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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - Video Game Assassin |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 718 days Last activity: 718 days |
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| This one was never really intended to be finished. It's more of a backstory to The Demon, and The Demon is what ended up being written as the main story. But since a few of you have requested to read it after I pulled it, I'm putting it back up because...well...bananas?
Video Game Assassin When I was five years old, I discovered I possessed a natural knack for the computer world—the awesome ability to create things that only computers understood—and the immense understanding of relationships between people and computers. In the beginning, I developed my knowledge into the ability to create small programs to help with computer interaction, and to better the human race. Until I was eight years old, I firmly believed that the computer world held a positive outlook on the human race. I wanted to work for the government, providing my skills and services for the greater good. From the ages of nine until about seventeen, I created a portfolio of computer code outlining viruses, worms, Trojan horses, scientific study guides, automated defense mechanisms, and the like. On a whim, one afternoon when I was thirteen, I released a harmless virus over the internet designed to stop the user’s screensaver from activating by keeping the mouse moving aimlessly around the screen. Several months into my nineteenth birthday, I contracted my own virus, and having forgotten how to disable it, was forced to erase the hard drive and start clean. Sometime around my sixteenth birthday, it had occurred to me that working for “the man” wasn’t going to happen. They didn’t like my mind, and were terrified at the way it functioned. They abhorred my inclination towards the societal evils; however objectified I viewed them to be. Another fateful afternoon, on a trip to Mexico with my surviving parent, I decided that I would attempt something that I had only dreamt about before: I’d hack the government. Aboard the airplane that carried my mother and me to Mexico, I connected to the internet via the GTE Airfone onboard. It took me the latter half of the two-and-a-half hour flight to crack the dummy server using my mediocre computer, and the extremely lagging connection. Upon touchdown in Mexico, my mother and I were taken aside by Mexican and American authorities. I have since been electronically monitored for all of my activities online. I have also, since, discovered ways of circumventing my government watchers both virtual and real. As part of my agreements, including the monitoring, I became a pro-bono government tool used as needed per my abilities. If the president forgot his password to his email account, I reset it for him. If the higher authorities decided that the Russians were completing their section of the space station far too faster than the Americans, it became my task to move their communications satellite by a few inches—or change an access code. When terrorists took down the twin towers, I became a human filter for thousands of electronic transmissions between al-Qaeda and their followers. They helped me secure employment, and keep my internet going, despite my restrictions to dial-up. They covered my tracks, and provided training. However, they still feared my mind, and the way it works. In my mind, good and evil are solely objective dependent on the person other than the golden rules set by cult—“organized religion”—followers. Around my twenty-third birthday, after they had terminated my stint working for them as an agent of the Department of Homeland Security, I decided I’d use the training they had earlier provided for my better well-being. While I was unable to actually work for the highest bidder, due to my profound love for my limited freedom, I discovered my services could be of use in other realms. I became a writer. And, a contract assassin, but mostly a writer. Most people could say that I acquired a certain degree of dementia as a result of my adventures thus far in life. I feel otherwise. If I neither believe in good nor evil as defined by the laws of society, how could we define what I had become? At first, I wasn’t really a killer…much. I didn’t possess the cold, heartless, soulless requirements of being a detached killing machine. So, to mend the missing elements, I took on a position at Disneyland at the ripe age of twenty. After three years at the “happiest place on Earth”, I was quickly stripped of any traces of humanity, and left with a decrepit, emotionless shell of a human being. Feeling quite justified with my dissatisfaction towards all humanity, I started small. I advertised my hacking abilities, and progressed from there. Two years later, I decided that being a contract assassin wasn’t enough. I needed a “fun job”, so to speak. Not that ridding the earth of unnecessary evil—solely unnecessary because they served no purpose to my overall future evil—didn’t provide enough entertainment in and of itself, but I needed something to occupy myself. A cover, if you will. That cover came as Activision Publishing, a videogame company where I served as a videogame tester. Being that my sexual orientation helped to obscure my primary occupation, this job helped mask my other “interests” better than being a homosexual alone did. Soon, hacking proved to be a fruitless endeavor. It only took me mere seconds to stifle the attempts of even the brightest prodigies the world had to offer. No one could hold a candle to me. And, for the first time ever in my computer history, I actually became bored with the idea of toying with people online. My threats of dissolution through the digital world had lost all meaning. My reputation online had started to dwindle, and I had lost my following of newbies and veteran hackers alike. At the ripe age of twenty-three, I had hit bottom in the digital manipulation world. I needed a change. The government had initially come to my rescue at the age of seventeen, providing assignments that required my physical presence somewhere. I had undergone physical training in various martial arts, studied several different spoken and written languages, practiced for several hours at shooting ranges on different styles of firearms and rifles, and exhausted every method of computer espionage. I had thoroughly lost all faith in humanity, and turned my attention to the electronic world. When the Matrix movies premiered, I lost all faith in everything. The personas that I had worked so hard to create were not my own. I never knew, and still don’t know, who I am. I can instantly be whomever I choose to be dependent on the situation, but I don’t know who I am. While most people can view this as a flaw, my fellow agents and I share the same experiences and hardships. I, however, have chosen to disregard the definitions of good and evil, and proceed at my own discretions. Some may find it quite difficult to believe that an eccentric, talented, intelligent, gay man might be at all capable of anything remotely associated with being a hit man. I had succeeded at creating the perfect cover. The second persona required a degree of professionalism I easily could exhibit. Since I only deeply cared for myself and not anybody else on the entire planet—with obvious exception to friends and family—I found that disposing of certain scum was no different to me than playing a video game. Pulling from several similar movies, I found that piping classical music into my head during “jobs” helped to ease and steady the nerves. I had to start somewhere, but didn’t exactly know where. My searches on the internet brought up several small jobs that I could easily pull on my days off during free time. Small-time jobs lead to bigger things—all involving the death of someone for some reason. At first, I made a point of not asking why or with whom I was dealing, and asked that my payments be made directly in cash. As time went on, I sobered up and began making certain demands, requiring certain tasks to be completed to my specification before I rendered services. The first jobs required menial things like cutting brake lines on vehicles, installing a remote kill switch on a vehicle linked to a small patch of explosive, spiking a shipment of wine to take out a whole group of thugs, etc. They were menial, but they established my presence. To add to the cases, I began integrating a little bit of my mental creativity to help cover my trails. One evening, after dropping off a coworker at his home, I was given the task of cutting the brake lines on a certain black Honda belonging to a mafia runner. This runner had begun to leak information to the Feds, and he had to be dealt with, hoping that I could easily make the job look like an accident. The man always left for work around the time that I was arriving from work. I had a twenty-minute operating window, and figured that cutting the lines would be noticed immediately at the first stop sign this man encountered. In order to create the accident, I had to disable the vehicle in such a manner that would cause the brakes to die at a higher speed. Rather than severing the cable lines leading to the rear brakes, I chose to puncture the hydraulic lines leading to the front brakes and file down the cable lines for the rear brakes. I sat across the street and watched the forward lines slowly drip their fluid, and waited for the target. After twenty minutes, the man emerged and turned on his vehicle. He pulled out and stopped at the light. I followed. Watching the fluorescent trail of brake fluid illuminated by my headlights, I followed the vehicle up the on-ramp to the 710 North freeway. The wear upon the cables of the rear brakes along with the forced leakage of the forward brakes sealed my efforts to take down the vehicle. Thoughts of remorse began to flow into my mind, but were immediately drowned by Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto. The job was done and I could sleep. Payment would be delivered the next morning in a backpack at the Dumpsters behind the ice rink. The next morning, I awoke to reports that a black Honda had crashed over the edge of the tall over-crossing interchange between the 710 freeway and the 105 freeway, falling several hundred feet before landing upside-down in a concrete lot and exploding into flames. The driver, found crushed between the steering wheel and the roof didn’t survive. The interchange would be closed for further investigation for the rest of the morning, but that didn’t affect my drive to work. My bag of money, two thousand dollars in small bills, was delivered that morning. Later that afternoon, I made a cash payment to three credit cards. The mafia, Mexican Mafia to be specific, liked my efforts, and became my references and referrals for more jobs. Over the next few years, I became one of the best contract assassins available. Unfortunately, I became notorious for disposing of anyone that attempted to change my requirements. The original contacts from my first few jobs needed to be silenced. Not by mafia decree, but by my own. And, they were. One million points. That’s what it meant to me. Just another videogame score in the great survival horror game of life. |
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