There were desperate scenes at the end of our Sunday Warzone session, in one of those games where nothing goes quite right. Having burned through their gulag opportunities, my squadmates had died for good, leaving me the sole survivor – and also the one required to scrabble around for cash to buy them back. Easier said than done when everything’s been stripped as bare as a supermarket toilet roll aisle.
With my squadmates watching, I had the weight of their expectations on my shoulders: and a previously-bombastic battle royale evolved into pure horror. I had minimal equipment cobbled together from whatever I could find on the floor. Outside, the ominous green gas circle had fallen on an area with no shop, ruling out the chance of backup. And there were people everywhere. Crowded into a tiny circle, my every movement was about avoiding detection, finding cover, listening for footsteps, or wedging myself in-between crates as two teams exchanged bullets down a corridor.
Eventually, the gas cloud forced me into the open: and with a small amount of screaming, I launched myself towards the next building, spotting other teams sprinting alongside me (prompting more screams) until I was finally caught out rounding a corner, ending our squad’s dreams with a mighty yelp.