Join me on an interesting train of thought for a while, will you? What would it be like if our modern, typical player was to partake in the wave of people to leave the Arkship?  Now, close your eyes and breathe in deeply – no, this is not some yoga therapeutic class where I sit cross legged and wave eight arms around like an octopus, demanding you format your brain. This is a short trip you may think you know, but, I will let you know: a 21st century man, will definitely not find the Arkship experience funny.

Let us delve right in, shall we?

NOTE: Any name, place, race or historical event mentioned, inferred should be taken with a pinch of salt. The opinions expressed in this article DO NOT represent the opinions and thoughts of the author.

You are walking down a sunny beach. Half a dozen seagulls are flying overhead, calling to each other. Underneath you, the sand is warm and fine, allowing your naked soles to sink into the warmth for a few millimetres, leaving your footmarks as you walk along. About two score feet from you, the waves wash against the beach, roaring in the distance like the Cowardly Lion. The breeze is somewhat strong, but in the excellent heat of the sun, the wind only adds more to a perfect day. A stone’s throw away, is your red and white checked hammock, tied to two palm trees. Peeking above from the hammock is a lovely exotic beauty with a wireless game console. Covering her hands and head are the synthetic fabric that take her to the virtual reality. Smirking to yourself, you sigh aloud. If this is not Shangri-La, that utopia simply does not exist.


Suddenly, you are plunged into pitch-black darkness as if the sun decided to try seppuku. Confused, you turn around and then it hits you like King Kong slammed your chest: deep, biting, numbing cold. The darkness of your basement is nothing compared to this, and the cold is worse than being dead. Literally. Even the dead do not feel this much cold – except they featured corpses in Crashing.

“Bruce, can you hear me?” The voice sounds remarkably like Siri.

“If I am dead,” you think, “does that mean Siri followed me into the afterlife?”

It is impossible: if Terminator could not develop a dark soul, there was no way an Apple AI could even develop a mind of its own, much less become human enough to have a soul. No offense, Tim Cook.

“Bruce, if you don’t respond, we’re going to have some bad blood between us.”

“Darn – it’s Taylor Swift!” You try to say through chattering teeth, but all that comes out is a clatter Tutankhamun would be proud of.

“Hello, Bruce. Finally, you can speak. How are you feeling?”

“I-isss that a k-k-k-uestionnn?”

“Yes.” The voice replies and pauses. “Yes, it is a question.”

“Yeah, definitely Siri.” You think.

You attempt opening your eyes. It is surprisingly easy and you find your surroundings confusing, if not terrifying. What you are in is a container – a fancy coffin to be more exact. The fancy kind that they cover with glass so people can see you before your ugly face on the outside looks the same as your uglier soul on the inside. But, it is cold. The blue ghostly lights are dim – thankfully – slightly providing enough light to see the interior of the pointlessly fancy coffin. It is all white and silver, but it is a shame you cannot feel the fabric.