Serious Sam 4

[h1]The Good Old Days: In Defence of the Ordinary[/h1] What exactly are the ‘good old days’? It seems to me they embody everything we once yearned to do. I found myself wondering about this as my sister and I danced through the chaos, entwined in battle against the alien tide. We had heard a voice over the radio. I cannot quite recall his name—Bill, I believe—and he spoke of the resistance. He spoke of this ultimate conflict, the war to end all wars for humanity, but he also spoke of gentler times. His voice drifted beside us, becoming a sanctuary amid the noise, a fleeting moment of rest. Yet, as we crossed from Italy into France, we found nothing but absence. It was as though everyone had simply evaporated, leaving behind their luggage, their lives, and all those good old days. We were absolutely starving for a pizza. The streets—that vast, open neighbourhood beneath billowing clouds moving with the effortless grace of the wind—stood entirely hollow. Every so often we stumbled upon souls crying out for help, trapped by the enemy, and rushed to their aid. It makes one wonder: who are we, in the grand theatre of these otherworldly invaders? How have we come to perceive them so completely that we believe ourselves capable of conquering the unknown? I remember the voices of our companions. Some shared their quiet aspirations with us; one wished to become a chef, another an actor. They spoke of pursuits both familiar and peculiar, often cloaked in humour, yet sometimes with striking gravity. Here, seriousness balances delicately with wit. One might even say it is the very language through which we know one another. We crack jokes, and within them lies an undeniable truth. Perhaps seriousness is the vessel through which we forge our bonds and confront the disruptive forces that stand between us and our desires. Yet it is a touch of dreaming that gives our actions direction, whilst seriousness remains only the medium. There is little time for contemplation. The aliens are descending, and so we cast aside the hubris of those who seek dominion over a different species. As Bill reminds us, we have ceased our internal squabbles. We cannot be conquered, nor shall we be subdued. We will do whatever it takes to endure. Yet it feels to me that my sister and I are ready—having finally supped—not to attack, but to defend. Have these extra-terrestrial beings invaded the wrong planet? What lesson shall we teach them? Will it be mere resistance, or something closer to defiance? My sister and I answer through action. There is no defence if there is no one to defend. There is no sanctuary without someone to shelter. Every kinetic act of care belongs to others, especially to our friends, so that they may continue dreaming of the lives they long to live and, one day, quietly say: this is a beautiful time to flourish. We are hostile creatures. Yet, living beneath the same threat, we are bound together. What is it, I wonder, that compels us to unite? We pass propaganda posters from both sides. Choosing whom to align with is no longer a choice. Within us, something gentler has blossomed: a quiet resolve of care, perseverance, and protection. The Earth is our only home. It is no longer about choosing a side. We pause to rest, watching clouds drift lazily above emerald countryside, where the wind stirs the leaves and sets butterflies dancing. In Italy—though there was no pizza left, much as we longed for a slice—we sat upon a rooftop, gazing over red cobblestones. Above us, the sky unfolded into a natural wildfire of sunset. It left us speechless. At peace. It was much the same in France. Having fought through coliseums and arenas, testing an endurance our enemy could never comprehend, and after Kenny's departure—poor Kenny, how we mourn him—we wandered through green fields. Flowers bloomed in the stillness, even as alien vessels loomed on the horizon. These are the good times. Not the chaos of battle, but the quiet persistence of things growing and remaining themselves, just as our friends wish to do whilst pursuing their own modest dreams. Bill's words continue to echo through the debris: when sudden violence fractures the quiet architecture of our lives, we are forced awake, compelled to mourn—and, in mourning, finally to recognise the worth of what is being torn away. My sister and I, united by something as simple as our shared love of pizza, already understood the shape of our desires. Within this kinetic dance of survival, our purpose becomes clearer. Every shot fired is an act of fierce, almost maternal protection, as though by clearing away the monsters we are making room for a sanctuary where we may once again care for one another. Others in this broken world longed only for ordinary things: a hot dog on a street corner, a quiet afternoon spent shopping. Perhaps such devastating chaos was the only alarm loud enough to wake humanity from the sleep of routine. Yet awakening demands choice. The freedom to determine one's own fate. This is precisely what Mental's horde steals from us. They do not merely kill; they absorb, binding humanity into a hollow collective nightmare. To fight them is to defend the right to remain ourselves. At times it feels like a cruel playground game, a breathless match in which choice has been stripped away and violence has become our only possible path. Yet purpose flowers amidst the carnage whenever we remember what it is we are truly protecting. Our home. However high the tide of enemies may rise, our only desire is to safeguard those who still possess the right to play, to laugh, and to dream. We endure the terror so that one day you may return to your simple games, your fleeting jokes, and the quiet pursuit of whatever allows your soul to flourish. Within this relentless choreography of gunpowder, shattered bones, and blood—a trial of survival that Kenny fought so desperately to endure—violence ceases to be spectacle. The moment our feet touch this scarred earth, everything becomes real. We stand as anchors of humanity, choosing the exhausting labour of protection over the hollow surrender that Mental's horde demands. The wind gently caressed our hair as we rested beneath the shade of a tree, allowing the sun to envelop us. How curious that such warmth could exist beside memories of rivers of lava, or the silence of abandoned ruins where no one remained except the familiar voices that still cradled us. Then, upon reaching France, my sister and I climbed onto our motorbikes and followed the ribbon of asphalt stretching through the countryside. We breathed in the fragrance of grass and wildflowers, while butterflies and birds continued their quiet flight. That is something our enemy—the one who stole Kenny's life, who transformed into a butterfly trapped within his own painful metamorphosis—could never understand. In the end, we are not all the same. As Bill always reminded us, there is a beautiful diversity of lives, each pursuing its own purpose, all bound together by the same earth that sustains us. That is what deserves protection. And this—interwoven with light-hearted jokes that soften the weight of fear—is what we call the good times. Not because we are naïve, but because we fight to reclaim them. We do not entirely share Sam Stone's heavy-handed creed of what it means to embody humanity, nor his grand, aggressive crusade for the Earth. Our resolve is quieter, rooted instead in the sacred geometry of the hearth. We choose not to attack, but to defend with all the fierceness we possess. We stand ready for the final defence. Yet before the sky breaks, my sister and I always return to the ordinary. We share a quiet meal. We gather our belongings. We choose our clothes against the lingering heat. It is a soft, domestic prelude to resistance—a gentle reminder of exactly what we are protecting before we step outside and hold the line.

Who the f came up with idea to ride giant slow mech in fast-paced arena shooter and make that ♥♥♥♥ unskippable

机甲战真是神了，地上的小兵一枪打爆末日机甲。小兵：不逞英雄了？

没有以前重制版的一次出击 二次出击好，这个是经典。sam3也很好。san4电脑配置低了，感觉看不清敌人，敌人和背景不明显。实际上，没必要太追求现在的画面。我觉得重制版的画面就很好。整个游戏主要是刺激，不需要和其他游戏去追求画面上的真实感，反而太耗费电脑配置。

по началу интересно, красиво, потом начинает картинка начинает подлагивать, 150+ фпс идут как 70. разрабы не хотят с этим ничего делать, в том же майхеме уже все норм с оптимизацией и там нет таких искажений. сюжет не сказать что бы прям плохой, но местами странный онлайна в ней вообще никакого, карт в мастерской очень мало. в общем, игра на один раз, но если уж сильно хочется попробовать нового сэма, лучше купить Siberian Mayhem

剧情可玩度都挺高的就是时间差点意思，这游戏昂值得推荐非常的可以尤其是后面的剧情

This game is insanely hard and it completely ruins the playability. It’s totally overrated. I’m honestly not joking.