Gained the Lead?

“You can’t just keep turning this into a conversation about gaming.”

“Why the hell not? That’s what it’s about.” I still can’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit and you know it. How the fuck am I supposed to trust anything you say when I know – I KNOW – that you aren’t even acknowledging the problem we’re trying to talk about.” Her voice rises, builds to a crescendo, and collapses into tears with her last words.

And all I can think about is the fact that I’m not plugged in right now, and there are people dying somewhere because she keeps fucking talking to me.

*    *    *

Twitch, swing, sway, press, pull -

“Gained the lead,” The announcer booms over the sound of explosions and gunfire. I have time to crack a smile before his commanding voice and the cloaked sack of shit who’s been jamming my radar interrupt my mirth with a new announcement and a knife in the back.

“Lost the lead.”

I swallow my rage and wait to respawn. We’ll meet again when I’m not distracted, and then he’ll be on the end of my knife. Because really, fuck that guy.

“Hon, dinner wah wha blah” Beth’s voice is coming from somewhere in the apartment.

“Five more kills. There in a minute.” I start cleaning up the trash, mopping up after firefights in progress, and chucking ‘nades into promising corners. Usually I like to challenge myself a bit more, but I’ve developed a good flow when it comes to getting through a game that I just need to be over. I’m in the lead with twenty-four kills when suddenly I pinwheel backward and fall over a ledge, my digital brains blown from my helmet. Stealthy fucker is back, but this time he’s got the damn sniper, and suddenly we’re tied for first.

I expect the game to be over before I respawn, but I get one more chance. And you can be damn sure I’ve got sights only for him. I know where he was but by the time I get there, he’s set up somewhere else; somehow he hasn’t gotten a kill in the last thirty seconds.

A sniper round wings past my head, and my thumb pushes my digital body into a stiff crouch as the second round goes high over my helmet. There is no third shot, and I know he’s dry. While the stealthy shitbag is still switching weapons I’m bringing down his shield, and by the time he gets a few rounds off, it’s too late.

Boom. Headshot.

“Game Over.”

My phone vibrates the angry triple buzz for a new email as I walk into the kitchen, and I ignore it for now.

*    *    *

Movement in this game is stiff, frustrating. The weapons feel like they’re firing spit balls, and they sound like it too. Head shots are still king though. It’s cool. These are just training missions, and I’m making the other focus testers look like a pack of fucking amateurs. The proctors seem impressed enough that they’re going to send me a prototype controller to test; came in and measured out space in the back room. Must be one of those motion tracking things.

*     *     *

I’ve finally stopped struggling to wrap my mind around the paradigm shift. In the past, it was always more about shooting, keeping your distance, even at close quarters. Sure, there’d be the occasional melee, but it only served to punctuate the experience, not define it. But now. Now almost everything I do is close quarters; face to face. Bullets don’t mean what they used to, so rushing in and soaking up a hundred of them is less of a harrowing experience and more a chore; a means to an end. I can turn them to pulp up close. This character is wildly overpowered.

Word about me has started to spread from one city in the theater to another. The AI is starting to get creative, laying traps. The program doesn’t fuck around with respawns, either. You go down, and the game goes dead for a week. It’s a little excessive if you ask me. But that’s why they’re “focus testing,” right? To work out the kinks?

*    *    *

“You know what? Fine.” Beth is still crying as she pulls the engagement ring, a huge rock on a loop of platinum, off her finger and tosses it to the kitchen table, where it clatters like a dropped coin for a moment before going silent. “You can’t tell me what you’re doing? You can’t explain what’s going on? Why you’re fucking killing people? Then I don’t want anything they paid for.”

I try to catch her arm as she storms out of the room past me. “I’m not killing any-”

The slap catches me off guard, and I stagger more than I should…I’m spending too much time in theater, and it’s taking its toll.

“You know that pod thing has a video out, right?” My heart jumps into my throat. No, I did not know it had a goddamn video out. “No? It’s right there on the side. I watched you last night. I watched until I couldn’t anymore. That’s no game, that’s live video feed. Do you-do you get some sick thrill out of it? Ripping people apart like that?” Her fists shake at her sides.

“It’s not that simple. I have…responsibilities.” I make myself meet her gaze.

Her mouth hangs open for a moment. “Christ…so it is real.”

*    *    *

I’m holding a young woman in my metal arms, and her life is pouring out in a torrent. My heavy shields crackle as bullets fizzle out of existence around us, and as I look around at the other allied solders hiding behind cover, my purpose snaps into focus. I feel tears on my cheeks, falling thousands of miles away, and when the light goes out of her eyes, I lay her down and begin protecting the rest of my men.

This story is a response to the Flash Fiction Challenge: Must Love Robots over at terribleminds. But wait! Don’t go there yet! Stay. Comment. What did you like? What didn’t you like? How do you think it can be better? Don’t like commenting? Email me.

Did you comment? Good, now go check out the rest of the entries (they’re in the comments of the challenge post). There’s some pretty great stuff in there.