Gordon sat in the corner, hiding in the dark, unsure of what to think. Why
should he have accepted this job? Why should he have tolerated his boss'
yelling at him all the time? Why should he save his boss'?
.because he was a nice guy.
Behind all the battle scars, the glasses, the under-stylized hair, the goatee, the position of being the tester and the tested, behind it all, he was still a nice guy.
"Nice guys finish last."
He remembered that quote. His parents always told him to never believe it, and he never did. until this moment.
He looked around the corner, spotting none of these aliens he had come to kill. He went through all these shafts to escape the government, do favors for scientists, and assist security guards. yet none of it was good enough for him.
He popped around the corner again, this time seeing some movement.
Packing heat, he shot his automatic shotgun the hard way, using its buck- shot to split apart just another alien. The alien fell just short of him, its once-human arms reaching out for him, as if trying to say "HELP ME".
.and it was. A puddle of blood spilled onto the floor as the alien hit the ground. It looked greenish; obviously alien blood. then it went red. Human blood thicker than alien blood. Both, of course, thicker than water.
He wanted a cigarette. He never had had one in his life except for one time in high school where he was forced to. He hated it - he was normally happy, and got depressed under such conditions. but this situation was different: it couldn't get worse.
Then he heard a growl, no; it was more of a snarl. He didn't want to find out what made it, but if he didn't, he'd be dead.
He popped off the wall, shooting the shotgun wildly all over the place, not aiming for anything in particular, as he closed his eyes and was screaming wildly like a banshee.
.and nothing was there.
Must have been my imagination, he thought. I hope it was my imagination. Everything is my imagination.
.because he was a nice guy.
Behind all the battle scars, the glasses, the under-stylized hair, the goatee, the position of being the tester and the tested, behind it all, he was still a nice guy.
"Nice guys finish last."
He remembered that quote. His parents always told him to never believe it, and he never did. until this moment.
He looked around the corner, spotting none of these aliens he had come to kill. He went through all these shafts to escape the government, do favors for scientists, and assist security guards. yet none of it was good enough for him.
He popped around the corner again, this time seeing some movement.
Packing heat, he shot his automatic shotgun the hard way, using its buck- shot to split apart just another alien. The alien fell just short of him, its once-human arms reaching out for him, as if trying to say "HELP ME".
.and it was. A puddle of blood spilled onto the floor as the alien hit the ground. It looked greenish; obviously alien blood. then it went red. Human blood thicker than alien blood. Both, of course, thicker than water.
He wanted a cigarette. He never had had one in his life except for one time in high school where he was forced to. He hated it - he was normally happy, and got depressed under such conditions. but this situation was different: it couldn't get worse.
Then he heard a growl, no; it was more of a snarl. He didn't want to find out what made it, but if he didn't, he'd be dead.
He popped off the wall, shooting the shotgun wildly all over the place, not aiming for anything in particular, as he closed his eyes and was screaming wildly like a banshee.
.and nothing was there.
Must have been my imagination, he thought. I hope it was my imagination. Everything is my imagination.