The Clarification Stream

Time had slipped to 6:50 PM before I knew it. I'd tweaked the Prism Studio stream title.

Just like always. Even I had to admit, this title deserved a best broadcast award. I took a deep breath. Suuup—whoosh— That chilling tension from my Lee Jinsu days, the first time hauling two 40kg cement bags up the scaffold—it hit me again. But this wasn't a site where a fall could kill you. This was an internet stream, and all I had to lose was my job. Prove myself, solidify the viewers, and I'd taste that sweet fruit of capitalism again, like yesterday. I hovered the mouse cursor over the start button. 7 PM sharp. I clicked with force.

Click—

"Hello, everyone!"

"Eight-year vet of the night shifts!"

"Streamer Lee Jua here!"

The stream had barely gone live when the viewer count started spiking like crazy. "...Huh?" By the time I finished greetings, it was roughly double yesterday's peak. Seventeen at shutdown, thirty-two already during intros. The chat exploded with firepower.

I cleared my throat and pulled the 29,000-won stand mic closer. I'd shoved it away for that hype intro earlier. Clink—drag—

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"Welcome, everyone. As promised, I got the cam. Setup's done. We'll chat a bit, then handcam on. But... Yagallery? What's that? Yagada Gallery? That exists? Damn, why didn't I know? Should've joined!"

"...Huh? Naughty Gallery? My voice? What the hell... Night shift labor gallery? Outdoor labor gallery? Wait, Yagada is short for night shift labor, right? I did daytime gombang and yarikiri, clocked out, so night crew stuff I don't know much about..."

My genuine confusion blanketed the chat in 'lololol' and '???'. My whole internet life had been job sites for gigs. I'd only learned "Yagada" yesterday after scouring the web post-stream. It was short for night labor... or so the net denizens said. Had they betrayed me? No clue what Yagallery even was.

"Whatever it is or does, enough chit-chat. As promised, cam on. Eyes wide open, folks."

I moved the cursor to the video activate button. Clicked without hesitation. A small square popped up in the bottom-right of the feed screen, which had been showing the desktop. The 50,000-won webcam on its mount ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠captured my mouse pad, keyboard, mouse—and the hand gripping it.

The hand on screen looked unreal even to me. No calluses from shifting cargo, no cement dust—not a drop of water had ever touched those fingers. '...Didn't think of this.' But it was fine. I was the bold upper-class man who'd already come out about the TS.

"Told you, I TS'd. That's why the hand's soft."

They ignored my TS line completely. "No boyfriend, no part-timer—it's my hand!" Indignant, I frantically made a V-sign and shook it at the camera. "See? My hand!"

I'd just done the V to prove it was live, not recorded—that I could read chat and show hand on the fly. But chat lost it, calling it aegyo. I'd spent all day yesterday studying other streamers. This was their 'rat trap.' Trying to grab and puppet me. React to every bit, and it'd be their stream, not mine. Felt wronged, but I gripped the mouse again. Palm on the butt, index and middle hooked tight—that's comfy for big hands. Common ground between Jinsu and Jua: hands bigger than average. Sure, smaller than Jinsu's by at least a handspan, but habit ingrained.

"Alright, real clarification stream starts now."

Fired up Battlelands, hit prep. Match queued, lobby, boarded the plane. "Just play like normal, right? That clears it up? Forgive any chat delays while I focus."

Plane took off, engine roar filling my earphones. "Good route. Full rush cam."

I shrugged off the mocking concern and hit drop.

Shwooooosh—! Harsh wind with the character plummeting. Battlelands chute formula: 800m, 1000m, 1100m. Speeds 200, 180, 165. Vert 300, 350, 400. Ctrl for bends, A/D wiggles, all that jazz. But I stuck to my stubborn formula. '800m at 200, vert at 350.' Might lose #1, but never top five. Early fights hinge on chute mastery. Then spotting guns from above and landing precise for active control.

Thud— Feet hit the roof. Snagged AKM, scarfed ammo fast. Whipped mouse—no one faster. All prey. Left hand danced wild, right clicked precise. Rat-tat—

Some punk fist-swinging at me, whatever.

Late bloomer loading up.

Bang—rat-tat—

Tracked aim, sniped another. Meanwhile, mutual kills below. Roof survivors? Just me, Yeopo, and jumpers fleeing to ground.

'Three kills, sweet... skills rotting otherwise.'

Chat drowned in shock. Then a dull shotgun rack echoed, footsteps approaching via earphones. Enemy from first floor, shotgun up the roof.

"Oh, snack delivery service."

Streamer lingo slipped out. My hand snapped hard—whoosh! Screen 180 spin. Head peeked. Bang—rat-a-tat-tat— AKM boomed heavy.

Landing plus fifteen seconds: four kills. I looted chill, reloaded AKM, dropped down.

"Ahh, so bored I could die."

Best line from yesterday's stream study. Memorized for someday—used it right away. I was a real streamer now. Good job, me.

Of course. Heart pounding. Chest about to burst. Hands shaky. Adrenaline raging. Thought I'd die after one kill... Some unknown power pulled me through. Like ancestors subbed in for the cement bags.