Amoeba Man / Texts
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The new era: Limbo. Where everyone just kind of stands around going "So, uh, are we...?"
Perhaps both, maybe neither.
Go beyond the normal dimensions. Post them at MENTAL intervals. Or emotional intervals.
You could just roll the other way and embrace it. In the crazy sitcom that's life in SF0, you can be the weird uncle who shows up every few episodes and initially complicates things for the sitcom-dysfunctional family, but eventually offers some perspective they hadn't thought of and delivers some down-to-earth, but lovably quirky advice.
I'd be the good-natured but dopey comic relief character who occasionally has flashes of wisdom that only last as long as the episode dictates for a satisfactory denoument; Bex could be a protagonist well-loved by the audience who is conspicuously written out in an early season, only to be brought back by fan demand for the show's revival; and Lincoln could be the live-wire breakout character who winds up with his own spin-off show that is inexplicably more successful than the original.
Okay, I actually level 0'd this a few nights back in a much more positive way, but I forgot to bring my camera, so there are only a couple of photos and a single video, which will be made available as soon as I can badger my friend for them. You'll have to take my word for the events, but since it's a level 0, there's nothing to be lost from the telling of the tale, so here goes. Also, when I submitted this task, I was in a bad mood, and I think the task implies a lot of negativity that’s sort of antithetical to SF0, so I feel like I owe it to the game to do the task in a happy way. The only question is where to begin...
We can go when we want to
The night is young and so am I
And we can dress real neat from our hats to our feet
And surprise 'em with the victory cry
Say, we can act if want to
If we don't nobody will
And you can act real rude and totally removed
And I can act like an imbecile
- Men Without Hats, Safety Dance
Prologue:
Hi, my name is Bruce. I’m 22, I’ve finished university, and I’ve never been on a pub crawl.
As a matter of fact, the list of drunken escapades in which I’ve partaken is fairly brief. Mostly they don’t even leave a single establishment, and certainly don’t involve the kind of semi-illicit activities that such events typically mandate. I’m something of a shut-in, typically, and I rarely get out for drinking.
On Wednesday night, I decided I was going to change that. On Friday.
Chapter 1: Mike, Andrew, Cat Smoothie
Being a computer scientist, I have only a small cadre of friends who are generally Up For A Night Out, if you get my meaning. Predominantly, our only social gatherings are at Geek Beer, the nominally every-other-week party thrown in the CS building, where the beer is cheap and nerds gather around Super Nintendo games and tell grand tales of chunks of code they've dealt with. The current bar manager is a good friend of mine, which is something of a boon because he keeps me apprised of when the event is held. There's a Facebook page for the event, of course, but I don't have Facebook. So instead, I e-mail him whenever I think there might be one on.
As it happened, there wasn't. Not this week, anyway. That's always something of a disappointment to me, I don't get out of the house much. In fact, Geek Beer is pretty much the only reason I get out of the house, apart from work. This always comes as a shock to people, when they realize I have staggeringly few tales of drunken exploits, of naughty activities undertaken as an impressionable youth. Their response is almost unanimous- the words vary, but there's a sadness in the eyes that tells me they're looking at a man half-alive, who has yet to taste what freedom truly is.
I don't really know what came over me right then, when I heard there was no Geek Beer on. I suppose, looking back, it was just cabin fever, just me wanting to get out and do something, experience something. Notch my belt. But at the moment, there was a sense deep down that if I didn't do this- if I didn't seize THIS opportunity, I'd somehow be cheating myself. After all, my parents were away- I'd be able to do whatever I did that night without feeling answerable to them (a sentiment that persists despite me being 22 and by rights adult enough to make my own decisions. Bogus and sad, I know. As soon as I have steady work, I’m moving out).
I decided to grab the moment by the balls and e-mailed my friend back, asking if he wanted to go out and get twisted on Friday independent of the lack of Geek Beer. I phrased it as a suggestion that we "get drunk, accost passersby with simple math conundrums and laugh when they fail their proofs", though- it seemed to me like the sort of thing to which he'd respond. Fortunately for me, he did.
Thus, it came time to assemble the crew, for such activities require crews. The first members were obviously myself and the friend I’d e-mailed. We’ll call him Mike, to protect his identity. Mike is a good friend of mine. I forget the details of how we met, exactly, but liquor and hugs were involved, and since then I don’t think I’ve found fault with the man. He’s the sort of friend everyone should have.
Next up was a man we’ll call Andrew. Andrew, well, there's a story behind him. A Navy man, he'd once come to Geek Beer on Halloween (a couple of years ago) and insinuated himself into a conversation with a girl dressed as a Pikachu- a girl with whom I was actively flirting (though, looking back, it was not my most eloquent hour and I expect she wasn't reciprocating the feeling). Justified or not, I viewed Andrew as competition, and over the course of the night and several more drinks, I grew to hate him. Yes, it was mostly baseless, but can you blame me? I was young, drunk, and single-minded and he was pulling exactly the scheme I’d been trying myself- and a good deal better, if I remember correctly.
I didn't get her number, in case you were wondering.
It wasn't until the last Geek Beer that I realized I'd been totally wrong about Andrew.
Post-Geek Beer, Mike invited us all out for breakfast at Freeman's, a local fixture. Andrew, Cat and I all went, and I realized that not only was Andrew not a total douche, he was actually a fairly straight-up guy, and now I'm glad to count him among my friends. Funny, how a couple of years can make all the difference.
The final addition to the roster was a man we’ll call Cat Smoothie. Long story. I concede, I don’t know much about how I met Cat either. He was the bartender at Geek Beer and, again, I remember looking at him from afar and thinking “what a douche” in the early days of my university career. But he and I would share a shift in the computer science learning center (a place where, ostensibly, students can work), and we grew to be good friends. Ours was a bond forged in that potent flame of mutual frustration. This is how some of my best and most lasting friendships were forged, not in times of peace and happiness, but in times of misery and anger. You tend to grow close to the people who are miserable with you, the people who- even when things start to suck- stick around. It’s hardly a proper friendship without some mutual hate. And homoeroticism, but that’s another story.
Anyway, Cat. He’s a man of inestimable charm and good cheer who apparently used to make a habit of mercilessly beating the shit out of people. Good guy, all told.
You may notice that of the three people who accompanied me, two used to have “douche” next to their names in my address book. Folks, take a knee- sometimes you will hate people for entirely justified reasons. But sometimes you will be very wrong. Sometimes you just have to give peace a chance.
But I mean, if you talk with someone and they’re still a dick, by all means, kick them to the curb. No sense hanging out with people you don’t like.
Chapter 2: Getting a Ride
Now came the hardest part- squeezing my little brother for a ride. My little brother is... well, he’s 19 and the center of the universe. I can’t fault him that, I was like that when I was his age. It does make him act like kind of an asshole sometimes, though.
But since my parents were away, I had to get a ride somehow.
Before I launch into this, let me explain my policy for giving family members a ride- I will drive anyone, anywhere, anytime. As long as I have sufficient warning and lead time to plan around it, I’ll get someone where they’re going, because it’s not proper to leave people twisting in the wind. That’s just not cricket. All I ask is that they extend the same courtesy to me.
So, on Wednesday evening, I went in to ask my little brother for a ride.
“Hey”, I said. “I’m planning to go out for drinks on Friday, I need you to run me into Halifax and back”.
There was a pause, and then a heavy, heavy sigh, and I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Well, how late are you going to be”, he asked. I knew any answer later than “11:30” was not going to be acceptable.
“Well, I don’t know”, I said. “They’re my friends, I don’t see them much. I don’t know how late we’ll be”.
Wrong answer.
“But I was gonna go to Tosche Station and pick up some power converters!”, he whined.
No, not really.
What he actually said was “But I’m gonna be spending the night with my girlfriend”.
“I get that”, I said, “But I just need a ride to Tom’s”, referring to Tom’s Little Havana, where we intended to start the night. “It’s a two minute drive from her place. You can take ten minutes for the round trip”.
More heavy sighing.
“I just wanna know what time you’ll be done”, he groaned.
“I don’t know what time I’ll be done”, I repeated.
Now, I know how this sounds. My brother wants to be with his girl, and I’m being a dick about the uncertainty of when I’ll be done. But my little brother is the undisputed king of making people wait unreasonable amounts of time before letting them know he needs a drive. More than once, I’d drive out to his previous girlfriends’ places out in the sticks and wait twenty minutes in the car while he shared tender goodbye makeouts with her on the doorstep. More than once, I’ve come through to drive him home late so that he’d have more time to spend with his friends. I drive this kid everywhere, and have done for years. I’m not going to say he owes me, but come on.
Maybe it’s just because I’m single and bitter, but this kid can take ten minutes to shuttle my drunk ass home.
“What am I supposed to do”, I finally asked, exasperated. “I need to get home. How do I get home?”
“I don’t know”, he sighed. I think he thought if he just sighed and groaned enough I’d eventually give up.
It worked, for a minute. I loudly proclaimed I’d sleep on my friend’s couch, at which point he equally loudly declared that he’d drive me. I have no idea how his mind works.
So, on Friday night, I hop in the car, bomber jacket draped over my shoulder, notebook in my pocket to record drunk thoughts, wallet and cell phone in my pants. My brother drove home from his girlfriend’s place to pick me up, and was in a visible rush to get going. I didn’t make him wait.
“Thanks for this”, I said to my brother. “I really appreciate it”.
“Threw a wrench in my fucking night”, he grumbled.
Fine, I thought. Be a douchebag.
“What’s the matter”, I asked, “It’s barely a drive at all”.
“My dinner’s getting cold”, he grumbled.
“What?”
“Back at [my girlfriend’s] place. We ordered Chinese”.
“What, she won’t throw it in the microwave for you?” It’s all they did at the store, I left unsaid.
This kept him quiet all the way to Halifax. But on the way, I got to thinking- I was being a little uncharitable. For all my bluster, if I were in his shoes, I’d probably be equally frustrated. Maybe I wouldn’t voice it, but it would be there. And it’s only a five minute walk to Tom’s from his girlfriend’s place. So as we neared an intersection near the apartment, I said “Look, let me out here. You turn around and go spend some time with your girlfriend”.
“Oh, okay”, he said.
I hopped out of the car, thinking I’d done a good deed. Now, I thought my brother would turn off and loop around at the intersection at which we’d stopped. But no- he drove two more blocks straight ahead- towards Tom’s- and then turned around.
If I’d known you were going towards Tom’s, I yelled silently, I’d have stayed in the fucking car!
Chapter 3: The Fickle Frog
Tom’s, as it happened, was full to bursting. I met Mike outside, and we exchanged the usual pleasantries before realizing that we had Cat’s phone number and could walk to Rockbottom, another bar, and tell him to meet us there. So it was that we kicked off from Tom’s and started the march to Rockbottom, where we met up with Cat Smoothie and Andrew.
Rockbottom, as it happened, was also full up, so we crossed the street to a joint called the Fickle Frog, where we got some food. Mike and I split a pitcher of Granite Peculiar (a local Micro), and Cat got a G&T, but for whatever reason, they wouldn’t take Andrew’s military ID. This baffled us all. He instead ordered water, in the most ice-cold way imaginable.
Now, with food, drink, and company, the conversation quickly turned to a common topic for this group: Billy Stories.
Ah, Billy. I’d give him a fake name to protect his identity, but fuck him. He’s an asshole. But he’s also the common thread that binds a lot of CS students. You remember how I mentioned that bonds forged over mutual hate are sometimes stronger than those formed over mutual love? Well, if there was anything we could all agree we hated, it was Billy. And we all had stories.
Explaining the concept of a Billy Story is a bit of a tangent, but you all know a guy like Billy. A guy who, in spite of being relentlessly unlikable, is sort of a fixture of his environment. Everyone knows Billy. He’s always around, always doing stuff. And you kind of start to hate him, but everyone seems to put up with him, so you figure it’s just you. Then you finally snap and voice that hate, and find that everyone agrees with you. And then you hear the Stories. Mine are of the time he implied I was a rapist. Cat’s are of the time he was physically put between Billy and the lady bartender to keep Billy from groping her. Mike used to live with the guy, so he kind of tops us all. Mutual hatred, like I said.
So we sipped our drinks and swapped Billy Stories, then paid our bills and wandered out. Mike insisted that we accost passersby with math conundrums, like I’d said, and we decided we would if an opportunity presented itself. We couldn’t decide where to go, so I just declared we should head further downtown and see what happened. We found ourselves at Bishop’s Cellar.
Chapter 4: The Submarine
Bishop’s Cellar is, effectively, a very nice wine store that also sells some import beer. We decided this was as good a place to pick up our next drinks. Mike and I both grabbed some nice imports, 10% ABV stouts that came in bottles inside what we thought were Pringles tubes. For $6.00, it really was a steal.
We began our walk along the waterfront, all except Andrew a little tipsy by now. I remember stepping up to the waterfront and gesturing expansively over the harbour towards the oil refinery on the opposite shore.
“I had no idea Eastern Passage could look so nice”, I said, wistfully.
“Yeah”, Cat said. “From a distance”.
We laughed our way all along the waterfront, Andrew chiding us all for being taller than he was and having to take fewer steps to stay ahead while we walked on the small, knee-high walls and ran far ahead of him, chuckling.
Finally, the submarine playground I mentioned in my Mihi task came into view.
“Let’s go to there”, I said, gesturing firmly. “I want to see what that’s like. And now I can do it without being creepy and hanging out around a bunch of kids”.
Everyone agreed that this was a sensible course of action. As it happened, they all remembered the old playground, in all its awesome, hazardous glory. We wandered up to it, our boots squishing into the faux-asphalt on the approach. Mike leaned up against the plastic engine, running his hand over it.
“This is a typical submarine engine”, he said, adopting an officious tone that made him sound like he knew what he was talking about. “Four cylinders, and one square”.
I chuckled and climbed up into the conning tower, playing with the periscope- the only moving part in the entire thing. We laughed, chuckling as Mike waved his hand in front of the periscope to make sure we knew where it was pointing. Everything was as it should be, so we squatted in the conning tower as Mike produced a bottle opener and we sipped our stouts, looking out on the night.
I wish I had brought my camera, because it’s hard for me to adequately describe how transcendental this moment was, for me. Here I was, a bottle of beer clutched in my hand, sitting in a child’s playground with three of my best friends, chuckling like an idiot and playing with a periscope. But when I finally finished my drink and stood up, looking across the railing at the harbour, well, maybe it was just the alcohol talking but I’d swear that old feeling came back. Looking out at the lights of the city, I thought to myself “This is mine”.
Mike tried to leave his bottle behind, but we all admonished him for it.
“You remember when you were a kid, and you’d find weird shit on playgrounds?”, Cat asked him. “Do you want to be that guy?”
Mike conceded that he didn’t, and so we stood up and prepared to throw our bottles into the garbage can a few meters away. But, suddenly, we heard the sound of voices approaching. Hurriedly, we crammed the bottles into their cardboard tubes, preparing to break for the trash, when we saw the source of the voices come into view. Five first-year aged university students, coming to the playground, toting a bottle of Morgan and cans of Coke. Sheepishly, I relaxed, letting the tube fall to my side as they climbed their way onto the ship.
“Hey”, I said as they found their way up. “You’re ‘not drinking’ too?”
They laughed. “Hey, of course not”, they said, Morgan grinning at me from the side of the bottle.
“Whoa!”, one of them cried, seeing the tube in my hand. “Pringles!”
After explaining that it was actually an empty beer bottle and not Pringles, they agreed that a beer that came in a cardboard tube was, in fact, dope as hell. I could sense the respect coming off them.
We chatted, during which time one of them passionately explained to us as though it was the most profound thing he’d ever heard that every genre of music was influenced by previous eras, because “jazz influenced soul, soul influenced blues, blues influenced rock, and rock influenced everything else. Rap, hip-hop, metal- well, I guess hip-hop influenced rap, but, y’know”.
“Mm”, I said. “Run-DMC”.
Cat and I were thinking the same thing. We’ve taken University electives too. It’s good that you did your music history readings.
Eventually, Mike and I went to drop off our bottles. As we walked to the can, I said “Y’know, this is the first time I’ve done something like this”.
“What”, Mike said. “Got drunk and hung out on a playground?”
“Yeah”, I said, “But also more generally. Y’know, pub crawl. Alcohol crawl. Alco... crawl”.
“Really?” I could see that same pity in his eyes as we climbed up the rope net to the playground.
“Yeah”.
I stumbled, my foot going through one of the large holes in the net. This turn of events confused my beer-addled mind, and I hung there for a few seconds. My footing lost, Mike stretched out a hand to me. I grabbed it, he clenched hard and pulled me up, and we both stood on that submarine, looking at each other and out into the night.
My entire life, in micro.
Chapter 5: Ice Cream
Eventually, we decided it was time to let the arts students be, since they’d dropped their bottle of Morgan over the side and spilled it, and we suspected their good-naturedness would fade somewhat after that. We left them to their own misadventures and slid down the slide to the waterfront.
Continuing our stroll, at some point, a primal Canadian instinct compelled us to stop. Partially it was because the Theodore Tugboat that was moored there had a large moustache painted on it and we found this terribly amusing (it was official, for Movember). But something else called to us. We sensed it was time for a change in the wind.
We turned, and there it was- a Tim Horton’s, crossed with a Coldstone Creamery.
We were all thinking the same thing. We wanted some ice cream. And because we were drunk, and also adults, we would take/buy what we wanted and damn the consequences.
We strode into the Creamery where, with dismay, we noted that they were closing up their ice cream operation.
“You closing up your ice cream?”, Cat asked, never one to give up.
“Yeah”, the guy behind the counter said.
There was a moment of intense melancholy. The night had been going so well so far. It didn’t seem fair that, at the height of our adventure, we should be denied what was rightfully ours. Then, Mike pointed off to a freezer in the side.
“Guys”, he said, “We can still buy a tub of ice cream”.
Sure enough, there were large tubs of ice cream on display in the freezer. We extracted their largest size, which had a name that I read as “All Good Things”, since it contained oreos, pecans, maple syrup, caramel, and... well, all good things. I pulled it out and started to march off to the counter. Cat stopped me before I could get there.
“Do you think”, he said in hushed tones, “That if we bought that, they’d mix in some sprinkles?”
We thought about it and agreed that they probably would. Further commiseration yielded the decision that we would prefer gummy bears to sprinkles.
I took the tub to the counter and, in my best impression of an affable British gentleman, declared that “We would like to purchase this ice cream!” Tipsy logic dictated that if I spoke firmly, in a British accent, they would trust me and be more likely to give me the gummy bears. A young man came to take my order.
“Do you suppose”, I asked, “That we could get some gummy bears mixed in there?”
“Sure”, he said, “But it’s a 75-cent mixing charge”.
I looked back at my colleagues at the table, who nodded fiercely.
“We have decided that is acceptable”, I said. I paid for the ice cream and brought it back to the table.
In a minute or so, the kid from the counter came back up with a smaller tub. He looked at me, meaningfully, and I strode back up to the counter.
“You didn’t get these from me”, he said. I guess someone had contradicted him on the gummy bear count.
I furtively slipped the tub into my coat and waved a hand like a Jedi pulling a mind trick. “I was never here”, I whispered. I sauntered back over to my table, barely two meters away.
We split the ice cream and gummy bears, chowing down and exchanging humorous stories. Cat Smoothie took some photos (which I don’t have) and I insisted he send them to Sarah, an absent friend whom I’d dated a couple of summers ago.
“I really miss her”, I muttered as I broke my spoon on the hard, frozen ice cream.
“I know”, Cat said “You said that, like, six times tonight”.
I looked at my broken spoon, confused. I didn’t remember saying it six times. Oh well.
The ice cream finished, I took a quick trip to the bathroom, where I ran into the kid who gave us the bears.
“Hey”, I said, slurring my speech a bit. “I know I didn’t get those from you, but you’re a straight-up bro. I’m never gonna forget you”.
He muttered something and left.
Chapter 6: Interlude
We left the Creamery, our guts sated, and continued walking along the waterfront. We passed the Casino, climbing on walls and railings and attempting to appear “ninja”. Andrew, still stone-cold sober, would occasionally insist that we go another direction than the one Mike, Cat and I wanted to take.
“There’s nothing that way”, he insisted, as we all walked along the boardwalk.
“You’ve been outvoted”, I said, firmly.
“This isn’t a democracy”, he rebutted.
“You’re right”, he said, “It’s a facist dictatorship, and I’m the dictator!” I gestured frantically in the direction we were going, as if to impose my will with sheer flamboyance.
“Can we be a theocracy”, Cat Smoothie inquired.
“Sure”, I said, “And I’m the God”.
“Okay”, he said, “I’m the high priest”.
We laughed at the implications of this as Mike pointed down the road.
“That”, he said, “Let’s climb that”.
He was pointing to a parking garage.
Climbing that seemed like an excellent idea.
Mike and I hauled ourselves over the short wall, while Andrew and Cat Smoothie went around through the front. What followed was a bizarre trip up to the top floor, where we looked out at the city in front of us.
“Where should we go now?”, I said.
“Dunno”, Andrew said back.
We stood and looked out at the lights of the city, silent for a time.
“Hey”, Cat Smoothie finally said, pointing to the small lip filled with gravel on the edge of the parking garage, “Check out this Hobo Trough”.
Eventually, we decided to race to the bottom, went the wrong way (somehow), and wound up with the three drunks in the pedway to the Casino and Andrew on the ground, looking up at us. We tried to reconnect, but couldn’t seem to find our way out until we’d wandered about for what felt like ages. I made a point of saying “Good Evening” to everyone we passed. We finally came to a place where we could meet up, with the three of us looking down on him as he came through the main door, like a scene from The Trial.
We found our way into the Cobblestones, a small cobblestone street in downtown Halifax, where I proceeded to attempt to play a statue of an iron wolf like a guitar (there’s video of this, but I don’t have it). From there, we headed up to the Delta Barrington, a hotel with a bar in the first floor. We didn’t know about the bar, of course, and decided it was as good a place as any to get a bite to eat and a drink at 12:30 in the morning.
Chapter 7: Tempo
Tempo was where the night ended- with us eating fancy snacks and drinking colourful cocktails in oddly-shaped glasses (I’d ordered a “Cadence”, which turned out to be a pinkish-orange concoction in a martini glass). It was a quiet part of the night, where we just sat and talked, sipping our drinks, munching our snacks.
Eventually, my little brother called.
“When are you going to be done”, he said, the exasperation writ plain in his voice.
“I don’t know, man. We’re wrapping up, I guess”.
Mike saw me talking on the phone and, as is right and proper for a drunk man, motioned that I should give him the phone. As is right and proper for a drunk man, I did.
“Hey man”, he said, “What’s up?”
Pause.
“Yeah, this is Mike. How’s it going?”
Pause.
“I love you”.
Pause.
“Hang on, Cat Smoothie wants to talk to you”. The phone crossed the table.
“‘Ello”, Cat said in his best creeper voice. “That’s a verry nice everything you’ve got there. Be a shame if anything were to happen to it”.
We lost our shit laughing as Cat handed me back the phone.
“Hey, still there?”
Beat, beat, then a low growl: “When the fuck are you going to be done?”
I hemmed and hawed and finally said we’d be done inside the half hour and I’d call him when I was outside his building. The night was pretty much over at this point, we just had to walk up the street and make the call. I revelled in the completion of my first ever true drunk night on the town, the adrenaline riding high. We got our bill from the server, a New Zealander (probably) named Josh.
“Listen, Josh”, I said as I paid the bill, “I’m never gonna fucking forget you”.
“You better not”, he said, not missing a beat.
Aaargh, I'd been holding off waiting for the new era. Now I'm behind in my tasking!
Time to blow the lid off this shit.
Vote for sheer ominousness.
Man, when new tasks get approved, this place feels alive again.
This conversation has gone to a weird, although by no means unpleasant, place.
You could do a group completion where you have five or six people, and cycle through with each person adding an ingredient. Delicious, AND unpredictable!
Relations and Praxis
Tasks, biome, SNIDE and BART PA
HC, CE, UofA and EZ
San Francisco
Freedom, potential, friends and fun
Even if it's sometimes odd
It will always be great
So even if sometimes you get flagged
Just keep on going till you get your Score bagged
And the Proof gets sent in
You get votes from your kin
In this game that we call SF0
I'm only Level two
But I've done six or seven tasks
And I'm down with Chrononautic Exxon
SNIDE is not for me
Nor is EquivalenZ or Biome
Someday I will plant that flag
Atop that big metal spire
The votes on my Praxii are sickeningly high
The points rocket up until they touch to the sky
So please don't try and flag
Till Level 8's in the bag
In this game that we call SF0
Close enough to taste
I hope I don't run out of tasks to do
Or get owned by a gang of those Rubins.
I might get a high score
That's not a joke, no really, it's not
No, really, guys stop laughing now
I was not kidding 'round
Well, so what if I never get a high score
I'll just keep getting points, there will always be more
Till I plant my flag high
On the spire in the sky
In this game that we call SF0