Nothing is ever easy.

Lemmings, for example, was not easy. It's the first game that managed to get not only me and my brothers, but my mum hooked as well. Lemmings 1 was the begining of the adventures of our "friends".

If you have been dead in a ditch for the past few years, the object of Lemmings is to get as many of the little...
to the exit as is possible. The problem is that the lemmings come out of the trapdoor and will start heading right until something stops them, like a large drop, for example.

So, you have the divine ability to turn lemmings into things. For example, you could turn a lemming into a Blocker with a button and it will stop, put its hands out, and turn all lemmings who run into it in the opposite direction.

Lemmings one, originally designed by DMA - of Grand Theft Auto - had enough levels to last quite a while unless you got hopelessly addicted. You'll never guess what happened....

Not long after, Oh No! Not More Lemmings was released to an unsuspecting world, containing another complete set of levels. Then in 1993, Lemmings II came out. 50 new types of lemming and - shock horror - a storyline, and each copy came with a book of the adventures of a Lemming. I've still got it somewhere, it was memorable only for a single joke:

"He thought he saw a huge Bombing aeroplane as he was walking through the Desert, but it was only a Mirage"

Anyhue, Lemmings 2 was almost completed by me and my brother (and totally completed by many people). I should point out here that almost every year between Lemmings' release and about 94/95, a "Holiday" lemmings was released at christmas, containing a) a whole new set of levels each year, and b) Lemmings in Santa outfits.

In Lemmings 3 - A Whole New World of Lemmings - Lemmings now got abilities by picking them up, which relived the "I've seen all these abilities before" thing that wasn't really ever a problem. Also it only came with 3 of the Tribes from L2's 12, which was a marketing ploy to release 3 more versions of L3 when it was a roaring sucess

It wasn't. Lemmings 3 was not good.

Lemmings 3D was a francise by Clockwork Games, It was, basically, lemmings in 3D, which meant that you had to turn some of the lemmings 90 degrees. It was a nice game which suffered from a couple of technical flaws, mostly that it only worked on Soundblaster Sound Cards, but mainly because it was released just as Windows 95 was becomeing a requirement and simply would, and will, not run on a machine with Windows 95, 98 or NT installed. Which is a shame.

Lemmings, Oh No! Not More Lemmings and a travesty called Lemmings Paintball were released for a Tenner a couple of years ago under the title "Lemmings for Windows 95", and re-released with the Lemmings 3D logo on the front (It hasn't got L3D in it) as "Ultimate Lemmings" on the Replay label recently.

Which brings us to the present. Lemmings Revolution is lemmings wandering around a tower, probably to get to some kind of exit, hence the "revolution" part of the title. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Psygnois (and I really am not sure of the spelling on that one) released a one level demo of LR in the Summer withdrawing it on September 15th last year (1999). When you downloaded it you were asked to fill in a questionaire to see if you liked it. People liked it enough for it to become a reality.

The marquee-message in the original Lemmings (this from the Amiga version, I think) contains the following wit/outline/statistics/trivia:

Lemmings - the great SAVE-EM-UP game

Welcome to Lemmings
120 One Player Levels
20 Two Player Levels
21 Pieces of toe tapping music
Can you become a MASTER player?
You need building and digging skills
You need bashing and climbing skills
You need bombing and blocking skills

The needs of the many
Outweigh the needs of the few

We take no responsibility for
1. Loss of sleep
2. Loss of hair
3. Loss of sanity
4. The elevator music

Beware of backseat players
Beware of playing against
violent bad losers


Without thinking, taken by the car, we arrive at old San Juan. The traffic, is as intolerable as always. Crowds migrating in herds to the same place as every weekend. Hand in hand we climb the short and steep hill that leads to the small plaza where Ponce de Leon's statue still points to Florida. The hissing of the car wheels on the colonial cobblestones synesthetically mingles with the centennial streetlamps and peeling paint facades. The night oppresses us with its unnatural gray sky and its blanket of humidity. The usually capricious breeze tonight blows stiff and artificially steady. The night, always the night, this night, I don't know why, seems to walk amongst us. The night is in every conversation, snatches in passing, what a strange night, the heat infiltrates your pores and turns the paved streets into traps for the unaware, the light does not seem to come from the streetlamps but rather fall like rain from the sky. Sounds seem to evanesce on the lips producing them, mix with that phosphorescent rain and fall to the cobblestones like insects struck down midflight. We walk down the narrow canyon formed by the steep street hemmed in by the ancient houses until we reach the Plaza de la Rogativa, where the bay breathes like a whale against the city walls below. Without words, your sweaty hand in mine, the night, on every conversation the night. We embrace, meticulous ritual, our bodies molding and melding into our usual positions. We walk into the bar, without asking, two cold beers appear before us, still wordlessly, we follow the programmatic actions and the comments about the night, we can see the bay, with the line of lights on the far shore and the dark against dark mountains beyond. The boats move slowly, spreading distant music over the bay that has become the center of the night. The traffic worse than ever, a veritable parking lot for miles, backed up to Condado, everybody seems to have decided to visit the multicentennial city at the mouth of the bay, all talking about the night the bay and the traffic. The bar starts to empty, the bartender leaves and we follow and join the multitude, all heading towards the cetacean darkness of the bay, we arrive at the small park at the top of the city wall again, driven by the crowd more than our own will. More and more people are coming behind us, where is everybody going, the park could not possibly hold so many, and I am still asking myself the question as silently, hand in hand, we
   fall off the edge
    of the wall
       to the rocks
         below amongst the rest of the silent multitudes falling
           off the parapets and boats to

Submitted for the 2004 They Hunger For Nodes: An e2 Halloween Scary Story Quest

I originally wrote this story in Spanish, so I am offering here the versión original sans typographic effects for comparison

Sin pensarlo, llevados por el automóvil, llegamos al viejo San Juan. El tráfico como siempre, imposible. La gente emigrando en manadas al sitio de todos los fines de semana. Subimos mano en mano la corta y empinada colina que lleva a la placita donde Ponce de León aún no baja el dedo. Los adoquines y las ruedas de los automóviles se combinan en un sonido que la memoria asocia con faroles y paredes de descascarada pintura. La noche con su cielo artificialmente gris oprime las sienes con delicadeza, como algodones humedos en manos de una amante madre. La brisa ha dejado el cotidiano juego aéreo entre los arboles y calles de la ciudad, y hoy parece producida por gigantescos abanicos eléctricos. La noche, siempre la noche, esta noche, no sé porqué, parece caminar entre nosotros, es tema de conversación de todos, no sé, todos estan hablando, esta extraña esta noche, el calor, se cuela por los poros y convierte las calles pavimentadas en trampas que atrapan a los incautos, la luz no parece provenir de los faroles, sino que baja como lluvia del cielo. Los sonidos parecen desvanecerse a flor de labios, mezclarse con esa lluvia fosforescente y caer a los adoquines como insectos muertos en pleno vuelo. Bajamos a través del pequeño cañon que forman la empinada calle y las ancianas casas hasta el parquecito de la rogativa, donde la bahia respira contra las murallas como una gran ballena, sin palabras, la mano sudada en la mía. La noche, en todas las bocas la noche. Nos abrazamos en meticuloso ritual, sintiendo como los cuerpos se amoldan a sus diarias posiciones. Entramos en el bar, sin pedirlo, dos cervezas frias que aparecen ante nosotros, aun sin palabras, seguimos las acciones anquilosadas, y los comentarios de la noche, la bahia se ve, con su hilera de luces y las montaNas lejanas. Los botes se mueven lentamente, esparciendo música por la bahIa que se ha convertido en el centro de la noche. El tráfico peor que nunca, esta detenida la circulacion hasta el Condado, todos parecen haber decidido visitar la ciudad multicentenaria en la boca de la bahía, todos hablando de la noche y los botes y la bahía y el tráfico. El bar empieza a desalojarse, el bartender se va, salimos tambien nosotros y nos unimos a la muchedumbre, todos hacia la bahía con su negrura de cetáceo, llegamos al parquecito de nuevo, mas que por propia voluntad, por la dirección de la muchedumbre. Sigue llegando gente, dónde se esta metiendo tanta gente, y aún me lo estoy preguntando cuando mano a mano caemos por el precipicio a las rocas al pie de la muralla entre la gente que sigue cayendo de los farallones y los botes a desaparecer en la bahía.

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