Random Brew Generator: Cyprium Risk

If you're anything like me, you're of legal age and you enjoy a nice brew while you unwind with video games. My experience with drinking while playing games has ranged from a pleasant, unfazed focus to intense and uncoordinated debauchery.

But I find that when I hit the right mix, something exceptional bubbles up.

My method is simple. One beer is for taste, and the next for a playthrough of whatever video game I think goes best with it. So, while the setup is predictable, the experience is anything but. It's random, generated by 1s and 0s, mediated through my ever-suffering skillset.

Old Mecklenburg Brewery's Copper / Destiny 2 - Gambit

And, wow, have I wanted some consistency lately. It's been a crazy few months, which is a refrain all too common on my tongue for me to believe it. The last thing I want to do is slog through something that I don't understand, much less something that I fail due to lack of skill alone.

The Tasting

I have had OMB's Copper many times before. My first one was at my father's recommendation, and, damn, does that man have good taste. Copper has always been a reliable ale, a familiar taste that, when I struggle to choose which beer to get at the Harris Teeter, jumps out at me as an easy choice.

For the tasting, I served Copper out of a plastic, stemless wine glass. On its initial pour, the beer foams heavily. It's very carbonated, much more than I'm expecting. I pick up a heavy aroma of sugar, a nice, burnt sweetness, one that is fresh and strong. There are a lot of bubbles, and the head has some period of retention without any lacing on the glass.

The head settled, and even though I still noted that strong malty sugar, I could smell the bitter towards the back of my nose. The scent layers were complementary, drawing out more in one another than they would on their own. The color of the drink was less amber than it is a deep reddish brown, a lustrous copper through and through. It's a touch translucent when you really investigate it, but the darkness of the liquid, coupled with the constant bubbles, makes it hard to see through. I couldn't help but imagine that, when poured, the drink would spill out slowly, as if it were completely viscous.

I really tasted the grains as the drink blanketed my tongue like snow, fluffy from carbonation. It disappeared quickly, with a very light hop presence, a crisp, toasty, maple syrup. bitter on the back of the tongue into the throat that disappears with a malt rinse. It may just have been my neurosis, but I also detected a faint earthiness that evoked an oaky tavern or a quiet yet bustling restaurant. Overall, the beer made me feel warm like the sea, and about a quarter as poetic, if not as downright destructive.

I will also note that I really noticed the plastic from my cup. The rim was too thick; the aroma was slightly marred. I have reason to believe a glass would be better for serving in the future. Ah, well. Some things, you can control, and others, you just have to endure.

The Setting

The live-service action MMO Destiny 2 is, if not my favorite game, the one I've spent the most time playing (if we're talking single iterations, of course. For series, I have a clear winner that I'll talk about in a future article).

Now, in real life, I'm much too timid to be a gun guy. However, in D2, the fantasy of weapon-bearing is that it's magic. Bullets are elemental creations sprung from the will of their wielder, which, alongside a small compendium of spells, cement the player as a fully-fledged space wizard. Not to mention that you can engage in wide range of activities with random strangers or a clan of your friends.

While I can't say my relationship with the Bungie executive suite is at its most favorable, their games are a cornerstone to my online experience. In fact, my first 'real' console experience was the original Halo. I spent more time in Halo: Reach multiplayer than I spent studying for high school. They have always been able to curate a fascinating sci-fi vision with a seamless je ne sais quoi of gameplay. It draws me in every time.

Like I said, there are many activities to choose from. To complement Copper, I thought Gambit would be a good choice.

The game has a staple pattern. The proctor of the games, a known rogue called the Drifter, decides where and what you're fighting. Then, you're thrust into a four-versus-four competition where you race to see how fast you can defeat various aliens, gather tokens ("motes") into a bank, and challenge a massive Primeval boss in a fight to the death. All this comes with the caveat that, if you're not prepared, a member of the opposite team can cross into your arena and hinder your team's progress by killing each and every one of you.

I love it. It's a great place to test out new builds, because it's low stakes; it's low stakes, because the community disdains it as a whole. And, since the community disdains it as a whole, the pressure is as low as it gets. Furthermore, unlike everything else in D2, it receives minimal updates. After a certain point, you know exactly what to expect.

The Experience

It's a pleasant boot-up of my computer. I'm feeling warmed from just a sip of Copper as I wait for a lobby. Other players must be fixating on Trials of Osiris; it takes a couple of minutes for the game to find the other seven players.

I'm comfortable and feeling overly patient. I have plenty of prep time, so I grab daily bounties and set up my build, deliberately planning the way I will move through the world. I decide to bring out my Sunbracers, gloves with access to a powerful, lava-spewing, button combo. To coincide with the power of flame, I whip out the Solar weapon I've used most, my trusty Vex Mythoclast.

I catch myself tensing up, so I force myself to remember to relax with another sip. The allure of the sweet aftertaste of beer is powerful. I could probably finish the drink before I notice it's running low, so I set it aside, letting myself get swept away in the anticipation of what's to come.

However, my resolve doesn't last long; I'm vibing and tuned out. I take tiny sips, noticing the fuzzy mouthfeel of the drink, as the Drifter flips his coin to decide who we face. "Hive," he says, "bring a sword."

You don't need a sword to fight the Hive, but I happen to have one in my loadout, anyways. Gambit is already proving to be fortuitous.

The game starts with the teams in opposing glass cases. I emote, a grand gesture of letting the games begin. The other team shoots at the glass. Savages.

We're all whisked away to a rusty, ocean-rig platform. The four of us dash forwards in the classic start-of-Gambit rush. I take a breezy sip near the bank tank, feeling a soft burn of hops in my throat. I really need to learn how to distinguish the bitters from one another.

I try to pull off my lava combo, but I fail miserably, wasting my magic. I pathetically regain ground, but an invader bursts onto our side, and, out of nowhere, I'm struck down. My bitterness is amplified by the taste as I take the most gamer of beer sips, the Consolation-While-Waiting-To-Resurrect sip.

It takes a bit of effort to remember that I'm here to chill. Things have escalated beyond my control. While on my best days, losing doesn't matter to me, today, I need a victory. A good victory, something to prove that I'm the king of my own universe, something to prove I have a modicum of control.

Wrapped in my thoughts, I don't notice I have the maximum amount of motes until I realize I can't pick any more up. I rush to the bank to deposit them. The map is so familiar, so calming. In the distance, you can see the green sea of Titan; there is a slight rocking beneath the platform as the waves crash against the rig itself.

Around me, however, the map is fire-strewn by my hand. I glide around on flames, surveying my destruction, and, when the Primeval appears, I draw my sword. Just as my blade slices into the monster, we lose. The red tint that signifies the presence of an invader reminds me of the ale, so I take a sip as my team solemnly pats each others' backs "gg."

This time, the hops refresh me. We're off to the very red Mars for a frosty mountain map and the robotic Vex combatants. I manage to pull off my lava combo first thing, which clears out enemy forces.

As I double-dunk with a teammate, we're ambushed by invader. These guys just come out of nowhere.

The alcohol propels me to play riskier, to ignore my anxious caution. The Mythoclast burns through my foes with laser-sharp precision; my new sniper isn't so reliable or so good-feeling. I realize too late that I should have invaded, as my teammate fell immediately. As a result of all our efforts, we lose. We lose hard.

I remind myself that losing is part of the cycle. But of course, I switch lobbies as fast as I can.

I'm somehow feeling a bit competitive. The test weapon was super frustrating, so it's easy to blame for my poor performance. I am so wound up that I realize that I forgot about the Copper. What am I even doing here? I take a couple of swigs to compensate for my airheadedness, and I resolve to get back in the game.

I taste maple in my throat as we return to Earth and its beautiful forests. Over my glass, I catch sight of Drifter's boots. What a fit that man has. He's in patchwork clothes, and armor that comingles spikes and furs. My clan always says that fashion is the real endgame; I think Drifter is about as high level as they come.

The Vex Mythoclast hits so well. It's sheer luck, incarnate, a causal loop that I could discuss for ages, but, for the sake of time, will not. I sip some of the brew as I soar over the map on fiery wings. We're winning, so I'm chilling, taking it easy. The flavor has opened up to a strong malt, and the liquid glides freely across my tongue. I watch as my ally takes out the entire enemy team. The other three of us hold down the fort and manage to summon the Primeval. An invader's sword slice cuts me down, but our victory is already written. We all emote and pass out awards like they're the samples of crocodile meat I once had at a mall.

Sips are a reward now. Our jumpships carry us right back to Earth. There's no time to reflect, which is a blessing, because I can feel the anxiety creeping back into my consciousness like a spider. Instead, I lean into how pumped up I'm feeling. I've done this a thousand times; hell, my clan calls itself a gambit clan, and while many of my friends say it in jest, I mean it. Hoo-rah! Let's go.

We head to Earth again. Drifter pulls his jade coin out his ear. He is bae, the ruffian, the peckish rogue, the witty scavenger, personable, sassy, prone to eating things he shouldn't (kudos to his voice actor, Todd Haberkorn). I respect Drifter for making important decisions through a coin toss, trusting the odds instead of ulterior motives.

Whenever I need to make a decision, I let one of our worst presidents, John Adams, decide for me. I have his likeness on a coin that I carry with me at all times, that I might defer to him, and, by doing so, sus out my own preferences.

However, recently, I haven't brought him out at all. I've deferred to a wishy-washy back-and-forth that normally results in me choosing to postpone choice altogether.

The enemy species has shifted again - this time, we'll face the plucky, scavenging, lobster-esque Fallen. As I emote with my team, I finish the remainder of the Copper on a whim. It's delicious; its hoppy notes, emphasized.

For once, I'm confident and leaning into my competitive fury. My team rushes for ammo, and, for a moment, our colliding bodies cause a traffic jam. I cut loose with my sword, and, seemingly quickly, our team banks the maximum number of motes, sending 4 large "blocker" aliens to the other side.

As I cut through the Fallen Eliksni, I am incredibly warmed by the beer. It feels like I, myself, have been throwing flames and casting lava, which is refreshing on a cold, winter's eve.

I decide to invade on the heels of our passive assault, but I die immediately. I am filled with regret. I'd do better with a linear fusion, especially the pirate's spyglass, but, instead, I brought the stupid sword. The battle has ranged out of my control. I'm living at the whims of a fate I didn't choose, facing down circumstances and drives beyond my realm of influence.

And, look. I may revere chaos, but it's more in principle than it is my lived experience. In reality, I've been in the same place working on the same things for over a year now. Being a "fledgling author" is the longest-term occupation I've ever had, and, so far, some days, it feels like it's amounted to nothing. But, I tell myself, at least I can still control my work; at least, I can be assured that my words are contained within my singular scope.

At least, I know that nothing is going to change.

I'll also add that, for some months now, I've been fixating on age and all the existentialism that linear time provides. There is some general agreement among the adults I've talked with that "the days get longer, but the years, shorter." This concept terrifies me. Every day is a unique iteration of life. The idea that I'm so reiterative from day-to-day, and that this pattern speeds me along towards my demise, makes me resent both the familiar and the risky, the Copper and the Gambit.

So, I've been at a discursive crossroads of hypocrisy, exemplified by attempt after attempt to force myself to relax and let go of my need for control. You can probably, correctly guess that this oxymoron winds up increasing my tension further still.

Is it too much to just ask the world to chill for a while? Or to ask that I can exist in some sort of static awareness, where nothing demands attention, yet every moment can be slowly, painstakingly appreciated and catalogued?

I mean, yes, it's too much to ask. That's just how life works. Every force in the universe is subject to influences beyond their control. What matters is how you react when events supersede your intention. There is a state where you can find a joyous reciprocity of existence in all things - or, so I'm told. I'd like to aim for it, so I can sit back and permit myself to get swept away.

And, what else but a little friendly competition to stoke the flames? After all, a team may have its averages, but every game is its own beast that no one can fully anticipate.

Anyways -

Time to see how this Gambit ends.

When I come to, our team has already summoned the Primeval, who stamps their foot on the ground near me and snaps me out of my grumpiness. I'm laser-tipsy-focused. their invader sucks and dies immediately, which I take as a good sign. I go in with my Mythoclast, and I have the perfect angle. Three out of four of the enemy team falls to my assault while Drifter cheers me on. For all the expectation going around here, I don't think anyone expected that to happen, myself included - but, damn, it feels great.

When I return to my side, their invader gets me. I can only assume it's in jealous retribution. I chase after him, but the other team is expecting me. I'm stopped by a rocket launcher, notably called Truth, which feels like a metaphor that I'm too tipsy to reach for. Apparently, I was distracting them too much, because, while I'm gone, my team pulls off the win.

Fuck, yes. What a close match. It makes our victory all the sweeter that I can still taste the lightest presence of hops in my mouth.

Conclusion

It may be a cold day, but, at this point, I have very warm ears.

I was really in my head about starting this blog. It's something new, which means, to me, it's something uncomfortable. Sometimes, to mitigate my anxiety, I try and spend as long on something as I possibly can. I delay it perpetually, sticking myself in the expected. The hard Truth (there it is!) is that no matter what you do, you're always facing down the luck of the draw, and you'll be better for having played than having sat on your ass stressing.

I can think of no better mate for the risk of a coin toss than the security of liquid metal.

Recommendation

I recommend this pairing. In fact, I may grab myself another glass while I switch out the batteries of my controller.