He made his way across a familiar city–once full of promise and now in ruin.  Occasionally, the bodies of soldiers littered street corners.  He had been here before.  He could tell it was his handiwork.  He was a savant, he had played the game for a long time, learned the tricks and tactics that made him so successful.  So successful in fact that he never had backup–it was always him against small groups.  At this point, he had probably taken out a whole army.  Though he couldn't remember his real life, his fictional one was vivid in his mind.  But he never questioned it, it was just a game.  But then–

    Movement.  He turned left to face whatever had made that noise, but saw only a hole in a building.  Cautiously, he entered the building and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.  Almost like night vision, he could see the room as clear as day, but the source of the noise was not to be found.  After momentary pause, he began to leave.  As he turned around he saw a figure of a child, huddled in the corner.  She was frightened, traumatized even, and held a knife to him.  They both realized her futility in this confrontation, he was obviously at the advantage.

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