Allah's Magic Wand

You've probably seen those kinds of videos before. A bunch of Black men crammed into some rundown spot, shaking and pounding away in a frenzy, chasing pure pleasure. ...Of course I'm talking about music. What kind of twisted shit were you imagining?

Anyway, you know the ones. Those Shorts where some guy beatboxes a rhythm with his mouth and another person with a guitar picks it up and starts playing. More instruments layer in until it turns into real music. Or the ones where someone rips out a full song tastier than most singers using a guitar that only has a single string. Bottom line, it's the genes. The soul carved into their DNA from birth is just built different. Like Dark Souls...

If Black folks are gifted with music and dance, what exactly were Middle Eastern people born with? The answer was simple.

Survival Island. A three-man squad battle royale FPS that had been popular with streamers for ages. And in that game, Ali was slaughtering people with the calm ease of someone who had come home.

He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠screamed curses at the top of his lungs as he pulled something big, long, and imposing out of his bag. The portable anti-tank grenade launcher Mark 7. The RPG-7, famously known as Allah's Magic Wand.

Whoosh—

BOOOOOOM!!

It had only been ten minutes since the game started. A rank I'd never reached once in my life. I muttered with a dazed face.

"Well, Ali's a Challenger after all. He's a sweeper one-trick, but he's better than most pro gamers."

"Yeah. Given his nationality, I guess."

"...Don't say that in front of the man himself. You'll get team-killed."

We spent a moment admiring Ali's circus act as he turned the weapon warehouse into a wasteland. Before long, Ali had wiped out yet another warehouse and came trudging back toward us, covered head to toe in loot.

"Nice work, Ali. At this rate Yume will be safe for a while."

"...No. No matter what, I'm not that bad, okay?"

I could at least get inside the top 50 in solo mode. Of course that only worked in quiet rural areas where I could camp until the zone closed, but still...

After we finished cleaning out the enemies in the weapon warehouse, Prism finally started my 'private lesson.'

"First we need to check your actual skill level, so let's see how you fight."

"I'm down for it."

Ignoring the viewers' screams, I tilted my head and asked.

"But are there any enemies left? Didn't Ali kill them all?"

"Ah. I knew this would happen, so I left one squad at the north warehouse."

Thankfully Ali had predicted this situation and deliberately left a few enemies alive. I looked at him with sparkling eyes and asked again.

"North warehouse, right?"

"Correct. Go clean it up and come back."

"Don't worry. We'll cover you from behind, so you won't die right away."

"Okay. I'll clean it up neatly and come back."

Feeling confident from the two experts' backup, I immediately grabbed my gear and headed toward the north warehouse.

The gun I'd picked up was the SCAR-L. A mid-tier assault rifle. Pretty good loot for the early game. The recoil wasn't too bad either, so it was perfect for a beginner like me.

'Defense specs aren't bad at all.'

With this much I wouldn't drop dead from a few bullets. Plus Prism would be covering me from behind. As long as I didn't completely suck, I should be able to wipe one squad without too much trouble.

Tap, tap-tap!

As I got closer to the warehouse I started hearing multiple sets of footsteps through my headset. I quickly used sound cues to figure out their general positions, then—

I burst forward.

Prism's panicked voice came from behind, but I didn't have time to pay attention. The moment I entered the warehouse, the enemies came into view. One crouched in the corner, another hiding behind a pile of supplies on the opposite side. Two targets.

But...

'I can do this. If it's me.'

My decision was fast. My hands were even faster. My aim snapped to their heads like it was being sucked in. I pulled the trigger and rained lead on them.

Rat-tat-tat-tat—

The viewers' shocked reactions kept pouring in. I turned to Prism and muttered.

The usual calm Prism was gone, replaced by an agitated shout. My confidence skyrocketed and I smiled smugly.

"...Huh?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Prism's shout flooded the chat with question marks. But before I could read them all, a gunshot from somewhere tore through the side of my head.

Bang!

Bang, bang!

That was my last short gasp. My game screen faded to gray.

......

......

......

A chilly silence hung over the stream for a long time. Prism was the first to break it, sighing as he muttered to himself.

Prism's Tutoring Class. District 2, beginning.

After playing about five more rounds, I got Prism's diagnosis while we were waiting for a new match in the lobby.

"I want to play games..."

I begged Prism in a desperate voice like a certain character from a basketball anime. Ali looked at me with pity and said,

"...But the moment you give up is exactly when the match—"

"Who the hell said that? Electricity costs money, so turn the computer off right now."

"How do you die from getting punched? Are you even human? My grandma does better than that."

......

Ali's relentless barrage of facts left me unable to respond. I just hung my head. But they say even if the sky falls there's a hole to crawl out of. Prism, who had been quiet until now, suddenly gave me a diagnosis like a doctor examining an X-ray.

"I figured it out."

"W-what...?"

"Your problem, Yume."

"The problem Yume has is..."

Prism paused dramatically for a long time before continuing in a serious voice.

"There isn't one."

A question mark floated above my head.

Amid the confused viewers, a donation message popped up. But Prism continued as if denying it.

"Yume, you're already good at games."

And with Prism's continued nonsense, I once again floated a question mark above my head and asked him.

"...Me?"

What kind of gaslighting is this... Am I being gaslit right now...?