> F L O O D < -- (A Mostly Text Adventure)

[kaninchen]

You begin to readjust your aim. Kneecap? Center mass? The former would slow him, the latter would kill him. Would the kneecap actually slow him, though? His momentum would... Never mind. Your hesitation is of little benefit to you, and of great benefit to the sniper. A second shot fired, grazing the side of his torso, and then he tackles you to the ground.

_{is this the end}

Struggling, sweating, grunting. His rifle is pressed down on your throat, his body weight holding your torso down. Your feet kick uselessly, your arms attempt to lift the rifle. His downward push is nigh impossible to fight against. You gasp for air, eyes beginning to lose focus. Heart beating, adrenaline pumping. Struggle, writhe, kick. He's too strong... the determination in his eyes. He wants to kill you. He has to kill you. He knows you're his target, and he will not let up.

_{it cant be}

it is harder to think

_{please i need to live}

things are starting to get blurry

_why

sounds are fading

_help

i feel like im

f

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"Pat?"

"Pat, can you hear me?"

"Pat, you need to pay attention."

"PAT!"

[viridianarcanist]

Try to not panic. Fail.

[knightlygale]

> Valerie?

[kaninchen]

Author's Note: The smaller, italicized text from the computer is meant to simulate "non-essential" words. Think of it as the voice being "in the background" and unfocused, so to speak.

Your eyes flutter open. Everything is blurry. Vague shapes move around you. You breath in and out, inhale, exhale, but air does not enter or exit your lungs. It's fluid, thick and viscous, but you aren't choking or suffocating.

As your vision becomes more focused, you realize you're floating. The fluid surrounds you, clear and occasionally bubbling, but dense enough that you hardly move. You don't have a left arm, or either of your legs. Various tubes, wires, and IV injections are inserted into you at various places. You feel something in the back of your head, and your eyes slowly shift upwards to see a thick cord running across the ceiling, connected to a computer on the far side of the room. The moving shape are people, wearing labcoats, holding clipboards, checking screens and flipping switches.

"Pat, you need to pay attention."

You don't move. You can't move, other than the automatic response of your breathing, and the arduously slow shifting of your eyes. A face comes close to the glass. A man's face. Although your vision is still blurry (not helped by the liquid, nor the refraction of the tank's glass walls), you can see some features. Rosy, pock-marked cheeks. Dark eyes. Hair beginning to go grey. Deep lines on his face, not from age but from stress. Stubble. Wire-frame glasses on his nose.

"I know it's very stressful, Pat. I'm sorry. But you need to be strong and pay attention, okay?" His voice is a little gravelly, and he smiles faintly. "You'll be alright. You can rest later."

A large screen connected to the computer clicks on, displaying a bullet. The thing in the back of your head feels slightly warm, and you see it, clear as day. Not with your eyes, but your brain. The images. Fed directly into the vision and memory centers of your head.

"Alright Val, continue." The man leans away from the glass, and your view of him becomes vague once again. "I'll check the sedation, there might have been a hiccup in the supply if she's become aware of her surroundings like this."

<Very well, Doctor Lockwood.>

A familiar voice. But... why? Why is it familiar? This feels like a memory, but it feels like the present as well. Is this real? Are you alive right now?

<We shall continue, v1201.>

"Call her Pat," the gruff voice calls out. "She deserves it."

<As you say, Doctor Lockwood. Pat Summers, we will now continue your training.>

The image on the screen clicks. The same bullet, but a cutaway diagram view.

^{<The .338 Lapua Magnum (8.6×70mm or 8.58×70mm) is a rimless, bottlenecked, centerfire rifle cartridge from Earth. It is used for military and police sniper rifles on Earth, but is smuggled here to Xerxes. It is not widely used here, as most ammunition forges refuse to change their machining to create these bullets. As such, it is a rare and coveted munition, typically used by mercenaries and bounty hunters. The loaded cartridge is 14.93 mm (0.588 in) in diameter (rim) and 93.5 mm (3.68 in) long. It can penetrate better-than-standard military body armor at ranges up to 1,000 metres (1,090 yd) and has a maximum effective range of about 1,750 metres (1,910 yd). Muzzle velocity is dependent on barrel length, seating depth, and powder charge, and varies from 880 to 915 m/s (2,890 to 3,000 ft/s) for commercial loads with 16.2-gram (250 gr) bullets, which corresponds to about 6,525 J (4,813 ft⋅lbf) of muzzle energy.>}

As the computer speaks, you can hear it, not with your ears but ... you just do. Every few seconds, the image on the screen clicks to a new one, and you then see it perfectly in your head. Different views, different angles. Photographs, still images, of the bullet being chambered, fired, shells ejecting. You see it, you see it all. But again, not with your eyes. It's in your head. But isn't that also what seeing is? You remember now, much earlier, when the computer taught you about anatomy, about eyes and vision and seeing, and how the nerves connect to your brain. If eyes collect outside data and send it to your brain as an image, how is that any different from a wire plugged into the back of your skull? It's the same image, the same thought, the same experience... right?

<Before we go to the next rifle cartridge, I must perform a diagnostic on your training. Pat, please acknowledge you can hear me.>

Your lips barely move, you don't even say words, but in your head you say "... Yes. I can hear you." It's just a thought. But the computer knows.

<Scenario: You are a sniper. You have a target. Name the steps for eliminating the threat.>

Lips shifting ever so slightly, a slight twitch in your chest as your vocal cords attempt to speak the words you think in your mind.

"Hunt down the target using all known information, then find a hidden vantage point. Aim at the target, taking into account wind speed, bullet drop, temperature, and humidity, so that the bullet will strike center mass. Exhale completely, so your breath does not shake the rifle. Brace the rifle against your shoulder. Squeeze the trigger, do not pull. Kill the target with one bullet. Repeat any and all previous steps if the target is not eliminated."

<Good. Shorthand.>

"Hunt. Aim. Exhale. Brace. Squeeze. Kill. Repeat."

<Good. You are progressing quickly. Your training should be completed in approximately four months.>

The man walks back up to the glass. "I'm glad to hear that, Val. That should be when we have the prosthetics ready." He offers another slight smile, with tired eyes. "Alright, I'm going to return the sedative to previous levels. Continue the training, Val."

<Understood.>

You feel warmth from the various tubes stuck into your body. It spreads outwards, slowly. Your vision becomes unfocused, your eyelids heavy. The only thing that does not become less clear is the voice and the images. They are still as sharp as ever in your head. Another image clicks into view. A different bullet. Bigger. Deadlier.

^{<Now, we move on. The .50 BMG is another Earthling munition smuggled onto Xerxes...>}

More images. Click. Click. Every few seconds. Now even the images fade out. Click. Click. And then the voice. Click. Click.

And then the clicks.

And then it is dark.

And then two voices. One is the computer's. One is the man's. They speak in unison.

<Hunt> "Healing"

<Aim> "Acceptance"

<Exhale> "Empathy"

<Brace> "Belief"

<Squeeze> "Safety"

<Kill> "Kinship"

<Repeat> "Restoration"

They echo, again and again, until they fade out.

You are alone. It is dark.

And then...?

[knightlygale]

You wake up. A few friendlier scavengers were watching as the sniper was charging you and attacked him just before he was about to kill you. They clearly knew who was the innocent one here.

[viridianarcanist]

Take a deep breath and open your eyes. Hope that you see something pleasant.

[nuggies]

test your senses. look at your hand(s), sniff the air, feel your surroundings, can you hear anything?

[kaninchen]

...Visions.

They're not the images from before, no. They're not rigid, still. Click, click, one after another. No, these are... fluid. They move. Voices speak but you can't understand them. Blurry faces. Indistinct features.

You feel your surroundings. They keep shifting. These aren't images. These aren't memories. They're not the present either. Is it... the future? That can't be right. You can't see the future. It's impossible.

But you can't shake that feeling. They feel real, like you're going to be there. Or, were there. Are there?

You focus, trying to see your surroundings. A city, the hot sun beating down. The smell, after a storm. A dampness, drying. Blood, washing away.

Then, it changes.

A grassy field. Something looms in the distance. Darkness. It makes you uncomfortable. But the sky is blue, and you think you see clouds. The grass tickles your hand as you brush your fingers along the top. Loamy dirt squishes underfoot. The air smells fresh.

You are pulled violently towards the darkness. A wall of darkness. It stretches to either side, infinitely. The grass dies away as you come closer and closer, moving what feels like hundreds of miles in a matter of seconds. You are pulled through the wall, flailing, pushing, kicking. You attempt to scream, but blood fills your mouth. Bodies surround you. You are pulled through them. The smell is wretch-worthy. You close your eyes and cover your face.

The pulling stops. The disgusting warmth goes away. The blood is gone from your mouth. Carefully, slowly, you open your eyes.

Something pleasant. Wonderful.

Neon lights, blurring into one another. The sounds of life. A hand reaches out, grabbing yours. It's comforting. Their fingers intertwine with yours as they hoist you out from the bodies, away from the wall of darkness. They tug you up, and you fall to your hands and knees, coughing. A cold, hard ground. They place a hand on your back, consoling you. The feeling of this touch is ... alien to you. But it feels wonderful. You begin to cry.

And as you cry, the tears become floating prisms. The neon lights are split into a rainbow. More faces, still vague, but... you can tell they're smiling. At you. They say words, unintelligible, but you can tell they're for you. To make you happy. To comfort you. To make you feel safe.

The wall comes back into view. This time, you are not as scared. These faces, these comforting presences... they stand beside you.

You can do it.

You can do it.

But your work isn't done yet. Not yet, at least, not in the present. The vision fades. The smell of wet stone and metal, the buzzing sound of electric lights, the reflection of neon signs upon rain-slick roads. The fingers are no longer intertwined with yours, but you still feel the presence of being ... wanted. Liked. Loved, even.

Through the wall, you see a light. A tunnel of corpses through the wall. But that light... it's where you need to be.

Fists clenched, teeth gritted, you stride up to the wall, and dive in. You swim through, eyes locked firmly at the end. Grit and determination swells through your heart. The light gets closer and closer. You arrive.

Lightning flashes. You blink.

The sniper is on top of you, pressing the rifle against your throat. Rain is ferried in through the open window, upon a howling wind. It splatters upon your face, mixing with the sweat dripping off the sniper's brow. You look him in the eyes. You see anger, but then he returns your gaze. The anger turns... to fear. He hesitates. His grip lessens ever so slightly. You can breathe, and you immediately take in a deep gasp of air.

You look him in the eyes. Adrenaline and willpower rushes through your veins.

And your first exhale is not one of struggling and grunting, but words.

"I've got more important things to do than die, you son of a bitch."

[viridianarcanist]

Remove weapon from the sniper's possession. Ensure future compliance.

[knightlygale]

GRAB WEAPON GRAB WEAPON GRAB WEAPON

[fuzzysocks]

Grab his weapon and smack his face with the butt of the rifle.

[kaninchen]

The sniper's weight shifts slightly, surprised by your comeback. You push up, forcing the rifle closer to him and further from your neck. The elbow joint of your metal arm makes a clicking noise -- not of mechanical failure, but of intentional function. It locks into place, giving you ample breathing room. Your eyes glance around, taking in the situation.

The rifle, which you and your opponent struggle over. Large, rigid polymer construction, bolt-action. A full barrel-length suppressor. Words etched into the frame: L96 AWS. Near the window, a box of ammunition. Bold letters: .338 Lapua Magnum. Below that, masking tape, and words written in black marker: SUBSONIC.

Images come back into your mind. The training. The visions. It's a brief flash, nearly imperceptible to the outside observer, but recognition crosses over your face. This explains the muffled sound of the shots. You're not certain how you heard the shots before the bullet struck, since the sniper was using subsonic ammo, but with all the things you've been seeing and hearing in the last hour... well, that's not the weirdest thing for you to notice, that's for certain.

An idea crosses your mind. Yes, subsonic means less pressure, but the recoil should be enough to jar him. Your non-metal hand slides over to the trigger. Your index finger brushes the magazine release, your thumb presses the trigger.

PT-FUT

The recoil is enough to shake his grip. The scope even strikes his wrist as it jerks back, and he yells something. You aren't sure what -- even suppressed, the sound of the shot stunned you slightly -- but it sounds vaguely like swear words. He stumbles back a bit, giving you a chance to grab the rifle. Grunting, you shove the buttstock towards his face, almost like stabbing with a spear. Not as harmful as swinging it like a bat, but you need the extra reach. Unfortunately, he grabs the stock with his uninjured hand, stopping it from smashing his nose in.

You get up onto your feet, pushing more and more, and he pushes back. You grip the barrel with both hands, feeling the uncomfortable heat, but you don't flinch. You push him, closer and closer to the window. A cruel smile passes over his face.

"Big mistake, bitch," he snarls, using one hand to pull back the bolt. The empty cartridge pings out the side. He shoves the bolt back into place. You're holding the barrel, and it's aimed right at your chest. He pulls the trigger.

Click.

Suggested Audio Experience:

You both freeze. His violent smirk turns to confusion. He glances at the floor. The magazine. You ejected it before firing.

But then you both notice your pistol, lying on the ground. 13 rounds, by your count. Loaded. Primed. You glance back at him, and he glances back at you.

He shoves you away, tossing the rifle to the side and scrambling for the pistol. You chase after him.

He grabs it, spins around... and you've drawn your knife from your backpack shoulder strap. Metal hand, grabbing his, forcing the pistol away.

PAK PAK PAK

Three shots, as he struggles against your grip. Left hook, aimed at your jaw. You swing back, using the grip of the knife to smash his knuckles and send his punch careening off to the side. Both arms neutralized. A metal knee to the stomach, thumping against the bullet-resistant vest, and he grunts. Your leg then pulls up higher, foot braced against his stomach. A forward kick, sending him tumbling. The pistol clatters to the ground, skipping across the floor, landing near the open window.

Deciding the pistol isn't worth it, he draws his own knife. Long, with a slightly forward-curving blade, and a knuckle-duster grip. Swing, slash. You step back, avoiding the knife as it grazes your tank top across the stomach. He stabs, you grab. Metal upon metal screeches as the blade slips through the grip of your metal hand, the tip of the blade aimed square at your heart. Squeezing, crushing. The metal screams as it is slowly crushed by your metal hand. He attempts to pull away, but his fingers are locked into the knuckle grip. He attempts to look away, but his gaze is locked with yours. He shudders for a split-second, giving you time to think.

Okay, breathe. Hundreds of thousands of instructions have been wired into your head. They're all there, and you have to sift through them, fast. Martial arts? That'll do nicely.

You flip the knife around in your hand, reversing the grip. In a flash, your blade arm goes up to his, elbows touching, forearm wrapped around his upper arm, using the back of the knife blade as leverage. His entire right arm is locked. A downward kick at his leg, dislocating his kneecap. Using his locked arm, you flip him forward, sending him tumbling and crashing across the floor.

The sniper scrambles to his feet, wincing as he keeps his weight on his non-injured leg. He spits on the ground, a thick dry ball of phlegm. Your mouth feels sticky from exertion as well, and a drop of sweat runs down your nose. You lock eyes again. His body armor is heavy, too heavy, and he quickly unzips it and tosses it to the side, revealing a black compression shirt that hugs his muscles tightly, which heave as he sucks in several raspy breaths. He tugs his helmet off, swinging it wildly at you. This catches you off-guard, and your vision goes spotty and white as it strikes you across your face. You take a few steps back, and warm blood runs from your nose.

He goes for the pistol again, perhaps realizing that it would even the odds in this knife fight. With his bad leg, he nearly topples over as he nears the window.

You stand there, breathing heavily, eyes slightly lidded. The back of your non-metal hand wipes your nose, and you spit on the ground this time around. It's cloudy with blood.

Using one arm to brace against the window sill, the sniper pulls himself up. His body is shaking, sweat and rain drip off his face, and his fingers fumble to wrap around the pistol grip.

He turns. The pistol is aimed at you.

And then a knife strikes his now unarmored chest. The pistol drops again. He shudders violently.

Still standing in place, right arm extended, you continue to stare into his eyes. A direct hit, a perfect throw. Your hand wipes your face again, then drops to your side once more. Your intense gaze does not leave him, and you watch his pupils shake and begin to dilate. He coughs, sending a light spray of blood out from his lips. His hands struggle to hold him up, leaning against the windowsill.

"F... F-Fuck," is all he can manage to say, before limply falling backwards out the open window.

Lightning flashes.

You wobble, exhausted.

[Fish]

Whisper in your quietest voice, "have a nice trip, see you next fall"

[fuzzysocks]

Work through his supplies and gather all you can, whoever sent him is going to realize something's up before long.

[baropin]

Take five seconds to gather yourself and then take a look at what remains of his supplies here. With all the gunshots, his friends definitely know something's up, and if they didn't see him fall out of the window they'll definitely notice his absence on the radio. I wouldn't take more than a minute to do whatever you need to here before moving position, lest you get into another life-or-death struggle. If you see some of those mines, maybe you could leave a present for them, like they did for those unfortunate scavs.