"A car?"
His eyes widened as the rusty car crashed into him, pinning him against the foot of a colossal robot. Pain coursed through his body—the impact forced everything in his stomach out: food, blood. It even felt like he threw up some organs. Sandwiched between the metal scraps, he lost feeling from his stomach down and coughed up blood on the windshield.
Dima emerged from the wreckage, dusting himself off. "Well, what do you know? The cars here work." He sneered, eyeing Lucil with disdain. He was huge—a 6'6" monster, his tattooed biceps bigger than the average person's head. "Filthy as hell, though." His face took on a hint of disgust as he dusted his black top, reaching down to his sagging denim jeans. The car really was filthy, so much so that a dust cloud was kicked up after the crash, and it still hadn't cleared.
Lucil kicked around the blood in his mouth with his tongue. He knew all too well what blood tasted like—it was the real thing. Yet again, he reached a moment where he couldn't distinguish between the game and reality. But there were bigger problems.
As I thought...even damage like this won't make a difference, he thought as he rolled his eyes up, giving a quick glance to his unaffected health bar. Still the same annoying green rectangle.
Dima's eyes followed Lucil's gaze onto his health bar. "Your health didn't drop?" He took a step closer, his massive frame looming over Lucil. "For your own good, you'd better tell me how to kill you."
Lucil's eyes scanned Dima. I can use him. He took note of the boxing gloves on his hands. "The...gloves."
Dima's expression turned sinister. "You mean these stupid things? What about them?"
Lucil's voice was barely audible. "My health will drop when I touch those."
Dima's face lit up with a cruel smile. "Isee." He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the air.
I'll use him to confirm my memories. Lucil's eyes met Dima's. "You're Dimitri Johnson, aren't you?"
Dima's grin grew wider. "A fan? It's a shame what I'll have to do to you."
Lucil's sarcasm was laced with desperation. "You're supposed to be serving a life sentence. What are you doing here?"
Dima's laughter was menacing. "For the same reason everyone is here—he promised us heaven."
"He...who's he?"
But instead of a reply, he received a punch to the face so fast he didn't have time to blink, so explosive that his head popped like a bloody balloon. All that was left was a stain on the metal where his head used to be and a squirming body. He still wasn't fully dead—his health bar was merely at 70 percent.
Dima sadistically licked the blood splattered on his face. "A car, a kingdom," he said as he raised his arms, taking in the cold metallic air, "and a sacrifice." Then he smiled, his grin reaching the corners of his face. "This is starting to feel like heaven, isn't it?"
But suddenly, Dima was overcome with a sick sense of pleasure—the kind you would get from an orgasm. He stared at Lucil's still-moving body, like a headless worm squirming. He realized he could do absolutely anything he wanted to this person, and not only would there be no consequences—no prison, no reprimanding of any kind—but as long as he didn't touch him with the gloves, he wouldn't even die. He was so excited he could cum right there on the spot. Terrible ideas flowed like a revelation.
He opened the car's trunk and brought out some spare fuel. He stuck the funnel into Lucil's open neck, an unsightly mixture of blood and fuel blended within and outside Lucil's living carcass. And then...he lit him on fire.
The body twitched and shook violently in pain. If he had a head, his scream would've echoed through other areas of the game. Dima watched, the fire reflecting in his eyes, but he wasn't satisfied. There was so much more to try, and he could take his time exploring every crevice where his sadistic thoughts hid.
He watched the slow scene of Lucil's body burning until it was completely ash. He savored every bit of resistance, every twitch and reflex to pain. Normally, the twitches would've stopped, but there was no death here. He felt the pain even in the state of his body being nothing more than ash on the sand, and he would've lived forever that way. But his opponent wanted another go at testing something even worse. He grabbed the ash with his gloves and watched the health drain until there was nothing left.
Then, the same robotic voice echoed throughout the area: [First death confirmed. Player 125 has one out of 100 wins. Round 2 commencing in 30 seconds.]
Dima was pissed. He didn't want to wait another second. He began to violently dismember an already rickety old bar with a flurry of punches, cursing as he cracked the bricks. In his fit of fury, something unexpected happened—his gloves left his hands for the first time. He could never unequip them, no matter how hard he tried, but they flew off like rockets propelled by fire and instantly laid waste to the already barely standing building. He watched the damage with confusion, but then—yet again—a grotesque grin started to build on his face. There was more he could do to hurt his prey now.
Meanwhile, Lucil, having tasted death for the first time, floated in a dark abyss. Is this what death felt like? Probably not. As realistic as this place was, they couldn't recreate what nobody had ever experienced and lived to tell the tale. He continued to slowly sink in the darkness. There was no sound, no light...but then he heard it: loud screeching, so excruciatingly painful it dwarfed the pain he experienced at the hands of Dima. It felt like someone was clawing at his brain. He twisted and turned, covering his ears. Something was walking toward him. He couldn't tell what the heck it was...it was just a shape in the darkness. He grew numb with fear...he would've done anything to escape before it reached him...even return to HELL.