Well, I Don't Know (Just Chatting)

When I first decided to become a streamer, the part that worried me most was talking to the viewers.

Back in my pro days I only went live to fill the quota KZ handed me. I never once stopped to think seriously about what a broadcast was supposed to be.

Then I became Choi Eunha the girl—twenty-one pared down to seventeen, four years gone—debuted as a streamer, and started broadcasting for real. What I found was this.

"Chamber? I think he deserved the buff. Sure, he got plenty of mileage out of the old days. But that was then, and this is now."

Talking to people, it turned out, was nowhere near the ordeal I'd imagined.

"In the pro scene especially, the sentinel pick is basically just Killjoy. If we want the matches to stay fun, I think we need at least a little more variety in what gets locked in."

I don't have to strain for a laugh or stage some entertaining bit. These people like whatever I say, and they laugh along with it. Of course, maybe I'm the only one who sees it that way.

"Ahem... well, that might be part of it. I'm not saying it isn't."

It might just be cocky, arrogant nonsense from a green streamer with all of half a year's experience, lucky enough ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to land a good crowd.

"That aside, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even if he never joins the untouchable tier-zero line, I think he still needs to be worth something as a pocket pick. Before the buff, there was simply no reason to lock Chamber."

Well. At least, that's how it feels to me.

These people laugh and like me no matter what I say. They like me, and they stand behind me, no matter what I do—so long as that "whatever" doesn't snag on the law, or on basic decency.

The donation system, especially, is about as good a broadcast tool as anyone could ask for. It keeps the conversation from ever running dry. I don't have to rack my brain for a topic; the viewers toss one to me. The streamer gets paid, and the viewer gets to say exactly what they want said. Three wins at once.

"Uh... a cooking stream? I've never actually cooked, though."

Cooking. If my memory is right, I have not cooked a single time in my life. If filling water for a cup of ramen, or heating frozen food in the microwave, counts as cooking, then... all right. I've done that.

At home the housekeeper was always there, and even in my pro days the cafeteria auntie handled the food, so I almost never had a reason to cook for myself. I think there were a few cooking labs in middle-school home ec, but back then I...

"I, um. Slept through home ec."

Right. I'd been asleep.

"Ahem. Anyway, I've never cooked. If I get the chance, though, I'll try a cooking stream."

"Oh, that?"

In front of the park, and they mentioned signing, so...

"I was just going to watch quietly and leave. I forgot my mask that day. Went out without it."

They had to mean what happened today.

"A-airhead...? That's a little harsh. People forget things..."

"Yeah. People were waiting. I couldn't just walk off."

"There were still quite a few I never got to... Thinking about them sits wrong with me."

Whatever anyone else thought, I still felt a little sorry toward the people I hadn't been able to sign for. Scheduled or not, I'd signed for some of them and not for others. And they must have been waiting in that heatwave, hoping for my signature. I sent every one of them home empty-handed.

How crushed must they have felt, standing in that swelter? Whenever I think about it, the guilt is still there.

Oh. Right. Speaking of which...

"Right! One second!"

A hundred-odd emails had piled up, and between those and the ones from Han Seongun's diehard fans I'd never found a gap to check them. But if I was remembering right...

"It's here!"

A mail from the Kwitch manager. And what it said was...

"Ahem. Turns out I've got one more major announcement."

It was about the fan meeting for the streamer Eunha—the one I'd asked Kwitch to set up, a while back.

"I said before that I'd do a fan meeting if I got the chance, right? It's official!"

"I'll post the details as a notice on my Kwitch page, so please take a look~"

I passed along everything I could about the fan meeting, then kept reading the donations one by one and talking with chat, when a message landed that I couldn't just let slide.

"...Pro?"

A pro debut. I was sure I'd been asked this before. What had I said, back then? Ah.

Pro gaming—I had no intention of doing anything like that. I wasn't someone who liked competition, and I wasn't someone competition suited. That was the answer I'd given. A flat no.

But now, to that very same question, I answered differently. Not a yes. Not a no. Something that refused to land.

Maybe it was those scout mails, sent by people looking to rebuild their rosters now that the summer season was over. Or maybe it was going to the PCK arena today and watching in person. I don't know the reason. I don't know why the same question came out of me, this time, as a different answer.

"Heh... if I debuted as a pro gamer, would you cheer for me all the way to the end?"

In the end, what followed the non-answer was a joke. A joke asking whether they'd still be there at the finish, even if I walked away from streaming and went pro.

"Oh, please. Liars. You say that now, but the second I'm bad you'll be cursing me out."

Even so... how do I put it.

If people like this had been my fans back when I was a pro. If they had held me up, and stayed, all the way to the end. Even after a few failures. Even after being knocked flat a few times. Maybe I wouldn't have quit. The thought just arrived, like that.

Maybe it wasn't that I'd felt a wall. Maybe I'd just gotten tired of attempting something close to impossible while nobody was cheering for me.

Maybe I'd gotten tired of a road of thorns where everyone was waiting for me to fail, and not a single person was on my side.

"...Even if it's only words. Thank you."

I just... had that thought.

I don't even know why.