After recreating some equipment with Raphael's assistance, I shifted into my created world to save time. There, I focused on constructing an advanced version of a game engine—something far beyond Unreal Engine, polished and flawless in every detail.
Once the framework was complete, I forged a vast supply of equipment for my shadow soldiers, assigning them the task of building the game itself. With their efficiency, the process advanced at an incredible pace.
Still, I knew that even with my time-dilation powers, designing an entire game from scratch would take a while. So, I chose to step back. Returning to the real world, I allowed myself a brief nap.
By the time I reentered my world, the results awaited me. My soldiers had already completed the prototype. What stood before me was not just a game, but a superior, remastered version.
Thrilled, I began to test it myself. The main screen flickered across a wall of monitors, the title—Prototype—glowing with an intensity sharper than ever before.
The opening cutscene played seamlessly. Rain fell across New York's streets with clarity the original had never achieved, droplets scattering across asphalt with a realistic shimmer. Helicopters swept overhead, floodlights cutting through the mist. The sense of scale was overwhelming—the city stretched infinitely, every detail polished to perfection.
Alex Mercer stood in the alley where his story began, but he no longer looked like a dated model rendered by limited technology. Every fiber of his jacket shifted with the wind. His eyes reflected cold intelligence. When he flexed his hand, the faint ripple of viral biomass spread beneath his skin, subtle yet precise.
Abilities once limited by developer balance had unfolded into their true forms. Every mutation functioned seamlessly—claws, blades, whips, armor, hammerfists—all rendered with detail down to the shifting cells.
Vehicles responded realistically to his control. When he hijacked a tank, its systems mirrored their real-world counterparts. The city adapted dynamically: military presence escalated, infection zones spread, civilians fled toward safe havens.
The recreated Manhattan no longer felt like a backdrop. It pulsed with its own rhythm, a living environment indistinguishable from reality.
Traffic congested at peak hours, horns echoing through narrow avenues. Police directed crowds at intersections, their routines unfolding without fail. Vendors sold hot dogs at street corners, steam curling into the cold morning air. Birds wheeled between skyscrapers, every wingbeat accounted for.
Civilians carried entire lives unseen in the original game. Some went to work, others picked up children from school, some lingered at cafés engaged in dynamic conversations. Mercer could consume any one of them and inherit their identity fully—memories, histories, secrets, everything.
To push the system, I initiated a full Manhattan outbreak.
It began in silence. A single tendril of the Blacklight Virus spread from Mercer's discarded biomass. Within hours, dozens of blocks were infected. Within days, the city fractured into zones: red zones overrun with monstrosities, yellow zones locked down under military quarantine, and green zones clinging to fragile normalcy.
Helicopters thundered overhead. Navy ships surrounded the island, cannons primed. Times Square burned with chaos as infected clashed with soldiers in brutal warfare.
Mercer thrived in the midst of it. Every leap shattered pavement. Every whipfist swing tore through vehicles and enemies alike. Infected bent to his will, surging behind him as an army. The military countered with tanks, jets, and experimental weaponry, yet Mercer devoured them all, his biomass absorbing their strength.
The simulation never broke. No glitch corrupted a scene. No bug derailed an event.
The city endured, adapting dynamically, logically, and seamlessly.
Even multiplayer had been perfected. What Earth's developers had only dreamed of was now real—a living Manhattan where multiple apex predators could clash, cooperate, or carve their own paths through chaos.
To test it, I ordered shadow soldiers not involved in development to join me. They connected through separate systems—PCs, PlayStations, Xbox consoles. Each appeared as their own Mercer, the city acknowledging them as anomalies within its living ecosystem.
One prowled the rooftops of Harlem, claws glinting beneath the morning sun. Another emerged from Central Park, biomass shifting into a brutal hammerfist. A third blended with civilians in Times Square before erupting into violence.
The synchronization was flawless.
Inevitably, they turned on each other.
The first clash erupted in Central Park. One Mercer, armored in jagged biomass plating, tore through trees as another dive-bombed from the sky. The impact shattered the ground, scattering dust and leaves.
Whipfists lashed, claws struck, blades clanged against shields. Every strike carried weight, every parry redirected force. Statues toppled, benches shattered, the earth scarred by impacts.
Soon, chaos spread. Mercers collided in free-for-alls. One whipfist ripped a rival from thirty meters away. A hammerfist cratered the soil, swallowing multiple combatants. Blade-arms carved through trees as others flanked and countered.
Civilians screamed, fleeing across bridges and streets. Helicopters circled overhead, snipers firing in vain.
For the first time, Prototype wasn't about one apex predator. It was survival in a city ruled by gods of destruction.
To stress the system further, I ordered simultaneous outbreaks across Manhattan.
Red zones erupted—biomass crawling up skyscrapers, tendrils snaring traffic, nests spawning hunters. Yellow zones shrank under military pressure. Green zones collapsed into riots, civilians demanding escape.
Three Mercers led their armies of infected, clashing against military blockades and one another. Hunters hurled cars like toys. Hydras coiled around skyscrapers. Entire neighborhoods pulsed with living biomass.
Jets roared overhead, missile salvos shaking the city. Tanks fired into waves of abominations. Soldiers deployed flamethrowers, sonic cannons, bio-disruptors—none of it enough.
And still, the game remained flawless.
The infected adapted, retreating when overwhelmed, swarming when they sensed weakness. Military command shifted tactics, abandoning battles and reinforcing strongholds. Civilians acted uniquely—some forming militias, others barricading homes, radios crackling with desperate pleas.
It wasn't scripted. It was alive.
Identity consumption had reached new heights.
In the original game, Mercer could consume targets for appearance and memories. Here, the feature was fully realized.
One soldier consumed a police officer. Instantly, radios relayed his orders, civilians saluted him, and fellow officers trusted his authority. He could direct patrols or stage ambushes seamlessly.
Another consumed a general. Squads followed his lead, convoys rerouted at his command, and strategies shifted in real time.
One infiltrated a red zone as a virologist, gaining not only access codes but also full scientific data on the virus. AI-generated research logs were coherent, logical, and frighteningly detailed.
Each identity wasn't a mask. It was a life.
My soldiers experimented further—cat-and-mouse hunts, citywide alliances, betrayals mid-battle. Emergent gameplay flourished naturally, unscripted yet inevitable.
No matter how far they pushed, the system never faltered.
Satisfied with this masterpiece, I personally contacted the staff of Dream Weaver Studios and instructed them to handle the remaining work—trailers, marketing, and the game's release—as soon as possible.
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