To Put Out the Fire

Unknown. Anyone looking at that name would know it pointed to me.

So why was it trending? Had someone gone and set a fire?

I clicked the post at once. From the view count to the number of replies, nothing about it looked ordinary. Every comment had a different nickname. It didn't seem like some cheap manipulation or a spam flood.

Had I done something wrong?

I worked the mouse and scrolled slowly, reading as I went.

For the most part, the thread was people telling me to go live.

The one thing that kept catching my eye was the name that kept coming up: the LOT Tournament.

The LOT Tournament?

I'd never heard of it. Then again, it was a globally popular game — a tournament existing wasn't strange. What I didn't understand was why my name was in the conversation at all.

I opened a fresh browser window and searched it.

According to the wiki, it was something like an annual regular event. It had started as an unofficial cup, but famous streamers and named players kept showing up, the scale ballooned, and it had even been approved as an official tournament.

Some of the winners had even made it into the pro league ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and put on a pretty respectable debut.

I still didn't see why I was being mentioned in connection with something like that.

I didn't think I was lacking in skill. In terms of live combat technique, I didn't believe I fell behind anyone. That wouldn't change even if my rank climbed.

But I hadn't shown enough. At most, I'd taught Jump how to play and beaten a streamer named Bernie. That was the whole list.

I was confident, sure — but I didn't think I had the kind of name recognition that got you talked about for a tournament.

More than that, the minimum cutoff was Diamond. The idea of me entering as a Bronze player was absurd on its face.

"......"

Even so, I couldn't help getting interested.

The point of a game was simple: fun. That was why people didn't play games that weren't fun. Why would I be any different?

There was no reason to keep clinging to something boring for no reason at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all.

Honestly, Bronze was too dull. There weren't many adults in the world who'd celebrate beating a newborn. That was exactly how I felt — like I was toying with a toddler who'd just learned to walk. Of course there was no fun in it.

Diamond.

It wasn't an impossible target. If a streamer like Bernie, the one I'd fought, could hit that level, I didn't see why I couldn't. If anything, the fact that someone of that caliber sat in Diamond told me roughly what the tier was worth.

I wanted to test how far my current skill could actually go.

And even aside from that, fighting genuinely good players would be a string of tension. Maybe I could feel again that sensation from the battlefield — the one that rode the line between living and dying.

It was a strange feeling. Excitement and anticipation mixed into something I couldn't put into words.

Glug—

I poured water into a cup to take the edge off. The sound of it falling rang clear. Condensation on the plastic bottle touched my hand, cold. It was enough, at least, to bring my head back a little.

Even in that brief span, comments were still pouring onto the post without end.

This many people, waiting for me.

I checked the time. It still wasn't past midnight. "Evening" ran from when the sun went down to after it was fully dark — if you stretched it, midnight could still count as evening, couldn't it?

First I'd go live and pull the people here together. If there was a fire, you had to put it out.

Viewers piled in the instant the going-live alert went out. A dark waiting screen filled the broadcast, quiet music drifting underneath.

A few minutes later, the waiting screen switched.

It was the same space backdrop I'd used last stream. This time, though, the planets behind it were moving, laying out the sheer scale of the universe. A planet finished one full orbit between glittering stars.

Only then, apparently deciding the prep was done, Unknown opened her mouth.

"Hello. As promised, evening stream is on."

"It's not past twelve, so isn't it still evening? I said I'd go live in the evening. I never said what time."

Chat was running hot. There weren't that many viewers yet — the stream had only just started — but the pace already felt faster than the numbers.

Before long the questions had shifted to what we were doing today. Apparently they'd decided that complaining about why I'd gone live now wouldn't change anything. There were even viewers telling the rest to count themselves lucky I'd turned it on at all.

Could this itself be a kind of content?

There was too much I didn't know with a streaming career this short. Jump had definitely told me to warm up with some talk before starting the game.

What was I supposed to do.

Say something? Just... throw out a line?

"Uh... does anyone know why the Glock 17 is called the Glock 17?"

The reaction was loud.

So why was nobody actually curious about why it had a 17 on it?

Most of the people watching would be playing Last of Quantum. That meant most of them had used a Glock 17. Were they just shooting a gun without knowing why it was named that?

Dealing with an anonymous, unspecified crowd was still too hard a problem. I was always going to be weak to sudden situations that refused to go the way I intended. And if internet streaming was nothing but sudden situations, there was nothing more to say.

A quiet wave of self-reproach rolled in. That didn't mean I could just sit there on a waiting screen saying nothing. For now, the better move was to push through with what I'd planned.

"The 17 in Glock 17 is because it was the seventeenth pistol Glock patented. It starts at 17 because that was Glock's first mass-produced model."

Why were they reacting like that?

The whole point had been to pull a novel little fact and get people talking.

Then again, not knowing it didn't stop anyone from shooting. In a way, it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Maybe it would be better to bring up a different topic.