"I'm baked and drunk right now, and happy off my rocker"
-Heartcutter
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| A 6 FFA on Broken Steppes | | | Author: | | | IP: | static-5XXXX | | Date: | 10/09/00 03:10 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | Famous Reporter(1), Starcraft(1), Great Writing(1), Problem: Broken Images(1), Long(1) | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 3, Max: 9, Min: 9
Lifetime Rating for |]agomar: 8.6667 |  | 
Hang on to your browsers and get ready for my best, longest, and most obscenely pic-heavy report yet!
First off, let me give you an idea of the scale of this game. A 192x192 map was nearly completely mined out. Second, let me thank all those who responded to my last br, especially those who rated, gave constructive comments, or raved on about how great I was. I must confess, I liked that last type of comment best ;). Third, let me get the hell on to the feature presentation - the actual br!
Pregame . . .
I stumbled ( as I usually do . . . my computer has lag you'd be proud of sometimes =[ ) into Nohunters Tuesday, October 3. Although I'm sure you'd be fascinated to hear about my wild and any exploits before we scraped together a game ( ie. I spammed the channel with a fury, said hi to Anathem who didn't respond, got disconnected for flooding ), I'm not here to tell you about that. Rather, I'll start from the point at which a number of players screamed their will to be in a br ( led by the indomitable Wangson ), and I gladly agreed, bellowing that the map should be Entrapped. It wasn't. It was Black Lotus. Oh well, that would have to do. Restoring a smile to
my face, I talked smack while Testosterone tried to download the map. For 20 minutes. After that, he was 36% done. Needless to say, it wasn't pretty.
When I began to twitch in random places, I knew this would have to stop. Another ten minutes later, we were ready to rock, having chosen the vast 192x192 realm of Broken Steppes. This would be good. Very good.
All players randomed, like the true men they are ( I hope ), and entered the FFA battlefield with absolutely no knowledge of the map or their races. The mighty warrior Basic! ended up as Zerg at 9:00, the beloved Wangsonn descended his Terran Command Center at 1:00, the valiant {Excel} ordered his human SCVs to mine at 11:00, the formidable IllgetDropped surveyed his Terran dominion from 6:00 position ( the only player who didn't start close to a the edge of the map ), the hormone-charged Testosterone phased in a gleaming new Nexus at 7:00, and ( finally! ) the vaunted [X]SlipKnoT raised the vile spines of a new Zerg infestation at 5:00. Well. Looks like I have my hands full battlereporting this one.
Early Game . . .
Wangsonn started off with a single-depot-at-choke ( I assume that was his wall-in ) 3-rax, early expo build, knowing that Terran infantry is perhaps the most effective early in the game. He scouted with a brave SCV, which rolled on down happily to spot the evil cerebrate Basic morphing his vile infestation. After the peon was chased away off into the distance, the white Zerg erected a second hatchery, then a third at the natural, finally culminating in a glorious Hydra Den at his main. Obviously, Basic hoped to dominate his already scouted neighbours Wangsonn and Slip with a nearly indestructible economic base and overwhelming numbers of Hydras. Unfortunately for him, however, the blue Cerebrate in the South ( sounds like the title of some Will Smith song ) was even better established, not only mutating a base at his natural quicker but also having an extra hatchery at his choke, for better production capabilities. What's more, he began to morph a Lair with astonishing speed, quickly establishing himself as one of the great powers of the future. To the Northwest of him, Dropped had just discovered the fact he had double ramps, and had completed effective wall-ins at both of them. The second Terran commander on the map appeared to be turtling, trying to create a little safe haven from the dangers all about him. Whether he would succeed only time could tell. At the 7:00 plateau, Testosterone was doing a rather typical Protoss start ( double pylons, double gates, forge ) . . . until he became the first to expand, warping in a nexus and some pylons at his natural, then fortifying with two devastating photon cannons. This was an impressive, if risky move on the Executor's part . . . especially with him being so close to a menacing human base. Nonetheless, it paid off royally, and soon enough a little troop of probes began happily mining away at the new base, guarded by valiant zealots and a small cluster of cannons. The third Terran to the far North of the Protoss, relatively isolated from his neighbours and not likely to become a target anytime soon, rapidly began to consolidate his position , heavily defending his main before finally moving out to seize his natural. Excel started the dreaded Heavy Metal build with double factories, a devastating strategy when given time - which apparently he would have plenty of. Some 10 minutes into the game, all players had scouted their foes, and all excepting Dropped had claimed their natural expos.
Within seconds, the first battles would erupt over the land . . . .
Basic and Wangsonn had been eying each other with suspicion for quite some time now, and finally the Zerg cerebrate decided to make his move, rallying a group of Hydras to just outside the Terran natural, but coming across a
scouting marine on the way. This gave the game away, and, unknown to Basic, Wangsonn sent a group and a half of marines, with full medic support, to reinforce his natural's sole bunker.
Now Basic builds up his forces just outside the Terran Commander's
natural, surrounded by the sheltering ridges that are so common on this map. Terse comments are exchanged as Wangsonn waits for the upcoming assault, and the cerebrate meticulously prepaes his Hydralisks. Then, suddenly, just when all the anticipation was beginning to culminate in an anticlimax, a massive wave of two Hydra groups slams into the expansion!
Despite the ferocity of the attack, however, Wangsonn shrugs it off with a chuckle, stimming his marines and rushing them forward as his bunker opens fire upon the surging Zerg warriors. When the dust settles, there is not a single Terran casualty - while the shattered bodies of 24 Hydralisks litter the battlefield, in a horrifying loss for the cerebrate.
But it's not over yet.
Enraged from his earlier loss, and no doubt with a bitter smile of vengeance as he anticipates what is to come, Basic sends ever greater swarms of Hydras to rally just a tank shot away form the Orange natural, eventually building a truly mighty army there
even more powerful than the first. This time Wangsonn has no idea of the buildup, and has relaxed his base defence in the targeted area. Then, suddenly, the dam bursts. A thunderous roar heralds the arrival of the Zerg minions, which split up and flank the marines and their bunker, ripping into them like a knife through hot butter. The dual strike groups are united moments after engaging the enemy, as the bunker and its defending marines are torn to shreds in a hail of spins, claws and razor sharp teeth.
The base is now utterly defenceless, excepting a few SCVs that whirl about furiously and attempt to beat back the mighty assault. Unfortunately for Wangsonn, though, SCVs don't fare all that well against hydralisks. So the base goes down. Badly. Cursing wildly, poor ol' Wang, marches a brave troop of 8 or so marines down from his Western choke, trying to sting the Zerg army in the rear, and through some miracle of Pope Innocent the Third decimate the lethal swarm. However, the marines are not escorted by their beloved medics, and so die wildly nasty deaths just as about 7 hydras bound happily up the ramp they just deserted. Caught in a pincer, the Terran base falls in record time, with building after building erupting in a blaze of good ol' Texas glory ( Um, whatever ). So it is that Wangsonn is officially the first to die, and therefore will from now on be known as a pathetic newbie who can be eliminated with ease in the first 15 minutes of any game.
At this time, Slip decides to make life miserable for the rest of us, by causing massive lag in an attempt to turn off his hack. This lag lasts for about 10 minutes, with us yelling at him to leave, and him almost dropping out four times. Eventually, a
valiant soul is quick enough to click the drop button before the box disappears, and with whoops of joy the dastardly Zerg cerebrate is kicked out, and lag is banished from happy-happy land. Otherwise known as Broken Steppes. Otherwise known as the most violent battlefield I've ever
seen. Otherwise known as not happy-happy land but rather sad-bad land =(.
Life has just taken a decided turn for the better now, as there are but four players left, struggling for life upon this desolate land. Very battlereportable.
Let's have a bit of a status report here, since quite a few expansions have been started, one player has been eliminated, and another was dropped.
All right, well, first of all, the clever Excel has by now heavily fortified both his main and natural, and is moving towards a third expo just to the Northeast of his existing bases. Basic is doing very well indeed, with three expansions, a terrific production capability, and a massive swarm of hydralisks as his standing army. He's about tied with Testosterone in nearly all respects, with the Protoss having an equal number of expansions, a great many gateways - and Templar. Eek. Whether he has storm, and what his plans are, nobody can guess. The Terran commander Dropped is in a rather nasty position, however, wedged as he is in between the two dominant powers in the game. He appears intimidated by the juggernauts just beyond the
horizon, not yet bothering to expand, although he seems to have begun an aggressive scouting campaign, and is making moves to the plateau half a map width above his own. To release his excess aggression, he's also pummelling the hapless structures of the dropped cerebrate below
him. His forces thus far are a rather confused mix of tanks, infantry, goliaths and BCs ( about 8 tanks in total and an equal number of marines, maybe 5 goliaths, and 3 cruisers ). Testosterone hasn't attacked him yet, for at first glance his above-the-ramp forces look quite formidable.
So it is that we enter a time of excitement. A time of violence. A time of comp-crashing pics. A time of a whole lot of blowing up, things yelling "Aaargh" and erupting buildings. In short, the
Mid Game . . .
After the brief lull that followed Wangsonn's demise, things suddenly erupt into an inevitable, yet still astonishing in terms of its scale, war between the only Protoss Executor and sole Zerg cerebrate left on the battlefield. A titanic wave of Hydralisks, at least 3 groups strong, probably more, burst into blue's deserted natural, and squash the lone teal tank cowardly blasting what dormant drones remained. It is with a squeal of dismay that Dropped glimpsed the Zerg minions before he lost vision, but the Swarm is on a different errand than to bring about his demise. The Hydras skitter on unnoticed, until they
begin to rally just outside of Testosterone's Easternmost expansion. The Executor spots the buildup, and sends a huge army over to defend, composed mainly of dragoons, but with heavy support from zealots and a couple templar. What happens next is . . .
well, see for yourself.
Basic's warriors pour into the base, hydra upon hydra upon hydra, more and more and more, until the entire horrifying army of doom is safely within the shielding barriers of the valley, rushing forward to smite the Toss defenders. The first spines fall down
upon the goons, which have raced into an ideal stretched semi-circle defensive formation, as the zealots leap through their ranks to engage the oncoming hordes more directly. The Hydralisks crush the zealots, with some losses, and surge forward, 3 ranks deep, to smash the goons. Plasma bolts hurtle through the air, and terrifying green spines slice into the Protoss. The Templar retreat, perhaps not having enough energy for a good storm, or unable to cast one yet. The battle rages on for an astonishingly long time, clumps of hydras ripping into separate dragoons, which are holding out surprisingly well against the onslaught, and taking a lethal toll. For a full 15 seconds the precarious balance is held, with tremendous effort on the noble Protoss side, yet suddenly, nearly all at once, the entire line of dragoons crumples into blue goo, and the hideous Zerg swarm advances forward as if a single organism to completely exterminate the base. Yet suddenly a mighty Protoss army of zeals and goons, at least as powerful as the first, streams through the Western chokepoint. The beleaguered Hydralisks, now badly outnumbered and with nowhere to go, bitterly turn to assault their attackers, yet they are ground down within seconds. Soon, only broken bones and splattered blood mark the sight of the mightiest battle to date.
Thin blue mists of fallen Protoss gaze sadly down upon the landscape, yet decide to high-tail it out of there when they see yet another Zerg assault amassing just beyond the horizon!
At around this point, a reinforcing column of Hydras goes astray, and ends up trekking deep within Protoss territory. They are overtaken by roughly equal numbers of Zealots, and are slashed to bits in a narrow corridor of land, unable to micro properly to gain a range advantage. Now, suddenly, with perhaps 30 hydralisks miling about just beyond Testosterone's bottom center expo, the Zerg cerebrate sadly announces he has to leave. With me begging him to make one last assault, with the Executor giggling with glee and the other commanders quite perplexed, Basic hops into an overlord, and flies gloriously off into the land of the Droppers.
If Testosterone was a bit thrown off by the sudden turn of events, he doesn't show it. Dropped has been turtling, and only recently has seized his natural, defending it with a moderately sized army of double cruisers, a couple goliaths and a few tanks. Suddenly, a single plasma bolt hurtles through the air and smashes into the nearest cruiser. The massive ship turns in annoyance, as if to squash a small gnat with a passing blow, yet now a truly horrifying sight emerges from the shadows. An awesome horde of goons, fully supported by mass zealots and storm -casting Templar bears down upon the human troops like a raging tsunami, slicing into the nearest flailing defences and ravaging the cruisers with psionic storm. The zealots crush the SCVs, the Command Center is obliterated and only a single cruiser manages to escape the slaughter, with Dropped wailing in agony as he sees his entire operation plummeting into disaster.
The gigantic doom army, still easily filling the entire field of view, now hesitates as the Terran choke becomes dimly visible, just barely protruding over the horizon. Testosterone must have worried about the possibility that a desperate
Dropped still had some trick in store for him. After all, bunkers are unstormable and can be repaired, as can battlecruisers, while tanks are truly devastating, especially when used on a plateau in conjunction with a solid wall-in. A probing force of goons valiantly tests out the defences, but predictably are massacred in milliseconds. Rather than risk his army scaling the
ramp, he decides to turn back to what is now his third expansion, keeping it safe before any attack by purple, who is very much an unknown at this point. A few stray tank blasts and vengeful cruiser fire takes down a couple goons as they retreat, yet the operation is largely successful. Dropped can now begin to rebuild his production capablities, and immediately does so by developing two expansions in short order, one upon the plateau above his own and the other at Wangsonn's former main. The Terran commander never forgets the humiliation suffered at the Executor's hands, and deviously schemes his revenge.
Just as Testosterone pulls back his blood-thirsty minions, a purple nuclear missile soars high into the sky, arcs about, and plummets down upon the Northwestern Protoss expansion. Little buildings are destroyed, but the Nexus is set to burning and many a probe is sent back to that great turkey under the sea ( hey, it's thanksgiving ). The cloaked ghost causes some mischief, and scampers away before he can be murdered by angry goons. Thinking that the Executor now has the decisive advantage in nearly all respects, and appealing to the Terrans to join forces, I take a casual glance at the heart of the purple Terran presence in the North. My heart skips a beat as I recoil in shock from the computer. Not only does Excel now have an excellent production capability, roughly tied with that of Testosterone, but he has one of the mightiest ground armies I've ever seen in an observed game, with perhaps 2.5 groups of tanks towering ominously over the landscape. The human Captain has seized his two naturals, thus having claimed a quite impregnable ( to ground troops ) and resource-rich zone for his own, shielded from the rest of this vast realm by far-reaching barrier walls. Suddenly I am now longer sure of the dominant player, for purple's army is so superior to even brown's that I have little doubt he could end the match right now. With the game in a precarious balance, and a brief lull having settled over the land, the outcome is far from certain.
What would happen now? Only time, and the indominatable Spaceman Sporff, can tell.
Better throw in another title.
Stalemate . . .
A small squad of observers rambling on north heralds the approaching end of this respite, as they pass over a purple expansion, and quickly report home before they're scattered by a missile turret. Testosterone, having seen only a small portion of Excel's immense army, decides to launch an attack, rallying a little under two groups of goons, a couple high temps and some zealots to enact a pincer assault on the Southernmost Terran expansions. The Protoss minions bear down upon their foes from two different sides, yet suddenly the siege tanks open fire in an utterly devastating volley of unprecedented power, slamming into the astonished Protoss and smashing them to dust. Very few of Testosterone's warriors live to fight another day, and he sheds a single tear at the goon spirits he just sent swimming away to that same turkey, so far beneath the deep blue sea.
Excel, rightly believing he's just seized the momentum, hops into a tank and leads an immense column of the mighty doom machines down south, just as his Toss enemy takes the bottom right expo ( the former blue Zerg main ) into his greedy clutches. The human leviathans, about 18 strong, siege just beyond a newly recuperated army of goons, which skitter away in all directions as the first volley falls in their midst. Panicked, Testosterone throws all he can against the wall of tanks, but it's to no avail as buildings begin to pop in droves at his northern expo. Things are looking dark before, with generous use of storm, and great, quick-thinking zealot micro, the Protoss Executor manages to blast the last tank and send Excel crawling miserably back to his nearest outpost, cursing wildly under his breath. The battle was fierce, the cause noble, and the valiant Protoss have had their revenge.
Oblivious to all this, Dropped attempts to clinch another expansion relatively close to his second plateau base, yet this is spotted almost immediately by Excel and razed by a friendly column of tanks, which happily roll on to the top right teal expo. Two SCVs are first to attack, however, and target the lone sieged tank that consists of the base's only defence. With a chuckle, Dropped unsieged the tank, and needless to say the miserable peons are blown to smithereens faster than Tmac usually drops out of a game ( pun intended . . . or something ). The smugly satisfied tank pilot sets up shop once more, yet he's no match for the six tanks that bear down upon him minutes later, and reduce him to scattered ashes above the smoldering landscape. The CC is forced to lift off, and the entire place is pretty much obliterated in record time.
Now a new Testosterone attack is launched against that same purple natural expansion, and once more a hail of acrilite fire echoes across the land. Although the Executor once more attempts his potentially brilliant flanking maneouver, the assault is an utter failure, with only a few losses on the human side. Heavily upgraded dragoons collapse within seconds, zealots are pounded to oblivion in record time ( congrats ) and templar are vaporized before even a single storm is let loose. Needless to say, the Protoss executor is not very pleased.
Excel isn't content to simply sit within his base and let his enemy wear down his defences, however. A sound is heard that would freeze the heart of even the mightiest commander: the unsieging of squintillion ( ie 2 groups ) of tanks. The massive machines barrel out of their choke with a deafening roar, smashing through the remnants of goon goo and splattering it heedlessly over their glittering new armour. A fine new batch of Science Vessels, fresh from the docks, escorts the mighty warriors, and a quick comsat shockingly reveals a vast new Protoss army rallying just above the much-contested Northern base. Since large enemy armies are generally not nice friendly things, the gargantuan tank column from hell ( or somewhere around there ) mass sieges and opens fire. Just before they do, however, a clever SV launches an EMP missile, which does what every one of such missiles usually does: cast an EMP. Surprise. With shields down, and still not recognizing the sheer scale of the well-spaced, expertly positioned tank army targeting them, the Protoss race forward - then are blown to smithereens in milliseconds. Tanks unsiege, Science Vessels hum forward for increased sight, tanks siege, things go "boom," and generally a fairly good representation of apocalypse is brought down upon the Protoss base, for the fun and enjoyment of all. Well, all but the Protoss Executor. And some very unlucky probes. And cannons. Cannons rule. Save the cannons! ( Note to self: NEVER, under any circumstances, write a report at midnight again. )
The tanks unsiege, as they tend to do after a while, then rumble down South, resiege, and are massively attacked by an immensely strong Protoss army in what is once of the more intense battles thus far. The well-placed tanks fight furiously, inflicting immense damage, yet the SVs were caught off guard, smoking in some corner ( wait, ships can't smoke, never mind ), and so no EMP is cast. Templar thus have a free reign, storms are cast, plasma bolts hurtle through the air exactly as they should, zealots energize their psi blades and leap valiantly into battle, and the mighty turkey under the sea pokes his head out of the water before squawking once and dipping back beneath the waves. See how I'm keeping with my thanksgiving sub-theme? Gotta love turkeys. Gotta love thanksgiving. Gotta give this a 10. It all fits. Anyway, back to the battle. The valley is black, smoking and battle-scarred after the bitter conflict. Broken tanks litter the landscape, collapsed goons smolder in silence, and the sorrowful souls of vanquished zealots drift over the battlefield, yet through it all, the glorious Testosterone emerged the victor! Hooray! Long live the King!
Rubbing his hands once, twice, then three times, the Protoss Executor rallies yet another titanic Doom army to attempt to eradicate his mighty foe once and for all, just as Excell expands to a central area of the upper map, defending with a moderate force of tanks. Good for him. Anyway, the roughly two and a half groups of goons arrive at . . . you guessed it, that same blasted expo ( show some imagination here, people! ), and . . . you guessed it again ( you're smart, do my homework ) attempt to flank the tank defences. The dragons skitter into battle in that endearing spider-like way, trying to rip into the tanks before being blasted themselves. However, they are simply not fast enough, and vast casualties begin to pile up on the Protoss side, before Tetosterone gets smart and pulls back.
Dropped, on the other hand, hasn't been as much of a do-nothing idiot as most of you would expect. Rather, he's expanded to a center-top position just a tad to the East of Excel's new base, defending lightly, perhaps expecting to be discovered in time. His plateau expansion is very heavily fortified with a whole load of mean-looking tanks, especially to the West ( or left, however you want to call it ), essentially making this area impassable for smart and educated goons. The rest can all go to hell anyway. Or that turkey if they're lucky. The teal Terran has also retaken his natural, and is going with goliaths in earnest now, to augment his tanks, and battlecruisers to be his yamato-casting, laser-blasting, damage-absorbing sponges. Clambering onto the highest pinnacle of his Command Center, swaying slightly, Dropped can just barely make out a budding new Protoss expansion attempt just to the right of his main. That's not right. Nobody expands by Dropped's main. Nobody.
Straightening himself, and almost falling from his lofty perch ( shoulda gone all the way ), the Terran Commander makes a couple phone calls to Fleet Command, and soon enough double cruisers are on the way. They travel over the CC. They lumber over a factory. Over a Starport. Still on the way. Going strong. Over a depot. Keep it up now. No, don't give up. Just a little while longer. Shut up Alven, don't give advice. Over another depot. Past a turret. Here comes the cliff. OMG! Cliff is behind them! Nexus to Port! They've been going the wrong way! Turn! About face! No! About face the other way! That's right! Onwards! Protoss base ahoy! Fire!
As you may or may not have deduced from that, the cruisers take their merry time in arriving, and before they do the nexus is happily warped. Which is just as well, since Nexi can no longer hop back into the warppoint and return to Shakuras, which is exactly what this particular one really, really wanted to do in the next couple seconds. Just as Testosterone pulled back his dragoons in humiliation from his third attempt to break through Excel's base defence, the Nexus erupts in a brilliant explosion, and the cruisers continue on their path of carnage.
Although the cruisers cause their share of havoc at various places, Testosterone has his revenge. He swoops down upon the lumbering leviathans with a grand army of goons, and while Dropped expertly micros them over various ridges and cliffs to escape the plasma bolts, one cruiser quickly plummets to the ground, while the other, desperately moving from side to side over a 6:00 cliff, manages to hold on a while longer before detonating in a blaze of firey glory. The attack is a tremendous success, however, with only two cruisers lost in exchange for a great deal of economic damage inflicted upon poor brown.
Things Get Interesting . . . and a Player Pulls Ahead . . . .
It's time for a status report. It's also 1:35 AM. Which is pretty bad.
Things are not exactly working out for Testosterone. He is roughly tied with his purple foe both in terms of production and resources, yet his army is simply inable of making a dent in the Tank-based human ground forces. Every one of the Protoss assaults have been easily repelled, while the Terran assaults have made serious progress. Both Humans now have enormous armies, and are very well established in both the central and Northern portions of the map. It is now very much in doubt whether the Protoss will last for another 15 minutes, with both the purple juggernaut in the North and Dropped amassing vast armies for a final climactic confrontation, him having what may prove to be a critical advantage in that his easily defendable natural is still brimming with resources. Brown is 2/3 with his ground forces at this point, Purple is 1/3, and Teal is 2/2. The game would yet go on for a very long time, but who would survive the next elimination phase, and who would emerge as the eventual victor was anybody's guess.
Another short-lived lull once more grips the landscape, as all players attempt to consolidate their positions. The map is becoming barren at an alarming rate, with perhaps half of its surface now completely mined out. At this point, all players have a couple resource nodes in their possession, so money shouldn't be a problem for any of them. All that matters now is skill, determination, and a good hot bowl of chicken soup.
Suddenly, a dreaded message is heard loud and clear throughout the comsystem: Nuclear Launch Detected. An angry ghost is quietly biding his time at Testosterone's much fought-over Northwestern expansion, unseen and unheard. Then, the ghost relaxes, and an unearthly shriek reverberates across the land. The missile rockets down upon the base, and just before it hits a giant Science Vessel casts an EMP right where it hurts: on the Nexus. A massive explosion shakes even the Executor from his feet in his Command Nexus many miles distant, yet very little buildings are destroyed. However, the entire place is set to burning, and soon long trails of blue plasma rise into the air, to hearten the Terrans and cower the Protoss.
Testosterone is not impressed. He wants vengeance. Yet he doesn't to be defeated. So, although that leaves out purple, the Executor is angry enough that any Terran will do. A furiously beeping observer rambling through Teal's non-plateau Northern Expo reveals an ideal target, and soon enough a strike group of dragoons and zealots is hurrying on their way as fast as their mighty legs can take them. Which is pretty fast. A mere minute after the nuclear wallop, they burst out of the shadows at Dropped's expo, leaping into battle and smashing the miserable outpost to Smithereens in very short order. The CC attempts to escape, yet double corsair quickly give chase and down the already damaged structure in milliseconds.
After this miserable defeat, a casual comsat reveals to an astonished Dropped a horde of warping Stargates, and a fleet beacon just then warping in. The teal Commander narrows his eyes. Fleet beacons are very unheterosexual. They are an insult to his manliness. They must not - nay, they shall not stand! Onwards, Dominicus! Go, Archilles! Onwards! Over the silver sea to Troy! To Troy!
So it is that a titanic army of doom sets forth from the towering plateau: marching goliaths many times the hieght of men, rumbling 50-ton tanks to send fear into the hearts of all but the mightiest Protoss, and above it all the awesome visages of the great battlecruisers, casting vast shadows, darkening the land. in all, over a group of tanks, nearly the same number of goliaths and a moderately sized cruiser fleet burst out of the busily mining human natural, quickly stationing themselves at . . . you guessed it, that very same brown expansion. All interfering Protoss armies are casually wiped out, many buildings are vanquished, and utter chaos descends upon the land. It is with shock that the Executor realizes what is happening: that a titanic teal army is advances upon him from a nearly ideal position, with easily reinforcements and perhaps unstoppable inertia. Blue-white explosions send mighty flares across the map, dazzling the purple tanks miles distant. Testosterone desperately sends wave upon wave of Protoss armies to defeat the juggernaut, but all are vanquished.
The end appears night for the Executor, until two battlecruisers and a number of goliaths stray away from the safety of the army. A bitter battle between them and a dragoon militia erupts, as the tanks continue to lay waste to the base. The sky grows black with smoke as the cruisers are forced to turn tail, back to the safety of the tank column. Now a mighty Protoss force emerges from the Shadows, and a glorious battle emerges. Science Vessels cast Defensive Matrix, cruisers blast their foes with withering laser fire, tanks unleash a devastating barrage of shells, Dragoons let loose their plasma balls and zealots hurl themselves into battle. For the first time, the terrifying Dark Templar appear, which are just enough to turn the tide in Testosterone's favour. With loud roars, brilliant flares and mighty explosions, the majority of the teal Terran army upon this bleak world is consumed by the raging whirlwind of Protoss fury. For hundreds of years thereafter, the land remained an ominous black, and not a single plant would dare grow upon its ashen surface.
A squad of purple valkyries sails from their docks to scout the landscape, flying over various Protoss and Teal expansions, just as the mighty Dropped sends another powerful strike force to the heart of the Protoss presence upon this world. The Terran commander stands alone upon the plateau, gazing at the dust plumes of the tanks and the orange exhaust of the cruisers as they leave the shield walls of the natural and pass into the dangerous realm of the Protoss. The howling wind blasts his face, yet still he remains standing, unwavering. His grizzled face is stern, his stance determined. His cape billows in the powerful breeze. Sand whirls about his feet. The distant rumble of explosions echo throughout the land. The battle has been met. Whatever the outcome, the human Captain would not perish without a fight. He would struggle to the end, and, God willing, he would win!
The Terran force does a reasonable amount of damage, yet eventually is overcome by a stronger Protoss force, and is ground to dust. However, Dropped is betting that offense will prove better than defence, and that his attacks will serve to discourage the Executor from attempting to destroy him. Only time, that turkey under the sea, and the hacker SlingsNArrows can tell.
About now, I take a look at Purple's position upon this world. A glance at his main reveals a mighty army, easily large enough to contest that posessed by Testosterone. I scan his natural, and for the second time this game, miss a beat ( keep this going and I'll have a heart attack ). Excel has amassed a staggering number of tanks, with full goliath support, in this valley, and I have little doubt that the end is nigh. A third peek at the below-12:00 purple expansion, showing a column of tanks and a horde of vultures, solidifies this view. Excel has pulled ahead of his struggling competitors, and how. He is nearly ready to move out. And when he does, nothing could stand in his way.
Then, in what is for him a minor attack, Excel sends a half dozen tanks to the base just below the Northeast main, where Dropped has rapidly begun erecting a bustling expansion. The base is set upon by the tanks, and since no structure can lift off before they are plunged into the red, the settlement is quickly obliterated.
Once more, a lull settles down upon the terrain. In a game like this, you have quite a few of those. Purple readies his armies, while Teal rebuilds his minions and the valiant Brown struggles to once again reconstruct his defences.
Now, unnoticed by anyone but me, a long line of Tanks rolls down from the South, escorted by a vast hoard of goliaths, a flotilla of Science Vessels and a couple vultures. Although the entire Terran militia is not used, certainly 2/3 of the army is thrown into the titanic assault, and at last the climax of the game has arrived. This is it. The mighty final confrontation between Purple and Brown. Should Testosterone lose, all will be lost, and his Empire will be exposed to an unstoppable tankpush, and his own demise will be but a matter of time. In the sadly unlikely possibility of Excell losing, his Empire will be just as vulnerable, and will crumple before the reinvigorated Protoss like an alien before Spaceman Sporff. Victory is within sight of both Commanders. Who wants it most?
The tanks siege. A neawly warped Nexus falls. Science Vessels EMP. Dragoons skitter into battle, but are quickly beaten down. Zealots charge but are turned back. Chaos spreads through the Protoss ranks. Corsair scream into battle. Could they turn the tide?
Yes, they could. At a critical moment, with the Protoss in desperate shape, a disruption web envelops a key clump of tanks, which block off the entire Terran flow and are quickly obliterated by the goons. Charon missiles streak into the sky, and though some corsairs plummet to the ground, and rest escape. Dark Templar leap into battle, slicing into the tanks, zealots charge through the Disruption wed and tear apart the enemy minions, Plasma bolts smash into the enemy armour, and ever so slowly the balance shifts against the Terrans. Not willing to admit defeat, the seasoned human Commander fights on, growing ever more desperate, yet eventually yet army is entirely exterminated in a deafening series of explosions. The implications are obvious.
The Tide Turns
Looking for vengeance, Excel targets a nuclear missile upon the battle-scarred, burning Northwestern Protoss Expansion. At last, after nearly an hour of fighting, the entire base detonates in an awesome blaze of glory, with every last building going up in blue-white smoke, just as I realize my pic folder is full. Nonetheless, I did manage to catch a shot of the Nuke, just as it detonated in a brilliant flare. This is a wonderful victory for Purple, and managed to console him on his earlier loss, yet he would need more than nukes to save himself now. Although I'm still not entirely sure who would be victorious, with Excel perhaps still being able to scrape out a win, having only used 2/3 of army after all, Testosterone is now clearly the dominant player.
The Executor is no fool, and realizes he must move quickly if he hopes to prevent his foes from restoring themselves. Dropped’s Plateau expansion is first to be targeted, and a corsair swoops down upon the clump of tanks stationed there, casting a quick defensive web as a column of brown troops appears over the horizon. Yet the teal Commander quickly unsieges his tanks, rolling down the ramp and smashing the advancing Toss troops. However, the massive machines are now caught out in the open, and torn to pieces by a second attack. Testosterone runs his minions into the base, and quickly begins to raze it to the ground.
As he does this, the thrilled Executor also rallies a number of dragoons, and sends them skittering into battle at the teal natural. However, these troops bite the dust when they come across the powerful defences, giving new hope to Captain Dropped.
Then, a dreaded sound is heard: the tell-tale schting of an interceptor leaving its giant Carrier. It looks as if the Executor has finally found the weapon he needs against a Terran siege, and deploys it with devastating power at Dropped’s natural. The base quickly falls, and now teal’s main begins to crumple under the withering power of the Protoss fighters. The choke defence falls almost instantly, despite expert use of goliaths, as the human commander, with a last, sad glance at his collapsing base, activates the thrusters on his personal dropship. A trail of grey smoke arcs up above the landscape as the final Terran structure upon the lofty plateau detonates in a vast, blazing fireball. The teal presence upon the Broken Steppes is no more.
Needless to say, Testosterone is encouraged by the ease of Teal’s fall, and gathers together the remnants of his ground army, sending them on a long trek up round the Eastern edge of the map, then Northwest toward’s Excel’s natural. On their way, the Protoss come across the last two mining Purple expansions, which are smashed to pieces by a barrage of plasma bolts. Only scattered tanks are met on the route to the battle-scarred Terran base, and Testosterone quickly begins to marshal his forces before the heavily defended choke. Goliaths, wraiths, tanks and Science Vessels have gathered together in a desperate resistance, but the brave Purple Commander’s fate seems sealed.
Finale
Carriers lumber into battle, corsairs scream in to attack, dragoons blast away at the defences, defensive web illuminates the land, zealots charge in furiously, and all hell breaks lose. Yet in the end, the human defences are brushed aside, and finally the embattled Terran natural is pummelled to the ground. After an hour of trying, one can imagine the elation the Executor must have felt.
But then, in an amazing reversal of fates, with Testosterone fully confident of his victory, he comes across some 8 goliaths and 10 tanks as he attempts to push his way into purple’s main base plateau. Missiles streak through the air, shock cannons fire their deadly rounds, and nearly the entire Protoss army is destroyed! All that remains after the struggle are those same 10 tanks . . . and 6 goliaths. This is Excel’s Last Stand.
Yet in the end, it is not enough. The Executor is enraged, and he is absolutely determined that his second attempt shall not fail. After a long buildup, the dark shadows of an immense Carrier doom fleet once again darken the land, and now, under a whirling swarm of interceptors, three dozen zealots storm up the ramp in the final battle of a long, long war. The human base goes down in an apocalyptic inferno, shrapnel hurtling up into the sky, and in the chaos a small black speck rockets up into the blackened sky unnoticed. Excel thunders up into space, not looking back at the devastation wrought by the mighty Protoss forces, swearing his revenge.
 Finally, the war, and my largest battlereport, have ended - with the sole Protoss coming out on top. Now let’s have a look at the insanely high scores, hugely inflated in Testosterone’s favour due to the very long time it took for him to amass his final, purple-busting force. And, of course, due to the time we talked after Excel’s demise. Nevertheless, here they are:
I’d say that, without that ending lag, Testosterone’s would probably have had a score of 300,000, due largely to the large numbers of melee units he used. Later, the players who made it to the late game exchanged hearty congratulations for one of the best games any of them had played. Wangsonn, however, was most appalled upon hearing about my upcoming br . . . . |
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