[ WP ] It suddenly becomes possible to gain XP and level up in the real world , but you can only do so by getting kills .

When I wanted to kill myself the only person I told was Alexis. That was in high school, at peak levels of insecurity and torment. I'd be sleeping for 3 hours a day. Not because of insomnia, but because of the nightmares. An overactive imagination that invaded my personal space, and consumed me while asleep. Some times it's the reverberated sound of a voice or snarl, contained in a locked room. Others, a grimacing face shifting in strobed light. There, then gone. There, then gone. 
 
 
 I do n't know when specifically, but out of those moments came an impulse for violence. I was fed up. How wonderful it'd be to take a knife and carve out those shadowed faces, to burn these locked rooms down into ash. To become the tormentor, the warden. The nightmares faded as these fantasies erupted. My imagination had fixated on a new passion, a new desire: violence. 
 
 
 But, in the core of my consciousness I did n't *really* want to hurt anyone. The permanence of death pressed against these thoughts, pleading with me. Would it be worth it, satisfying the urge? How long could I hold out? Every day, I was getting closer to damage, real damage. I came to the conclusion: if I do n't end my life, I'll end someone else's. 
 
 
 This and more I told to Alexis, expecting disgust and fear. She offered instead love. 
 
 
 For years, control and withstraint became my mantra, built on a foundation of her compassion. It saved me, and when I finally felt whole for the first time 10 years later, we dated. Not a month later, reports of the Contest began. Reports from soldiers, police, criminals, all detailing a similar hallucination, `` New Game'' superimposed on their victims -- people they killed -- both just and unjustly. 
 
 
 I knew it was serious, but not for the reasons most shared. Everyone seemed intent to focus on the physiological and hallucinogenic aspect. How could all these people share such a similar vision, all across the world? It's a good question, an *academic* question. But all I could think is *how many more people are going to kill because of this*? Memories from my teen years kept flashing to the present. The throbbing intensity to kill. That serotonin rush like cold water on the spine, traveling across the nerves like electricity. Just the memory triggered a grin; that's how powerful it was. But the sobering thought was knowing that some kid, in the place I was, would cross that line. Life seemed less and less like life, and more like a game. And then it happened. 
 
 
 A few drinks after a late concert with Alexis, and than a 2 block walk to my parked car. Normally more vigilant, 
 the music eased my muscles and the beer lowered my guard. One block down and one to go, the crosswalk flashed green, and like any sane person we started to cross. I heard the engine roaring louder as it approaches, but years of safely crossing streets builds a false sense of security. I waited for the truck engine to slow, to acknowledge the light. 
 
 
 The truck blew past the red, directly into Alexis, and clipping me. Like a broken doll she collapsed onto the asphalt as the truck screeched around the corner, nearly rolled, and powered out of sight. 
 
 She sobbed there, squirming, coughing out more blood than words. Alive. And in pain. 
 
 I thought about it. There was no making it for her. Not so much as an hour. I could end her pain, right there, in a minute, and save her the agony. She must have saw read the thoughts out of my eyes, cause she shook her head, the *only* deliberate action she could manage. 
 
 Behind her, a black truck edged on the corner, it's grill dented and red. I stared it down, waiting for it accelerate, to finish the work, but it did n't. It crawled forward. Why? I shot a look to Alexis. She looked up, past me, without so much of a shutter in her pupils. 
 
 When I looked up, the truck had pulled over barely two feet beside us, the windows down. 
 
 Behind the wheel the man was all blonde and jackal teeth. They type you see in Vegas pool-side, with a bottle worth a week's pay. My age. He turned to passenger side, saying, `` I told you I'd only gotten one! I *saw* it too, nearly crashed. You wo n't fucking believe it. `` 
 
 Turning back, he bore his eyes into me. Vibrant, unashamed. He rested his arms off the window. `` Hey, man. Do n't look at me like that. It's only a game.'' 
 
 A small alarm sounded as the passenger side door opened, that *beep, beep, beep, * silencing when it shut. But by then, I was already on my feet. 
 
 The rage overtook the agony of my side, still half-crippled from the hit. The driver shouted at his friend, tried to warn him, but I had already turned swung around the hood of the truck. 
 
 The driver's screams got her attention in the wrong way. Her? It did n't matter. 
 
 With her head facing the truck, she never saw me round the corner. At full speed I tackled her to the curb. Her head arched back into the concrete, cracking nastily, followed by a rough scrapping sound that tugged at my eyes. A gun. A shiny metal weapon of death. 
 
 `` MELISSA,'' Mr. Jackal screamed. 
 
 The truck door slammed, this time from the driver-side. I made a dash to the gun, 10 feet away. I grabbed it just as he turned from behind the truck bed. 
 
 I tugged the hammer back and dug deep into the trigger. POW. 
 
 Jackal staggered. I squeezed the trigger again and again until he collapsed back from the force. I might have kept firing too if my sight did n't go dark. 
 
 **NEW PLAYER** flashed in white. I could hear the girl, Melissa, groaning. Rubbing my eyes changed nothing. Blinded by the display, vulnerable, if she got her strength I'd die seeing those words. But I lucked out. The words faded out as the world faded in, a light-green XP bar lingering at the bottom of my vision following me around. 
 
 Sirens howled out in the distance. I whipped around expecting a fight, but Melissa was on her knees trying to stop the bleeding on her head. Any fight she mustered earlier, left. I was safe. 
 
 But the XP bar, it hung on the edge. That sliver before leveling up. And I wondered, what *did* it mean to level up in this game? How deep did the rabbit hole go? Is this a game you can win? 
 
 Her eyes pleaded, *don't*. But she shook her head, and when she did I thought of Alexis. The woman I trusted and loved and loved me in spite of my most sinister qualities, who taught me to overcome them. I thought about her on the ground, shaking her head, pleading *don't*. In my head, she called my name, held me in her arms. Begged me not to, and I listened. But I loved her, not the woman in front of me. 
 
 So with the toe of my boot I pulled her chin up and dug my heel into her throat, sending her back onto the concrete. And I unloaded the rest of the bullets into her chest before any ambulance could hope to speed her away. 
 
 And most of all, I smiled my own jackal tooth smile when superimposed on the world new words illuminate the darkened street: **LEVEL UP**. 
 
 
 
 

