Gamer's fatigue

I'm worn out. That is to say, virtual me is worn out. He's been under constant fire for weeks and at turns has tired of it, but without fail has returned to the battlefield for more, reasons for which known only to himself. Eventually, it dawned on him that this endless conflict was just that, endless. Fucking interminable actually. His accuracy was improving but his kdr was jammed at around 0.87 and the myriad random deaths routine was wearing awfully thin.

Once this epiphany was properly played out (this was not the typical epiphany where you see a moose hit by a beer truck and suddenly realize at that very moment that you want to be a fire spotter; this was more gradual, a supple twisting of sinewed gears) he gradually dipped a pixelated toe into waters unknown yet utterly familiar.

His first sojourn beyond the borders of modern combat led him to barren wastes, though they teemed with mutated insectoid life. His reflexes sharpened by months of intense yet farcical weaponized tomfoolery had left him jittery; the thud of rock on soil as a skittering cockroach dislodged some nearby debris caused him to whirl expectantly, holographic scope primed and grenades at the ready, though he had neither.

The slower pace eventually settled his frayed nerves and he set about actually communicating with the local inhabitants rather than atomizing them with laser guided ordnance. On entering proper the wastes, he quickly discovered that weapon and foe were primitive, though no less deadly for it and he eventually succumbed to a 6 foot long scorpion.

The fallout from this disheartening turn of events was largely positive; he determined that this transition was viable and a return visit was warranted. In the meantime, his horizons expanded, he set about assisting the plight of a rebel cell on a Mars colony. Armed with his mighty demoltion hammer, he cut bloody swathes through callous military, special menace reserved for those directly responsible for the death of his brother whom he had only just made the acquaintance of. The red dust of Mars swirled around him, coating his figure in thick Martian burgundy and leaving blood red his fellow faction members as they stood, earnest, at the precipice.

The shackles were off; the chain, dragging and whipping, snakelike, though the dust of differing universes behind him. His future before him; varied, prosperous, ripe with choice and unencumbered by noob toobing fuckshits that spoke in broken timbre and hadn't started shaving yet.