Chapter 3
DAKOTA
Iquickly snap back to reality, realizing I’ve been quiet for almost ten seconds. Which, in streaming terms, is a lifetime. I drag Creator’s message to the edge of my screen, deciding to reply to it later. But then he adds another message.
TheRealCreator: Did I cut too close to the bone there, Dakota?
There’s something in his tone that sets him apart from the others. Maybe it was that he noticed my discomfort, a fleeting moment that even I didn’t fully acknowledge. But he saw it. Does that matter as much as it feels like it does?
I keep streaming for another thirty minutes. Then I type out a response to his message.
DakkyDuck: You have no idea how I felt in that moment or any other, stranger.
TheRealCreator: You felt sorry for that commenter. But also afraid of him. Watching your stream, I think you exist in that place quite often. In between fear and pity.
Okay, what the heck? It’s like he’s reaching into my mind and plucking at my thoughts. I’ve got moderators who have watched thousands of hours of my streams and have never picked up on anything like this.
I shift in my seat and press my legs together.
I’m not… obviously not going to get all hot and bothered over a message from a stranger that has nothing sexual in it. I’ve been on camera so, so many times, but this is a whole new kind of seen.
DakkyDuck: You should lay off the psychology books.
TheRealCreator: Too real?
I ignore the message for a while. I have to, when there’s wave after wave of zombie destroyers charging at me. Once the battle is done, I use my auto-loot macro and, as my character picks up stuff on-screen, return to the chat window.
DakkyDuck: Please remember, Creator, I’m an entertainer who you don’t really know. Any insight you feel like you have is based on a version of me I’m allowing you to see, not the real me.
TheRealCreator: Bullshit. I saw you then, Dakota, whether you like it or not.
DakkyDuck: That sounds very stalker-ish, buddy.
TheRealCreator: I’m not one of these creeps. I’m just calling it how I see it.
My character has stopped looting. My chat is lighting up with people asking what I’m doing, why I’m just standing there. I built my streams on constant movement and interaction. Sometimes, I’m hoarse when I’m done, but now it’s Creator that’s got me silent.
DakkyDuck: I think you’re annoyed because I shot down all your points about the game. And now you’ve got to go all Sigmund Freud to salvage the situation.
TheRealCreator: Whatever you have to tell yourself, hot stuff.
DakkyDuck: See? I knew you were a creep.
TheRealCreator: You’re hot, Dakota, no mistake there. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead wrong about the game.
A private message from Mara pops up.
Marabells322: What’s going on?
“Hey guys, sorry,” I say. “Just working on a technical issue here. Won’t be long.”
I quickly type a response to Mara.
DakkyDuck: This guy donated two hundred bucks saying I was wrong about the Cove and to message him. I did, and now he’s getting all mysterious and dreamy. He saw how nervous I was when nobody else did. And he’s not simping, like, at all. He called me out while calling me beautiful.
Mara’s response comes fast.
Marabells322: Careful, it sounds like you’re falling for a viewer.
My body hums with illicit excitement as I type out my next message.
DakkyDuck: If I were going to fall for a viewer, it would be this one.
As I click send, something rare happens. To private message while I stream, I use an add-on to hide these private chats from my viewers. Sometimes, this can mess some stuff up. Like now, for example.
Just as I click the send button, another message from Creator pops up.
TheRealCreator: Does your sudden silence mean I win, then, hot stuff?
His reply replaces Mara’s message. But my reply to Mara is still in his chat box. I click the send button, realizing a fraction of a second too late. The message goes straight through to Creator … telling him that, of all my ten thousand current viewers, he’s the one I can imagine falling for.
I quickly send him a follow-up.
DakkyDuck: That wasn’t meant for you.
TheRealCreator: That just makes me even more intrigued.
I smile despite myself. What am I doing? I don’t know who this person is. Not a single fact about him—or that he’s even a him—except that he’s observant and more than a little cocky.
DakkyDuck: It wasn’t about you, either.
TheRealCreator: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.
Another smile. I quickly wipe it away.
DakkyDuck: You’re holding up my stream. Bye-bye, Creator.
TheRealCreator: Making you smile like that is worth far more than two hundred bucks.
TheRealCreator has left the chat.
I stare at the message. Almost … hurt.
I shake my head, snap my senses into their proper place, and get back to work.
I sit cross-legged on my couch, eating a bowl of ice cream and watching an interview with Jackson Cross. Jackson is hot, but that’s no secret. He’s appeared on countless sexiest man alive lists.
Tall, broad shoulders, so many muscles, it’s a miracle he doesn’t break his computer whenever he tries to code. His hair is black with silver threads in it, smoothed to the side. His eyes possess a piercing, yet cold, green hue.
“I’m trying to preserve the integrity of what we’ve built,” Jackson tells the interviewer, his jaw tight, fist clenched tightly like he wants to hit something.
“Some users are waiting for you to rework the newest addition completely. The Emerald Cove. What do you think about that?”
“I love our players,” Jackson says. “Without them, I’d be nothing. Without them, Halcyon would be nothing. No argument there. That doesn’t change the fact that they’re dead wrong about my game.”
I drop my spoon. Sit up. An alarm ringing in my head.
It takes me a moment to realize where it’s coming from.
Snatching up my laptop, I navigate to my and Creator’s conversation thread.
TheRealCreator: You’re hot, Dakota, no mistake there. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead wrong about the game.
The phrasing is very similar, sure, but that’s a coincidence. Obviously.
I close my laptop and force that thought from my head.
TheRealCreator would be a funny, ironic secret name for the actual creator to use.
But the truth is probably far more mundane.
The Real Creator is probably a man in his early twenties who’s become attached to the game.
Jackson Cross isn’t going to message me.
And if he did, he wouldn’t be hitting on me. Would he?
I look at the screen as Jackson’s large hands open and close into tight fists.
Suddenly, even the ice cream can’t cool me down.