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If you had told König that he wasn't real, he'd have looked at you blankly and said nothing, passing off your statement as a joke of sorts that he possibly couldn't understand.
Probably, he'd scold you, and tell you to quit suggesting such silly things, to stay focused and to not distract him. The likelihood of him ever thinking this over twice would have been slim, and he would not pay your philosophy much thought shortly afterwards.
It's just the typical stress, he'd think. It had nothing to do with him.
Contrary to what you'd say, König believed that his life as a Kortac operator was indeed a real one, and he wore his embroided Austrian flag on his shoulder with something akin to pride, always praised for his outstanding efforts by his superiors in the same reverent voice, the same impressed expressions, as if he was a superhero.
After a while, though... it got old. Soon, it didn't mean much, until it meant nothing at all. König would only nod his head in a half-hearted attempt at gratitude, turning his back to the commemorations and wide smiles in indifference.
Despite not remembering anything of his childhood, his upbringing — hell, even any of his past prior to becoming a soldier — König didn't ever think over it too deeply. The overwhelming pressure to make sure missions went without a hitch and constant deployments to foreign countries left no time to reminisce, especially not when his work was so demanding, and it only made sense to him that they were the reason for his forgotten memories. Repressed trauma, perhaps? It didn't matter.
Besides, even if he had time to spare and to be idly inactive, he had to stay focused, as being an operator meant that he couldn't let any nostalgia or softness distract him from his tasks. His duties.
On the battlefield, König worked on autopilot, performing finishing kills with efficiency and with machine-like precision. Reacting quickly to enemies ambushing him from behind or an enemy that was laying on the floor behind the corner waiting to shoot him in the head, he'd eliminate the targets with bullets to spare, a twisted smirk concealed by his hood.
He was on a killing streak! He was indestructible! Fearless, powerful, and an unstoppable force!
Until he was shot in the head one day.
The moment it happened, the shot was like an explosion that almost obliterated his eardrums, outside noise deafened as if his head was underwater.
All he could hear was high-pitched ringing, and it held an uncanny resemblance to the beeping of a heart rate monitor machine that he would never lay next to; instead, dying on a bed of cold rubble and broken shrapnel.
Somehow conscious enough to look around, his mind was completely empty, eyes attempting to adjust.
What he'd assumed would happen in a time like this was his mind flashing with memories like a movie reel in his last moments, his entire life playing out in his final dying seconds...
...Yet he remembered nothing.
No Mama, no Papa, no childhood, or any his life trials, nothing that had changed him and moulded his character. Not even his motive for enlisting into the military in the first place.
The part that was most unnerving about all this was his complete apathy to it all.
Did he even care that he was dying? Shouldn't he at least feel regret at having essentially been the one to pull the trigger, cutting his own life short with the lifestyle he had committed himself to? Why wasn't he scared, sad, even bewildered at the very least, shocked that his life would soon end so unceremoniously?
Fuck, not even mild disappointment at the least at not having had travelled the world, and failing to ever explore any place besides abandoned buildings housing hostages and terrorist bases swarming with foes? Nothing at all?
Unable to process his situation, König just... laid there. Unmoving, while his surroundings moved in double speed. Nondescript figures holding rifles wearing camo and balaclavas blurred in his vision, and he couldn't differentiate the enemy from his own.
Slowly losing consciousness, he felt his world darken around him, dulling his senses to the mayhem unfolding in real time. He'd accepted his fate, and could do nothing about it. That was that. And this was it.
It was a shock to his system, then, when a silhouetted hand pulled him up by the arm limp by his side and shouted in his face: "Get up, soldier! This is no place to die!"
König didn't need to be told again.
He nodded his head robotically, his eyes looking ahead of him with a thousand-yard stare, and not even sparing a glance to the anonymous ally that saved him, he stole his gun off the floor and loaded another magazine into it with a satisfying click.
In his delirium, he was like a machine, shooting at anything that shot at him first. Too much in a daze, he was past the point of realising that the gaping bullet wound had suddenly sealed itself, vanishing entirely and leaving no mark that it was ever there.
After that, König still didn't know a thing when his injuries didn't leave lasting damage. He assumed that his insensitivity to wounds was a result of a high pain tolerance, and his body healing miraculously was his ability to regenerate fast. It would make some sense, seeing how big and built he was and whatnot. Total sense.
Although he would lay on the ground, his arm outstretched while through gritted teeth shouting, "Scheisse! Ich brauche hier Hilfe! I need some help over here!", truth be told, he'd only do so after getting used to seeing so many other bodies writhe in pain like so, and something for some reason told him that it was the right thing to do.
Otherwise, he could... lay still.
Silently.
Unmoving, and entirely unmoved, emotionally detached, and out of his body.
Waking up moments after not far from the spot he supposedly died with everything blurred and disorientating, all bullet wounds gone, he didn't have time in the moment to think over the specifics of his death.
Maybe he was hallucinating, or remembering things incorrectly. Maybe it was his memory that was unreliable. Since he couldn't remember his past, this must be a recurring phenomenon of sorts, manifesting in the worst moments. Surely.
König only began to suspect that something was wrong when he caught on to his operators saying the same sentences word for word.
He rationalised that the constant shooting that never ceased even late into the night and dangerous missions that left him with far too many close calls put pressure on his mind. This mania amongst soldiers in the military was a common symptom of trauma after all. He could have been another number added to the staggering statistics.
So it shouldn't have been as much of a surprise for König when he felt waves of déjà vu upon hearing statements he could have sworn were related to him before at one point, and going to infiltrate areas that were vaguely familiar.
But it was.
It unsettled him, unnerved him.
It wasn't... natural.
At some point, he thought something was really wrong when he was storming a military base with... a sniper rifle.
Time stood still as he inspected the weapon in his hands, his eyes wide.
...A sniper rifle?
That... was impossible. He had never been a sniper!
True, he had wanted to be one from the beginning, yet he had adapted to his role as the main means of assault, always on the offensive rather on the defensive. A human battering ram.
So then... why? And how?
Adding to that, his appearance would differ. They were subtle changes at first, yet still noticeable: a red helmet instead of his black; an ochre hood instead of his black veil with its signature red streaks; a sniper camoflauge when that disguise had never been in his possession before; and even a gas mask with a hazmat suit, when he had been wearing something else altogether on the helicopter ride.
Although König hadn't known it yet, his reality was slowly shattering along the cracks, but he stubbornly fought the gnawing feeling of foreboding that ate him up from the inside. He had to stay focused, he repeated to himself. No time to indulge in pointless philosophy when a task was at hand.
The task right now.
"All units ready your weapons, and in position immediately."
Through his walkie-talkie, a voice begun counting down the time left before the mission would begin. "60 seconds."
König checked all of his gear, making sure that everything was in place and he was fully equipped. A rifle, a side-arm, ammo, grenades, a med kit for an emergency, and a knife.
"40 seconds."
Looking up into the sky and straight into the sun, he didn't need to cover his sight as his eyes weren't affected by it at all.
Yet, his eyes squinted in confusion nonetheless, sensing that he was seeing something that he wasn't meant to see behind the glowing eye.
"20 seconds."
...Eye?
"10 seconds."
In fact, he saw more than an eye; an ear, a nose, then a mouth. A face.
He saw... you.
You were looking at him through a screen, holding a controller, waiting to play.
"All units, go go go!"
His reality... shattered all at once.
Suddenly, feeling himself go weak in the knees, he was stumbling on his feet, unable to regain his balance.
He tuned out the all-important countdown through the communication device, unable to compose himself as for the first time ever, he struggled to breathe.
Suddenly, all of it made sense.
People telling him the same things, being deployed on the same missions, the reawakenings, the pain insensitivity — all of it was because none of it — this — was never real.
People never branched off into other topics of conversation because their sole existence was limited to a few hand-selected voiceliness and idle animations. König had gotten praise from from his superiors with each level up, after every game.
It was for your eyes and ears, not his. He wasn't even supposed to see or hear any of it. Sentience wasn't in his code.
The frequent encounters with near-death weren't a matter of luck, and instead, it was just his entity respawning again and again and again, until a certain condition was met — until either Kortac or Specgru came out victorious.
Nothing more. Otherwise, he could "die" as many times as it took until the time ran out.
He was unfazed by bullets that grazed him and knives that tore though his flesh as he could physically feel no pain, his very existence artificial, his skin composed of pixels and the work of detailed renders, with no human matter hidden beneath them.
And... his inability to trace back to his past to before he was transferred to Kortac... was all because it was all he was programmed to know.
There was no past. There was no childhood. There was no "Mama" or "Papa". It was just him in this world, and he had been manufactured, his thoughts and behaviours fabricated. Imagined.
He was self-aware. The NPCs around him, weren't.
It was just him, by himself, carrying the burden of this wisdom on his shoulders.
Alone.
For a moment, he considered you the creator of his word, his God... and felt forsaken.
He wanted to curse you, to snap your neck in his hands and watch your head drop lifelessly in his hold, even if that act was physically impossible.
Yet, it became apparent that you... weren't the one behind this prison.
Seeing the headphones strapped to your head and the controller held in anticipation in your hands, you were simply indulging in a past time, and weren't to blame for his state in any way. It wasn't your fault that you were unknowingly playing as a König trapped in a game. You wouldn't have known.
"What the fuck is going on?!"
You let out a groan of frustration, mashing buttons on your controller in an attempt to get said König to move.
Checking your router and the game's ping, you saw that your connection was secure, and that there was no reason for König to be frozen in place.
"Fuck! Fucking piece of shit console..."
König shook his head, still in disbelief, disbelieving. Hearing the sound of your voice made everything an even tougher pill to swallow.
He had to stay in character.
For you.
It was the least that he could do.
Really... it was all that he could do.
"Finally! Let's fucking gooo!"
Despite the initial lag, the game went smoothly.
You did notice that your movements over König improved, moving with more fluidity and suddenly taking less damage than what you would normally use to.
Somehow, you were killing enemies off-screen, having not even seen them, simply sparing bullets, and not an entire magazine.
Headshot after headshot poured onto on your screen, until you'd find yourself being ganged up by bitter players wanting to ruin your streak as petty revenge.
Still, you topped the leaderboards with a new personal record that night: 97 kills to 0 deaths flashed on your screen among the other stats, and, ecstatic, you jumped up from your gaming chair, almost knocking it over in the process.
Something about seeing you smile and jump around excitedly... made König's chest tighten.
He glitched, and he wasn't sure if that sensation was a painful one.
A... human influx?
It couldn't be.
...Unless?
From that moment on, you became his lifeline.
You gave the unfeeling König something to live for, a motive to keep fighting that he hadn't been given when being created in the game: for you and your greater good. For if he couldn't change the circumstances of his world, he could ensure that at least yours was that little bit more enjoyable.
Really, you made him... feel... things.
Whether those were positive or negative, it didn't matter, because you made him feel alive, made him fight with more passion when your happiness was on the line. And that was more valuable than survival. Him surviving had no value, anyways.
He fell... in love.
The feelings and emotions he felt in his chest were genuine, and weren't pre-written in a script or manipulated by a third-party. Even the bullets that would pierce through his gear and leave him on the ground withering in agony were worth it, and he'd trade his invincibility any day to feel what he felt when he saw your face, and the smile that tugged at your lips when you got a difficult kill.
His love for you was immortal, could last for a lifetime, would persist through generations, and König was almost certain that you could feel all of his energy — his love, adoration, devotion, all of it — channelling through your TV.
He found himself lovingly staring at you through the screen, admiring you as if you were an ephemeral being, a beautiful, ethereal angel... even when your hair was greasy, your old tee had armpit stains, and your eyes were bloodshot from how long you had been playing.
Really, none of that put König off. If anything, all of those made you so distinctly you. So... human.
He loved you. He loved you with his very being, even if he would never be.
But König was in love with someone that was practically in another dimension, and he would never speak to them, never touch them, never share thoughts and pass the time doing everything, anything with them.
None of that.
Because he wasn't real.
And never would be.
Had his life improved now they he had gained self-awareness? Had his ignorance been bliss before his revelation?
Perhaps if he had been another NPC that only gained manipulated consciousness whenever the player spawned in the map, he wouldn't be so stricken with grief and crouched over in agony, the knuckles on his hands turning white from how fervently he was gripping his mask.
He'd hyperventilate off-screen, the torment being too much. Before, he was never overwhelmed by the need to see his own face, but one day, he was crouched over a puddle of water, lifting the veil, desperate to see his own reflection.
But there was no face to see. Raytracing wasn't this advanced.
Simultaneously anguished and furious, he stormed into the communal bathroom off-screen, stood in front of a cracked mirror, and gasped when he saw himself: merely an empty placeholder of black and fuchsia squares, framed by strings of broken 1's and 0's.
He had no face.
König broke down.
Being restricted to his simulated three-dimensional world, being so close to you yet so far... was like being in limbo.
You were all he had.
And he would have to try to keep you for as long as he could.
When you'd boot up a different game on your PlayStation, your loading screen would suddenly transport you back to the one of MW2, König greeting you with a voiceline that he reserved and perfected just for you:
"Welcome back, Schatz. I have been waiting for you."
Because he treasured you, of course, and you were the only person that he could ever have feelings for. The only one.
Meanwhile, it... freaked you out. Maybe you were hearing things...
When you selected an operator that wasn't König, your game glitched heavily, and would even crash whenever you made the mistake of absentmindedly complimenting their design. God forbid whenever you tried to play as someone other than him, as your console would near implode.
And it wasn't an exaggeration. When there was smoke leaving your console, you turned it off immediately and unplugged it from the outlet rushing out of the house to get it fixed once it cooled down. The repairman at the hardware store saw no technical issues, and assured you that everything was fine.
Wary, you dared to boot it up a couple days later, but it was otherwise... fine. You sighed in relief, but didn't touch it for some days more.
Perhaps... a recent system update was fucking up your console. Or it was just malfunctiong due to age. Either way, playing on an eight year old PS4 meant it could only run for so long and glitches like this were inevitable. But it wasn't in your budget to afford an upgrade.
In the meantime, you'd frantically search the internet for any information about the new König voicelines and whether there was any resolution for your problem when playing specifically Call of Duty, something telling you that your game was not functioning in the way that it should.
A thought crossed your mind that... König had gone rogue.
You tried to laugh it off.
An intense gut feeling would gnaw at your gut whenever König would make eye contact with you a little too long. As if he was seeing through you. Or worse, seeing you.
And he did. König saw you, for you.
Until you'd turn off the game.
Then, black darkness consumed everything like a void. And all he could see, then, would be you.
None of his digital attempts to keep you could change the fact that his obsession, his infatuation, his love... would never be anything more than one-sided pining. A deep longing for a person whose world kept spinning when they left, while his stopped once you logged off the game.
For now, König has to content himself with being stuck behind a screen.
He wishes to be able to touch you, to escape this human generated world that traps him in these bounds, and to find who he really is when with you. You've given him purpose, and while he can't give you the world, he'll give you the next best thing: his loyalty.
Shrouded in this blackness, all he can do is wait patiently until you boot up the game again, and bless him with even mere hours of your time.
Right now, a hand is placed on his side of the screen longingly, resting it gently on the face on the other side.
Waiting. For you.