Hey guys! Well, I couldn't sleep, and so I just started writing in notepad and popped out this story.
I don't know how good you guys will think it is, but I'm not expecting much, I made this completely at random.
Enjoy!
The odds of us winning were slim, they say. Slim is an understatement. The enemy's firepower topped ours twenty fold, and the soldiers, oh the soldiers.. Nevertheless, our headstrong commander couldn't accept the fact that we had lost the match.
Defeat. A word known to many. Many know the recipe to this, and can even make it in their sleep. Not commander Lucas. He is unable to even fathom the possibility of such a thing, yet it was just handed to him. He wouldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it. His years of commanding did nothing to help us. To help the thousands of people that were lost to the war. Those who died didn't want this. Nobody did.
I will tell you the events that have occurred just recently. The events that left me in this shape. Nevermind that. Its not much of a hindrance. I was a sniper, callsign 'NIRS' of the fifth regiment. Well, I was, before the mages learned how to keep us alive for all eternity, unable to die, but still able to feel pain and emotion. Now they only reference me as Sniper B. I believe that is the only reason I lived through this. The enemy never looks for the sniper. But that's where their mistake lies. One trifle, just one small mistake costs them a life, and adds on to the scoreboard.
Scoreboard. That little malfestation of how many of us were taken out by meaningless combat. The little 'tick' it makes is a terrible reminder that he felt every ounce of agony as I sent the round through his head. And the constant gunfire that I often hear from the battlefield is a powerful reminder that I could be next.
Not that it would matter, much. All we've known is death. I've died hundreds of times, yet I am still here. It is the ignorance of the mages that set our new goal in life to be combat. They use us like toys; Never cared about. Never thought about us. All they care about is entertainment of their own. When a new 'Player', as they're called, joins their group, they animate yet another one of us from thin air, and assign this new being to one of the players. The player regularly initiates battle. And thats where all hell breaks loose.
But beforehand, the player changes our appearance, weapon, even gender. It's quite an annoyance. I was trained as a sniper, yet, I often find myself charging into the middle of the fire wielding a shotgun, assault rifle, or even a pistol or knife.
Even If I'm equiped with my beloved sniper, that doesn't guarentee my success. I do not control my actions during combat. I am merely an observer, watching my own demise, or watching myself kill my friends and own people that just so happened to be on the opposite team.
But it's more than that. I can feel every pebble that moves beneath my boots, every blade of grass that brushes against my face as I lay prone in the forest. I can feel the coldness of the carbon fiber trigger slide against the gun's steel, and the hammer smack the butt of the bullet in the chamber. I can smell the hot gasses as they expel past the sides of the barrel. And I can feel the ambient vibe of a bullet ripping through human flesh as my opponent falls to the ground.
'Tick'
And that damned scoreboard goes up again.
But that's on a good game. On occasion, the player is off his game, missing most of his shots, and leaving me helpless as I am forced to reload. Death is a bitch. Or, so I've been told. I do not know death, truely. Whenever one of us takes lethal damage, we simply fall to the ground, limp. We are not lifeless, and we are still conscious. We feel everything that just happened. Every single hot bullet that goes through our bodies, or the cooldness of the steel on a knife as it slices into our necks, the mind-numbing pain we are in after a hand grenade dismembers us, or a tank shell hits us smack in the chest, and we look down only to see the top of our chests.
But it doesn't last long. A few moments later we're back, good as new. The memory of our last demise fresh in our minds, and we are still driven by the arcane force controlling our every move, now urging us to extract revenge on our killer. Revenge. It isn't fun when your player is arrogant and greedy, simply running at the attacker with an inefficient weapon, just to get that 'skillful kill' medal.
Most of the time that ends with some buckshot in my chest.
But it doesn't matter. Because my only goal in my existance is battle, and being forced to shoot the other team, be them personal friend or not. Useless waste of life, only meant to entertain. I'd love to see one of these players in my position. They would crack down in an instant. But, I suppose I should get into the lobby.
It's my turn again. It's too bad I can't simply resign. I knew I should have never joined, I always heard there was no escape.
No escape..
....Ain't that the truth..
Well, that's it. This is a one shot, so, not gonna be anymore on this particular story. I may continue to write if I get some decent feedback.
Oh yeah, feedback! Any and all feedback on this is appreciated!
Even me reading this changes my view on first person shooters, lol!
