The Ultimate Difficulty Setting Page 3

By SimHQ on August 15, 2006 in _air7, hide

Climb and roll to the left — it’s risky, but I need altitude for the hill that’s to my left and the valley on the other side. The water which I was over an instant before boils with the angry fire of machine gun and cannon, splashing high in the air, and the shadow of the German whisks over my cockpit. Too much! I’m inverted as I crest the hill and use the injured wing to roll right inches above the turf, with the slightest pressure on the pedals beneath my feet. My plane shudders as the tail is hammered by cannon, rendering it useless for another such attempt.

I skim along the slope the hill, trees whizzing past me as the 109 barely recovers from his dive and climbs away from me. The flak defenses are a kilometer away… if I can survive for forty seconds and two more ridgelines…

“Blah blah naked something sex,” my wife observes.

I turn in the chair to look at her, as if a force beyond my will has pulled me to look away from the screen. The ground rushes up in front of my aircraft, swallowing it up, horrid shards scattering up the slope of the hill.

Relax the grip on the HOTAS, lift feet gently off the pedals and place them softly on the floor. Flatten hands and place them on the table that serves as a computer desk. Slowly inhale and softly exhale. Turn back to look at the wife, crooking an eyebrow.

“Oh, look, you crashed,” she notices with a grin, “Now that I finally have your attention, you can take the trash down to the curb so you won’t forget like you did last week?”

She’s right, of course. There is nothing now to prevent me from doing as she asks. Score one for the Home Team.

And finally,

4) Some family distractions simply cannot be denied and will bring playing a simulation to a screeching halt.

Pressing with both feet gently, the chair responds gingerly at first, then pushing against the carpet cleanly. A little firmer with the right and it slips perfectly to the left, clearing me from the desk. The reflectors to the TrackIR clip winkle for a split second against the glare of the light bulbs on the rotating ceiling fan as the headset clatters against the throttle next to the keyboard.

“Oh, no,” I hear as I padlock onto my quarry, “it’s the middle of the afternoon; your son is awake.”

Heedless of the withering flak that seeks to distract me, I lift off from my seat and break hard left, scissor right, and fire a spoiling round.

Incredibly, “Cartoon Network marathon,” hits true to the target as I close the distance, scooping her up in my arms.

“Take the trash out first,” she says firmly, but adopts a grin of her own.

Meanwhile, the headset faintly calls out my call sign with no response.

And yet another brave virtual pilot has been wiped from the skies due to family interference…

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