First Stream

The French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty once said that human perception isn't the work of a pure mind—it's only possible through the body in communion with the world. We understand through our flesh, perceive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through our flesh. The me on the monitor and the me in reality can't be separated; they're linked as one sensation through the medium of the body.

This profound, magnificent philosophical proposition? I just proved it perfectly in Battlelands by getting my virtual head blown off.

That miraculous physical reflex where I physically turned my neck to check the back wall because someone said "watch your six in the virtual space." Yeah. Translation: I'm just a fucking retard with a thick skull.

The screen faded back to black and white. My character bit the dust heroically in the bushes. Fourth place out of four survivors. In a situation where chicken dinner was on a knife's edge, I took dead last.

My screams echoed through the room, but the chat was exploding with laughter.

Before I knew it, viewers had jumped past ten. I figured they'd bail after I blew the 5,000 won mission and died like a total noob, hearts broken. But nope—numbers were climbing.

...So if I'm wronged, pathetic, retarded, and lame, viewers increase?

Something... felt like my stream finally had a solid concept. This was absolutely the concept. Because I'm not actually pathetic, retarded, or lame.

"No, they said watch your back! Enemy behind, watch your back—you gotta specify like that! Just 'back! Back!' and it's normal to unconsciously turn around for real!"

I tried explaining away the real-life turnaround, but chat ignored me.

"Agh, seriously..."

I'd dug my own grave. Trying to pull aggro, I'd cockily added "no chicken = cam on" to the title. I'd planned excuses like "No time limit anyway, I'll eat before ending stream." I'd even rehearsed the line. But viewers didn't care—they demanded the cam.

First game: frying pan shattered. Second: died turning around IRL. This wouldn't do. Just following viewers doesn't make you a streamer. I'd decided on no-cam before starting. Who knows about later, but not today.

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Then it hit me—a crucial fact. This account? Freshly made throwaway. Battlelands matchmaking puts newbies and bots with new accounts. Pure noob water, basically.

That guy I headshot with the frying pan earlier? Lucky backstab from a newbie. Second game? I died like an idiot turning around—not high-level enemies.

My brain spun. Conclusion? Borrowing chat's words: safe asset.

Pathetic noob concept is good, but no-cam first.

I gripped the mouse tight and declared solemnly.

"I said cam if no chicken, but didn't specify when, right? Originally, if no chicken by end of stream... last second, real last second. Chicken this game. No chicken? Donate gear money. I'll turn cam on."

"...Success means no issue, right? Why assume failure? I won't fall for that trap. Won't shake from this provocation. Wait and see. This game's a real Jinsu feast."

Hm, killer pun. Rhyme attack using my name. Something average brains couldn't dream up...

Ah, right. I'm Lee Jua now.

Average, apparently.

Click-clack—Bang! Crisp bolt sound, and the enemy's head exploded on the monitor.

Chat flooded with question marks. A scene I'd seen on YouTube once: SR jump headshot. Hooked on that rush, I'd spent ~20 hours in training on jump shots alone. Then quit.

Stationary targets? One in three hits. But enemies standing still in Battlelands? Rare as hell.

But luckily, noobs in Jua's throwaway account often stood frozen. Tried a jump shot on a whim—if it flops, whatever.

"...It... worked?"

Even Jua was stunned by the result. Calming her pounding heart, she grabbed the mic like it was no big deal.

Clink—Rattle—

"No biggie, right?"

Jua casually ran to the body, looting. As she restocked, car engines rumbled in the distance. A Dacia kicked up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dust, beelining for Nogada Lee's ridgeline.

"Heading this way? Sounds like they heard me. Just grab the lead right away. Real men don't dodge."

Recoil control? Jua's arms were hydraulic cylinders. That sensation from occasionally sweet-talking the excavator foreman on site to pilot one—it was back.

Controlling boom, arm, bucket while grading? No joke.

Hey asshole! Think this is easy? Constant speed and angle... Huh? What? How's this bitch so good?

Fingertip feel pro-level. Reviving it, she held left-click, dragged arm down.

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tang—! Gunfire tore the ridge. Flames spat from Nogada Lee's barrel. 5.56mm rounds poured toward the car.

Kak-kang—Kak-kak-kak-kang— Gunfire roared. Clear hits on the front. But...

Vroooom—! Dacia didn't slow, charging straight.

"...Huh?"

Chat repainted with mockery.

"No! Wait! Uwooh!"

Nogada Lee twisted desperately, prone-dodging the Dacia by a hair. It grazed past, stopping behind a tree.

"...Was gonna bait, steal the car. Saw the even hood hits, right? If I wanted it, I'd have taken it."

"Didn't hear that. See a doc."

Enemy parked Dacia far behind tree. Jua pulled M24 again.

Click-clack— Bolt action chambered. Enemy peeked right—Jua snapped aim, fired.

Bang—!

"...Huh?" Another headshot. Planned body shot to chip health, pressure with throws. But he sat—perfect head hit.

"See? Predict dodge, shoot. Hard? Is this hard, guys?"

Brain panicked, mouth ran solo. All-day noob plays, then pot-shattering flex. Should've died early, but clung on weirdly. All headshots, even.

"...Three survivors left? Smell chicken? No-cam locked? Stream done today?"

Jua steadied shaking hands, chugged an energy drink.