Hi, not sure where to post some fan-fiction, but I thought since there is still such a thing as 'written-media' I'll do it here. Feel free to critique/bash/flame, just remember my English is far from fluent and I had to frequently use google-translate to bring some minimal variety in my word choices, so if it sometimes seems off, that's the reason :). Story Robert had been unconscious twice now, attacked by mindless beings he got hurt, lost streams of blood and with it his vigour. He had been sick and eventually, after he passed out for the third time, he no longer saw the colours this world he existed in had to offer. All was grey you might say, or black rather, in his mind. Robert Meshlof was a rather young man, just a few days earlier he had been created, brought upon in existence by a pale-looking boy who spent his days, sitting mindlessly behind some sort of numbing device from the moment he woke up in the noon, till deep into the early morning. Despite his good appearances Robert, a Caucasian male in his late twenties, was looking rather superficial. Or perhaps it was because of his good-looks that this effect was brought on. Either way he was staring blankly into the foreground, he might have been staring 200 hundred miles ahead in his mind, but in reality his eyes did not look further then the plasma-layer of the screen in front of him. He was being created in a world that was plagued by people who no longer had control over themselves. He called them ‘empty-beings’, some might call them zombies or monsters. They would attack him, and hurt him, yet you could not say they were ‘vicious’. They were not real, not anymore then he was real, and they were under the control of some darker mind, a God, that once might have felt he was on top of the world, but who had now focused his efforts on creating a world wherein Robert was doomed to suffer and suffocate. These beings, stemming from the imagination of dark African traditions where they represented the dead brought back to life under control of a Bokor, eventually copied by the western society to represent a poignant criticism of contemporary humans, were put in place into his world for one reason only. To ensure his dead, and while he was not dead, to ensure his pain, fear, anxiety and depression. But most cruel of all, it was made sure Robert would never be able to escape this world. There was no way for him to transcend beyond this world. His origins and deaths, one a choice the other his faith, would be inevitably tied to this world. Not even me, giving life to his every choice, his every movement, could help him past this world to the next. I might have been a God in his eyes, but I as well was merely a helpless human being, locked inside his own world from which he knew no way-out. But as I was saying, leaving the rather boring story of Robert’ earlier days behind us, he no longer saw the gentle light of the sun while it shone through the thousands of crisps and pointy needles of the firs ahead of him. He couldn’t see it, because it was as if he had black-glasses over his eyes. At one moment he had stopped, to check with his hands if indeed he had sunglasses on him, but it had not been the case. He might have encountered people and they would have told him, look, don’t you see all this live, this colour, this joy! But he could only have called them liars, because his memory of these days had been long gone, long past the maximum RAM-capacity. No, the only thing he had felt for some while now was an aching feeling off loneliness, unseemliness, lowliness and what have you. He felt miserable, cold, his hands were cold, his organs felt cold. He just wanted to start over again, start fresh. He might be chained to this world, but at least he could do a better job if he started over. It’s not that he had no chances of surviving, he had some food, some possessions, but all it would take was one claw from an empty-being to make him fall unconscious again. It would be better to die. But how? There was no simple button he could press, saying ‘respawn’. I mean, there was such a thing and his creator felt the same way about the situation as he did. But even his God could not grant him a new life, for he was unable to press the respawn-button as well! Robert was condemned to die, but it would not be made easy for him. So he looked through the eyes of his God and decided he had to take matters into his own hands. He pondered about what to do, after all he was in the middle of nowhere, with no zombies or civilization in sight. For a while he wandered aimlessly, till he spotted a metal construction pointing up into the clouds on a hill. This has to be it, whatever blood he had left coursing through his veins, it was now brimmed with the little bit of excitement that had been left. Running towards it, feeling a mixture of ecstatic fear increasing with every limping step he took towards the cold metal structure, he thought of what it would be like, if It would work and whether he would end-up regretting it while he would fly down towards the hard ground he was walking on. It was fenced, but walking around it he discovered someone had gone before him as there was a spot where the fence was squeezed down so it was manageable to climb over it. He climbed up the ladder, it had a safety-cage around it, in case one would fall or lose his grip. First floor, he looked down, this would barely do it he thought. Though somehow, envisioning himself laying down there on the ground with a broken leg, perishing away, unable to move or protect himself. Dying of thirst, eventually rotting away in the ground, somehow, all that seemed like the perfect statement to the world. One big exhibited dispersion of pain and malaise. Going through it all, not to absolve the world of it sins, but to blatantly expose what this world has to offer. Yet, even though he might have been slightly maniacal, he was also a coward and had some rationale left in him. So he tried to climb to the second floor, but oh, how ironical, his maker would only let him climb down the stairs to the levelled ground. Are we not on the same page with this, he seemed to say trough his eyes, staring into the screen as blankly as the day he was created. And he was right, his God and him, they were on the same page, it was not the pale looking boy sitting behind his computer that forbid him to go up further, it were the limitations of the game that somehow prevented it. Though eventually, in a rare display of perseverance, he was able to climb up to the second floor. Experiencing the same problem to go all the way to the top, he thought this would have to do it, so he tried to step over the metal beams crossed in his way. He tried, holding the freezing steel with his cold hands he tried to scramble over what should have been an easily mounted obstacle. Did the game grew a conscious? Did it realize what he was trying to do and was it trying to stop him? Or wanted it to make him suffer for a while longer? It was all a bit late for such considerations from the world that brought him to this point. Giving up on his attempts on the second storey he once again tried to climb the ladder to the top, and after a some time, he succeeded. Though now finally climbing to the top, he was preoccupied with the idea that he would experience the same problem there as he did on the second floor. Looking around, on top of his unwilling executioner, he gazed into the world for one last time, as his creator told him to jump, pressing ‘V’ on his keyboard, sealing his faith for one more time. Robert dutifully obeyed this command, smoothly stepped over the round bar, there to prevent people from falling to their dead’, and flew through the air. Not like a mighty eagle, he wished he would have been, but as a failure. He froze, as the cold particles that make up the air brushed along his face, streamed into his nostrils and mouth. As stiff as a plank he fell right down to the ground. Both feet pointed towards his destiny, no desperate movements from his body, or flapping from the hands, trying to enact the movements of birds, hoping some foreign God might give him wings to fly away into destiny, away from all this. No, nothing. Not a sound. Then there was a sound. It was the sound of a bag full of climbing gear dropped to the ground and a faint ‘ough’. A black screen appeared, with white letters in the middle, stating “You are dead”. It was black, real black, Robert never had seen the world that black, it was all mostly grey. Nor had he known such white, it was always tainted with some black. Maybe the world is not black and white, but death sure is. You are either dead or alive, there is no in between. Or maybe there is, maybe being alive nor dead means you will be a giant pain in the ass to anyone trying to survive and stay healthy. I’m death nor alive, rotting away behind my computer. But thank God, that while I am in this process, I can play original games like DayZ. Also I do not belief in God, if the frequent and perverse use of this word has been bothering you either way, I am sorry, this was not my intention, may god have mercy on me. EDIT: Gave the text some room to breath, I copied it out of Words and it puts an alinea even after I just want to cut after a sentence. Hope this will work, or do you want me to cut it up more? EDIT 2: Corrected some bad spelling and grammar.
