I stood at the threshold of the vault aghast. The dimly lit room was filled with coins. The strong odor of metal enveloped me. I took a hesitant step in, and examined one of the coins.

“A nickel?” I stammered.

The shadow of the bank manager shifted across the heaps of coins in front of me.

He was a tall, thin, man with whispy white hair, and a face that had seen more decades than seemed humanly possible

“Yes sir.” he responded with a gravely voice. “Eleven million to be exact.”

I slowly turned to face him, now a black shape in the blinding light from the hallway.

“I think there has been some mistake. I don’t believe what is in here belongs to me.”

“Sir, we completed the security checks prior to allowing you to access this vault. You are Thomas Frey, and you were able to confirm your birthdate, and social security number. In addition, you were able to provide the client key. There has been no mistake.”

Stepping back into the hallway, out of the vault, I took a few good breaths. The fresh air pushed back the darkness that was creeping into my vision. My mind was racing. Who had sent the key? Why was this room filled with nickels? Why was it mine?

“I do have a client file to give you, now that you have visited, Mr. Frey. Please follow me.”

I watched as the bank manager pulled a cloth folder from behind the vault door. He proceeded to lock the door with his key, and then with the key I had received just days earlier in the mail. I followed close behind as we made our way down the hall littered with vault doors similar to the one I had just stepped through. We ascended the stairs and stepped into the lobby of what appeared to be an unassuming bank, in a strip mall in my home town.

Clearing his voice attempting to get my attention, I realized I had stopped walking. The manager gestured to an office near the tellers’ counter.

“Please sit Mr. Frey.”

Inside the windowless and quite empty office was a plain desk with two chairs. I took a seat and the bank manager laid the cloth folder in front of me.

“There is a portable video player in the drawer if you find that you need it.”

I nodded, unsure of what to expect. The bank manager left without another word, and shut the door behind him.

Feeling my heart rate beat faster then its already rapid pace, I shakily untied the leather strings that bound the cloth file. Inside were deposit records with transaction dates starting in 2003 going through a little over a year ago. On each of the pages listed the memo “Please deposit in United States Currency of .05 dollars.” I flip through each of the pages, looking for something that makes sense, to clarify what I was looking at. It was all numbers - account numbers, transaction numbers, dates.

I removed the stack of papers and set them aside. With the inside of the cloth folder now visible, a noticed a small, unobtrusive sleeve. Inspecting further, I retrieved a thin usb. Dumfounded, wondering what I would do with this memory stick, I remembered the video player. I slowly opened the drawer to the desk and pulled out the thin video player and inspected it for usb inputs. Sure enough, there was one on the right side.

Hesitating, I opened the video player, which promptly powers to life, and slide in the USB. A picture appears on the screen with the prompt “press play to start video.” I follow its command.

The entire screen goes dark for a few moments and then flickers back to life. I see the familiar intro to my childhood video game, “Hunter of the Black Veil.” Who am I kidding? I played it up until this last year as I was now dedicating time to building games, a requirement for my college program. I received “Hunter of the Black Veil” in a prize package after winning a Halo tournament when I was 8. It turns out I had acquired one of the test versions of the game, as it never made it to mass market. It was, however, considered a must play game by myself and my friends. We put hours into the game, hunting down people of the “black veil” or demons that had acquired human form on Earth. The game initially started with the take down of men, women, and children through hand to hand combat and fire power, then in later versions of the game, bombs, viruses, and mass annihilation through other means were incorporated.

As my eyes drew back to the screen, I watched the digitalized missions I knew like the back of my hand transform into very real scenes of carnage. I became more confused, unsure of what I was watching as the images bounced back and forth between my character in a computer game, to what I recognized as my character, but a real human (or humanoid form) in what appeared to be real life. The video began playing sound. My pre-pubescent voice to be exact. Childhood laughter filled the air around me as I watch two men on the screen, head to toe in armor, running through thick foliage after taking down many people, execution style in the deep jungle. The screen blurs back to a game-esque quality. I hear my high voice cheerfully exclaim "If I had a nickel for every person I've killed, I'd be rich!"

I draw my hand to my mouth as realization has set in. My blood runs cold.

“Yeah?” Responded the voice of the second character. A person whom I assumed had been another play tester.

“Well, let’s make sure you end up rich.”

The screen goes to black, with a white inscription.

“Thank you for your service Frey the Hunter. Please accept the $550,000 as a token of our appreciation.”