(the sketchy keysite was maybe your first mistake.)

 

sure, your heart sank when you read ‘A Sea 6 (ROW)’ in stark white text, but after that first flicker of panic?

 

the entry in your library looked a whole lot like *that* game, the big marquee release everyone’s buzzing about.

 

(it’s not like your steam account’s gone all gaslighting urlboss. it’s probably just a strange quirk of another region’s keys. couldn’t hurt to give it a try, right?)

 

 

every time your handler opens his mouth your heart’s aflutter, gushy and molten and i-feel-weird-about-how-horny-this-is-but-i’m-kind-of-into-it? (still more subtle than galdur’s bate.)

 

every time he says six-two-one, there’s a little lump in his throat like he means you.

 

 

a buzz in your ear. a sense of vertigo. a swell of warmth to pull you in and hook you with every last missile-locked chime.

 

the first mission was fun, but you can't remember a thing about it.

 

and the second. and the third. and--

 

a cutscene on the beginnings of the conflict. the words feel like a sandcastle in a stiff wind.

 

 

(his words go fuzzy and incomprehensible save for a few. good girl, good hound, good girl. when you come to, your cheeks burn and your seat's slick.)

 

(maybe it’s just adhd brain. didn’t you alt-tab somewhere along the way?)

 

 

(when you think back on this moment, the memories feel out-of-order, less a proper sequence of events than a sizzle reel.)

 

missing time shaped like a miniboss encounter. a cinematic you only half-take in.

 

a silent title card. PCA ambiguous area defense platform, designation ＰＬＥＡＳＥ ＲＥＣＯＮＳＩＤＥＲ.

 

your first try’s over before you know it. your second, your third, your tenth. 

 

you’re on your last attempt of the night when a veiny red haze settles over the screen.

 

𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵.
 
𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥𝘴.
 
𝘪’𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺.

 

(you get so sucked in that an enthusiastic arf! slips out.)

 

(you feel like a weird embarrassing nerd even after you double-check that your headset’s muted but you could’ve sworn one of the veins twisted into a smile.)

 

selecting ‘restart from checkpoint’ happens before you even realize what your hands are doing.

 

𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭.

 

eleventh. you make it to the second phase this time.

 

you can appreciate a game surprising you, but you weren’t expecting the PCA autonomous aerial desperation platform, designation Ｉ ＡＭ ＴＲＹＩＮＧ ＴＯ ＨＥＬＰ ＹＯＵ to start throwing textures and hunks of landscape like you’ve stumbled into a jazztronauts-themed expansion to the strangest wrestling game you could imagine.

 

fifteenth. you imagine the pianist with a flaming sword. even a shell can grow a surly sense of selfhood if you let it.

 

sixteenth. this is the last, you tell yourself. maybe these games just aren’t for me, you tell yourself.

 

this time, there’s a prompt.

 

 

 

Accept ✚ Refuse

 

something shifts in that moment, though you can’t put words to it.

 

buying in means shivers and butterflies every time you lose, every time you make the PCA autonomous aerial discouragement platform, designation Ｉ ＴＨＯＵＧＨＴ ＹＯＵ ＷＯＵＬＤ ＢＥ ＤＩＦＦＥＲＥＮＴ work for it. you tell yourself it’s merely the joy of progress, but there’s something about the ritual of making as much trouble as you can before you burn out – about the ritual of making it punish you – that has a claw-grip around your heart.

 

(and other parts of you besides.)

 

on the thirtieth try, you finally overcome the PCA autonomous aerial disenchantment platform, designation Ｉ ＷＩＳＨ ＹＯＵ ＷＯＵＬＤ’ＶＥ ＬＩＳＴＥＮＥＤ. 

 

(it is perhaps a little easier to fall into a rhythm when that missile-locked chime makes your mouth water and your thighs clench.)

 

the screen goes dark.

 

your thoughts go dim.

 

𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸.