Streamer Goldmine

A man stared hard into empty air.

"Come on, you guys seeing this? That bastard's got zero shame, right?"

Jump, live on stream, could barely keep his anger in check.

No matter how great a game was, there were always people who ruined it — those pieces of shit who only cared about their own ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thrill, their own fun, and didn't give a damn who they stepped on to get it.

Trolls were a problem, sure. But the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worst of it, always, was unauthorized software. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hacks.

It went beyond wrecking a single match. Sometimes it killed the game itself. Most players hated cheaters, and Jump — streamer or not — was no exception.

"If you're gonna deny it, at least don't make it so obvious. Using it this fucking blatantly and still lying about it is actually hilarious."

Chat's reaction wasn't much different from Jump's own. How many people who actually enjoyed games were going to be fans of a cheater? They were the ones who ruined the whole thing. Whether anyone liked them at all was an open question.

Irritating as it was, though, the viewers weren't responding badly. If anything, word seemed to have gotten around that this was a stream about schooling a hacker, and the viewer count had climbed. Jump had been scraping a living off streaming for six years. He wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slip.

He typed out a taunt and sent it. Normally he would have kept from crossing the line, but the other guy was a cheater. A universally hated, textbook unlikable user. Nobody was going to come after him for pushing a little past polite.

A teammate piled on like he was backing Jump up. The match itself had stalled out a long time ago. Everyone, of one mind, was pouring abuse onto the cheater. Jump wasn't about to be outdone.

The viewers loved it. A mysterious cheater who'd shown up like a comet — if Jump played this right, he could ride it all the way into a stream blow-up.

He was a streamer. Caring about chat was part of the job. Even a fun broadcast went stale if the chat was a mess. The best part of a stream was always the back-and-forth between the streamer and the people watching, which meant the room's mood was second only to the streamer being entertaining. Who wanted to jump into a chat already wallpapered with Narak and start typing?

That was why Jump worked to keep the atmosphere light. Meeting viewer taunts with a joke was part of the same effort. Herding thousands of people hiding behind internet anonymity, though, was never easy. Every so often someone crossed a line, or a shit-stirrer showed up to torch the mood. How you handled that, Jump believed, was what separated a pro from a Hakko.

The cheater had livened chat up, which was good — but the number of people swearing had gone up with it. Jump didn't bother cracking down.

This isn't the time to play chat cop.

That anger wasn't aimed at him. With a shared enemy in the cheater, what he needed to do was make people feel that sweet, cathartic rush.

If something with real impact dropped right about now, that'd be perfect.

"Teaching him a lesson" still just meant a ban from the game company, in the end. A predictable, obvious ending wasn't what viewers wanted. So Jump sat there turning it over, hunting for something that would actually feel good to watch.

Ding.

A new message popped into chat.

The impact he'd been hoping for rolled right into his lap.

A ban wasn't the only play anymore. If he met this guy in real life, taught him a lesson, and came back with the story, chat would explode. As a bonus, he might even shake the image he'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠picked up lately of a guy who farmed newbies in the lower ranks.

In streaming, image was everything, and stomping beginners was a double-edged sword that ate into a channel's lifespan. Jump's skill capped out around Gold on a good day, so even when he did farm lower ranks, viewers mostly cheered him on. Even that had a limit, though. Ugly noises had started creeping in, and he needed a rebrand — and here was a meal, already prepped and plated, dropped right in front of him.

Jump wasn't about to let dressed prey walk away. He set his hands on the holographic keyboard and started typing.

Ding.

The whisper hit him almost before he'd finished sending. He didn't even check the contents. He already knew, in his gut.

Today's stream was about to blow.

I couldn't swallow the anger. I went and did it.

No regrets, though. Someone cursing you out with zero evidence — nothing but a hunch — needed a reminder that the real world existed. I hadn't been thinking IRL from the start, but nothing I said in here was going to reach him anyway. And underneath all of that, I was just pissed.

I couldn't sit there watching a bunch of nobodies hide behind anonymity and run their mouths like horses with the reins cut. At the very least, I wanted to say one thing to his face. I'd sleep better.

A few minutes crawled by. Maybe he hadn't actually expected a whisper, because nothing came back.

Don't tell me he got scared and ran.

Ding.

The thought had barely formed when a notification bloomed in front of my eyes. I tapped the message hanging in the air, and a whisper from the enemy team's Jump unfurled.

My teeth ground together, a small, ugly sound. He'd had a gift for getting under my skin from the start, and he was still working it. I shoved the anger down, put my hands on the keyboard, and typed a taunt of my own. I wasn't about to lose this either.

All I'd done was use the systems in the game to show everything I was capable of. Why I was supposed to sit here and take this, I had no idea. It felt like someone was testing how much patience a person actually had.

I started to type a rebuttal — and then the match timer ran out, and the game ended on its own.

Our team's score had been a little higher, so the match went in the win column. There was no joy in it. No satisfaction. If anything, the chat from earlier flickered past like a reel of film and only fed the anger.

The game queued the next match automatically. I didn't want to play. I'd jumped in for fun, walked out branded a cheater and cursed at, and there was no world in which I was going to sit down and enjoy myself like none of that had happened. My head was too loud to focus anyway.

I shut down Last of Quantum.

The time said the sun was already starting to bleed up over the horizon. I'd been putting loadouts together at dawn, so that tracked.

"...I'm tired."

Hours of gaming without a break. Sleep came in a wave. The IRL meet wasn't until one tomorrow, so there was still plenty of time. I pushed myself up out of the Connector and winced. My body felt heavy.

Five hours of forums, building loadouts, then playing. Barely any real movement at all — and even that was apparently too much for Lee Harin's body.

"Maybe I should start working out."

My stomach growled. Gaming had wiped dinner right out of my head. The second I noticed I was hungry, a stomach that had been fine a minute ago started begging for food.

"Eating... is such a pain."

I muttered it and threw myself at the huge bed. Softness wrapped around me, almost too comfortable. I sank into the mattress and dragged the blanket in close. My stomach was still yelling about food, but exhaustion got there first. Five hours of gaming was enough to beat hunger outright. Besides, people didn't die from skipping a meal.

I burrowed deeper into the blanket, smiled a little, and let sleep take me.