On with the Killing

By Alex McLain

I’m lying down now, in an anonymous, stark-white hospital bed. I lay here in a detached fog of drugs and pain as an embittered hard-boiled navy nurse spoon-feeds me orange sherbet and keeps a watchful eye on my lecherous old bunkmate, Harvey. Harvey’s approaching 50, and he just had a fistful of shrapnel yanked out of his butt, but he still has a 20-something’s hankering for the ladies. I have 36 stitches in my side and a gory hole shot through my right hand, yet I’ve never been more welcoming of the pain that sears through me. It reminds me that I’m alive.

You can’t run, and you can’t hide.

It wasn’t long ago that I was crouching behind rusted shells of barrels and boxes. My body was taut with the horrifying tension of battle as I lay in wait. My muscles demanded release as lactic acid began its agonizing march through my legs. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—move. The slightest motion could reveal my position and compromise my mission. My mission was simple enough: I was assigned to guard a possible bombsite, and I’d be damned if I was going to leave it. And so I knelt, begging my tortured muscles to quiet their angry cries.

CRACK!

Rifle shots erupted. They sounded like a Schmidt Scout sniper rifle, property of my CTU (Counter Terrorist Unit) and wielded by sharpshooter extraordinaire Bruce Baccarat. Then, the staccato pops of an assault rifle answered. The battle had begun.

And the battle begins …

Terror-filled moments passed, and the gun battle finally died down to a whimper. Then, I saw a glimmer of movement. Two terrorists had snuck up to an opening in the walls confining the possible bombsite. They paused momentarily, looking for possible danger. Their indecisiveness was a fatal mistake. I seized the opening by yanking the pin from my HE (High Explosive) grenade and tossed it toward them. It landed dead-on, rolling right between them. They looked at it, recognized it, and were torn apart by it. The raging, ripping, superheated fragments of unforgiving shrapnel happily ravaged the enemy.

I stood briefly to ensure the job was done, and that was my own painful and nearly fatal mistake. In the excitement of the moment, I had forgotten to watch my flank, and one of the terrorist bombers had crept up close from behind. I heard the click of the safety, and I bolted around to face my attacker. He shot once with his sidearm, and the hot sledgehammer bullet exploded into my right hand. He squeezed the trigger again, but the clip was empty. He tossed his pistol away, unsheathed his combat knife, and charged me. I double-tapped two shots to center mass, but still he came. He sliced wildly, and I fell to the ground with my side split open. I shot once more, and he died face down in the dusty ground. I lay back, exhausted, and allowed the world to fall black and muted around me …

Survival is the name of the game.

The above scenario should give you a taste of the anxious excitement and tension of playing Counter-Strike™ for Xbox. Its dedication to reality is both unforgiving (one or two shots, and you’ll be toe-tagged) and satisfying. The ever-present threat of death allows for necessary strategy and tactical engagement.

Counter-Strike, as many of you know, is a wildly popular mod for Half Life on the PC. I’ve played both now, so I can safely put one large worry to rest: Counter-Strike for Xbox possesses all of the speed and intensity of its PC counterpart, and it adds all new content (let’s offer a hearty welcome to things like the Riot Shield and fiber optic camera) as well as ensuring that everyone who plays on Xbox Live will be able to use the Headset Communicator.