Thanks, and enjoy.

Recreation without StarCraft

The mess hall was quiet. Each spoonful of food upward was met with a sullen, dull, face. What were they to do in the afternoon for recreation? Play single player missions of StarCraft? Depressed beyond belief, the soldiers pondered what they would be doing.

Hawk finished his Cheerios™ first, and stood up. Gliding over to the least expected place the assembled group would think of him to be, went to the library. A couple soldiers finished their breakfast, and followed him. SqueakyMonkey and WLJ chatted nervously to each other, in hushed whispers that the other team members couldn’t hear. They walked together to the library, and caught sight of Hawk.

Studying a newspaper, he sat there, and looking up, waved over for the duo to join him.

“Hey, guys, what’s up? Yeah, I can’t go online too, so I’m just checking out the funnies,” stated a depressed Hawk. Without insulting people online, there seemed so little in his life.

“Nothing much, Hawk. WLJ and I are thinking about heading over to the infirmary and sniffing up some helium. Eh, what about it,” casually asked SqueakyMonkey.

“We are,” questioned a confused WarLeaderJustin.

“Yes, we are,” reinforced SqueakyMonkey.

“Uh, OK, guys, I’ll join you. I never did like the paper any ways. Do you know what irritates me the most, though? OK, on every other day, the funnies are hidden in some damn “Living” section, stuck somewhere in the middle. But on Sunday, the Living is at the very front, but the funnies are printed on a different page! In fact, you find them in the center of all these ads! Damn!”

WLJ started to whistle and shoved his hands into his pockets, as SqueakyMonkey made a vain attempt to make idle chatter with Hawk.

Preparations for the Electronic Entertainment Expo

The E3; Is there any other convention that has a more orgy of developers, fans, and marketers all squished together in one location? No, there simply isn’t. Some games’ success relies on the coverage provided by E3, and those who go there. Dozens of magazine corporations go to the yearly event, and always are faithful to bring a huge fan base even before initial release of the game.

If there is one place to shut down games early on, it is E3.

James Kane Lyle never had a normal life. His father was a heavy alcoholic, and his mother left them both when he was a tender age of six. As a result, there was no one there but him to absorb the beatings given by his drunken father.

When his father wasn’t seriously drunk, he worked as a mechanic out at the local car garage. Perhaps there he picked up his hatred of technology. Whenever something went awry with the machinery, a swift blow to James’ head would result. In reflection, his father, working drunk, was as dangerous as when he was at home, but the mechanic in charge never bothered to oversee the activities.

James fled home when he was twelve. Gathering his few belongings, he stumbled to the nearest town, and tried to begin his new life. Working for a local moving company, he was earning minimal wages until the accident.

Crashing down a flight of stairs made James Kane Lyle permanently disabled. His entire life would have to be spent in a wheelchair from that day forward. During his stay at the hospital, he restlessly healed day after day with plastic tubes running throughout his body, trapping him. In fact, he stayed for two full months, and James was not the kind of man who could stand it.

After his release, much to surprise of his relatives, he applied for a community college and worked himself to get an engineering degree. However, in the summer 1985, James was reported missing, and further investigation showed that he had left a letter detailing that he had committed suicide.

His co-workers didn’t identify as one to commit suicide. He wasn’t the type, they repeated over and over.

The Real Gathering of Developers

Every try and back stab six guys on a 7 versus 1 computer match up? It’s not easy, unless you put them in confusion. Luckily, Blizzard had been doing just that, trying to make its missions convert as possible. But, as with all the other back stabs, the cover has to be blown off sooner or later. In this case, Westwood Studios and BlueByte Software has decided sooner.

“Welcome, everyone. This Electronic Entertainment Exposition will be successful this year, no doubt. We’ve attracted a larger audience as a whole. In fact, numbers show that our market grew a huge 46.7% over the year 2000 alone,” Brett Sperry loudly announced.

A huge applause took place, vainly trying to fill the stuffy conference room. They all had important places to go, and important places to be, for they were important people. Each of them was a leader of extraordinary game developing teams.

So why the hell had they been called to such a strange meeting?

“As you all know, Diablo 2 has slowed down the game market terribly. Hopefully, this E3 will expedite the rate of consumer buys. Unfortunately, we can’t do that with, uh, the latest developments happening in our field.

“As you know, Thomas and I have been victims. We are victims of hatred heaped on by another company, one that aims to promote their game by killing our games prematurely. Call it game abortion, if you will.

“I for one will not stand for this type of abortion. We have put in years to make these games, millions of dollars, and it is all ruined by petty rivalry. Or not so petty, if you take in the amount of damage that these attacks have created.”

“Your point,” interjected Will Wright, the man behind Sim City. He was as knowledgeable about the recent attacks as any other man present, and was equally so apprehensive about them. But, what was the use of arguing the plight if they could create more business by attending the E3 convention, not locked up in some conference room?

“We know who it is,” flatly stated Thomas Hertzler, from across the room.

No one spoke for a couple seconds. Finally, Will had the courage to weakly ask the question that danced around all their heads.

“Who is it?”

“Blizzard Entertainment. They want StarCraft to run as long as possible.”

A few more seconds of silence.

Then the anvil dropped on them.

Excited whispers bled through even the thick walls of the conference room, but luckily, the commotion was blocked out by the even more rowdy noise of the convention itself.

“Blizzard’s behind this?”

“Should’ve known, those bastards.”

“Always Blizzard, always god-forsaken Blizzard!”

Brett’s harsh clearing of his throat finally reclaimed order.

“Men, we have to make sense of it. Blizzard is putting in an estimated two million dollars in keeping us in line. So far, their investment has not paid off, but they’re getting there. I propose that we not let them allow to tech up so far up the tree.”

“And how do you propose to do that, Brett,” asked Will Wright, once again the one to ask the question on everyone’s mind.

“It’s quite simple, really. All we need to do is chip in a few thousands of dollars. We’ll be able to maintain a force twice as large as the operation that Blizzard is running, at a minimal amount of money for each of us to maintain. Then, we use it against them, to shut them down, to blow up their buildings, to kill off their employees, etceteras.”

“You have such a sweet heart, Brett,” mocked Thomas, his eyes cocked at Brett, his focus switched from a rotating pencil in someone’s hand.

“I know, Tom. I know. Are we all unanimous that this is the way to go?”

The hands came up. It was unanimous.

PC Gamer

Rob Smith turned his head to the voice yelling at him. It belonged to Greg Vederman, making a rare trip out of the Hardware section of the Expo. As Greg caught up to Rob, they both started to admire another one of the spectacular shows.

“C’mon, Westwood’s expecting us,” Rob spoke, his voice inter-mingled with a hint of a British accent.

The two men, who were respected at varying levels, walked down the aisle, admiring the occasional booth babe and catching a glimpse of an interactive demo here and there. A lot of greetings were thrown here and there, the reason being that PC Gamer coverage was so wanted. They finally made their way up to the large booth that was rented by Westwood Studious.

“Welcome, Brett’s still in a meeting, he’ll be with you shortly,” greeted a marketer, who had almost no idea what computer games were. He was appropriately dressed for the important occasion, sporting an Italian suit and a rich tie. This only strengthened the point that he was not a game developer.

Developers of E3 have different styles of dressing themselves. They are the ones who identify with Wood Stock.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “WLJ, you weren’t even alive to be at Wood Stock.” Chances are, neither were you, so :P

Brett emerged from a darkened doorway and spotted the pair. Waving them over to a couple of seats next to a large computer display, he himself pointed towards two aides and proceeded to take his seat.

“Hi, Rob! Hey, Greg! Long time no see,” greeted the enthusiastic CEO.

“Yeah, it’s been almost two months now,” Greg replied gruffly, his voice hinting with a bit of sarcasm. His eyes were blood-shot red. The magazine demanded a lot of him lately, and he couldn’t find a really good game around the office to let go of his pressures.

“Greg, shut it. Pleasure to meet you once again, Brett,” Rob spoke up. He shot a disapproving glance at Greg, who in turn shrugged it off, and wandered his eyes towards the computer display.

“So, what do you have in store for us,” asked Greg, in a languid monologue. His hands ran over the mouse and fingers to the arrow keys, his normal position when computing.

“Uh, we had the demo of Command and Conquer 2, but that’s been somewhat delayed, due to unexpected accidents.”

“Yeah, we heard about that. Hey, do you have any comments about the, uh, ‘Internet collapse’,” questioned an interested Rob. He stared down at Greg, and nodded disapproval of his uncaring actions. Greg continued to ignore his Editor, and fiercely concentrated on a piece of lint in his pocket.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I believe that it’s sick and perverted that some company out there is trying to sabotage others,” replied Brett in a heightened tone.

This caught Greg’s attention.

“Sabotage? Are you implying that the recent bombings are due to industrial sabotage?”

Rob cocked his eyes a bit, and stared at Brett.

“Do you have any reasons for your suspicion of sabotage, Brett? I’m sure that the publication would love to hear what’s delayed Command and Conquer 2,” questioned Rob, with a hint of excitement peaking through his voice.

“Well, uh, it’s obvious, if you really look at it from an angle such as I have. The only reason that could be feasible for such attacks to be made on a company would be through personal gain. Our security cameras found men in dark uniforms enter the building before being manually shut off. I believe this speaks for itself. These attacks were planned, and who else would plan them besides the people, who have the most to gain from it,” stated Brett, in his most dull and uninterested voice as possible.

It was hard for him not to scream at the two men. From screaming obscenities, and throwing around expensive equipment. Half of his own company board didn’t believe him when he declared that his company had been a target of industrial sabotage. The other half thought he was crazy.

But, the men took their information, and simply took out a notebook. Rob whispered to Greg what to write down, and Brett sighed with relief. These were journalists; they may hound you for the facts, but they won’t form opinions against you for your reasons for your beliefs.

The downside was that journalists always wanted the full, exclusive story.

“Now, what do you believe is the root of our Internet crisis we are experiencing right now? Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s been on the television for about four straight days now,” Rob further inquired, taking a moment to stare up from Greg’s typing.

“I also believe that’s sick and perverted. Some people have hacked into sites, which I condemn strongly. But hacking and shutting down the Internet; well, that’s literally impossible. Or, so we thought. I honestly have no idea what would have instigated a person to do that,” Brett replied.

“Again with the person. Who do you think is causing all this trouble for our computer industry,” asked Rob, his forehead beading with sweat. Greg had been told to copy down the conversation, and his fingers were moving rapidly, making clickety-clicks, the only sound besides the convention interrupting the scene.

“I just have a gut feeling, now if you’ll excuse me, I have some important business to attend to, gentlemen. My competent employees can assist you in any interactive demo that you’d like to view,” Brett flatly muttered, creating his break-away.

“Just one last question, Mr. Sperry,” Rob hastily said.

Mr. Sperry. That was the line. This was no longer a friendly contact conversation. Hell, the information he gave out would certainly make PC Gamer covers. His proper name only reinforced that now. Awkwardly stretching his necktie, he waited a bit, and nodded his head at Rob to continue.

“Yes, well, Mr. Sperry, I’ve been wondering this myself, and so have my readers, probably. Why do you believe your business was targeted,” Rob asked intently, his forehead creased and streams of sweat rolling down his cheeks. The heat was getting to him, and so was a full-blown cover page story.

“I have no comment.”

Greg stared up. They rarely received “no comment.” They were PC Gamer, after all, the most well respected gaming magazines in the business. Games were hit-sellers, and market bin bargains because of their ratings. They had power. It was foolish to try and bypass such power.

But, Brett, bypassed them all right, stepping out of his booth, and walking down the aisle. He folded up his sleeves of his shirt, and proceeded to stare at his competitors. Never had competition been so fierce as this.

Slings grunted as he tried to bring his wheelchair in one full rotation. ColonelCollsy caught this, and chastised him for trying to strain a muscle.

“Now, now, dear, the doctor said that you’ll be out of that wheel chair in weeks, then you can move be yourself. For now, just let me take care of you,” ColonelCollsy reminded him yet again.

Slings hated it. He felt as if his mother was nursing him. The only thing different was that his mother’s lips had only touched his cheeks. This made Slings hate it even more. Often he would complain, and yell in frustration, but ColonelCollsy was always there to calm him down.

No, “mother,” I just need to have a good bitching that’s all, thought Slings.

Anger was building up in him, anger that he was doomed to spend the next two weeks in a wheel chair. The doctor said he was lucky he was alive. Slings replied with a prompt, “Fuck it,” and strained to use his legs. It was to no avail.

The rest of the team was there, loitering about, looking incredulously at the games that would pass as competition for StarCraft. They couldn’t believe Blizzard was worried so about such games as these. In addition, they couldn’t believe that they were risking their lives to protect StarCraft from crappy games such as these.

Drefsab was anxiously strolling around with Nobo, admiring the babe booths, but nothing else. He felt out of place in this world where StarCraft was not the recognized supreme. So did his men. However, Blizzard wanted them there for some reason, and it was becoming evident as Mr. Oliver approached Drefsab.

“Dref, good to meet you here. For a minute, I thought you would have chickened out.”

“What, and miss the greatest convention of gaming history? Of course not.”

“Good, that’s very good. Well, as you may be wondering why we requested you to be here… well, we have reason to believe that Blue Byte Software isn’t acting alone. They knew that we were coming for them, and they knew what we packed. They almost got us too, if not for the charges.”

“Not alone, you say?”

“No. In fact, it seems as if several large companies are working in tandem to counter our attacks. Blizzard wants us to find these companies. They will be our targets next time.”

“Ah, I see. And… you will not acknowledge our affiliation to you if our cover is blown sneaking around a crowded convention attempting to overhear a conversation?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess this message will self-destruct in ten seconds then, huh?”

“Hardy-har-har, Dref. Now get your men to work. We have little time until the convention is over for the day, and the executives would like that information staring back up at them next morning.”

“Right-o, good chap.”

“Whatever.”

The sweat rolled off Slings’ forehead. It was an exhausting day, peering over and under booths, trying to hear tidbits of conversations not meant to be heard by public ear. The only thing pleasing about the day was that in intervals throughout the day, ColonelCollsy would whisper seductive things into Slings’ ear. Besides that, he found it a total waste.

Drefsab and his old-school formation had better luck. He overheard a conversation between the infamous Will Wright of the Sim City series, debating something with Thomas Hertzler, the CEO of Blue Byte Software, or the place of the “Rogue Mission.”

He couldn’t catch many words of what they were saying, but whatever it was, it was a busy subject, and they talked for over a half-hour. Drefsab immediately reported it to Oliver, and he in turn immediately reported it to his secretary. There was no doubt as to what the two were talking about. StarCraft Six. But did they know about the extent of the operation yet?

Both commanders of the elite team decided that they did not.

“I want to strike them down tomorrow. If they want StarCraft to run as long as possible, I believe I know what our target would be. Are our teams prepped?”

“Our men are in excellent shape. Contributions from the, uh, E3 meeting are being wired in, so we should be well funded throughout the duration of the operations.”

“Good. Distribute this to the men. Tell them to follow it religiously, or otherwise, I can be a very mean God.”

“Understood, sir.”

The cold mess hall in which the soldiers ate at was especially quiet that day. Whether it was due to the fact the Internet was still down or that their exercises were getting repetitious. Whatever the case, they were especially grumpy on that foggy morning.

Thus, when Mr. Oliver ran through the doorway with an exasperated voice, none were too glad to see him. Everyone looked up with glazed eyes at the man, and waited for his speech.

“StarCraft… Six…” he gasped, “you must… respond to an attack.”

Everyone’s attention heightened immediately. Hawk took off his bib and listened intently.

“A quarter mile from here… where Exodus servers are housed in… a dozen or so men have pirated the place and are entering the grounds as we speak. Your presence is of the utmost importance.”

A sudden clatter of food utensils fell to the floor, feet moved in liquid like pace, and the ground thumped with footsteps. The men proceeded to the locker rooms, and changed quickly, silently, all thinking about how much time they had left. There was no doubt what those men were there to do to the Exodus server. Their speed was crucial.

Drefsab was the first to speak when Oliver entered the room.

“How are we getting in,” he asked, staring at the shaken man.

“We’ll insert you through the fire escape located at the back of the building. Unfortunately, all teams will have to enter through there, because we fear that the opposition has secured all other entrance zones,” Oliver replied, clasping his hands in a tight knot.

“Where’s the server,” questioned Fox, already studying a blue print of the building’s foundations.

“That would be located up on the 4th floor. Reports are coming in that the men have reached the 2nd floor and are fast approaching the 3rd. They are talking no hostages.”

No hostages meant that the bastards were killing them. The thought screamed in the soldier’s heads. Drefsab finally picked up his shotgun and pumped it twice. Speaking in a tone of authority, he said, “Well, we better hurry then.”

ColonelCollsy had been torn away from Slings. How this would effect her performance in the field, no one knew. But, it would be significant, thought Drefsab, and he’d be best not to risk her with important duties. Everyone would be on open communication this time around; it was crucial to fast understanding while actions were being done.

The truck hit a bump, and the men jostled a bit in the dimly lit back. WarLeaderJustin and SqueakyMonkey gripped their guns close to their chest, apprehensive of their first battle. Drefsab was still whispering in low tones, discussing the mission with Nobo and Fox. Hawk was sitting there as well, constantly checking that the gun was fully loaded.

Drefsab cleared his throat, and demanded attention.

“OK, team, we’re going to go through the best route which is the fire escape. After that, ColonelCollsy will take her squad and move down the 5th floor hallway, just to clear and evacuate all civilians. My team and DivvyO will both proceed down the stairway to get to the servers at the 4th floor. Hopefully, we’ll be able to save it in time.”

“Hopefully,” asked SqueakyMonkey, with a troubled voice.

“Hopefully.”

“All teams, move through, I want absolute stealth on the 5th floor. We stick to the plan, and everything and anything that needs to be reported on the wire must be. Move fast, and think even quicker,” commanded Drefsab.

The men moved like liquid, a mass of metal and black clothing. The door was easily opened this time, with a key, and ColonelCollsy moved down to secure the 5th floor and its occupants. Drefsab signaled DivvyO and his team to follow him down through the staircase directly to the right of the fire escape. Taking a deep breath, he checked that his rifle was loaded once more, and prayed to God his team would not be in coffins because of this mission.

“K, Dref, we’ve found the 5th floor all secure, but we’ve also located 4 neutral subjects. Should we lead them out, over” inquired ColonelCollsy over the wire.

“Affirmative, Collsy, and try to be quiet. We’re reaching the end of the stairs, over.”

Drefsab and his team crouched cautiously on the staircase. There! A leg moved. No, it was two pairs of legs. A two-man team was doing something down there. He heard no shots, but he was dead sure that there was an opposing team directly to the right of the base of the stairway. How could he come down without alerting them and taking fire?

“Hey, Fox, pass me some flash grenades,” Drefsab whispered into his headset. Even though the two were close enough to talk, Drefsab barely made an audible sound, relying on the wire to carry his voice over the two meters, which separated him from Fox. Fox, in return, grabbed his belt buckle, and took out a long silver object, one that resembled a gun cartridge. This cartridge, however, was full of knock-out gas.

Drefsab lightly removed the precious material from Fox’s hands, and wrapped his fingers around the metal hook. His eyes danced around, vainly searching for the feet he had seen before. There they were!

Drefsab pulled upwards, taking a long metal pin with him. Chucking the gas bomb below the slit of the stairway, he heard the resounding thud as it hit the ground, followed by two more thuds. Peaking cautiously from the crevice, Drefsab saw two men knocked out cold by the mini-explosion, obviously damaged to the utmost degree due to the fact that the package had arrived just a couple feet away from their location.

“All clear, Team 1 and 3, head down,” Drefsab quietly announced.

“Charles, this is Henrickson, what is your position?”

Henrickson waited patiently for ten seconds, and pulled out his walkie-talkie once more.

“Charles, are you there?”

Henrickson felt an uneasy feeling creeping down his spine. He had found the room where the server was located, and his men were setting up the explosive charges. But, he still had felt apprehensive of Blizzard relief forces, and posted patrols in several positions throughout he building. He radioed Charles once more, and hearing no answer, turned to one of his men.

“You, take another and head over to the staircase guarding the 5th and 4th floor. See what happened to Charlie. He’s probably just taking some poor chump’s donuts, but make sure what’s happening.”

“Yes, sir,” was the muffled reply of the man, and he proceeded to jog along towards the said destination with a friend. They chatted a bit, but these men didn’t care much for chatting. They had been bought with good money to do a simple job, and most of them had experience in this sort of thing. Some were even war veterans, serving in the Gulf War. But, for the most part, they were hired marksmen and professional killers.

It was a most perfect description for their job.

“Dref, we are exiting staircase and proceeding to hallway two. You have one covered?”

“That’s a go, DivvyO. Try to maintain stealth.”

DivvyO took his men, and crouched half way, walking silently and quickly towards the end of the hallway. If they timed their walks right, Drefsab’s team and his should walk out at the same time and be just a about 10 yards away from the room which housed the servers.

Someone turned the corner. Someone’s eyes opened wide in fright. And then, someone raised their rifle. DivvyO shot first, followed by SixtyWatz. Then came the response. Six clear bullets, from two precise rounds flew at the men, huddled in a corner. SixtyWatz took a shot on the handle of his gun, and the force pushed him backwards. SqueakyMonkey was the target of the other round, and hit him in the kneecap. He immediately collapsed to the ground, a pitiful show of a non-serious hit. His kneecap armor had deflected the shot.

At exactly the same time, three bullets entered each man’s head, each creating a certain degree of damage, all ensuring death. Violent explosions rocked their brains as the light suddenly blinked out of their life, and they fell to the ground, as dead as could be.

DivvyO panted, and while reaching for his radio, mumbled a pray to the Lord for having his gun where it was at when the bullets came screeching at him. Holding it up to his sweat-soaked face, he spoke with an exasperated tone.

“Dref, we have contact.”

“Dammit, what was it,” the commander tried to maintain his anger, but was not succeeding.

“Two subjects, both down, no casualties, although a bit of close calls.”

As DivvyO relayed information back to his commander, one of the dead men’s radio shattered with a voice.

“Hey, you found Charles yet?”

A deathly silent tone stopped everyone. All eyes crept downwards to the speaking hand held device.

“Hey, you. Respond. Hey, I’m giving you orders here, novice. Respond. Dammit.”

The radio clicked off, and DivvyO turned to his own.

“Dref, major problems, that was a scouting party or something. I think they know we’re here.”

“Dammit!”

“They know,” asked ColonelCollsy, from her position at the top of the 5th floor.

“Yes, they do. Their head just called the subjects we took down. We’re in deep shit here.”

“How soon until we can ignite the charges?”

“About two minutes.”

“Good, I want to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Something gives me a bad feeling about this.”

“Dref, we are rounding the corner now.”

“So are we. Take a rush at the server room. I want zero casualties, and an operational server by the end of this mission. Only shoot when you know you’ll hit, and Frag Grenades are a major, ‘N-O.’ Let’s kill some anti-SC bastards.”

The first patrol men caught sight of them first. They were the first do die. One fell to the ground pulling his trigger, a bad death spasm by a badly shot bullet. One round that was not silent went off. And then the Calvary came.

Eight men in dark uniforms rushed into the room. Drefsab has the advantage; he knew where their position would be, but they did not know his. He exploited it, and ordered fire at the mass of metal and clothed flesh.

“Hit the center, than flank them,” Dref ordered.

Six of the opposing team went down, and two on SC Six ducked for cover under intense shooting. The two that was remaining realized where their enemy was. Six bullets were spat out before they too hit the ground. Something made a thud on the wall. It was the sound of Nobo as he received a shot through his arm. He doubled in pain and agony, but it was not death imposing. Drefsab ordered him out with the help of WarLeaderJustin and SqueakyMonkey, and took the rest to finish the job.

They entered the server room. There, Henrickson was finishing his duty, and glancing towards the doorway, gun raised. Luckily, he was only brains, no brawn, and fell easily after he shot and missed. The two guards posted there took down GoZ and Hawk, and they crashed into the wooden desk next to them, toppling on one another. GoZ clutched his chest, gasping for air, and Hawk was grabbing his leg and screeching in pain.

Drefsab aimed true and right, as did SixtyWatz. Two subjects were eliminated, and the only one left was a rigid man in a blue shirt.

“Hold your fire,” Drefsab almost screamed.

The man was trembling in the corner, a terrified look pasted all over his face. In his hand held a tiny metallic piece of hardware, and he clutched onto it as if it was gold. As far as the men in the room were concerned, it was.

“Don’t pull that. Don’t pull that. Drop it, and we let you live,” Drefsab demanded, in a slow tone.

The man squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them, he saw six people armed to the bones with assault rifles that just before had killed his fellow friends. His eyes closed once more. His thumb moved downwards.

“Clear out,” screamed Drefsab, as he himself backed out quickly.

A bullet wouldn’t matter. The man’s tense position would just relax his hands, resulting in the detonation. As SqueakyMonkey exited the doorway, the last one to, the man in blue crushed his eyes into a small compact space. Opening them once more, he let out a whimper, and firmly pressed his thumb down.

Please comment. Thanks for reading this so far.

Hope you’ve had, at the very least, a decent read.

From yours truly,

WarLeaderJustin