Strider

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So I'm experimenting with another story. I haven't written much so far; I've only done three-fourths of a prologue and two pages of chapter one. ...But I like how chapter one is coming along, so I thought I'd share those two pages with you.


[at the beginning of the chapter, the main character is playing an FPS game, but that isn't revealed until she wins; for all the reader knows, she could be in a war; obviously I haven't written that part yet, so here's what happens after]

I squeeze the trigger.

The world erupts into cheers and whistles as our final scores scroll across the angled screen in front of me, and I know they must also be displaying on the massive TVs overhead, followed by slow-motion replays of my final kill.

I place the controller and headphones on the glass table to my right, peering smugly over the top of my screen at my vanquished opponent. His expression is one of anger and disbelief, and no wonder: I’d be shaken, too, if I was a full-grown man who’d been bested by the likes of a sixteen-year-old girl.

“Good game,” I say, extending a gloved hand past the side of the screen.

The corners of the man’s mouth curl downwards in an expression of distaste. He presses twenty dollars into my palm, ignoring the proffered handshake, and storms away without a word.

I pocket the money before stepping down from the circular platform. High-fives and fist bumps come from all around as I push through the crowd that had gathered to witness our bet. Someone—I don’t see who—shouts, “Go out with me, Strider!” I laugh and blow a kiss in that general direction before making my escape.

Another match has already begun by the time I make it to the wall. I lean back, grateful for the reprieve. The entire Floor is dimly lit, but here on the fringes, you truly become a shadow.

“You have a fan club, Strider.”

The black-haired boy slumps against the wall to my left, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Unkempt bangs, hanging in tangled, curly waves, obscure nearly half of his face.

“I’ve always had a fan club, Gerard,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “When are you gonna stop smoking? No one smokes anymore. It’s stupid.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m stupid.” He spits out the cigarette and stuffs it into his pocket. “And I wasn’t smoking.”

“Only because it’s not allowed.”

“…Fair point.”

We stand in silence for a while, observing the various goings-on across the Floor. Circular booths are positioned at every corner; most are populated by kids with handhelds, making use of the charging cords hooked into the center of each table. Scattered along the walls are racing and music games. One person’s skill at a dance game has drawn a small crowd; his legs are practically a blur as he stomps colored arrows and crushes every challenger.

At the end of the room is what some people refer to as the “Co-Op Corner”. The entire section is dedicated to games made for cooperative play, large groups, or both. The most notable has six massive screens mounted to the wall; players can work together to build any conceivable structure out of blocks.

Further out onto the Floor are rows and rows of TVs and computers. These games range from shooters to MMOs, and all of them are multiplayer. The main attraction, however, is found at the center of the Floor: gambling. Raised platforms exist for all kinds of games: shooters, fighting, racing, strategy, role-playing… even virtual card games. Challengers—preferably possessing some experience—step up, make their wagers, and battle it out. Onlookers tend to make bets among themselves, as well. The popularity of these matches made Game Floors a must-have addition to arcades around the country.

“Seriously, though,” Gerard continues, “you’ve gotten so much better this summer. People are starting to talk.”

“People always talk.”

“I mean like on the message boards.” He’s looking at me now; even in the shadows, his mossy green eyes catch the light. “I ran across your name the other day, Strider. You’re not just some kid with a winning streak anymore; people actually want to fight you.”

“Ha.” I zip up my black leather jacket and shove my hands into the pockets. “I’m not that good.”

“You are, and you know it,” he insists, flicking my arm. “You love it.”

“Excuse me.”

I snap to attention at the unfamiliar speaker. He’s tall—not as tall as Gerard, but certainly taller than me.

“Are you the girl who beat the crap out of that guy?” he asks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gerard mouth the words “fan club”, but I ignore him. “Yeah, why?”

The stranger appears pleased to have identified me correctly. “I challenge you to a game,” he declares.

“I’m getting tired of shooting people,” I sigh, and it’s the truth. I’ve been here for three hours.

“In that case, we could play a strategy game,” the stranger suggests. “There’s a platform open.”

I stretch my neck to see over his shoulder, and sure enough, two kids are preparing to step down. “Yes, I suppose we could,” I admit, removing my hands from my pockets and cracking my knuckles.

The boy glances down at my hands and snorts. “Fingerless gloves?”

“Shut up.” I brush past him and make my way to the arena. A structure resembling a pool table stands at the center of the platform; touch-sensitive glass is laid over the top. Small screens stand on opposite ends of the table.

Seconds after I’ve chosen my place, the stranger situates himself across from me. I can finally see details, thanks to the overhead lights. His hair is a shade of brown so dark, it almost appears to be black. It’s cut short except for the long, wavy curls on top of his head; they look like he ran his hand through them backwards. “Is ten okay for our wager?” he asks, and I notice that his eyes are strikingly blue. “I don’t have much money with me.”

“That’s fine,” I assure him, tapping the screen to my right.
© 2014 - 2024 SuperAelita
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HaniaJedi's avatar
This is awesome!!!! :squee: I can't wait to read the rest of the story! I'm showing my bro A.S.A.P!
I'd love it---probably more my bro (he's a bigger gamer)---if this was actually in real life!