Teóricos, esta na hora de ganhar Exp..[+Literatura] [+Lógica] [-Google]

Esses dois possuem uma bela semelhança, que na verdade é uma diferença:
Corpo quente de Magcargo: Magcargo é um pokémon que vive perto de vulcões, e seu corpo é extremamente quente. Com isso, sua habilidade é Flame Body, pois seu corpo, e sua concha, está pegando fogo. Graças ao seu corpo seu extremamente quente, ele acaba "estragando" sua rocha que serve de concha, deixando-a queimada (vejam o seu sprite nos jogos) e ficando como um carvão. Graças a isso, sua concha é fraca, e ela é sua armadura, e com golpes muito fortes direcionados a ele, sua concha é destruida aos poucos.

Corpo frio de Vanilluxe: Vanilluxe é um pokémon classificado como tempestade de neve, e é inspirado em uma casquinha de sorvete. Seu corpo é super muito frio, sendo capaz de criar poderosas tempestades de gelo e de neve. Ele também adora viver em locais com clima muito frio. Ele é, basicamente, o oposto de Magcargo, que possui Flame Body, e ele Ice Body. Como Magcargo, ele possui uma armadura fraca. A "casquinha" (no caso, é a armadura) de Vanilluxe é congelada, graças ao seu corpo frio, tornando-a mais "frágil, e com isso, golpes físicos podem quebrá-la.

OBS: A teoria é by me, eu só fiz um título e peguei uma imagem no Google para deixar mais "organizado". -q

A little more investigation, however, reveals the true motive.

The ending of Mother 2 relies on a great coming-together of the game's content, execution, and many razor-sharp concepts. Paula, the psychic-girl character, has a battle command called "Pray," which, for the longest stretch of the game, does very close to absolutely nothing. Sometimes it heals your characters by a few tens of hit points. Sometimes it confuses everyone on the battlefield. In the final two stages of the final battle, after you've exhausted just about all of your consumable weapons, all you have left is that "Pray" command. Pray enough times, without skipping a turn, and eventually you'll start to see the people of the world, praying along with you. The game's journey, for the most part, focuses on a pilgrimage between eight sanctuaries, to collect the "eight melodies," which form the melody of the song "Smiles and Tears," which Itoi has insisted, in the instruction manual, you sing along with. So of course you have to pray eight times, and of course each of the people you see praying along with you belong in some way or another to those eight sanctuaries. Each prayer hurts the boss for huge damage. Once you pray eight times -- and this is done while the boss is wailing on you and your three characters aside from Paula are hurrying to heal -- the boss's form changes.

This time, the boss's attacks are ridiculous. You're getting your asses pummeled. You can't take much more of it. Most likely, you're running low on magic points. Paula prays one more time, only to be told "The prayer was absorbed into the darkness." Pray again and again, and each time, it will be "absorbed into the darkness."

So here's the situation: the people of the earth prayed to kill the alien. Their prayers hurt the alien a hell of a lot. However, the alien is still alive. The prayers, to clarify, were prayers of people in a videogame world, solicited by the girl-friend-of-the-hero character in a role-playing game about a hero killing an alien and saving the world. In this game, when one person in the party of four is dead, all of the menu borders are stained a kind of bloody-cheese-orange. In the final phase, your windows are most likely stained that kind of orange. When you issue the command to pray, though it's Paula who the game says prays, it's really the player who's pressing the buttons, probably angrily. The only thing that one might say is encouraging the player to press the button to make Paula pray is that the result from praying -- "The prayer was absorbed into the darkness" -- is consistently different from the result for the rest of the game leading up to that point. Eventually, after enough prayers, the result starts to change.

"___ ______ prayed."

"Giygas took 9999999 damage!"

The next turn, it's different.

"___ ___e__ prayed."

"_i_ ___e__ prayed."

"_i_ __ge__ prayed."

"_im __ge_s . . ."

"_im __gers . . ."

"_im _ogers . . ."

"_im Rogers . . ."

"Tim Rogers prayed . . ."

". . . Giygas was defeated!!"

I look at the screen, and think -- wait a minute. How does the game know my name?

Then I think back to when I was wandering the desert. All throughout this game, there have been step-counter-based events. Like a good Dragon Quest game, Mother 2 hides certain pieces of information from you, like how many times you've fought Red Slimes since leaving your hometown. When you order a pizza, it is delivered to you after a certain number of steps. The game doesn't even feature an in-game timer.


At some point, when your concealed number of steps reaches half of the minimum number of steps required to arrive at the end of the game (or so I've heard it explained from a not-entirely-reliable source), a phone call comes on Ness's receiver telephone. Sometimes you get phone calls from your dad on that phone. He usually tells you that it's been too long (too many steps, that is) since the last time you called your mother, or saved the game. He tells you you should be resting by now. Then he hangs up. Well, this phone call is different. We don't know who it is. The guy doesn't identify himself, and we can only imagine that it's a guy.[1] He asks, "Hey, you."

"Yeah, you."

"No, not you -- you, the guy playing the game."

"Yeah, what's your name? You better not lie to me."

He then offers you a sixteen-letter blank to fill in your name, spaces and all. Most players, at this point in the game, are softened up by the story's quirkiness. The beginning of the playing experience makes a ceremony out of naming your characters, and it even encourages you to name them stupid, silly things, all so that it can trick you into putting your genuine, real name into the blanks when prompted out of the blue, while walking between sesame seeds in the desert.

And then, when the final boss is killed, he's not killed because of the psychic powers of the hero and heroine. He's not killed because of the prayers of the people who need saving. He's killed because you want him to die. He's killed because you know, as a matter of course, that this is the end of the game, and you want the game to end. When he dies, he turns to television static and shrinks to a dot. The game then enters its ending.

The player is most likely wetting the controller in cold sweat at this point. At that point in your life, playing that game, you learn something about yourself that you can't fully explain. The final boss, whose face is, in the final phase, a reflection of the hero's face, becomes almost an object of pity.

I planned, when I started writing this, to tell a story here, about how Mother 2 made me a vegetarian. I'd talk about the comic artist I met and came to work for a few years back, and how she explained that upon finishing Mother 2, she too was a vegetarian. The gist of that story was going to be a confused wonderment over why the game made us stop eating meat, or even if it made us stop eating meat at all. Maybe it was something within ourselves that had changed, right at the end of the game? I have an old copy of Mother 2 on my futon here, bought from my favorite retro game store in Akihabara just last week. The player of all three previous quests, who named his hero "Tenchi" and Paula "Ryoko," committed the infernal sin of saving the game right before the walk down the final boss's corridor. The problem with saving the game down there is that there's no turning back. You can't walk through the towns of the game without killing the final boss first, and lord knows I love wandering the towns -- random enemies and all -- when there's a world to be saved. I got all the way to the final boss with his all-level-99 party. I still had some trouble in the fight. I got to the final prayer phases. The player's name was, I could tell before the final blank was filled, "Tanaka Shin'ichi." I felt horribly sad and alone looking at that ordinary Japanese name in the middle of this battle with an alien beast. It was an absolute piece of truth. There was no doubt in my mind -- the man who had played this game before me had been named Shin'ichi Tanaka. It's almost as though, in letting go of the game, he's dead now. I feel a great mourning, and a great desire to wish mercy on his soul.

Or something like that.

No, really, it makes me feel something. It really does. I'm hamming it up a little here, though I honestly, really do feel something.

That's more than I can say about almost any other videogame. Sure, Final Fantasy VI, also a product of the great year of 1994, deals with themes of "teenage pregnancy" and features an "opera house sequence." While we may feel sad when Celes' grandfather-character Cid dies, at our fault, toward what do we direct that sadness?

That's right: the darkness. It's absorbed into the darkness.

Mother 2's voodoo curse is that it reflects something back at you if you put enough into it. It's the only videogame I've ever known to change people. And I'm not counting Ninja Gaiden, the sick hunting birds of which pushed my older brother to be short-tempered enough to break controllers with his clenching fists.