Sulkdodds
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- Joined
- Jul 3, 2003
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Big Post
A story based in a world where CS is the biggest sport on earth. Written by me; thought you might enjoy it.
The atmosphere tonight is electric, the baying of the fans mingling with the booming of the somewhat over-enthusiastic commentator. The hall is huge, giant shutters in the roof open to the skies. In the centre the two computers stand alone, humming softly, pillars of sporting spirit. Around the edges the crowd is going wild in the stands. They’re waving their flags, chanting encouragement. All of them know that tonight they are going to see the ultimate showdown, and each and every one is rooting for one contestant or the other. I know all this even from my position behind the scenes, where the noise is just a muffled whisper.
“It’s time, Roy,” says Hamilton. He’s jittering like he’s on drugs, which is probably not far from the truth. Me? I’m sitting, sweaty and shaking with anticipation. Tonight is the night, the night when I finally prove myself, the night when I own the scene. Tonight is my night.
I hear the commentator’s deep rumble from behind the door in front of me. “Aaaaaand on the Counter-Terrorist team, we have the reigning champion, the man who once beat seven snipers single handedly with only a glock, the man who drove one team to suicide, the man who the people have named ‘the master of nades; I present to you tonight…the one and only…Stroke!”
And the crowd goes wild. Even down here, the room shakes with the adulation of thousands of ecstatic fans. The door opens, two burly security guards beckoning me into the darkness. I start to walk forwards, as if in a dream, and look up ahead to see the golden light at the end of the tunnel.
“And on the Terrorist team stands the only man in five years to stand up to the champion – the young challenger who has risen through the ranks to become one of history’s fastest growing star. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…”
The guard waves me on with a smile and I step through the veil. My world fills with light and sound, the hubbub of the arena overwhelming my senses; my eyes are alight, my ears deaf to anything but the sound of my own footsteps. Fireworks detonate on either side of me.
“…Phantom!”
Now the crowd is cheering again and I know that this time they’re cheering for me. For me. In front of me is my custom rig, opposite that of my rival. Beyond the computers he himself is standing, staring me down. I try not to blink and keep eye contact. We walk towards each other, and still we do not break our stare. Grudgingly, I extend my hand. We shake, both of us gripping as if trying to rip our opponent’s hands of. We stay like that for around thirty seconds before I finally break free of his grasp.
“Good luck, Stroke,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Likewise,” he mouths.
“Player!” booms the commentator. “Take your positions.”
I sit down heavily in front of my rig, placing my sweaty hand on the designer mouse. The machine has been headily checked over by CPL officials of course – the league has a zero tolerance policy on cheaters. As if I’d stoop to such a level. I catch sight of an advert bearing my grinning visage. ‘Phantom uses the Logitech Ripper mouse for pinpoint accuracy in the heat of the moment’ says the legend. For a moment I reflect on the ludicrousness of the entire thing, the sheer idiocy of this ultra-capitalist playground. Then it’s gone, replaced only by the burning desire to play – to win.
“Buy your weapons.”
My fingers play over the keyboard. For now I’m going with my lucky loadout: an MP5, full body armour and a flashbang. I know that Stroke will take a TMP and an H.E. grenade, and I hear him typing even over the cheering.
“Get ready.”
The countdown at the bottom of the screen ticks down to the beginning of the game. The map is cs_versus, a small, tight map designed specifically for one-on-ones. It features simply two sides sloping down towards a canal in the centre, with plate glass and crates for cover. In the middle is a barrier that goes up and down every few seconds. I fix my eyes on the screen. The crowd is silent now.
“Set.”
There is no noise.
“Go! Go! Go!” says the commentator, and the crowd explodes.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I peered round the corner of the dry, yellow rock wall, trying to see what was going on. The floor was covered n desert dust, and I could hear nothing but silence.
There was a muffled gunshot, far off. It was deep and booming; sounded like an assault rifle, maybe an Aug or something. I gritted my teeth – sooner or later I would have to break cover and go for it. Suddenly, all hell broke loose, people dying all around me and shots hitting the walls. A grenade went off not two metres away, showering me in dust, and without a second thought I ran.
The terrorists on the balcony fired, hitting me in the legs as I dived down into the dark underpass. As I fell I fired upwards with my Colt, one of the terrorists jerking back, injured. I landed and fired an entire clip up through the walkway before retreating into the shadows between two crates. I reloaded just as another man dropped down in front of me. I ran sideways, firing right through a crate and emerging on the other side. He turned a split-second too late, and then my bullet bored through his skull.
I caught my breath and backed away deeper into the dark. I could hear the battle rage above. Maybe I could follow the underpass and flank them –
There was a slight noise behind me, and I spun round, dropping to the floor. Nothing but darkness. I got up, panting, and that was when he stuck his knife into the back of my head.
I jumped up from the computer, shouting. “James, you little bastard! I’m going to get you for that!”
“Ha! The shadow knifer strikes again!” James cackled maniacally from his machine on the other side of the room. “Oh, shit…”
Sean had landed a grenade right in James’ foxhole. It exploded, killing him instantly and with that the game was won. Sean whooped and raised his fist in the air.
“Counter-Terrorists win.”
I got up and jumped at James, punching him on the side of the head and kicking him in the shin playfully. It was clan practise time for the Funky 1337ers (yes, it was a rubbish name) and we were gathered in Shaun’s basement, where we had all dragged our rigs from our little holes to connect them via LAN for an all-nighter.
While we’re on the subject of background, I’d better introduce myself for those of you who have been living under a rock for the last year. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m one of the top players in the CPL league, a rising Cs star. Come on, everybody follows the league. That year it was being held in Monte Carlo. All the world’s leading players and their biggest fans would be there, and those who couldn’t make it would be watching live on the television. In fact, the final would be on that night.
But I digress. I was meant to be introducing myself. My name is Roy Gellar, but my Cs name, my name to the rest of the world, is Phantom. That is the name that’s been on billboards and TV screens all over the face of this planet for the last six months. I was an amateur Cs player. I had a day job designing web sites for dull start-up companies, a small flat which my ex-girlfriend had only recently deserted (I could still smell her perfume), and a clan. We’re relatively low-key, in the fourth division of the Lower Amateur National CPL championships, but practise makes perfect and we’re always striving to get higher in the league. Every one of us had the same dream: to play in the big league. Every kid wants to be a Cs player when he grows up, and I was no exception.
A story based in a world where CS is the biggest sport on earth. Written by me; thought you might enjoy it.
The atmosphere tonight is electric, the baying of the fans mingling with the booming of the somewhat over-enthusiastic commentator. The hall is huge, giant shutters in the roof open to the skies. In the centre the two computers stand alone, humming softly, pillars of sporting spirit. Around the edges the crowd is going wild in the stands. They’re waving their flags, chanting encouragement. All of them know that tonight they are going to see the ultimate showdown, and each and every one is rooting for one contestant or the other. I know all this even from my position behind the scenes, where the noise is just a muffled whisper.
“It’s time, Roy,” says Hamilton. He’s jittering like he’s on drugs, which is probably not far from the truth. Me? I’m sitting, sweaty and shaking with anticipation. Tonight is the night, the night when I finally prove myself, the night when I own the scene. Tonight is my night.
I hear the commentator’s deep rumble from behind the door in front of me. “Aaaaaand on the Counter-Terrorist team, we have the reigning champion, the man who once beat seven snipers single handedly with only a glock, the man who drove one team to suicide, the man who the people have named ‘the master of nades; I present to you tonight…the one and only…Stroke!”
And the crowd goes wild. Even down here, the room shakes with the adulation of thousands of ecstatic fans. The door opens, two burly security guards beckoning me into the darkness. I start to walk forwards, as if in a dream, and look up ahead to see the golden light at the end of the tunnel.
“And on the Terrorist team stands the only man in five years to stand up to the champion – the young challenger who has risen through the ranks to become one of history’s fastest growing star. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…”
The guard waves me on with a smile and I step through the veil. My world fills with light and sound, the hubbub of the arena overwhelming my senses; my eyes are alight, my ears deaf to anything but the sound of my own footsteps. Fireworks detonate on either side of me.
“…Phantom!”
Now the crowd is cheering again and I know that this time they’re cheering for me. For me. In front of me is my custom rig, opposite that of my rival. Beyond the computers he himself is standing, staring me down. I try not to blink and keep eye contact. We walk towards each other, and still we do not break our stare. Grudgingly, I extend my hand. We shake, both of us gripping as if trying to rip our opponent’s hands of. We stay like that for around thirty seconds before I finally break free of his grasp.
“Good luck, Stroke,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Likewise,” he mouths.
“Player!” booms the commentator. “Take your positions.”
I sit down heavily in front of my rig, placing my sweaty hand on the designer mouse. The machine has been headily checked over by CPL officials of course – the league has a zero tolerance policy on cheaters. As if I’d stoop to such a level. I catch sight of an advert bearing my grinning visage. ‘Phantom uses the Logitech Ripper mouse for pinpoint accuracy in the heat of the moment’ says the legend. For a moment I reflect on the ludicrousness of the entire thing, the sheer idiocy of this ultra-capitalist playground. Then it’s gone, replaced only by the burning desire to play – to win.
“Buy your weapons.”
My fingers play over the keyboard. For now I’m going with my lucky loadout: an MP5, full body armour and a flashbang. I know that Stroke will take a TMP and an H.E. grenade, and I hear him typing even over the cheering.
“Get ready.”
The countdown at the bottom of the screen ticks down to the beginning of the game. The map is cs_versus, a small, tight map designed specifically for one-on-ones. It features simply two sides sloping down towards a canal in the centre, with plate glass and crates for cover. In the middle is a barrier that goes up and down every few seconds. I fix my eyes on the screen. The crowd is silent now.
“Set.”
There is no noise.
“Go! Go! Go!” says the commentator, and the crowd explodes.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I peered round the corner of the dry, yellow rock wall, trying to see what was going on. The floor was covered n desert dust, and I could hear nothing but silence.
There was a muffled gunshot, far off. It was deep and booming; sounded like an assault rifle, maybe an Aug or something. I gritted my teeth – sooner or later I would have to break cover and go for it. Suddenly, all hell broke loose, people dying all around me and shots hitting the walls. A grenade went off not two metres away, showering me in dust, and without a second thought I ran.
The terrorists on the balcony fired, hitting me in the legs as I dived down into the dark underpass. As I fell I fired upwards with my Colt, one of the terrorists jerking back, injured. I landed and fired an entire clip up through the walkway before retreating into the shadows between two crates. I reloaded just as another man dropped down in front of me. I ran sideways, firing right through a crate and emerging on the other side. He turned a split-second too late, and then my bullet bored through his skull.
I caught my breath and backed away deeper into the dark. I could hear the battle rage above. Maybe I could follow the underpass and flank them –
There was a slight noise behind me, and I spun round, dropping to the floor. Nothing but darkness. I got up, panting, and that was when he stuck his knife into the back of my head.
I jumped up from the computer, shouting. “James, you little bastard! I’m going to get you for that!”
“Ha! The shadow knifer strikes again!” James cackled maniacally from his machine on the other side of the room. “Oh, shit…”
Sean had landed a grenade right in James’ foxhole. It exploded, killing him instantly and with that the game was won. Sean whooped and raised his fist in the air.
“Counter-Terrorists win.”
I got up and jumped at James, punching him on the side of the head and kicking him in the shin playfully. It was clan practise time for the Funky 1337ers (yes, it was a rubbish name) and we were gathered in Shaun’s basement, where we had all dragged our rigs from our little holes to connect them via LAN for an all-nighter.
While we’re on the subject of background, I’d better introduce myself for those of you who have been living under a rock for the last year. I don’t mean to boast, but I’m one of the top players in the CPL league, a rising Cs star. Come on, everybody follows the league. That year it was being held in Monte Carlo. All the world’s leading players and their biggest fans would be there, and those who couldn’t make it would be watching live on the television. In fact, the final would be on that night.
But I digress. I was meant to be introducing myself. My name is Roy Gellar, but my Cs name, my name to the rest of the world, is Phantom. That is the name that’s been on billboards and TV screens all over the face of this planet for the last six months. I was an amateur Cs player. I had a day job designing web sites for dull start-up companies, a small flat which my ex-girlfriend had only recently deserted (I could still smell her perfume), and a clan. We’re relatively low-key, in the fourth division of the Lower Amateur National CPL championships, but practise makes perfect and we’re always striving to get higher in the league. Every one of us had the same dream: to play in the big league. Every kid wants to be a Cs player when he grows up, and I was no exception.
