About the piece

This short story of mine originally appeared in Imperium Femina Europe. This represents what I like to encourage other gamers to do, as such is the only way to evolve the gaming industry as a whole. We need to take what we know and put it on an angle. We need to explore, observe and expand upon our experiences. Because I feel that gaming is largely beyond the surface entertainment it serves for us. It does something to us. This time I decided to allow us to explore Counter-Strike from what games pretty much are: experiential art. This in the sense that we actually experience, project ourselves to or aspects of our consciousness to this amazing virtual world created by artists. At the same time what I experience would be completely different from the person next to me, allowing us inturn to become artists as well. In the sense although we are influenced by what is around us, we craft our own experiences. This becomes far more obscure in an online world. I had decided to write a short story spontaneously as I observed myself play my favourite map, de-dust2, as my favourite character model. Arctic Avenger. Most of my friends mock how easily targeted I make myself due to my abysmal choice of a character model in this map. I however felt drawn to him, because he appeared different and out of place. Why in the world would an Arctic Avenger realistically be standing in a de_dust 2 map? You may say, then choose another terrorist, but since we are given the opportunity to choose this out of place character I wanted to take myself on another level to experiencing CS beyond visual and oral senses. I took myself farther as if I was experiencing the environment from the character I embodied. From this, I decided to create a story about him and an increasing awareness within the character. This story became more than I imagined. I hope you take the time to enjoy it. Please feel free to give constructive criticism, I very much welcome this as it will help me improve my style of writing.

Sincerely, Madame Alyisstra

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The Objective

I felt the soles of my boots crush at loose sand beneath my feet as I took my first steps onto our designated drop off zone. The reflection of the clear blue sky above our heads gleamed against the golden sand-coloured stone walls and the dusty ground beneath us. My eyes squinted against the glare gazing at the faded sand colour which beckoned from all directions. Here we were, at last. The thought was one of relief like everything within my life, my direction; my focus was all based on this single moment: This single objective which lay ahead of me.

I shifted my weight from my left foot leaning to the right, hearing the sand compromise and shift at the difference in posture as I re-shouldered the pack on my back. The black brick like object - even though I was not looking at it, I knew what it was – felt as if it was weightless, yet the knowledge of it being in my procession added a strange but familiar burden of responsibility within me. I must take this to the marked site, any one, it did not matter. I had to activate it. At whatever cost. That was my mission. With this new knowledge in my mind, I took a deep breath, feeling the dry dusty air irritate my lungs. I felt the heat suddenly take hold of my body like it was a beast which slowly wound around form. I gazed down at myself and felt myself stiffen. Something was not right. I was wearing a thick winter camouflage jacket and a black balaclava on my face. Already sweat and wetness clung onto my back, under arms and chest. Discomfort took hold of me as I placed a glove hand against the thick jacket. I began to notice how obvious I was as I stood amongst the dry sandy world around me. Anxiety and unease took hold of me, and involuntarily my eyes glanced around as if frightened that I was being watched.

Three of my comrades stood around me, not one of whom I knew personally. Infact I did not even know who they were, only that there was a common understanding that we were allies and carried the same mission. The other three did not seem to notice my awkwardness as they set their gaze around, only passing briefly past my form with dis-interest. There was a certain commonality within them, where they were expressionless, without feeling, without thought; almost inhuman. The bearded man in the green vest, and bandanna held his shotgun forward, readied as if expecting an attack any time. Another, a man also with a balaclava with a blue shirt and ballistics vest fingered his knife with a strange sadistic aura. The last man spoke in a hushed voice for all of us to hear, holding a finger up to his earpiece, sunglasses gleaming and reflecting the sandy world around. He caressed at his worn Ak-47 in his hands like it was a child of his. His words instructed us to move in a specific direction towards one of the designated sites. Though there was a common understanding that this was our first time within this area, there was also a strange sense of familiarity in his words.

Dust and sand were crushed beneath the soles of our worn dark coloured boots. We did not take more than a couple of steps when a crack thundered through the air. I could feel the sudden strickened sense of fear tear up my spine; the stiffening and rigidity of my movements while my eyes darted around nervously were all out of my control. It was as if the thunder crack had created vibrations, shaking the walls around me casting my comrades in a sudden reaction of jerky panicked spinning. Then that was when I realized that only three of us had reacted. The bearded man in the red bandanna was crumpled against the side of the wall, his eyes a dead but calm gaze. There was no pain, no fear, or no struggle which remained in his eyes. Red crimson patterns sprayed a monochrome of red passion blossoms against the sand coloured wall he lay against. I stood there dumbly staring at this, in shock, at the painted beauty before me. Although my heart was still pulsing hard with fear, with the urge to keep running in the direction I was ordered; something within me, though small compelled me to stay. I had to. My eyes fell once more to the man I never had the chance to know. I wondered if somehow I could save him, or…

But why? The mission, the objectives, the dreaded feeling of the clicking of a clock drummed itself within me. I was needed else where, but yet –

My eyes turned to the shot gun which slowly slid away from me against the loose sand. It stopped at the bottom of the slant, lying there dejectedly. Forgotten. Lost. Perhaps…free.

The shouts of my comrades - my comrades whom I've known nothing about but strangely this fact did not exactly bother me - managed to finally pull me away from the corpse of the forgotten man. Did he mean nothing? Who was he? Did he have a family? Why was he here?

The questions began to slur and run into each other as I turned quickly and raced down the ramp following the footsteps of my comrades. I listened attentively to my own loud footsteps, the crunching shifts and its regularity. I came upon a large opening which led into a dark tunnel. On the surface of the wall with the gaping mouth of darkness, a faded red spray pattern was visible. A circled B. I was going in the right direction and nodded a private affirmative nearly passing a battered wooden wagon on my right. I stopped turned to look at this strangely placed object. I felt the feeling of death pass over me. The sounds of a far away fire fight echoed within my mind. My gloved hand rose reaching towards the functionless wagon and gently traced its worn exterior. I had seen this wagon before.

A cry was heard beyond, echoing against the tunnels. Brief sounds of screams, grunts and flashing muzzle fire. Was it real? Or was it the echoing cries of faded ghosts and demons of this abandoned and desolate place? Why did we have to destroy this place? Why did we have to activate the bomb? I shouldered my burden nervously and furrowed my brow in confusion. Against the pounding of the sense of a clicking clock screamed at me. I had to bring the package to the site now! My comrades were waiting for me!

But who were these people? What was this place? I wanted to step back, stop time, stop this madness, this rush into the gaping mouth, through the dark tunnels beyond to find this site marked “b”. I wanted to move away from the sounds. Who was the man who died? I wanted to know who he was.

The clock was ticking and the shouts from those comrades echoed before me. I tightened my grasp against the strap which held the bomb and broke in blindly into the darkness of the tunnel. My foot steps changed into an echoing thudding sound. The darkness cast a feeling of claustrophobia and dread within me. Were there ghosts which haunted these tunnels? What could have possibly happened here which would create such unrest.

Muzzle fire and crackles echoed to my right where a stair well twisted downwards into an unknown abyss. A dark shape moved within the shadows. A masked head of something menacing, expressionless and deadly. Inhuman. He was one of “them”. I froze not knowing what to do, why he was shooting at me and squeezed my fingers tight. Cracks were heard, and my body jerked backwards. My reaction had been automatic, but my mind was reeling in fear, confusion and terror. The man…the shadow in the dark mask was gone, the only evidence left were darkening pools on the stone tiles and the soft echoing clatter of his weapon sliding down the stairs. In my mind I saw the man’s form sprawled and motionless at the bottom of the stairs. Dead.

I couldn’t understand why, how did I manage to react as I did. The desert eagle in my hand shook, still warm from its use. Had I just done this? How did I do it so quickly? I wanted to throw it away, rid myself from the guilt. Rid myself of the knowledge of what I had just done.

A whisper in my head, despite my disbelief, reminded me of the clock, the objectives, my purpose. What purpose was this? How could simply activating a bomb in this desolated area account as a purpose. How could it account to have any sort of meaning? My legs continued me towards the site, without my knowledge and soon I was hearing the trudging of my boots against loose sand. My emotionless comrades were waiting for me. The signs of a battle were remnant, as bullet holes created a stipple pattern on the far crates. There were more blossom red patterns and a slumped black heap in the far end behind the crates. My two comrades were poised: one watching the tunnels where I had just come from as if expecting that masked man whom I had murdered in the darkness would come back to life; the other the one with the ear piece positioned himself upon crates to gaze through a hole intently.

I knew my purpose.

With shaky legs I made my way to the designated spot. Before seeing it I knew what I would find: A red “x” marking where I was to plant the bomb. As my fingers automatically pressed the buttons on the strange device, without my knowing what number code was even pressed; I wondered in my head who exactly sprayed these markings.

Beep…beep…beep.

The burden which I had carried before was now beeping like a slow digital metronome. I stared at the flashing red light and slowly set it upon the marking. My purpose was almost accomplished.

I took my steps back and hurried automatically into a tight corner where a box was positioned which I could hide behind. I crouched there, anticipating danger. I held my breath listening attentively to the beeping, being increasingly aware how it began to slowly quicken its pace. Foot steps were heard beyond, crunching of sand. They were quick and numerous. With fear I pressed myself more tightly against the wooden crate, hands gripped against the handgun.

The firing began, dust sprayed into the air, and the world began to shake with loud explosions. My breath quickened and my beating heart began to pound as if it was vibrating the world itself with each pulse. In amidst the chaos I fumbled with my mind for something, anything to hang on to that would motivate me to survive this ordeal. If I were somehow able to escape the madness, flee from the beeping bomb, the masked men. If somehow I was able to escape from the impending death.

But within my mind I was only able to see the hue of sand. The bright clear day reflecting against the worn sand coloured stones. The darkness of the tunnel. The muzzle fire and spraying of crimson. The groans, the crumpling forms. The eyes without emotion and pain. I saw the red spray painted markings: A, B, and the X. I saw the masked dark men who killed and died without qualms. I saw my comrades behaving exactly the same way. Myself...just the same.

That was when I realized that we only had one purpose.

This was it.

This world.

There was nothing before, nothing after; only our single purpose. A mindless objective. There was no pain, no emotion, no past or future. This was it.

The dust was settling, and I could hear the quick steps of the survivors. I knew they were the masked dark shadowy ones. They were the enemy; they were “them.” There was nothing behind the concept of "them" beyond the same emptiness that was within my own “comrades. They simply were.

I drew in a deep intake of breath, wondering how can men like us could possibly be fated with such. How could this be? And even more disturbing, why was it I; this meaningless man in the wrong outfit, welding a gun with this pre-set fate and purpose; somehow be able to realize this? Why was I the only one? And as I heard the sounds of those dark formed men defuse the bomb, I began to wonder if there was a reason for my having this epiphany.

I stood up. Simply that. My white form probably blaring out from behind the crate for “them” to see. I simply stood staring at them, trying to see who they were beyond their image. I saw them turn their forms in my direction.

I wanted to shout to them, speak to them. I wanted to know who they were, to understand, I wanted to ask them why. Do anything that would bring them to stop and think. To think and question what was beyond their purpose. But my throat clenched up, while my lips refused to part like they were fused together. My hand couldn’t release my weapon. I couldn’t speak to them.

For a second, even less than that, I saw one of “them” shudder. His eyes peering out from the mask widened just slightly. Though on the surface he was expressionless, unthinking, inhuman, and in short simply one of them; I saw something within those vacant eyes. Somehow even as the blaze of muzzle fire from the second masked man blurred my vision, I somehow sensed that his man who stared back with hesitation had some realization. That shudder, the widening of eyes, the look, his decision to not fire upon me, was everything I needed to give a sigh of relief. Someone else knew. A spray of patterns spread around me, resembling vines in a disarray. The fire arm I was unable to part with was finally released from me. Or was I finally released from it. The world of sand around me faded to black, and I could not help but realize that there was no pain in death, and that I strangely had no fear of it. Rather it was all very familiar to me. Like déjà vu.

I felt the soles of my boots crush at loose sand beneath my feet as I took my first steps onto our designated drop off zone. The reflection of the clear blue sky above our heads gleamed against the golden sand-coloured stone walls and the dusty ground beneath us. My eyes squinted against the glare, gazing at the faded sand colour which beckoned from all directions. Here we were, at last. The thought was one of relief like everything within my life, my direction, my focus, was all based on this single moment: This single objective which lay ahead of me.

Written By Bonnie Ann Lee
November 1, 2007.


The Objective: A Counter-Stike Story is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 Canada License.