#the like hydraulic sounds? the grand sweeps

[zincbot]

cambria's jaws-ass theme is so so good for a scary track

[dvblog313]

Nfs Hot Pursuit For Macfarmbertyl

Does anyone else here think that Need for Speed: Hot Pursuit is a hard feckin' game? I mean, with all the rubberbanding and those unforgiving time trials, I wanted to yank my hair out after a 45 minute session this afternoon. I'm no pro behind the wheel, but I think I have pretty solid driving skills.

Read this carefully, it is from the website: Need for Speed Hot Pursuit officially supports the following steering wheels: PS3 Generally all steering wheels based on the PS3 controller will function in NFS Hot Pursuit with the exception of Logitech and Logitech-compatible steering wheels.

Nfs Hot Pursuit

Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit Download | GameFabrique

Feel the thrill of the chase and the rush of escape in Need for Speed: Hot Pursuit Remastered. Unleash a savage sense of speed both as an outlaw and a cop in the world's hottest high-performance cars. Trusted Windows (PC) download Need for Speed Hot Pursuit 10.0. Virus-free and 100% clean download. Get Need for Speed Hot Pursuit alternative downloads. May 04, 2018 Open “Need for Speed Hot Pursuit 2010” folder, run “Globe Converter” and wait. It will take few minute (15-25 minute) to complete 100% setup. After installation complete, double click on “NFS11” icon to play the game.

There Aren't Many game mechanics that I outright hate. The obvious one is the quick time event, whoever thought that having to react to on-screen button prompts, and then be smacked down and made to repeat the sequence if you get it wrong is a fun way to play through an action sequence should be folded up, crammed into a dustbin and fired into the Grand Canyon using a hydraulic catapult There is at least one other though, the low-speed car chase.

You know the ones, the races where you have to tail a person, staying an arbitrary distance away to avoid being spotted, but without lagging an arbitrary distance that is too far behind them, otherwise you lose them. This is the vehicular equivalent of blue balls, as you hover 30 metres behind someone while slamming on the brakes if you accidentally over-squeeze the fun pedal.

Gimme Speed

Car chases should be about outrageous velocity, a total disregard for the rules of the road, and as many hard handbrake turns as you can make before your bicep pops out of your arm and slaps against the windscreen. Criterion know this, which is why you'll be going hell for leather at all times in Hot Pursuit. This is a game dedicated to the glory of highspeed police chases.

This is also the reason why Criterion promise that, unlike more recent entries in the series, you won't see any Ford Focuses stinking up this game. It's all about the most exotic, desirable vehicles in the world and driving them as if you're being chased by an Apache gunship. To ensure the police aren't left in a cloud of tyre smoke, the Burnout developer has decided to bend the rules a bit Imagine if a police force, instead of paying their executives astonishing salaries, fired the lot and blew taxpayers' money on a set of Bugatti Veyron pursuit vehicles. Imagine the terror of a gang of chain-smoking 13 year-olds in a stolen Cavalier as the fastest production car on the planet flicks on the blues and twos behind them. In Hot Pursuit, the cops are just as kitted out as the racers.

Your playground is an enormous open-world environment rather than the choked, congested streets of a city. This makes the game all about blasting along arrow-straight highways, around sweeping curves and up winding mountain roads riddled with hairpins.

This being Criterion, Hot Pursuit is a stunningly beautiful game that thunders along at an electric pace. It's truly a developer and license marriage made in petrolhead heaven.

Mac OS X El Capitan 10.11.1 DMG Mac Mac OS El Capitan was released to manufacturing on 20th September 2015, almost three and a half years ago. Its latest version 10.11.6 (15G22010) was released on 9th July 2018, almost 7 months ago. It runs on the platform including x86-64. Macos el capitan installer dmg.

The macOS High Sierra 10.13.2 update improves the stability, compatibility and security of your Mac, and is recommended for all users. This update:. Improves compatibility with certain third-party USB audio devices. Improves VoiceOver navigation when viewing PDF documents in Preview. Improves compatibility of Braille displays with Mail. Download macOS High Sierra Using Dosdude Patcher. As stated earlier, Apple does not offer the full version of High Sierra and it provides only 19MB update file and it is beneficial for you when you have High Sierra. So, to get the same, you will have to go with Mac OS High Sierra Patcher. Where to download high sierra dmg. In spite of these slight setbacks, mac OS High Sierra was an excellent attempt that helped lay the groundwork for the future of Apple’s products. To better explain, the article is provided by macOS High Sierra 10.13.6 download DMG. If your Mac isn't compatible with the latest macOS, you might still be able to upgrade to an earlier macOS, such as macOS Catalina, Mojave, High Sierra, Sierra, or El Capitan. To get the latest features and maintain the security, stability, compatibility, and performance of your Mac, it's important to keep your software up to date.

Tom And Jerry

The mode that EA was allowing eager journos to get their hands on was a two-player cat-and-mouse chase mode.One player slips into the bucket seat of a racer, the other one parks their doughnut-fed buttocks into the cockpit of a similarly pacey sports car, replete with black-and-white police livery.

The racer's job is to get a certain distance from the rozzer for a certain amount of time, whereas the filth is charged with knocking seven shades out of the suspect until their car cartwheels to a haltThis isn't about Burnout insta-crashes, as the racer has an damage bar that must be built up until they hit 100%, which takes a fair amount of bumping and shunting. In a neat touch it never leaps straight up to full damage, always halting at 99% beforehand so the racer has one last chance to get away. If they do, the damage meter drops back down to 90% as a stay of execution. This sounds artificial but it works beautifully.

In addition to driving skills, you get power-ups that are unlocked depending on how the chase is unfolding. The racers get the opportunity to scramble police radar, giving them vital moments to dash down an off-road corner or hide behind a bit of scenery, before blasting off in the other direction. The cops get backup in the shape of deployable road blocks and even helicopters that drop stingers on the road ahead of fleeing perps. These boosts don't break the game's suspension of disbelief, and they help to ensure that chase remain closer and more tense for longer.

Nfs Hot Pursuit

Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit Download | GameFabrique

https://dvblog313.tumblr.com/post/657064946633490432/todays-to-do-list-app-for-macsunnew. EA has only shown off a tiny fraction of Hot Pursuit and we have no idea what the single-player game will offer, but we're already intoxicated like we've been huffing petrol fumes. Rather than appealing to the seven people who still drive around in understeery, front-wheel-drive circles in Burger King car park, Need For Speed is back to what it should be about, deeply desirable, totally unattainable sports cars.

[trustyourpartner]

so a while back i tripped over and then fell in love with @cafecliche‘s yuri on ice fics, and then while i was checking out her tumblr i found out that she co-writes the bridge podcast with @alextriestousetheinternet, and i was like “oceanic eldritch horror alternate history with lesbians? sign me up!” and binge-listened to it all in like two days. and then i started writing this. at this point it’s probably going to waste away in my wips folder because i have so many other projects i’m working on, but i thought i’d let the stuff i have written see the light of day? so. enjoy.

The labels are nearly worn off of the switchboard at this point, by decades of fingers sliding over the words on their lazy way to the keys and buttons and knobs, but Viktor doesn't need the labels to boot up the broadcasting system. He could do this in his sleep by now; undoubtedly has, at some point over the last several years, during one of the periods when the coffeemaker was acting up, or maybe on a particularly gloomy day where the iron gray sky bled into the sea, turning the world outside the window into one huge dome of half-light, broken only by the long line of the highway stretching over the waves.

He waits for the static to clear from his headset, then takes a swig of water from the bottle on the floor and switches the microphone on.

"Good afternoon, travelers," he says. The chipper tone isn't even ironic, at this point; just a reflex. "This is Viktor broadcasting from Watchtower Eight, your halfway marker on the journey across the Transcontinental Bridge. It's just a few minutes until the top of the hour, but I think we can get a head start on our traffic report. Current Bridge conditions are the same as usual, which means—" here he leans forward to glance out the window again, just to be sure "—no traffic near Watchtower Eight. So all of you nonexistent drivers will have a pleasant cruise across this particular bit of the Atlantic."

A bright chime bursts out of the tinny intercom speakers on the console, and the light labeled Inter-Tower Channel flashes green. Viktor flips the switch that connects his personal headset to the public frequency.

"Fucking moron," is Yuri Plisetsky's greeting, somewhat obscured by the normal static from the line. "There is literally never any traffic, Viktor. You don't have to do your annoying-ass reports."

"Good to hear from you too, Yura," Viktor says. "How are things over at Eleven?"

"Dead. There is nothing here. Oh, no, actually, a seagull brained itself on the signal beam this morning, and I got sent up to chuck its body into the sea. It's the most exciting thing that's happened in months."

Which probably isn't true, Viktor thinks, but he'd believe that it's the most exciting thing that can be broadcast on the airwaves. The intercom chimes again, and a new voice chimes in.

"Maybe the seagull was just bored out of its head," the new voice—Viktor has to think for a second to place it as Leo, from Watchtower One, all the way back on the American coast—says. "The ones back here just try to steal my lunch."

"And how is the ground traffic on your end, Leo?" Viktor asks, so that he can at least sort of pretend to be doing his job.

"Two skateboarders practicing their grinds on the guardrail," Leo reports. "For the record, this is inadvisable. It's a long drop, kiddos."

"'Kiddos'," Yuri scoffs. "How old are you again, Iglesia?"

"Older than you!" Leo says.

"Ah well," Viktor says. "I'm afraid that's it for our afternoon traffic report. So, listeners who may or may not exist, I'm afraid I'll take my leave for now. Lunch won't make itself!"

He leaves Yuri and Leo to their bickering and ends his broadcast. The equipment makes a shuddery, wheezy sound when he powers it down, but Viktor's not terribly worried about it. He's fairly sure everything in this Watchtower could survive a war. It might have already. He doesn't know about that, but he does know better than to ask. He's been threatened more than once for snooping in the Archives, and not by his supervisor, but by strange people who called his personal cell phone and whispered reprimands that sent shivers up his spine. Never mind the fact that he hadn't charged his cell phone in years, or that he didn't get reception in the middle of the Atlantic.

The spiral staircase that leads down to the main floor is situated in the gap between the broadcasting room and the guest cabins. The steps rattle under Viktor's feet. He passes Georgi on the second floor, tinkering with something in the ceiling—hopefully the vents, because none of the crew cabins have been getting decent air circulation in months. Viktor ignores him and continues down to the first floor, turning into the kitchen. Yakov is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a dour expression.

"Vitya," he says, "how many times do I need to tell you to do your damn job?"

Viktor waves him off with a lazy sweep of his hand. "There's nobody to make traffic," he says, "and nobody to hear the traffic report. Quit being such a fusspot, old man."

Yakov harrumphs into his coffee, but doesn't respond; this is an argument he and Viktor have had dozens of times over the last few years. "As long as you do your other job," he says.

"Yes, calm down, I'm going to feed Makka now," he says. "Where's the bucket?"

"It's outside the containment area," Yakov says. "Georgi filled it earlier. Honestly, Vitya, that stuff reeks."

"Makkachin likes it!" Viktor says. "I'll get going. I'm sure he can smell his food already."

He takes the stairs down two at a time: past the Archives in Submare One, the storage rooms in Submare Two, all the way down to Submare Three. This far below the water, the walls creak and groan with the shifting waves. There are no portholes—best not to think about what's outside, Yakov had said, on Viktor's first day—but even so Viktor's bones ache with the knowledge that the sunlight is dim down here. The rivets hold steady, but Viktor can still imagine them shaking loose, the walls buckling inward, crushing the Watchtower like a tin can.

Viktor shakes it off when he reaches the vault door in Submare Three. He taps in the twelve-digit code on the keypad with one hand and picks up the bucket of severed fish heads with the other. When the lock beeps, he presses his thumb and all of his fingers against the scanner in turn; only then do the hydraulics hiss as the door unlocks with an ominous clunk. Despite the thickness of the steel, the door opens easily at Viktor's touch.

The vault door opens up into the containment area: a huge circular room that takes up nearly all of the lowest level of the Watchtower. Despite this, the only floor is a narrow metal walkway around the edge, just over a foot wide. The rest of the chamber is open water: deep, dark, and washing back and forth in small waves, despite the fact that there are no direct water lines between it and the ocean outside.

"Makkachin!" Viktor trills. "Where's my good boy? Did you miss me?"

He drops the bucket and claps his hands over his ears: just in time, as a hellish SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEE echoes through the chamber. The water boils. Three long, brown tentacles, each nearly as thick as Viktor's thigh and easily long enough to brush the towering ceiling, burst through from below, the suckers pulsing. One of the tentacles begins slithering over the walkway by Viktor's feet, slinking, searching.

"I've got your dinner here, boy," Viktor says, and reaches into the bucket. He picks up a fish head and tosses it, watching as one of the other tentacles snaps down lightning-quick to snatch it out of the air and drag it below the water. "Is it nummies?" Viktor asks. "Nummy fish for the good Makkachin?"

The resulting chainsaw-on-chalkboard noise doesn't make Viktor's ears bleed, thankfully. The seeking tentacle near his feet winds around his leg, slick mottled brown, and Viktor leans down to give it a gentle pat.

"I missed you too, buddy," Viktor says. "Open wide, okay? Food incoming!"

He throws the rest of the bucket's contents out into the water and sits on the edge of the walkway while Makkachin's tentacles pull the fish bits into the depths. He's just tall enough that he can point his toes and tap the surface of the water with the soles of his shoes, so he does. During his first month at the Watchtower he taught himself Morse code in a fit of over-enthusiasm, so he uses it now, tapping and swishing the water, a secret message just for him and Makka: tap-swish-tap-tap-swish-swish-swish-swish-tap-tap.

Makkachin probably doesn't know Morse code. So maybe it's just a message for Viktor. Fitting.

"I'm sorry it's so lonely down here," he says. "I don't mean to stay upstairs so long. I'll come visit more often."

Makkachin gurgles.

"Yeah, just me and you, buddy," Viktor says, and reaches out absently to scratch a passing tentacle.

--

Before he’d been a Watchtower crewman, Viktor Nikiforov had been a legend.

He’d been on the top of the figure skating world for nearly a decade. His undefeated streak spanned five years: five years of gold at the Grand Prix, at Nationals, at Euros, at Worlds. Multiple world records tucked under his belt. Two Olympic titles. Russia’s hero, they called him; a god among men. Undefeated, unattainable, untouchable. His shadow from atop the podium was monstrous in the flashes of the cameras.

He’d just won his fifth Worlds gold in Boston when the kennel called. His dog—Makkachin—had just died. In his sleep, the woman said. Surely he hadn’t been in any pain. A gentle death for a gentle dog.

Viktor hadn’t seen Makkachin for nearly three days before he’d actually left.

So he’d told his coach that he was going to rent a car and drive back to Europe. Time to clear his head, he’d said, and the coach had agreed. The Transcontinental Bridge still had a lingering reputation as a tourist attraction, albeit one that Viktor had experienced before. Even half-abandoned it was a marvel of engineering. There were hotels, restaurants, museums, little Bridge-side towns with kitschy mom-and-pop shops. Viktor had ignored these; for just under a full day of driving it had been only him and the ocean. He’d driven and driven and then stopped for the night at Checkpoint Eight, the Transcontinental Hotel: the pride of the Bridge, a glittering palace over the sea with a glass ballroom, fresh-turned silk sheets on every bed, and a string quartet that turned sea shanties into sweeping waltzes for guests to float along to under the stars.

He’d emailed the Russian Skating Federation his resignation notice the next morning. By that afternoon he’d unpacked his single carry-on in one of the empty crew cabins in Watchtower Eight, his handful of spare shirts and underwear tucked neatly inside the chipboard drawers, the concrete walls bare, the fresh cotton sheets scratching his bare skin.

And…well. Why would Viktor ever leave?

--

“Good afternoon, Bridge travelers,” Viktor says. “It’s another slow day here by Watchtower Eight, and so, your traffic report: there is no traffic. I’m sure if you questionably-extant listeners wait for a few minutes, one of my colleagues from elsewhere on the Bridge will chime in with commentary.”

Viktor waits for a beat, then repeats himself in Russian and in French, just because he can.

The intercom beeps, and Christophe’s voice comes through, amused and slurred—likely hungover, or maybe just being Chris. “Your accent is horrendous,” he says by way of greeting.

“Good afternoon, Christophe,” Viktor says. “How are things?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Chris says. “Light traffic down here at Fifteen, come stop by the Gold Doubloon casino for a fun night of games and revelry, gamble responsibly: don’t wager anything you aren’t willing to lose, don’t play for anything you aren’t willing to live with, et cetera. Word on the wire is that there’s a big closure down by Checkpoint Nine—do you know anything about that?”

“Hmm? No.” Viktor absently shuffles the stack of letters from mainland headquarters. He should probably read them at some point.

“Ah, there’s a little Bridge-side town that’s closed its access road. The Travel Agency sent out a notice that the road won’t reopen, so drivers should plan their stops around it, what’s it called…Hatsetsu?”

Viktor frowns. The name tickles at the edge of his memory, but nothing concrete comes to mind. Possibly he just remembers driving past the sign, if it’s really so close to his own domain. “Any idea how the residents are going to get around?”

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Chris says. His voice is low, now, conspiratorial, as though they weren’t having this discussion over public airwaves. They could be huddled around a campfire, sharing ghost stories. “You didn’t hear this from me, but a little birdy”—meaning, Viktor thinks, Phichit—“says the town’s abandoned. Everyone vanished overnight. Poof.”

Before he can respond, someone else on the Inter-Tower line squeaks out a small “Ah.” This is followed by a gust of air and a smacking sound. Viktor thinks, suddenly, of a small child clapping a hand over their own mouth, afraid to be caught listening.

“Hello?” he says.

“Oh,” the new voice says, strangely muffled, and then clearer: “Oh. Uh. This is Watchtower Nine—sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nine!” Chris says. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

“Oh, yes,” the man says. “I’m new. I just started here.”

Viktor smiles. It’s been a while since any of the towers have gotten new crewmen. “What’s your name?” he asks, propping his chin on the desk.

“I’m…I’m Yuuri Katsuki,” the voice says. “It’s nice to, uh, meet you?”

“Welcome to the Bridge, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

Yuuri—laughs? It’s hard to tell over the crackling line. “I’ve lived here all my life,” he says, “but thank you.”

“Your whole life, huh?” Chris says. “Very interesting. Not many Bridge natives come to work at the Watchtowers. What brought you to us?”

Yuuri is silent for a few heartbeats too many. “…change of scenery,” he says finally.

“Well, we’re a good bunch,” Viktor says, over Chris’s questioning noise. “And Chris will only bite if you ask nicely.”

“It takes more than a bite to scare me away,” Yuuri says.

Despite the static noises, Chris’s purr of “Is that so?” comes through crystal clear.

And Viktor makes possibly the most disgusting noise he has ever made in his life, like a pig with a cold, directly into the microphone. He hears another few sets of tinny laughter, probably other Watchtower radio hosts lurking on the line, and over that Yuuri sputtering, “No! I didn’t—not like that!”

“Welcome!” Sara says through the ruckus. “Once Chris has hit on you, you’re really part of the family.”

Viktor’s own laughter trails off a bit at that. He doesn’t know Sara well—mostly snippets of information passed from Mila or Yuri in conversation—but he knows enough to think about the reason she’s on the Bridge at all, running from home and a brother who refused to let her out of his sight. She’d come because she’d had nowhere else, and then she’d stayed.

Family might be too strong a word for what they are, a collection of outcasts strung across thousands of miles. Viktor already knows he will never see most of these peoples’ faces. But after all, it’s not as though he has anyone else.

“Vitya!” Yakov’s shout echoes up the stairs.

“Oh, dear,” Viktor says. “My supervisor’s calling—I have to go. It’s been a pleasure, Yuuri.”

“Ah—likewise, Viktor,” Yuuri says. Viktor indulges himself in a lazy smile as he powers down the equipment.

It’s not until after he’s fed Makkachin that he realizes nobody ever told Yuuri his name.

--

Here was a secret that Viktor had sworn he would take to his grave long before he came to the Bridge: the podium was his least favorite place to be.

The rest of it had a certain thrill to it. The routines, of course; the costumes, extravagant and beautiful and designed to make him irresistible and ever-so-slightly inhuman; the plane rides to faraway countries, the sponsors and the fancy dinners. The hotels with silk sheets and crystal chandeliers that glinted like little chips of stolen starlight.

The podium, though—somewhere along the way it became a pedestal, or a display shelf. He looked good and he worked hard to stay there until he thought maybe his feet would fuse to the top spot and he’d be frozen there forever, the rest of the skating world clawing at his ankles, tearing at each other for a chance to send him crashing down.

He was Viktor Nikiforov, the legend. The singular. There was no room at the top for anyone else.

Perhaps the move to sea level did some good. But now here he was, sitting at the top of the Watchtower, just him and the radio and the empty road.