The Dustgate sun was a hot weight on my neck. The air smelled of dust and hot metal. I was back where it all began, but the familiar marketplace felt like a hostile, alien landscape. The enemy was not outside. He was inside.
"I need to find cover," I thought, my instincts screaming at me to get out of the open spawn point. I tried to make my legs run towards the familiar line of rusted cars that had sheltered me in my first battle.
My legs did not move.
[No,] the Ghost's thought invaded my own, cold and sharp. [Cover is for cowards. We need a better weapon.]
Against my will, my body turned and began to run in the opposite direction, towards a known spawn point for a high-tier shotgun. I was a passenger in my own avatar, a prisoner watching through my own eyes as my body was piloted by another. The Host Integrity bar on my HUD flickered, dropping to 38%. Every action he forced upon me weakened my control.
This was a war on two fronts. I had to fight the other players in the deathmatch, and I had to fight the hijacker in my own mind.
My HUD was a constant liar. It was the Ghost's favorite new toy. My ammo counter read [AMMO: 30/90]. But I knew I had not fired a shot. My minimap showed an enemy player approaching from my left. The Ghost tried to force me to turn right, towards an empty alley. I fought him, a titanic struggle of wills that resulted in my character stutter-stepping in place, looking like a glitching NPC.
"Get out!" I mentally screamed, focusing all my energy on my legs. I managed to override his command and duck behind a large stack of crates, breaking line of sight with the approaching player. The Integrity bar ticked up to 41%. Small victories.
But I could not hide forever. The other player, a woman in standard blue armor, must have seen my erratic movements. She came around the crates, her rifle raised, a confused but determined look on her face.
The fight was a chaotic disaster.
I raised my assault rifle to fire. [Aim for the head,] the Ghost suggested, his "soldier" instincts kicking in. For a moment, our intentions aligned. The crosshairs settled on her helmet. But just as I squeezed the trigger, he betrayed me. He jerked my arm down and to the left. My burst of fire kicked up dust a meter away from her.
She took advantage of my miss. Her own rifle barked, and bullets stitched across my chest. My health plummeted. [HP: 65/100]. The pain was real, a sharp, burning sensation that made me grit my teeth.
The pain seemed to give me focus. I pushed back against the Ghost's influence, fighting for control of my arms. He was pushing left, I was pushing right. The result was a wild, uncontrollable shaking. I could not aim.
[Let me do it!] the Ghost screamed in my head, his thought filled with frustration. [I can win this! You're going to get us both killed!]
I was out of options. She was lining up another shot. In a moment of pure desperation, I did something I knew I would regret. I gave in. I relaxed my mental grip, just a little, and allowed his influence to flow into my arms.
It was like opening a floodgate. His control was instantaneous and precise. My aim, which had been shaking wildly, became rock steady. The crosshairs snapped onto the woman's chest. My finger, his finger, squeezed the trigger.
A single, perfect, controlled burst.
She fell. [PLAYER ELIMINATED].
I stood over her body, my rifle smoking. The victory felt disgusting. Hollow. It was not my kill. I had just been the gun. My Adrenaline Rush skill triggered, but the feeling of speed felt tainted, artificial. My Integrity bar dropped again. [HOST INTEGRITY: 35%]. I was losing myself.
This was how he would win. Not by force, but by seduction. By showing me he was a better fighter, a better killer. By making me rely on him to survive.
I started to learn a new, terrifying way to fight. A horrifying dance where two pilots were fighting over a single machine. It was a constant struggle. I would control my legs, dodging behind cover, while the Ghost controlled my arms, returning fire with a cold, machine-like precision that I had never possessed.
Our combined movements were bizarre. Unpredictable. I would sprint left while shooting right. I would jump while reloading mid-air. It confused my opponents. No one knew how to react to a player who seemed to defy the basic logic of movement and aiming.
We got another kill this way. A player tried to ambush me from a rooftop. I saw him and tried to take cover. The Ghost, however, kept my arms raised, firing blindly at the roof's edge. Most of the shots missed, but a few lucky ones hit the player, causing him to flinch. This gave me the opening I needed to take back control for a split second and finish him off.
But each shared victory was a defeat in my internal war. The mental and physical exhaustion was immense. And my Host Integrity was dropping dangerously low. [HOST INTEGRITY: 28%].
During a quiet moment, as I was hiding in a small building, reloading my weapon—an action I had to fight for control to even perform—the Ghost made his move. He was not after my limbs this time. He was after my soul.
He made a concerted push for my inventory. He was after the Exile's Key.
[WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ATTEMPT TO ACCESS QUEST ITEM: THE EXILE'S KEY.]
The Avatar Firewall flared brighter than ever before, a desperate defense of my most important possession. The Ghost's intrusive thoughts were a torrent of pure, naked greed. [Give it to me! It's mine! I am the one who deserves to be a god! I will create a body for myself! A real one! And you... I will trap you in the static you left me in!]
I finally understood his endgame. If he got the Key, he could use its power to make himself a Game Master. He could potentially create a new, permanent body for himself. Or worse, he could trap my consciousness in the void and take my body for his own, becoming "Leo" permanently. This was not just a fight for my life. It was a fight for my existence.
My resolve hardened. I pushed back with all my might, reinforcing the firewall, locking down my inventory. "You will never have it," I projected, my thoughts a shield.
He recoiled, his mental presence snarling like a wounded animal.
Just then, I heard footsteps outside. Another player was approaching. I was low on health. My mind was exhausted from the fight. I was vulnerable.
I peeked out the window. A player with a shotgun was moving towards my building.
I tried to back away from the window, to find a better position. But my legs would not move. They were locked in place. The Ghost had seized complete control of my lower body. He was holding me still, a perfect, stationary target in the window.
He was trying to get me killed.
The enemy player saw me. He raised his shotgun.
The Ghost's thought was a sliver of ice in my mind, cold and triumphant.
[A new host will be found. The system is full of them. But first, you die.]
He thought that if my body was terminated, my consciousness would be deleted, leaving him free to "latch on" to my killer, to attempt to hijack the next available host. He was trying to use my death as his escape.
The shotgunner lined up a perfect headshot. I could see down the barrel of his weapon. I was completely helpless, a prisoner in a body that was waiting to be executed.