultaneously -- linking moves into one
another based on split-second timing (literally; it’s kind of the same
principle as the frames of a movie), managing your super meter so you can
cancel your special move, then dash out of the cancelled state, start another
move, link into a launching move, then time your Ultra so that it connects…the
phrase “easy to learn, hard to master” is in full effect here.
I can understand why some people just stick to the Shoryukid
strategy. The rabbit hole is large, and
deep; some dare not venture in (or have jobs, I don’t know). Alternatively, those who do venture in are
unable to get out; they become absorbed with every minor detail, chief among
them the dreaded “Tier List”.
Have a favorite character?
That’s great! Now let’s see where
he is on the tier list…what’s this? He’s
at the top? Oh, no wonder you won,
you’re using such an overpowered character!
He needs to have some of his options taken away!
Oh, you like that guy, too?
Oh man, he’s at the bottom of
the list! Man, you’re NEVER gonna win
with him! You might as well give up at
the character select screen!
Tier lists bring little more than fuel for a fire. Some pick characters just because they’re at
the top. Others (quite possibly, like my
brother) choose those at the bottom, so they can complain rigorously about said
character’s flaws when they lose, and berate you endlessly when they win. Some rabbit holes just weren’t meant to be
entered.
That didn’t stop Rich, of course. He didn’t just jump in, he dove in headfirst;
the moment the information was available, he scoured every page he could find,
watched every video he could load, and sank countless hours into mastering
those split-second links with as many characters as he could (hell, he’s
playing it as I speak!). As a result of
his devotion -- or perhaps, obsession -- he possesses phenomenal skills, and a
cool head in nearly any situation.
Provided he doesn’t get too cocky.
And provided he doesn’t get too overzealous.
Whatever the case, he’s transcended the Shoryukid, and the
average player as well. He’s become an
elitist, and uses his knowledge of the game to his advantage in fighting games
across the board.
However, there’s still one person out there who can give him a
run for his money -- someone who, if he’s not careful, is a match for him, and
his greatest rival.
Me.
***
“Hey, what’s up?”
I turn my head towards the door.
As usual, I’m barely home for five minutes, and Rich comes strutting in,
a goofy grin on his face. Since he
hadn’t had class today -- an irritating fact, if there ever was one -- I could
only assume that he’d just gotten up five minutes ago. Either that, or played some more Street Fighter.
“Grab your pad, it’s Tager
time!” he declared, taking me by the wrist.
I sighed and shook my head.
“Tager time” was a bit of a misnomer; there was no Tager in the SF universe, but rather in a completely
different game, BlazBlue. Of course, it had grown into a general phrase
for my big brother, a throwing of the gauntlet.
“I’d rather not,” I said simply.
“You don’t have a choice.
Grab your pad!” And before I knew
it, he had dragged me into the music room, Xbox a-whirring, with Street Fighter already fully
loaded. “Ah, it’s already in. Come on, let’s go! Let’s go!”
Eager to fight, he slapped his hands atop his arcade stick.
“Why don’t we ever play BlazBlue
anymore?” I asked, taking pad in hand.
“I’d actually like to play that instead of…”
But Rich’s mind is already thousands of miles away. With a few loud clicks from his arcade stick,
he selected his character: El Fuerte, a chef-turned masked wrestler with a penchant
for speed and high-flying attacks.
I don’t like Fuerte.
That’s as kindly as I can put it.
I let loose a quick groan.
All right, let’s get this over with; I lay my cursor on Guile, the man
blessed with two American flags tattooed to his arms. Default costume, default taunt…
“I hate Guile,” Rich blurted.
“Not my problem,” I counter.
As usual, the match begins; with deft motions, Rich steers
Fuerte into the corner away from me, fully positioned for a counterattack. It’s the hallmark of his strategy: baiting a
slip-up, the slightest opening, and punishing you for even thinking you had a
chance against him.
I could feel my teeth grinding.
Fuerte’s fighting style revolves around speed and unpredictability; his
moves strike from behind, he can run away from most attacks, jump on walls, and
body slam unsuspecting opponents. If
Rich got me on the ground, I knew, in a matter of seconds, I’d be kissing half
my health goodbye.
Better play it safe
for now, I thought,
taking a few steps forward.
“Sonic Boom!” Guile shouted, throwing out a boomerang of
whirling energy. In my experience, it’s a solid projectile, made even more
solid by its defensive properties; with the boomerang spinning ahead, I follow
behind it as a countermeasure to an approaching enemy.
Unfortunately, Rich is far too fast, and far too able to pass it
up. After taking a few steps back, he
executed Fuerte’s backward dash, sprung off the wall, and launched himself at
me, elbow outstretched --
“FLASH KICK!” shouted Guile.
He leapt up from the ground, leg extended, and slashed at the sky with a
fierce somersault -- and Fuerte as well.
In mere moments, the luchador is knocked out of the air, and crashes to
the ground.
“I hate the Flash
Kick,” grumbled Rich, readjusting his position.
I forced myself to restrain a smile. Guile is known as a “charge character”; in
order to execute his (two!) special moves, a player has to hold the control
stick in the opposite direction, and then move it forward and press a
button. Because the charge move can only
be done after two seconds minimum of charging, the moves can’t be done
back-to-back; in exchange, the moves (in my opinion) have incredibly potent
properties.
Guile is no exception.
His projectiles are faster, leave him less open to counterattacks, and
interrupt even the most dangerous of Ultras; his Flash Kick is an effective
anti-air maneuver, making anyone who faces him think twice about approaching
from the air. Because of it, Guile is
touted as a defense-heavy character.
Too bad that’s not how I use Guile.
“Here we go!” said Guile (and me, internally) as the camera
zoomed in on his steely face. Suddenly,
he unleashed his ultra: not one, not two, but THREE Flash kicks fused into one
devastating attack.
K.O. Point: the American
hero.
“What the hell! Tch,
random ultra out of nowhere for the win, huh?
Huh?” Rich asked, foaming at the mouth.
“It’s your own fault for jumping around so much,” I argued.
As the next match begins, Rich is still fuming, and his burly
fingers dug into his stick’s plastic base.
“Why’re you so random? You
shouldn’t do things like that; Guile’s not supposed to move forward, ever!”
I shook my head. “Don’t
really care,” I responded, trying to focus on the match.
Of course, I did care;
I just had other things on my mind at the moment, like the masked man shrieking
“Fajita Buster!” at me. Playing Street Fighter makes you take a good,
long look at yourself -- where you stand, where you need to go…and how bad you
really are at the game.
In simple terms, I’m nothing more than a beast -- not a Daigo
Umehara-type beast, but a wild, untamed, un-caged beast. I’m only comfortable during a fight when I’m
the aggressor -- when my hits connect, when my opponent gets knocked off his
feet, when my projectiles land. It’s an
oddly cathartic and maybe even addictive feeling; the thrill of battle,
experienced by means of a few quick button presses.
So you can understand if I get a little…overzealous, right?
I’ll throw myself straight into the fray. I’ll use whatever move I have, thinking of
interrupting my enemy, but unafraid of the consequences of an error. I’ll use moves and attacks that the average
player would never see coming. With just
a couple of quick attacks, I can make a miracle happen, and grasp victory from
the jaws of defeat with a well-placed Flash Kick.
Extreme offense, for the sake of a kill -- no matter what the
consequence. It’s my fighting style (if
one could call it that), and the reason we never, ever play BlazBlue: the extreme offense style is
not only highly effective, but rewarded by the game itself…and playing
defensively, in kind, is severely penalized.
Street Fighter is both the thinking man’s game, as
well as the chance to let loose and go wild.
Rich and I are members of the opposing camps: he’s the tactical,
cautious, precise hunter, weakened by his adherence to fixed patterns and lust
to punish mistakes. I’m the wild,
battle-hungry beast who wants nothing more than to sink his fangs into the
opponent, weakened by a lack of experience and technique, and easily exploited.
Knowledge versus instinct.
The cold-blooded versus the hot-blooded.
Reason versus will.
The poster boy of the Street
Fighter universe, Ryu, is the symbol of the game’s mantra: the desire to
fight, to better oneself, learn and evolve -- something we could all stand to
learn in life. At the start of all his
matches, he proclaims, “The answer lies in the heart of battle.”
Has Rich found his answer?
Have I found my own? Why am I
playing this game? Do I really want to
win? How
do I win? Is it worth it?
“El FUERTE…!” shouts the luchador. He leaped into the air, ready to unleash his
ultimate attack…only to eat a Sonic Boom and lose the match.
Rich turned aside. “Why
don’t random ultras work for me?”
“What works for me won’t work for you,” I explained. After all, when has a hunter ever been a
beast?
“Tch. So random…”
muttered Rich, heart full of regret.
***
I won’t mince words: Rich has always been something of a
jerkass. He won’t hesitate to taunt you,
bug you until you tear your hair out, break promises, make absurd demands, act
needy, and whine.
Oh dear lord, the whining.
Imagine my joy when he decided to focus all of his free time
into mastering Street Fighter. The game with so many flaws and
possibilities, so many stats to scrutinize and memorize, so many combos to
commit to memory…and so many Shoryukids to put down.
If anything -- ANYTHING -- doesn’t go right with him, he’ll make
sure you know it. He will repeat it,
again, and again, and again, and again.
In the past, I’ve accused him of having a messiah complex: in his eyes,
he can do no wrong, and his way is the path to salvation.
But, as payment for his tireless devotion, he has acquired skill
after skill, combo after combo -- even moreso than half a year ago, a month
ago, or even a week ago. Left to his
devices, and enamored with the glitz and glam of the tournament scene, he has
evolved once more: from the hunter to the Terminator.
And as for me? Well…
“Like those head scissors?
Like them scissors?” Rich taunted.
For roughly the hundredth time, he’s switched mains; now, he flips about
onscreen as the dreaded M. Bison, dictator of Shadaloo, and armed with a perpetually
psychotic smile.
I decide not to answer, and pick myself up off the ground. In recent months, I’d taken a shine to E.
Honda, the game’s “Hot-Blooded Sumo”; though I can put up an offense, I’ll have
to get in close to make my magic happen.
Unfortunately, getting close to Bison is like pulling shark
teeth. His regular kicks prevent any
approach whatsoever, and made more troublesome by Rich’s penchant for keeping
his distance in the blocking position.
He’s largely unapproachable, and virtually any effort is met with
certain doom.
Well, almost.
“HOOOO-YEAHHH!” roared Honda as he launched himself into the sky
(apparently, he’s some kind of magic sumo); the villainous Bison takes the full
force of the attack, knocking him out.
The match is mine!
“Oh my god, you’re so lucky,” sneered Rich, slapping his hands
on the arcade stick -- his now standard reaction to a loss, considering that I
hear it nearly every night. “Why the hell are you so RANDOM?!”
I sighed. “I just am.”
“So you’re just gonna say ‘Deal with it’ huh? You’re such an asshole.”
“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” I asked airily. I pointed at the screen, just as Honda
concludes his victory dance. “Besides,
look how happy Honda is. And he looks perfect in the game’s art style.”
“Shut up,” snapped Rich, hungry for a rematch.
I sighed. Another
round…even though I’d barely pulled through in the last one. I shot a look at my win percentage: wavering
at the fifty percent line, and -- if Bison’s still on the field -- then
probably about to go even lower.
Sometimes, it almost feels as if I’m cheating Rich out of a victory,
winning by forcing him to slip up, or move out of his protective corner.
It pisses me off. Losing
by a hair. Punished severely for even
trying to come near him. A washout of a
match in his favor. A washout of a match
in my favor -- because I know that immediately after, he’ll just say, “So
random!” or “Honda has too much health!”
Victory or defeat, the game just feels hollow to me, not because it’s
gotten boring, but because it feels like I’m slipping up. Our matches end up turning into who can poke
who from the farthest distance, or who can capitalize on the other’s mistake
first.
Make no mistake: I still prefer other games to Street Fighter. BlazBlue
moves faster, rocks harder, rewards drive, and above all else is just too cool
to be forgotten. But I understand the
special place that Street Fighter has
in my brother’s heart, and in the hearts of countless others. Some tournaments see turnouts in the
thousands. Fans and veterans alike watch
in hushed awe as Daigo Umehara and his rival Justin Wong engage in fast-paced
battle; as each match’s winning blow is dealt, the crowd screams in uproarious
delight. I can remember a few times when
their cheers nearly knocked our computer’s speakers off the desk, following an
unprecedented series of parries from The Beast.
Street Fighter, like anything else in life,
requires skill, patience, dedication, passion, faith, humility. The reflective disk lays bare the soul of all
who hold it; in my experience, I’ve seen my strengths, and my weaknesses; the
abyss of despair, and the skies full of hope.
I’ve seen my brother step forward, brave as ever, and come out stronger
because of it.
Street Fighter is no less a game as it is a
manifesto -- a mirror of what lies within you, within us all. How far you’re willing to go, and how much
you’re willing to stake on victory, is all in your hands. Though I may be a beast, and never THE Beast,
I want to step into the rabbit hole as well; I want to feel a reinvigorated
passion, as well as to test my limits.
As it stands, all I can do is DP into an ultra with one character;
someday, I want to be able to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Rich, and feel
the heat of battle tenfold.
Street Fighter has come into our lives and caused a
revolution. Yesterday. Today.
And now, the future.
The answer lies in the heart of battle, huh? You make a good point, Ryu-san.
***
Rich busted into my room.
“New trailer. There’s…a new
trailer.”
I sighed and pushed myself out of my seat. Interrupting me with that nonsense again…how
irritating.
But, as he dragged me into the music room, my annoyance faded in
an instant. Before my eyes, the trailer
to a brand new battle danced and crashed.
New characters. New music. New opportunities.
Super Street Fighter
IV. A budget-priced expansion, tweaked to perfection. Promises of the epitome of the fighting game
genre flashed through my mind.
“Damn, I can’t wait!” said Rich, a sparkle of childish glee in
his eyes.
I nod and smile. I’ve got
work to do.
To be continued…
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