Pulsing techno music played in the distance as the cyberpunk Metropolis unfurled out of digital spacetime before him. The city's rhythm was a syncopated cadence of electric beats, punctuated by distant honks of air-cabs and murmurs of dystopian announcements over intercoms. Buildings shimmered with advertisements and hovering cars sliced through the air, darting between structures overhead, while the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians making their ways to the various shops which line the streets.
He had spawned in the middle of a busy street, and immediately had to duck as an air-cab nearly took his head off, blaring its horn and soaring off into the distance. He did a quick barrel-roll to the nearby sidewalk and quickly walked towards a pile of ammo and guns neatly stored on a table.
The table looked like a kiosk where a street vender might sell t-shirts or other tourist paraphernalia, but instead, there was a 1911 pistol next to a box of pistol ammo, a P90 next to a box of SMG ammo, and a MK18 next to a box of assault ammo. Without thinking he walked up to the table and grabbed the MK18, quickly removing a clip from the box next to it and popping it into the bottom, then pulling the lever back with a satisfying click.
At that precise moment someone put their hands on both of his shoulders and leapt over him, landing on the table with both feet. The person was dressed in a chicken suit, as if they had just got off work twirling a sign for a fried chicken fast food restaurant. The chicken picked up the P90, slide a long clip into it and pulled back the loading mechanism, then fired a stream of bullets directly into Spectre's face.
His vision flashed red and blood splurged out in waves, as each bullet sent a shockwave of unpleasant energy through him. He endured the mild discomfort without moving until the chicken's clip was completely empty, and then stared him down, obviously annoyed. But the chicken merely chuckled, shrugged, turned around, then bent over and let out a fart before darting into traffic. Sprecte watched him leap up and grab onto the bumper of a passing air-cab, and get pulled into the sky.
"I hate chicken!" Someone yelled out from nearby. Spectre backed away from the table and walked down the sidewalk passed several other players spawning in. Player's weren't hard to spot. They stood out from the rest of population in the streets in many ways: Their movements, their wildness, and but mostly their attire.
Some wore tactical gear reminiscent of a futuristic military outfits. Others sported rockstar getups with spiked blue mohawks, full on medieval suits of metal armor, clown outfits, bear suits, and anything else you could think of. They dove over each other scrambling for stashes of ammo and guns, and unloaded clips into anything and everything, causing the street to erupt in chaos.
In between bursts of munitions, Spectre could hear their screaming jumble of incoherent conversations while he ducked into a nearby alley:
"Yo, that's racist!" "We is on it today, my guy! We is on it!" "Aaaahhh!" "I'm telling my mom. I'll get get my mom on the mic." "You being racist? Huh?" "Hey, can you shut up? I can't even jerk off in peace anymore." "Fuck you!" "Haaa ha ah haha!" "I be snipin' headshots like this." "Hey, I'm not gonna lie, everyone in this fucking lobby is dead to me. Every single one of ya'll bitches." "Dead ass!" "Make sure you remember the name Carl Wigglebottom, because he's gonna win the Apex Tournament, you know what I'm sayin'?" "Haha ah haha!" "Fuck ya'll pussies, none of ya'll know shit." "Man, if I see you on my kill-feed I'mma clip it and send it to you." "Yeah, clip it and send it to me, my dad owns Horizon. I'll get you banned."
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The gunshots and screaming banter faded into the distance as Spectre began scaling the side of a nearby building. His gloves gripped the surface easily, and it was only mildly exerting to pull his wait up. He wore a crisp white, military style outfit, with a mask, sleek goggles, and a hood that obscured features, making him seem more ghost than man. On his back was his glide pack, with holsters for guns and ammo adorning his waist and strapped across his chest.
It was a rare outfit, only available for a short time during the first month the game was released. It had only cost him 100 credits at the time, but now it was a priceless symbol of his seniority. Probably only a hundred or more people purchased it when it was available, before the game was as popular as it was now.
Like a white ninja assassin, Spectre climbed to a neon billboard on the side of the building, and then sat with his legs dangling over the edge, watching the chaos below. All around, the neon city hummed with business, and directly below the mass of quirkily dressed players sent sparks flying into each other and all around, occasionally taking out a passing NPC, who fell to the ground in a heap.
Spectre reached up to the side of his goggles and pressed a button. A beep sounded in his head. Instantly the mass of players below illuminated with red usernames hovering above their heads. Names like NoobMaster69, AFK_Lunchbreak, xX_Looter_Xx, L33tSp3akSam, CtrlAltDefeat, JustCampedURMom, PewPewMcHacksAlot, 2Hawt2Headshot, all danced around below following the players they belonged to.
Among the mass of red usernames, some switched to blue occasionally as the game attempted to balance teams. This was a randoms teams match. It would be teams of three, and teammates were selected at random.
Spectre looked down at the one blue username below: xQuickScopeKingx. He pushed another button on the side of his goggles and a menu appeared in his vision. He saw the list of players in the lobby. 17 of 18 players had populated thus far. Five teams of three, and one team of two.
Spectre let out a sign and looked at the clock in the lower left hand side of his vision. Ten more seconds until the match started. He leveled his MK18 at the mass of players below, staring through the holographic scope. This was a three star gun, which meant it could do decent damage at this range. He pulled the trigger.
A burst of three bullets let off and hit three different people below. Short, satisfying chime sounds plinked in his ears as the bullets hit, and colored numbers populated at the impact sites, then floated up, signaling how much damage they did. Each said 8 damage, but the players who got hit didn't even flinch.
While in the lobby, players were invincible. Bullets didn't hurt, and there was no such thing as death. But once the game started, bullets felt like bullets, and death felt like death. And with a team of only two up against five other teams of three, the chances of death were near one hundred percent.
Spectre lifted the gun to his eyes and admired it. MK18s were better than most people gave them credit for. He knew that. But nothing compared to the AWP: the Automatic Win Provider. It was like an extension of his body when it was in his hands. A long range sniper rifle with one job: to take people's heads off. At this distance, a headshot could do north of 240 damage. If he was going to have a chance in this next match, he was going to need to find one early on.
The countdown of the final five seconds beeped in his ears, and Spectre glanced at the player list once more, confirming that no other teammate was going to join. Then watched as the world in front of him faded to black, and the game's logo rendered before his yes in full 3D, stylized in red letters: HORIZON.