For All You Gamers Out There

Video gaming is a national obsession for much of our population.

Maybe that's not strong enough. It's a world-wide obsession. Seriously. If you're not a gamer, google the number of online players for various games, and you'll be surprised.

My writing prompt today was, "Just after he died, he sat up."

It's not Halloween, and I didn't want to write a ghost story. I came up with something better. 

THX-1184 is about a character in a video game. After all, having multiple lives is what makes gaming fun. You can take risks, die, and have another shot. For us, it's fun.

It might feel a little differently from the on-screen character's point of view.

Enjoy today's story, and as always, let me know what you think in the comments.

THX-1184

 2017 © Farley Dunn

JUST AFTER HE died, he sat up.

He blinked twice, to focus the surrounding landscape. It took a moment for it to take effect. The image pixilated, then a bar of static wavered in the lower quadrant, before things sharpened up.

He glanced at his wrist, knowing for some reason that must be his first action. It would reveal what he needed to do next, and from there, his life could begin to take shape.

Or his journey to his next death, but he couldn’t focus on that. Rather, he wasn’t hardwired to focus on that. His modus operandi was to hit the ground running, and to give it 100 percent, no matter the cost.

His life was about the team, and that was all that mattered.

Printed in blocky letters he read THX-1184.

His past began to blink into focus. Thralix Hegemony Level 10, Life 1184. His previous number had been 1183, and his next would be 1185. It was clear as thinly shaved mica, and twice as obvious.

He’d call himself Four for this lifetime.

Four lifted his helmet, and in the visor’s reflection, his thick shock of ruddy hair shimmered like flame. His face was a field of burning stars, and his green eyes the fires of creation whipping violently within. His full mouth bore deep creases at either side, as if he liked to laugh.

Or had liked to laugh in a previous life. Now, he needed to figure out his mission.

“Four!”

Four whipped his head sideways to catch a suited man with a large projectile weapon wrapped in one arm, his hand on a firing mechanism. Insight flowed. Thralee Magnesium G-100, the latest version of the imminently successful Thralee Silver G-50. The G-100 had an extended range and twice the payload. He glanced at his feet to find one of his own.

“Glad to have you back.” The suited man clapped him on the shoulder. “Thought maybe we wouldn’t see you again.”

Across his chest, Four read his insignia. THX-221. A relative newcomer, but one Four knew.

“One. It’s good to be back.” He’d last seen the man two lifetimes ago, and he’d known him as Nought. The change in nomenclature was natural as waking and taking stock of his surroundings. It just was.

In the man’s visor, Four took in his own appearance. THX-1184 in large letters across his rigid breastplate. The suit, black, and jointed at the shoulders, elbows, wrists, and waist. He couldn’t see his knees, but they would be the same, as would his ankles. Above a thick attachment ring at his neck, his hair and freckles blazed against a smoke-filled sky. An explosion in the distance reflected in the visor’s curved surface, turning it brilliant orange and white, and several seconds later, the concussion rumbled past them.

“Helmet and gloves on. Let’s go take out a few Wankies.” One clapped him on the shoulder—barely felt through the bulky suit—and hefted his weapon a little higher, as though preparing to target an incoming enemy.

“Sir!” Four located gloves at his waist, put them on, and slipped the helmet on his head and flipped a lever at the neck to secure it to his suit. His response to One had opened a new layer of understanding. One was his superior officer, and his instructions were to be taken as commands.

Four tongued a switch in his helmet, and his faceplate blinked on, with readouts for distance, windspeed, and icons indicating his fellow combatants in red. Another switch, and his intercom crackled, then voices assaulted his ears. He focused and heard One calling, “Over the pass! Three Wanks in an armored transport coming up the ridge! Two! Seven! Flank ’em!”

One motioned to Four, and he pointed to the ground. His weapon, Four understood, and he grasped it with a gloved hand, discovering the two were interactive. His fingers snapped into position, locked tight, as though magnetic. A new set of images leaped into his visor, this time in bright green, showing the readiness of his weapon. Fully charged, with 72 rounds, and reloadable, if he could access the supply depots appearing in blue.

Sweet!

One was already off, and Four jogged after him. Two and Seven were moving on Four’s visor, and he occasionally caught physical sight of them in the distance. Explosions, muffled by his helmet, tore up the ground between him and the ridge, and he lost sight of One. He dodged past a fresh crater that was blackened and still smoking. His foot slipped on something slick, and he realized it was part of a body. Just then, his visor flashed a warning. He glanced at his display to locate his companions, to find an X on One’s icon.

One down, he thought, seeing the irony in the words. One was singular, One was his commander, and One wasn’t really down, not permanently.

Four wondered if their battle paths would cross again. There were a lot of soldiers in this war, and not all were in every skirmish.

The Wankies’ lumbering transport appeared over the ridge, and Four ducked behind the remains of a destroyed bunker. He slipped the end of his weapon past the edge and watched in his visor as the side of the transport jerked, separated, and opened in a cloud of green smoke. Wankies breathed a mixture of potassium chlorate, and when it metabolized in their system, they exhaled green. They emerged in a tangle of arms and legs. No one had been able to define which was which, and Four didn’t care. He wanted them dead.

He rounded the corner of the destroyed bunker, and he began firing. His display told him he was down to four projectiles when he felt something impact him with incredible force, and his visor went black.

He blinked as he sat up. His surroundings pixilated then cleared. He glanced at his wrist, the first thing he always did. THX-1185. His past began to come into focus.