One dark, stormy, reasonably temperate night in the UK, me and my friend were playing the original Dead Space on the mother of all difficulties. Horror had found a new place to burrow inside our ears, through our shared play through with headphonses. Dead Space had thrown curveballs at us all night, and had finally reached it's apex at around 4am.
The apex of course was 12 fucking sugars.
During Chapter 9, where the USM Valor becomes a playground for the frighteningly deranged Twitchers, something peculiar happened. Something that not even Resident Evil 1's shabby yet rainbow filtered dialogue could have ever provoked from me. I laughed. We laughed. Uncontrollably for 5 minutes in what was supposed to be the voyage of the dammed from Isaac Clarke's perspective.
I'll set the scene. Remember the room with all the malfunctioning gravity plates? Wouldn't it be great if just one Twitcher ran into it after it's little Gaul charge? Well, yeah.
In truth, I wasn't the stalwart hero I had wanted to be. My health was low, I had 3 rounds in my Cutter, I was barely able to blink without the paranoia settling in. Then, from around the corner, it looks at me. Growling, frothing, sharpening it's Game Over claws; the Over part looked pretty certain.
Then it happens. It dies instantly upon touching the grav plate, and immediately gets shoe horned into the ceiling, Maybe it was the fart noise my mind instinctively brought into the fray, maybe it was the stress and tension of not dying, now suddenly have a release valve. It could have even been Police Academy 1 in the background, but what I do remember is nothing short of fantastic. The fact Dead Space, a prideful supporter of the horror genre, made my own body dreadfully unsure as to which orifice was next in line to do it's do, to this day, was one of my fondest memories in gaming.