I am THespos, and I am a mercenary for hire.
I make my living smiting the bad guys - people who are on the payroll of some megolomaniac who wants to bomb folks into oblivion, or take hostages for an unknown cause.
I get paid when I take out terrorists, or when my team of fellow mercenaries manages to defuse a bomb or rescue innocent hostages. It’s not so bad. Here in this virtual world, we can kill without regrets - Our enemies will re-spawn in the next round. There’s no right and wrong - no insurgency fueled by a pre-emptive invasion, no delicate political entanglements, no throwing innocents into political limbo to be tortured at the whim of sadists. There’s just the strategy of working together with one’s team to get the job done, with the added enjoyment of skillfully blasting the crap out of terrorists when they do something stupid like poking their heads around a blind corner.
On this particular afternoon, I’ve made about $8,000 rescuing hostages, defusing bombs and laying waste to bad guys. And it is once again time for my team to go to work. What will maximize the chances I’ll make it to the next mission without having my entrails strewn all over the immediate vicinity?
Well, lessee… I’ll take this Bullpup rifle, some ammo, a kevlar vest and a helmet. Hmmm…Perhaps I ought to buy a grenade or two. I had best hurry up, though, because my teammates are starting to head towar-
BLAM!
Oh, cruel fortune! My brains are all over my new helmet and vest, and I am lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, a bullet having passed directly through my noggin. Who has smitten me thus?
According to my computer screen, it is a teammate, whose character name consists of an unpronounceable string of ASCII diarrhea.
Though I am dead, my disembodied soul still retains the ability to monitor radio communications. I wait for the anticipated “Sorry, dude” or “My bad” to come over the airwaves. It never comes. Nobody laments the death of THespos.
“WTF?” goes out over the airwaves, directed at my traitorous comrade. No response. I am vexed.
But fear not! Another round starts presently! This time, I will be vigilant against the asshattery of those who would cause discord. I turn to look at Mr. ASCII Diarrhea. He turns to look at me. We stare at one another for several seconds. His blank look is betrayed by his own knowledge that a debt is owed, that I have wasted valuable money on weapons and equipment, only to die like a dog before reaching the battlefield. The air hangs heavy for a second or two. I move to purchase a rifle, as the round is starting and-
BLAM! BLAM!
Woe is me! I have yet again been betrayed by my comrade!
Perhaps he could not bear the weight of his guilt, and thought it best to dispatch me yet again. Perhaps his lack of experience led to an unfortunate misfire. Then again, maybe he was just being a dick.
I depart this world, in search of a more virtuous one, where all of my teammates will pursue the vile terrorists instead of sowing seeds of discord.
Lo! I have found a merry band of counter-terrorists who, though enduring a terrible beating by their adversaries, could benefit from my help. As the next round arrives, I purchase my vest and helment and-
What’s that sound? It sounds like several elephants being methodically castrated…No, it is one of my teammates who, not content to listen to the radio, has piped in the altogether unpleasant whining of Slipknot, broadcasting over the voice channel shared by me and my comrades. Suddenly, I cannot hear the footfalls of my enemies and cannot concentrate on the tasks at hand. I take a sniper round to my unfortunate cranium a mere 20 seconds into the round.
I depart this world, eager to find one in which I can ply my trade unmolested.
Fortune smiles upon me, and I have found another band of counter-terrorists, seemingly eager to employ my skills. I scrape together $300 to buy a grenade, turn to face my teammates and-
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Curses! I am dead once again, along with two of my teammates! But how? I see an enemy speeding away from my crumpled corpse. Alas, he is possessed of otherworldly speed of the type not granted to other inhabitants of this realm. With this unearthly agility, he has traversed the entire map and laid waste to several of us before we had even armed ourselves. Hacking asswipe.
I grow weary of the biscuitheads. I tap <f10> and darkness falls over my eyes. I venture from my bedroom in search of a peanut butter sandwich. On wheat toast. And a glass of Diet Coke.
(just kidding)