A Clean Victory

Phoenix had just cleaned the fight in A's art room. Word was already in that the Operator sat on B, and with that, there was nothing left to be careful about.

"Nice. Let's pick the tempo up," I called.

"Okay. I'm swinging straight onto site," Jett said.

"I'll go in on my ult," Phoenix answered.

Phoenix's ultimate, Run It Back. Cast it, and a marker stays where he was standing while he takes the wheel of a duplicate wearing his own face. The copy fights with every bit of Phoenix's combat power — it can take kills, it can burn abilities — and if the duplicate dies, the real Phoenix snaps back to that marker and stands up again.

An ultimate for walking into their setup with nothing on the line. Even if they do manage to kill Phoenix...

"Reyna, Y-zone!" Phoenix shouted.

Phoenix came back on the marker and lived, and all too often the only one who stayed dead was the enemy who had "won" the duel. From Reyna's side, even a clean trade is a loss. This time she had died alone, and it hadn't even been a trade.

The art-room pack was set to spill onto site, which meant the rest of us, still holding A main, had to go in with them.

"Nightfalling site," I said.

Two were already dead between the art room and Y-zone, so A was likely holding one, two at the outside. Still better to be sure. I hit X. Black aura closed over both of Fade's hands, and a left click sent a black wave pouring across A site.

Fade's ultimate, Nightfall. On cast it throws a wide wave forward, and anyone that wave touches is trailed, half-deafened, and eaten at by decay. A defense that still has to hold the site is forced into the entry fight with its sound choked off and its health, for a moment, cut down.

Astra had already lost too many teammates and tried to slip out through CT. Jett was already on the site, and Jett did not send her home alive.

Given the duels Astra had shown all match, if she had stayed and held instead of leaving, she might have taken a few of us with her. Nightfall had cut her sound, though, so she never heard Jett's entry. That was the round.

"Planting. Watch me a second," Snake said.

"Yeah."

Jett's entry carried the whole pack onto A, and the spike went down clean. All that remained was keeping them off the defuse. Time kept moving, and the other team showed no sign of coming.

"They're saving the Op," Snake said.

From their side it was already two against five, and an Operator is an awkward gun to retake with. Rather than eat the risk, they had decided to hand the round over.

"We should start falling off too. They might be sitting in our spawn, so I'll hold A main," I said.

A good read. Giving this round away wasn't going to end the game.

"Yep."

Look far enough ahead, and saving the Operator so you can take the rounds that follow is the correct play.

Of course, that only holds if the Operator actually survives.

"Whew — free as hell!" Killjoy crowed.

She had been lurking the whole time, checking for anyone wrapping through B main and mid doors. When we hit A she was already posted at mid doors, waiting to cut whoever came running for the retake.

"Whoa, what?" Jett said.

"Nice. We even stole the Op."

The enemy Jett, sure the round was already over, made a sound. Killjoy assassinated him for it. They lost the round and the Operator both — the first half, quite literally, blown open.

"Nice," I said.

From our side of the server, it was more than enough to raise a glass.

After a clean win in the first game, I queued straight back in without a break.

No matter how good I was, there was a ceiling on the points you could bank in a day, and the gap up to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠current rank 1 was still wide. I had to keep queueing, and I had to keep winning. A hard enough job on its own — but I didn't feel any real pressure from it. The pro life I had already lived had been dramatic enough that something like this couldn't squeeze me.

Well. If you called it a drama, it had ended as a bad ending anyway.

I had been matching without a pause since school let out, and now that the streak sat at four wins, I decided on a short rest.

"Nom, nom..."

And by rest, I meant while eating dinner.

On weekday evenings my father and my older brother came home late from the company, so I often ate alone. These days Mother was in the house, and the two of us sat down together more often, but...

"Um... Mom, is that your dinner?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I mean... is that really enough?"

"Yeah. It's plenty."

Mother had always been the type to throw dinner together however she could, so eating with her was closer to her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watching me eat. I had wondered why my portions had shrunk so much compared to when I was a man. I hadn't expected the answer to be her.

So that was what I inherited.

Anyway, the Rank-1 Race meant begrudging even the little time it took to eat. I asked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠if I could have weekday dinner in my room, and she agreed without a fuss. She was already treating the stream as real work, and in this house, missing a family meal because of work was far too familiar.

"Nom..."

Viewers fretting over how little I ate. Fair enough. Tonight's dinner was one piece of sandwich and a glass of orange juice, and that was all of it. For a seventeen-year-old high schooler it would look badly short. The thin body that had already gone public on the half-body cam was worrying them, and this would have sealed it.

"This really is enough for me, though?"

But one piece of sandwich genuinely was enough. Even when I was a man I had been the type to throw dinner together, and whether the habit had simply followed me or not, my appetite dropped even further at night.

Mm. This juice was really good, though. Nothing like store-bought, with its faint hint of fruit scent — this tasted clearly, vividly of orange. The housekeeper must have squeezed it herself. I drank, thinking I would take another glass if there was more, and skimmed the chat rolling up.

"Gulp, gulp... Hah. The afterparty? Mm... I did think I'd eaten quite a bit, for me..."

The truth was, I hadn't really gone to that dinner to eat. I had gone to see Seungtaek's face after so long, and the members' faces too. It had been closer to going to see people than to having a meal.

Ahjussi. Oldboy's nickname.

"Oldboy? About me?"

Unlike the others, whom I had dropped formal speech with at the afterparty, I hadn't dropped it with anyone except Nebula. The decisive reason was Pola. Pola was twenty — one year younger than I had been as a man. Of course he was a full three years older than me now, so if I let the formal speech go, I would be stuck calling him oppa.

What to call people was something I had grown used to by now. Granting that respect to someone who used to be younger than me was not.

If ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I had to name the most awkward teammates from Youngest and Oldest, Pola came first and Oldboy second. And he had been worrying about me. It warmed me a little. The first ties the girl named Choi Eunha had made seemed like good ones.

"Even if he says that, this is my proper amount. If I eat any more than this, my stomach actually gets worse."

I had learned that the hard way. Push for more because I wanted it, and my body only got worse. After getting burned once, I let the greed go and just ate what fit me.

"Ah... I'm full."

I finished the meal while talking with the viewers, then decided to take the emptied plate down to the kitchen. No reason for the housekeeper to climb the stairs over a single dish. She would say she could do it herself, but it wasn't a hard thing, and I was of the opinion that what I could do, I ought to do.

"Hup— I'll drop the plate off and be right back."