We All Fall Down, Part Two: Is There A Doctor In The House?

28 Jan

Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posy, 

Ashes, ashes we all… fall… down.

Welcome, ladies and gents, to We All Fall Down, the Dead Space 2 analysis that just won’t stay dead!


Previously, on We All Fall Down: We recapped the first game, talked about penises, escaped Space Arkham Asylum, and beat a Necromorph to death using only my sheer brass balls.


“You know… today sucks.”

After I get up, half dead, coated in blood, stuck in a straitjacket, and higher than an orbital drop, I wander out of the waiting room… only to walk straight in to a pair of soldiers who start shooting at me. “Oi, jackasses! Do I look like I’m made of fucking beef jerky to you?!”

But, fortunately, the massive phallic tentacle of karma (that’s how karma works, right?) comes out of the vents and skewers my two fan-boys, only to spit their remains out of a completely different vent. Which means that the Official Vent Body Count is at two! Yeah, just watch it, that things gonna get higher than Ishimura’s dry cleaning bill.

As I head on my merry way, we hear a “Director Tiedemann” going on about how all the key subjects should be terminated. Oh, so that’s why Wingus and Dingus were takin’ pot shots at me! Either that, or they knew that once Isaac Clarke enters a room, the only things that are coming out alive are Isaac Clarke and any Necromorphs he feels like putting in a Princess Leia bikini.

And no, I didn’t actually edit this on to a Necromorph. You’re welcome.

I pass a big mess of blood, as if cranberry punch had just spontaneously combusted, before heading upstairs to the Observation Deck. Apparently, it’s a big lab with class floors, just in case the doctors wanted to play Peeping Tom to a bunch of wackjobs. “Oh yeah, you’re a crazy girl, aren’t ya…”

In the next room, which is apparently an observation deck for people who want to ogle the dining room, there’s my ginger Interrogator leaning against the window and staring down. “Hey, dude! Guy who… has a nice beard, I guess. Are you a doctor? Can you heal me- ack!”

He suddenly grabs me by the scruff of my neck, like a kitten (which is just humiliating for a professional badass, lemme tell you), and presses a scalpel against my throat. “… Okay, let’s both pretend that you didn’t just do something that should get you torn apart with my bare hands.”

Patient Four… I remember you… Tiedemann said we… all the key subjects… need to be eliminated… terminated… what’s one more?”

“Yeah, well, this ‘one more’ is about ‘one more’ second away from beating you to death with your own shrivelled cock, so-”

What’s it matter-“

He presses the knife closer.

“Okay! Just- just listen to me-”

“Will it matter?!

“AAAHH! Come on, we can both get out of here- just- just cut me out of this straitjacket-”

No one’s getting out of here alive. No one.”

“Oh, geez, spoiler warnings.”

He pulls the knife away from my throat.

“Ah, see? That’s progress, that’s some definite progress!”

He pushes it towards my guts.

“See, that’s a step backwards. We’re never gonna get anywhere at this point.”

He thrusts it in, and just as you wince and turn away from the screen-

– The doctor calmly slashes the straitjacket open, letting my arms free.

“… You do realize there was a button, like, right here, right?”

Or hey, maybe all the straitjackets in the future are specifically designed to require complicated knife play. Would make working with crazy people a lot funnier!

My new doctor buddy points out that my RIG is red, and- oh yeah, I guess I forgot to mention that! See, apparently in the future, all of our spines have been replaced with fluorescent tubing that can somehow perfectly quantify health. Not only has somebody figured out a hypothetical scoring system to rank up “internal bleeding”, “brain tumour”, and “stubbed toe” all on the same chart, but they also had the bright fucking idea of sticking it on people’s backs! What, do people has eyes on the back of their heads in the future?

(Somewhere, Jack Johnson is weeping tears of joy.)

Anyway, I head over and grab a health pack to get everything shiny again, as well as a flashlight, before turning around to my new buddy… just as he slits his throat and sprays blood over the whole rooms.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck- see, this is why we can’t have nice things!”

You know, I’m starting to wonder… In the four minutes since he’s woken up, Isaac Clarke has met four people: One is a zombie, two are skewered slabs of meat, and one just slashed his own throat. Have I just assumed I’m being badass Clarke? Is he not actually some kind of bookworm badass? Instead, he’s some kind of eldritch abomination who can kill people just by being there?!

This is worrisome.

Pictured: Isaac Clarke, Walking Nightmare.

After stomping on the body a couple times, just to see what shakes loose, I head over to the elevator, only for my on-board radio to start speakin’ up. Some white chick suddenly appears on screen, acting as if this is some sort of webcam as she tries to shimmy around for the best view. “Isaac! Isaac Clarke, are you there?”

“Yes, he’s here. Who’s asking?”

“I’m Daina, I’m the one who rescued you!”

“… Well, the one who rescued me was a black guy who now currently lacks most of his face, thanks to an impromptu headbutt. What the hell’s going on, Daina?”

“You have unique form of dementia, Isaac, you picked it up on the Ishimura! It’ll kill you unless you can get to me!”

“Oh, because of fucking course. Not as if I tore apart a whole fucking ship full of fucking Necromorphs, no no, a bit of fucking wacko got lodged in my skull, and that’s what’s gonna put me down. Jesus christ, I’m going to turn in to pure thought, travel back in time, and just eat the damn thing.”

“… Wait, what-”

“Look, are you the person in this conversation who’s won both the Guinness World Record and Nobel Peace Prize in cunnilingus? Now shush up, and send me the co-ordinates so I can get there and kill you quicker.”

“… Wait, what-“

I said shush up!”

“I got places to go, people to headbutt!”

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