10:43 PM, Microsoft Tower, Washington.
A figure stands in shadow, red lights from the theistic ceiling flood the spacious hall. Along the sides, hallmark pieces of technology are proudly displayed on golden pedestals. The Xbox, Windows, Hololens; At the center of it all, the vaccine.
"Microsoft Microbe Covid-19" the label on the syringe reads. A glowing substance can be seen sitting still inside.
Monitors flicker to life at the end of the hall, each one showing the point of view of an innocent civilian. The light draws a silhouette of a man. His body, frail. His skin is leathery and rugged. Breathing apparatus cover his face, a cold green mist slowly spewing out.
The grand door opens, humanoids armed with weapons drag an unkempt and furious man towards the being in shadow. They throw him to the floor, spit slathering the ground.
"This is the last one?" the figure asks.
"Yes, Lord Microsoft. all 4,607,423,673 other citizens have been accounted for."
The rugged man looks upwards, his face bloodied and bruised. His eyes meet Lord Microsoft's. Puffed from tears, his eyes can only show one emotion: anger.
"Bill Gates, you piece of shit. I swore to Samantha that if I ever-"
"Silence, creature!" Lord Microsoft slaps him with the back of his hand. "I am lord Microsoft, and you will refer to me as such!"
The guards grab the man, hoisting him up.
"Now, let us delay no further. It has taken me years to get to this point, and I will not have my victory denied!" Lord Microsoft grabs the vaccine and primes it for injection.
"Such a small thing, isn't it? Yet, it has afforded me the right to dominate all life on Earth. Covid was a blessing, not a curse."
The man's eyes widened, he screams in retaliation, but the guards shut his mouth with force. Lord Microsoft pierces his flesh with the needle. A flourescent orange liquid can be seen coursing through his veins. He falls to the floor, his muscles tightening and constricting in unnatural fashion. His eyes bulge from his skull and he shouts in pain.
He slumps over, and in only a moment he comes back to his feet. His pupils dilated and his skin, pale.
"How may I serve you, my lord."
Aha, I see, i have calculated this equation of where my enemy can and will go. The numbers are almost 85.1829% chance that they will go right over my crosshair, thus leading my equation into the correct mathematical path into my favor with the proceeding 1 kill or so. The simple equation to such a peasant game, 
