Wanna Grab Some Chicken Before You Go? (1)
[L.P., Prince-I] — (L.P. has left the match.)
After one set of squats, Ppase's legs trembled like those of a ninety-year-old. Viewers laughed and chattered away as he groaned about doing tomorrow's stream lying down.
Suddenly, refugees started flooding in.
Spotting the commotion, Ppase dragged himself back onto his chair with effort. He checked the last message logs in the match lobby and muttered,
"What the hell. Where'd sis go?"
He was dying to crack jokes, but even as Ppase, this was absurd. Vanishing out of nowhere? For what reason? He hurriedly fired off a message on Discord. No reply—probably on mute. Just yesterday, he'd barely gotten hold of her through Lena's help. How was he supposed to collab if contact was this spotty?
Ppase rubbed his face, looking troubled.
It was 7 p.m. sharp. Realizing the stream was wrapping up, viewers started bailing en masse.
A broadcasting accident. A historic one at that. The guest vanishing without a word?
"Hey, hey. You refugees. What the hell happened? Why'd sis disappear like that? No one knows anything?"
Just a flood of "no idea" responses. Thankfully, a donemise pinged in amid the chaos.
"Gimmick move?"
What flashed in his mind was that hair-raising highlight from the previous match: Smith absurdly dodging Arnold's projectile by jumping and ground-slamming.
"……."
He'd chalked it up to luck, obviously. No way it was calculated.
But as Ppase dissected the recording frame by frame, he realized: it was all intentional. She'd deliberately double-jumped to force his midair energy wave. The close dodge had some luck, sure, but he'd given her key info early by whiffing Smith's low. Smith's low startup: 0.2 seconds (12 frames). From that, L.P. predicted Arnold could follow up in 0.2 seconds. Then fused the frames from Smith's jump landing with Arnold's follow-jump wave frames for that miracle alchemy.
"This sis is a genius… no, a madlad."
But L.P. didn't stop at joy—she aimed to recreate the miracle. That explained the sudden sign-off. Common for game-obsessed vets. Not surprising.
"Guess she figured she could master it with practice. Scary how believable that is."
One way to console the heartbroken refugees: drag L.P. out of practice trance for a stream, or make 'em laugh himself.
"Refugees, where you all from originally?"
But Ppase clocked the issue quick: L.P.'s fans didn't mesh with his vibe. Nonstop banter win or lose. Crisp reactions, perfectly dosed swears. Folks hooked on that chaos tuned into him. No choice—cater to his own viewers at least.
"Refugees, stick around don't bail. I'll show you something fun."
"What the fuck, I didn't even say shit?"
"Hey now, what trap? Huh? Want chicken? Beat me fair and square. You call me water duke. Can't you see my legs shaking? How good can I play like this?"
Who knew—maybe some L.P. fans dug his energy, or hated him enough to wreck him.
"Water dukes' golden chance to win. Beat me, get chicken and Black rank. Quick!!"
Thud thud thud.
"Lena!"
Woken by the noise, the sun was high—no, already dipping red.
"How long you gonna sleep?!"
"You eating properly?"
Next to the monitor: two days' worth of emergency rations stacked neat. Retort rice. Alaska salmon. Kimchi tuna. Jjampong tuna, etc. She'd demolished a ton practicing.
She shuffled to the entryway and flopped by the shoe rack.
"Eating fine, don't worry."
"Just retort and cans again?"
Guilty, she stayed quiet. Ta-in would figure it out.
"How's the practice?"
"Went great."
"Impressive. So it is doable with practice?"
"Yep."
Practice: smashing success. Felt usable in real matches. Issue: how often would the setup happen? Needed Arnold player dominating her to pull the gimmick. Among streamers, fingers could count who could corner her skill-wise. Hype draws were Black rank max. Golds all at tourneys or scared to lose—no shows.
No worthy foes. Body rested since quitting work, but mind frayed. This way? She'd smash dojos herself.
"Sis heading back down. Won't bug you—I'll support streams anyway. Tell me if hungry. Got it?"
"Yup."
Ta-in's footsteps faded down the stairs. Now what. Ppase covered cash fine, but opponents he'd fetched? Just Mixer and her. Rank matches it was. Better than idling—raise rank for less boredom sans content.
Cool. Air out, shower after. Crack a window. Waited for front door below to shut, then opened up. Crisp air. Nothing beat jogging in this weather. One perk post-Ren: no winter shivers.
Days of full effort, but Ppase couldn't satisfy L.P.'s fans. Variety show vibes, sure—but no "whoa!" godplays. Pitiful homeless stuck in his stream, barely chatting.
To stem the fanbase collapse, special mission dropped on Ppase. If only L.P. answered... No dice. Had to trespass.
Bundled against cold, he stepped out—then despaired at his memory.
"Where the fuck is this place..."
Endless identical walls, iron gates. Zero bearings. Rich hood with ironclad security? Thief-level lost, begging cops for directions.
"Should've got her number..."
Awkward first meet. Saving address after escort? Creepy. But lax thinking backfired now.
"...Shit."
Two chicken boxes wandered lost in his hands.保温 bag had 30 mins left. No confidence finding Lena's in time.
"If sis popped up right here, it'd be perfect."
Just familiar alleys. Occasional luxury sedan. Dead-city empty otherwise.
As the chicken-bearing wanderer trudged on—light footsteps approached fast, slowed to match, stopped beside. Tap tap tap. Bouncy in-place steps. Sultry voice.
"Crispy chicken?"
"Y-yes... crispy chicken..."
Whipping around: his angel in sweats.
"Sis!!"
"Fuck, startled me. Loud."
"H-ha, so so glad. Wandered 30 mins. Thought I'd get stranded."
"Stranded my ass... You lost bad?"
"Not usually, but this place? Walls too damn high."
Like rescued from snowy peak, shivering. Ppase savored deep calm.
"New Year's greeting."
"New Year's?"
"Yeah. Day after tomorrow's Jan 1."
"Oh. Already?"
Shut-in calendar blindness. Ppase chuckled, proposed.
"New Year's chicken. Well... actually here to ask big sis a favor since L.P.'s MIA, but killing two birds..."
"Ah... aha..."
Lena scratched neck sheepish. Knew dad ghosted Ppase often.
"Thanks, dig in."
"Enjoy. Pass word to big bro."
"...Huh? Leaving now?"
"Yeah, just that."
"Dude, you're here—stay. I'll grab beer. How much chicken?"
Lena rummaged pockets, pulled bills.
"No way you're paying?"
"Said anything you buy comes from dad's wallet."
"...True, cleaner math."
"So. What to drink. No car today?"
"Next building over—no need."
"Perfect. Booze run first."
Excited Lena shoved Ppase's back. He sidestepped startled.
"Huh? Where?"
"Booze run."
"No, after booze..."
Head tilt like duh. Hood hair cascaded.
"Where else? Home. Eat chicken while you're here."