Hiroaki Dewa, at your service.
My surname, by virtue of being fairly unique, tended to leave a lasting impression on people. They’d sometimes ask me to write it down, and bam! They’d get hit with the double whammy. Not that my name had ever benefited me in any tangible way.
Especially not on the battlefield.
There I was, all by my lonesome, weaving my way through decrepit skyscrapers, with nothing but my trusty SCAR-H by my side.
A giant crack ran through the ground, tearing into the earth like an open wound. Among the wreckage was a fully functioning crane; it seemed to beg for someone to take it away from the surrounding destruction before it was swallowed whole. The streets were cluttered with debris and upturned cars.
Mighty structures that had once kissed the heavens were now jagged heaps of iron and rubble; cars that had carried their drivers through thick and thin were hollowed out and devoid of life. Both were littered with the broken shards of their former utility, and it was a terribly lonely sight.
There was death, destruction, and chaos as far as the eye could see.
But amid all that, there was a glimmering beacon of life, shining like the sun.
Gunshots, explosions, and impassioned screams breathed life back into the desolate street and gave the upturned cars renewed purpose as makeshift cover. Attempting to count every individual bullet among the swarm would’ve been a fool’s errand, but suffice to say, the vehicles served their purpose well.
So yeah, as I was saying... Names were meaningless out here.
Code names, on the other hand, were widespread. They called me “Hound Nine.” If you tried using your real name in earnest for a day, you’d be lying in a ditch by nightfall.
I positioned myself against an armored vehicle and flicked my gun’s safety switch to “off.” I then pulled out a pocket mirror to scan the area.
“Huh?!”
The second I popped that sucker open, a red dot began slithering across my body.
A laser! This is bad; he’s got his sights on me. Definitely got an itchy trigger finger.
I rolled out of sight to a nearby pile of rubble. Sparks flew off the body of the car, and then a gunshot rang out in the distance.
Judging by how long it took for the sound to catch up, the shot must’ve been taken from at least 400 meters away. A sniper, no doubt.
“Not half bad,” I said.
Less than five minutes had passed since I set foot on the battlefield. All means of communication were currently blocked off by electromagnetic interference; GPS signals were no exception.
Despite all that, this deadeye had been able to spot me and single me out as an enemy on this chaotic battlefield as though it were child’s play. His expertise and swift decision-making skills were unquestionable.
What he did lack was decent arms and a dash of luck.
Had it not been for the laser sights, he might’ve gotten the drop on me... If I were fresh fish, that is.
“But not good enough.” I cracked a devious grin.
Predicaments like this were precisely why I had opted for the SCAR-H over the SCAR-L, despite the latter’s lighter weight and superior magazine size. I had also coughed up a pretty penny to equip the little rascal with a state-of-the-art optical sight. Why, you might ask? Well, the SCAR-H was chambered in 7.62mm cartridges, which allowed it to achieve an effective firing range of over 700 meters with the standard barrel variation—more than enough to deal with a pesky sniper on my back.
To make it as a mercenary, you couldn’t just be a jack-of-all-trades; you had to be a master of everything.
“See you in hell!”
I popped the selector into full auto, planted the gun firmly against a tiny gap in the rubble, held down the muzzle to minimize recoil, and sprayed like there was no tomorrow.
A truckload of empty shell casings later, I caught a glimpse of a blurry figure plummeting to its doom way out in the distance.
“Next time, try putting your back into it... and the same goes for you guys too!” I spun my trusty SCAR-H around and lobbed a ’nade from the MK 13 EGLM I had mounted under the barrel.
They’d thought it was safe to peek out because I had no means of retaliating, but they had another thing coming.
The 40mm grenade emerged with a loud thwump, a sound comically out of place among all the sharp cracks of assault rifles. Slowly but surely, it soared over to the enemies’ hiding spot.
“Update your algorithms and try again, bozos!”
“Oh, God!”
After gracing me with an eerily realistic scream, they scrambled back behind cover without realizing what a futile move it was. Grenade launchers did not require direct line of sight, so all these guys could do was blankly stare at the ’nade as it flew over their cover and detonated right in the middle of it.
“Nothing personal,” I said, grinning even wider as the enemy soldiers flailed through the air.
It wasn’t really satisfying to trash-talk NPSs (Non-Player Soldiers), although it could be done for the sake of immersion. NPSs turned into a series of ones and zeroes upon death, so it was easy to tell them apart from regular players.
“Man, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” I muttered, switching out the empty magazine. “You’re all NPSs? That must mean that the sniper from earlier was one too.”
At that moment, a music track began to play, signaling the end of the simulation.
“Wait, that’s it?! I just got on a few minutes ago, what gives?!”
No one was around to answer my complaints.
The battle-ravaged city instantly fell away, seamlessly transitioning into a drab control room. Besides the fifty-something foldable chairs, the room was completely barren. The striking emptiness gave it an otherworldly vibe. It was clean, sure, but that sterility made it all the more stifling. I personally found it a little charming, though.
A robotic voice resonated throughout the room. “The combat simulation has been completed. Here are the results.”
The massive screen mounted on the wall displayed various notable stats: damage taken, accuracy, ammo expenditure, play time, and the total score, which was calculated by throwing together the four initial variables.
Under normal circumstances, one’s total score would be posted on a leaderboard and compared to that of other competing players.
[1st place: “Hound Nine”]
[2nd place: ]
[3rd place: ]
But these were no normal circumstances.
“Is the game dying or what? Sure feels like it these days,” I asked the inconspicuous character idling by the wall.
“You’ve been the only active player these last five days, Hound Nine,” she replied. This was Raven, an AI assistant whose appearance was sickeningly sweet; she had beautiful blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and glistening, ocean-blue eyes.