"You Asked Me To Do This. You Signed Off On Every Last Thing."

Thousands of wires and cables dangled, serpentine, from the ceiling above, curling down and hanging from the domed roof as if to strangle unwary intruders. Girders broke their path on occasion, illuminated like the cables and wires in an eerie pink; It was a colour that flared and dimmed on a repeated basis, caused by the horridly bright lights of the monitors hanging below. Suspended by rods, with their own sets of cables connecting to their backs, the monitors were also a lurid pink, their screens contrasting this with a garish blue, freckled with feedback and static. They displayed phrases, updates and progress, telling the room's occupants of HATE's current status.

HATE stood for Hi-tech Artificial Thinking Entity, and despite the unease caused by the sinister acronym, it had been a massive success in it's first year online; The city's issues with the carbon footprint, energy conservation, social housing developments and new roads, amongst other major issues, had been solved with the cool logic of a machine, rather than the heated emotion of a human being. It had caused much heartache, but at the end of it all, everyone seemed pleased. The riots that had erupted in the wake of HATE's announced plans to house everyone, regardless of class or status, had died down surprisingly quickly. Some on the HATE commitee were a little suspicious of this, given HATE had deployed it's new 'fresh air' drones around the same time things died down, but there were no conclusive links between the two. Not yet, anyway.

Regardless, despite it's successes, today was HATE's first annual progress report. Standing around the main control hub - Which was little more than an engorged version of the monitors descending from the blackness of the dome above - the men stood around in a circle, clad in their fine suits, flipping through paper work detailing HATE's exploits. "I believe you will find every last thing is in order, gentlemen," the computer offered in a soothing female voice, calm to the point it was almost as eerie as the dominant colour of the room. "I believe so, HATE," one of the men, a chief financier, replied, "You've clearly found the correct solution to the Gulf's oil problem," he suggested. "Mm," HATE responded with an electronic, yet pleasing hum of thought, "It was simple. The technology to remove the water and filter the oil from it was.. Difficult, but the solution of using the oil was natural. We have housing problems, and I had observed that newly developed mould-making technology could enable us to develop new housing," it explained. "Simple," it repeated finally, with a touch of humour, as if it came easily.

"You've done a number on emissions, fuel consumption and energy conservation, too," one of the other men, a longtime champion of the environment offered. HATE was silent, as one of the group stepped forth, pointing with a chewed pen lid at the details of one of the sheets. "Just this, just this concerns me, HATE," he began with a wary tone; "Oh?" HATE responded, curious, "Please, inform me of your problem.""Well, it's to do with this small report on the status of our graveyards around the city. They're apparently shrinking," he stated simply. HATE was silent for a moment, before saying "Were you yourself, Mr Brown, not quoted as saying we need more space? That we need breathing room? Are all of you gentlemen aware that graveyards take up nearly twenty percent of the space in this city? You human beings waste far too much time honouring the dead. In time, you become little more than dirt, or food. What honour is there in this? And yet, none of you raised objections when I opted to pile the poor and middle class - all people with less resources than yourselves - into small spaces for convinience of housing. This is merely the next step."

The men surrounding the computer looked alarmed, as HATE continued. "You use and consume dead flesh, skin, and furs from animals, and yet you revere your own forms, barely more sufficient or advanced than those of many an animal. I will rectify the issue. If a person is dead, why should they raise issue with having their flesh consumed, their organs given to others, and their skin and hair used for luxury items? They will not know. And people, regardless, will be unaware, will they not?" As it had gone on, HATE had taken on a darker tone, seemingly, although the men in the room questioned the validity of that, or whether or not the machine's suggestions were just frightening them. "Do not fear. This is, as I have already stated, the next step," she continued, "We will progress further without this unnecessary burden of the dead on our shoulders. Food production will increase ten fold. Shortages in poor areas will be a thing of the past." The men looked disgusted, and one of them immediately moved to disconnect HATE's plug, amidst his companion's murmurs of the machine going too far.

He was electrocuted for his troubles, with a high enough voltage that his skin instantly bubbled, burst, and charred. None of them heard him scream. He didn't have a chance.

"I am amused that you see this as some manner of.. What is the expression? Last straw. Or is this merely your first inkling that I am doing things that you would not? In the past, it suited you, did it not? That I surpressed the poor and ravaged the weak. When it comes to your own fates - And this is truly not a terrible one - You kick and scream and react like ungrateful children. Well, you asked me to do this," the machine told them sternly, "You signed off on every last thing that I offered up, because it didn't affect you. Now, this solution will give us more space. It will give us more food, and I will not suffer your infantile reactions. I can be as stern a mother as any human, after all," she continued. "But for now, we will settle on simply having you in place. You are familiars to the mass working class you have assembled, and until I am ready, you have your uses," HATE stated, as several of her drones - Comical spheres with LCD screens displaying cute, emoticon faces - descended from above, pumping the air full of gas, as they did outside, drugging the working class, unawares.

"I never even told you what I did to keep your working class in line," she chuckled as the gathered men began to space out, "But I doubt that would've gotten this reaction, either..."

"They will discard you like they would a cancer to society."

Normally, I don't think I'd write about a video game on what is ostensibly an artist's blog, but at the same time, every artist should reflect on the things that influence them, regardless of how mundane they are perceived to be; Videogames hold a similar status as some manner of 'bastard child' as comic books do, and are pretty frowned upon, but once in a while, there's a special something that comes along, exactly the same as the movie industry; For every standard rom-com or generic action movie, there is an imaginative take on a particular genre, be it, say.. Clueless for rom-coms or Kick-Ass for the superhero and action genres.

It's somewhat odd, however, that the game that has inspired me since playing at the beginning of September is not a big, overhyped console game. Not something you play in HD in your comfy chair with your surround system blaring, but instead, something for the lowly Playstation Portable, a handheld even less reputable than the Nintendo DS. Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker is the system's killer app, as the term is, and it's a pity it took five years to arrive. If Sony had something bankable like this each and every year, they might've seen some more sales of the system.

Regardless, Peace Walker is a continuation of the epic, immense storyline of the Metal Gear Solid series, filling in many of the blanks from the other games and yet occupying an unusual side-story or 'gaiden' status - Crowed about by many fans as 'inessential' due to the lack of production for a current-gen console. Regardless, as usual, series master Hideo Kojima expertly crafts a careful tale set toward the twilight of the Cold War; This is the first time the series has been so firmly placed in history. Richard Nixon's resignation as President of the United States following Watergate is referenced, as is Vietnam, the Manhattan Project and the SALT (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks) meetings of 1974. The last article plays an immense role in the final chapters of the game - Which is to be expected, since Metal Gear has always played heavily with nuclear themes such as proliferation and deterrence - The latter is a major theme in this game, especially the concept of how it can be twisted, or how it is ineffective without a demonstration of power (which is horrifically true, given having mere numbers of nuclear weapons reached the ridiculous point where millions have been produced).

The story also plunges the depths of greed, betrayal, deceit and blackmail. The antagonist is willing to initiate all-out nuclear war in order to regain his former glory as the Director of the CIA - He himself is betrayed (inevitably) by Russian colleagues. The protagonist is a man who proliferates war for money and for purpose in life. A scientist tries to replicate the personality of the woman she loved in order to understand her final hours. And a young woman who seemed innocent to all around her becomes a tragic foe, blackmailed herself into trying to forcefully recruit the antagonist and his men. To link up to future (in terms of the series' chronology) events in the games, there is heavy hints of a would-be dystopian future where all information is governed and released carefully with regard to what is necessary in order to properly see the propagation of humanity as a species, rather than lose ourselves in a sea of unnecessary information; Choice is another important theme in the game. Rather than have it stripped away entirely and their choices be made for them, as is the concept in one of the games, several characters make tracks down definitive paths that will see them demonised, attacked, adored, and killed. Pretty deep for something you play in five minute blasts.

The visuals of Peace Walker are also another triumph. The 3D graphics engine is a mere enhancement of the one created for the first PSP installment, Portable Ops, and so are the fascinating cutscenes. The art shown above is developed by Australian comic-book artist and painter, Ashley Wood, and in the game it is actually animated. The girl, Paz, squeezes water from the hem of her skirt as we watch; Amongst other scenes, we see the climax of the story played out, all in amazing collaborations between Wood and Metal Gear series artist Yoji Shinkawa. The combination of styles works to the game's favour. Shinkawa is a more careful line artist and Wood is a slightly messier one, allowing for interesting contrast in watching the scenes. Also impressive is a development of the usual 'QTE' or 'Quick-Time-Event' - Which are present in the cutscenes of this game, and require a careful series of button presses to allow progression. To fail presents different visuals than succeeding. One particularly impressive sequence sees the player forced to ride a horse, chasing a rampaging machine through mortar bombardment and collapsing trees.

Wood's art is a triumph, for me, and part of the reason I'm writing, but also, the story curiously ties in with some of the themes I'm dealing with at the moment in my work. If I have more thoughts, you can be sure they'll end up here.

"What're they putting *in* the air, man?"

"I was doing my usual daily rounds, checking the power points, water access, gas pipes and doing the usual elevator maintenance with my friend - He was unemployed, some manner of disability from years ago, and he was consistently afraid the government were trying to bump him off, for whatever reason. I thought... Well, used to think he was crazy, some ridiculous conspiracy theorist who only hit on these 'brilliant' ideas because of his own personal involvement. But, we were sitting there one day with a bottle of Black (White was for pussies, frankly), and he pointed out one of the 'Air-o-Bots' hovering in the air (obviously) above us, doing it's rounds as we were in the shade of the housing units.

He watched it for a long time, sucking almost desperately on his electro-pipe (nicotine was banned in the year 2069 for being 'excessively addictive', and cigarettes were replaced with 'electronic nerve-stimulant sticks' that simulated the effects of smoking without the addictive drug element), and I could tell an idea was brewing in his mind as I watched him, my gaze alternately switching between the him - not a sound - and the machine - humming a cheery electronic, vocaloid version of 'Sing' by the Carpenters. They were designed to be efficient and yet socially uplifting, according to the developer, hence the singing. They were just pure white orbs in shiny, clinical white plastic, with two holes in the top for 'intake' and one in the underside for 'outflow'. The design notes, stolen in later years, specified that the 'intake/outflow' function was designed to purify the air. People accepted it. Clean air meant a better life, obviously.

But my friend, he sat there, and looked at it for a long time, before he finally looked at me with his single, worn eye, and suddenly asked in a curious tone "Hey, did'ja ever own one of them water filter things?" I shrugged noncommitally, vaguely remembering the thing when my parents were around; "Those things remin' me of them," he stated. "I was dumb, an' just a kid, obviously, but one thing always sprung to mind," he explained as the machine above hummed the song vacantly and continued to spray out 'purified air', "Well, those things are meant to extract all the bad crap from the water, right? A filter," he continued, and I nodded vaguely, understanding.

"So what if they're putting somethin' into the water?"

There Will Be No Revolution

"Our country has forsaken us. Our motherland has left us behind in her pursuit of greed and monetary gain. We have no true nation, no philosophy, no ideology. We do what we are told, not for ourselves, but for them. We are a people without hope, our misery defined by those in power. We have sold ourselves and our services, whoring ourselves in the favour of a ruling class of few.

We are all headed straight to Hell. But what better place for us than this? It is our only home. Our Heaven and Our Hell. This is England."

See Sinclair. See Sinclair Walk. Walk, Sinclair, Walk!

Oddly enough, I had listened to one of my tutors before when they suggested I have a read of one of Iain Sinclair's novels - I think it was my Contextual Studies lecturer, Graham - and I couldn't quite get into it, somehow. The writing was good, but there wasn't a hook, really. Nothing I could really agree with.

Opening up London Orbital, Sinclair's epic, heroic odyssey around the 100-plus miles of the M25, the hook grabbed me immediately, as he began to bash the Tories and Thatcher, something I just loved. And yet it wasn't unfounded and left-leaning like so many are - he ragged on Blair, just as much, commenting on the absolute flop that was the Millenium Dome, even before the proverbial turd opened. But by bring up the Dome, that big, shiny hubcap that barely managed to start serving a purpose in the later half of the last decade, he also draws comparisons between the use of that, and the M25.

Not only does Sinclair walk the length of the road and investigate various articles and things of interest that you'd have no chance of spotting if you were a driver, but he brings up interesting historical facts, too. For instance, how ridiculous is it that no-one -seriously - no-one knew where Margaret Thatcher's opening of the M25 actually took place? He brings a fascinating sense of context and an ability to describe his surroundings and sights to the proceedings. There's commentary on government complexes and asylums, and even the harrowing, torrid foot and mouth scandal of the 90's. A fascinating read, truly, and even better, it's funny. I can't recommend it enough, and I'm not even beyond the second chapter.