The laser beams, having done their gruesome work, moved slowly, then died down, leaving behind a grotesque sight that instantly made my fruit-filled stomach do a backflip. Billabong was gone. Not just dead, but disintegrated into several pixelated, bloody pieces scattered across the lab floor. His precision-sliced armor and sword lay in shattered chunks like discarded Lego blocks, decorating his dismembered body in a macabre display. Digital steam in garish colors—neon greens, angry reds, sickly yellows—hissed upward, dissolving his flesh in a glitchy haze, leaving only bleached bones and the mangled remnants of his gear behind. Talk about a permadeath loot drop, I thought, stomach churning.
"UUUUUU!" The Beholder growled, and this time, it sounded less like a battle cry and more like a mix of shock, disappointment, and pure rage from a spoiled child. It flung its tentacles skyward in disbelief—or at least, that's what it looked like, all wiggly and dramatic, like it had just lost its favorite toy. The floating eyes wiggled their head/eyes in chaotic agreement, flinging tentacles wildly. Some shoved each other like sore losers at a cosmic casino, one balling its tentacles into a fist and jabbed it angrily at me. They looked exactly like a bunch of gamblers who'd bet their last gold coin on the wrong horse, now facing the bookie's wrath. Meanwhile, the little floating eye was living its best life, squiggling happily, tentacles raised in victory. It even tried high-fiving another eye, got instantly snubbed, but bounced back undeterred, rejoicing like the sole winner in a rigged game.
"BILLA!" SmileyX shrieked, a sound of pure agony ripping through his happy mask. He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his faceplate. "Why, youuuu! Oh, you're so dead!" He pointed at me, voice dripping with enough venom to melt steel.
SmileyX's threat landed like a literal gut punch, but a colder, far more terrifying realization washed over me. When characters die here, they drop their loot—like pure Escape from Tarkov. Have you ever had a good run in a game, spent hours looting awesome gear, then faced an overpowered team that takes everything? Yeah, that's why I quit playing Tarkov in a level-headed manner—a full-on rage quit. Anyway, this means whatever a character picked up during a dungeon or scavenging will be left behind when the player is killed. But, in hindsight, if Smiley was correct, I wouldn't respawn when I die. That makes all my items expendable because, honestly, I'd rather lose my weapons than my life. Priorities, Kiko.
You know what's scarier than not being able to respawn? The gut-wrenching thought: If I die here, do I die for real back home? An uncertain theory, a terrifying hypothesis I had absolutely zero interest in testing. Nope, hard pass. Like, super hard pass with sprinkles on top.
The line of floating eyes in front of Smiley, separating him from our impromptu arena circle, began to disperse, slinking back to their boss. Then, out of nowhere, the Beholder, still fuming, started chomping its loser minions like popcorn at a bad movie. Some tried to flee, tentacles flailing in panic, only to get snatched mid-escape, yanked straight into its toothy maw. Crunch crunch. Then, casual as you like, it popped out a fresh batch of floating eyes. Its "team" huddled again, staring intently like a telepathic board meeting—some pointed tentacles, others rested their eyes on their eye-chin in thought, a few just wiggled their eye-heads in concentration.
"Hey, big eye, let me at 'em already! I'll give you a show you will never forget!" Smiley pointed his black gladius skyward—no, at the ceiling—then pointed it straight at me.
The Beholder snorted, then clapped its tentacles together, a sound like wet meat slapping. Their meeting was concluded. The floating eyes divided their numbers. Some drifted left, the little enthusiast stayed right, and the others beelined toward me, widening the menacing circle. They carved an opening straight toward SmileyX, who was now gripping his flintlock pistol, raised and aimed. Wait... toward me? Oh, shoo~!
BLAM! A flash of light erupted, smoke spiraling from the flintlock nozzle like a cartoon villain's cigar.
My Heightened Awareness scrambled, calculating the bullet's path. *Headshot!* BLOCK! my mind screamed. I whipped up my knife-sword overhead, pointing it downward to shield my skull, hands overhead like a desperate prayer to the gaming gods. A loud TINK! echoed, and my sword jolted like it'd been smacked by a baseball swung by a giant.
Heightened Awareness:
Net Incoming!
A red circle bloomed under me. I jumped, rolled. Sweet mother mozzarella—this dude won't give an inch! He's like a clingy ex-girlfriend with a leather brief and killer gadgets!
"That's a very handy skill you have there!" SmileyX taunted, his voice way too close. I glanced left—there he was, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, hurling a fist-sized round bomb, short fuse already spitting sparks, rocketing toward me. Heightened Awareness warned: It's about to blow!
Oh man!Force Dash! Zipped left, sword up as backup. At least something between me and the boom. I hated myself, because I was right: the bomb detonated mid-dash, blasting me airborne. Shrapnel peppered me and my sword—some pinged off my armor, one grazed my right leg. I stumbled, rolled across the floor as rocks battered my already aching body, my sword clattering away with a distant clink-clank. I shoved myself into a skidding crouch, every muscle screaming.
Heightened Awareness:
Warning: Flintlock!
"Gotcha!" BLAM!
Dash! I thought, but it was too late—the bullet ripped through the air toward my left shoulder. I raised it last-second to block my head from taking lead. It slammed my armor, then a sharp pain bloomed. The inertia hit like a baseball bat to the chest, staggering me backward. A warm, unsettling sensation spread on my shoulder.
"Uuuhwaaah," the Beholder cooed, sounding utterly amused—like it was ringside at the most entertaining freak show ever.
"This is for Billa!" SmileyX roared, charging. He was just meters away, gladius and feline mace crossed like a deadly dancer's blades.
Heightened Awareness: Dual Arc Slash. Red X marks sprang to life on my neck and chest. I stepped back, but there was nothing but rocks tumbling into the lower floor's darkness.
SmileyX's silhouette twisted and turned like a deadly dancer, his weapons charged, and his target was undeniably me.