(Y/n) practically stumbled into the bathroom, still buzzing with leftover nerves and adrenaline that refused to settle properly in their chest. Their body ached pleasantly from hours spent inside the haptic suit, muscles sore in that familiar way that came from moving too much without even realizing it. The air felt thick with the steam of a recent shower, but they crved the warmth for themselves now.
They reached for the chrome shower handle, its surface cool and slick under their fingers.
Turning it, they immediately regretted every decision leading up to this exact moment.
Ice.
Pure, unholy, glacial ice.
"AAAAAH!!" A sharp, shrill scream ripped out of their throat.
An electric shock coursed through their body, seizing them violently as freezing water cascaded over their shoulders and back like the wrath of winter itself had been compressed into plumbing form. Goosebumps erupted instantly across their skin, flooding their entire body with a bitter chill that felt like a thousand pinpricks. Their teeth chattered together, a frantic clatter echoing in the tiled space, and they jerked backward hard enough to nearly slam into the stark ceramic shower wall.
"WHY IS IT COLD?!" they yelped through chattering teeth, fumbling uselessly with the handle, fingers slipping on the damp metal. "WHY IS IT STILL COLD?!"
Then realization hit like a slap to the face.
They had delayed showering for too long.
Again.
The water heater had probably given up on them hours ago, a victim of their procrastination.
"...Fantastic," they hissed weakly, hugging themselves tightly, attempting to ward off the relentless pelting of freezing spray that continued mercilessly assaulting their body.
Part of them desperately wanted to leave immediately, to escape the icy torrent swirling around them.
Another part wanted to curl into a blanket cocoon on their bed, enveloping themselves in warmth and comfort, and never move again.
But the stronger part?
The stubborn one?
It reminded them of the glowing usernames still sitting online in TF2. Waiting without even knowing they were waiting.
(Y/n) inhaled sharply through gritted teeth as another wave of icy water struck their spine, making them physically shudder. It felt like a thousand tiny knives stabbing into their skin, each droplet fueling that inner turmoil.
A quieter voice lingered somewhere in the back of their mind, colder than the water itself, a whisper that sent chills deeper than the icy shower ever could. What if this means nothing to them?
The thought dug in cruelly, a jagged edge of doubt that gawed at their determination. What if all this effort, all this excitement, all these sleepless nights and desperate coding sessions... ended with indifference?
What if they had built this massive emotional reveal in their head while their friends had simply moved on, leaving them behind in a haze of isolation?
Their throat tightened slightly at the unwelcome thought.
Then, shaking their head hard enough to spray water everywhere, they banished the darkness threatening to swallow them. "Nope," they muttered stubbornly, forcing back a sense of panic. "Nope," not dealing with existential dread right now.
They could spiral later.
Right now?
They made a promise to keep.
So they endured it.
Barely.
The shower transformed from a mundane ritual of cleanliness into a frigid gauntlet, an unexpected cryogenic ambush that left them gasping for warmth. As they finally staggered out, steam clung to their skin like a fleeting memory while the chill of the air gripped them fiercely, making their body tremble uncontrollably. They snatched a towel, rough and absorbent, and began to scrub themselves dry with fervor.
Yet, as they concluded the frantic drying, the biting reality of their coldness became starkly apparent, stealing away any illusion of warmth.
"Okay. Okay. Fine. This is survivable," they murmured to themselves, their teeth chattering as if trying to compose a symphony of denial against the cold.
The air in the room felt arctic, its icy tendrils grazing every damp inch of their exposed skin. Their bodies screamed out for warmth, craving blankets, tea, or literally anything that could provide a semblance of comfort.
Instead, they dashed back into the haptic suit, its slick surface beckoning them like a cold armor. The suit slid over their trembling frame, each strap tightening against skin still chilled from the shower. The material encased them, trapping lingering moisture and frosty air together in a torturous concoction that only intensified the shivering.
Their body protested this hasty decision, muscles tensing in resistance.
They ignored it completely.
"No time," they muttered under their breath, urgency propelling them forward as they shoved their arms through the sleeves, fastening the torso harness with determined clicks.
Gloves on.
Sensors activated.
Omnix pad activated.
Claw clasped.
Harness secured.
Done.
Their fingers quivered slightly as they grasped the VR headset, pulling it over their face with a deep breath. The familiar digital interface flickered to life, casting a soft glow against the surrounding darkness, welcoming them back to a virtual world that felt far more welcoming than the one they physically inhabited.
And there it was—
The server browser.
Their cursor moved almost instinctively, hovering over the name that sent an electric jolt through them.
Snowycoast.
Their two friends were there.
Still online.
Still playing.
(Y/n)'s breathing began to slow, the weight of the moment settling in.
For a heartbeat, all the momentum they had gathered crashed into a wall of hesitation, causing their hand to linger mid-air.
Doubt slashed through them, sharp and unforgiving.
What if they recognized them immediately?
Worse—
What if they didn't?
Months had slipped away unnoticed.
People changed.
Friend groups shifted.
Lives spun off in new directions.
What if Aaron wasn't the same chaotic idiot they remembered? What if Matt had grown indifferent? What if the threads that once bound them had unraveled completely while (Y/n) buried themselves in work and isolation, thinking all the while they were creating something "worth" returning for?
The weight of those thoughts pressed painfully against their chest, a constricting metaphor that made it hard to breathe for just a moment, as if the universe itself pressed down on them.
Their fingers curled inward slightly, a defensive gesture against the encroaching doubt.
They focused on the map.
On their friends' usernames.
On the opportunity glowing before them like a lighthouse in a stormy sea.
And then—
Their jaw set in determination.
"...I don't care," they whispered quietly, the words escaping in a breathy rush.
Not cruelly.
Desperately.
Because the truth had gripped them too tightly to ignore.
They missed them.
It was that simple.
Whatever the future holds?
They'd deal with it.
.
.
.
*BLIP!*
.
.
.
They clicked.
The server is loaded.
RED Team selected.
Class selection materialized before them, glowing with potential.
This time, though...
They wavered over the characters displayed.
Demoman felt too loud and lively.
Too recognizable and brimming with the energy they felt so far removed from, eclipsed by the strange nervousness snaking around their chest.
Slowly, their cursor drifted.
Pyro.
A safer option.
No complicated introductions.
No exhaustive conversations.
Just muffled noises.
Easy.
Comfortable.
Contained.
"...Good choice," they murmured nervously, trying to reassure themselves.
It was not a good choice.
Not remotely.
The map is fully loaded.
And the instant their avatar materialized into Snowycoast—
The haptic suit reacted in wild synchronization.
A wave of icy cold cascaded over them instantly.
(Y/n)'s body jerked violently in shock.
"MMMPH?!"
The environmental systems activated immediately, simulating the bitter atmosphere of the snowy map with subtle temperature feedback layered throughout the suit.
Under typical circumstances?
It would have been immersive.
But combined with the fact that just moments earlier, they had subjected themselves to a shower straight from the icy depths of Antarctica?
It was horrendous.
Their frame felt as though it had been flash-frozen, the cold creeping over their limbs and sinking deep into their bones, sharp enough to instinctively hunch them inward. They yanked the collar of their shirt upward, muffling the horrified scream that threatened to spill forth.
"MMMMMMMPHHHHH—!"
Unfortunately—
That sound carried directly through voice chat.
And since they were Pyro...
It rang out perfectly.
Nearby players halted almost immediately, reality crystallizing around them.
"...Wait."
"YO?"
"Was that Pyro?!"
Another muffled, suffering noise escaped (Y/n) as they practically folded into themselves against the vicious chill.
"MMMPH! MMPH MMMMMPH—!"
"WHAT THE HELL!? THAT'S SO ACCURATE—"
"BRO JUST JOINED AND BECAME THE ACTUAL PYRO!"
"I CAN'T EVEN TELL IF HE'S TALKING OR DYING—"
The truth, agonizingly, was both.
(Y/n) trembled visibly, trapped inside the suit while trying desperately to fight off the combined assaults of secondhand embarrassment and hypothermia. Their breaths came out uneven beneath the collar covering their face, every involuntary noise translating into bizarrely authentic Pyro speech.
And somehow—
Somehow—
The server thought it was incredible.
Players began to gather around them almost instantly, captivated by the Pyro who had seemingly entered the match sounding like a professional TF2 roleplayer, possessed by winter spirits.
One Scout darted around them in a frenzy.
"Nah, nah, say something else!"
(Y/n), currently freezing to death in real time, reacted instinctively.
"MMMMPH MMHMMMPH!"
The Scout erupted into laughter, losing it completely.
"He's so good, what?!"
The cold was winning.
(Y/n) could feel it settling deeper into their body with every passing second, sinking beneath their skin and wrapping around their muscles like icy chains. Even with the haptic suit designed to simulate environmental conditions in moderated amounts, the accumulated chill from the shower combined with Snowycoast's meticulously programmed atmosphere had transformed their entire nervous system into a shivering disaster.
The icy tendrils of frost seemed to weave through their limbs, making their legs feel like heavy blocks of ice, and their fingers were sluggish, as if caught in molasses. Every movement felt like a battle against the elements, dragged half a second behind where their brain wanted it to be, each twitch of a muscle a reminder of the frigid grip around them.
Inside the game, however? It looked incredible.
The Pyro avatar staggered slightly through the snow-covered terrain, boots crunching against the frosted ground with an uneven gait that looked eerily intentional. Each step kicked up tiny clouds of powdery snow that sparkled like diamonds in the crisp air, while the character's movements echoed the harsh, unforgiving environment of the map. It seemed as though the cold itself was weaving through the pixels, its frigid breath tangibly affecting the avatar's every move.
"Yo, look at the Pyro movement!"
"DUDE HE LOOKS LIKE HE'S ACTUALLY FREEZING!"
"Wait, that's so immersive, what?!"
(Y/n), meanwhile, was metaphorically dying.
"MMMMPHHH..."
They groaned miserably into the collar, covering their mouth, dragging themselves forward as they fought to regain feeling in their knees, muscles cramping in protest. The sound emerged muffled and desperate, yet somehow perfectly aligned with their in-game character, echoing their struggle and only deepening the surrounding players' fascination.
"No, seriously, how are you doing this?"
"Is this motion capture or something?"
"Bro's got custom environmental reactions!"
The questions flowed in a whirlwind of incredulity while the match raged on around them, bullets zipping overhead like angry hornets and explosions shaking the snowy battlefield with visceral force. Every so often, a player would turn toward the strangely immersive Pyro, still baffled by the "custom" features they were displaying.
(Y/n) answered mostly through muffled speech, committing stubbornly to the bit despite their current suffering, their voice barely escaping the confines of the collar.
"Mmph mmhmmph mmmph..."
"...Okay, I understood like half of that."
A nearby Engineer translated confidently anyway. "He said there's bugs he's patchin'."
"MMHMM!" (Y/n) pointed immediately, willing to cling to their character despite the bone-deep cold.
"And somethin' about personality-based animation coding?"
"Mmph!"
"And test run."
"MMPH!"
"...I can't believe I understood that," the Engineer admitted quietly, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Honestly, neither could (Y/n).
The Payload match intensified rapidly after that, the atmosphere thick with anticipation and adrenaline. The BLU team had already forced the cart dangerously close to the final checkpoint, the massive nuke payload rolling steadily along the tracks, its heavy wheels sending sparks flying in a turbulent shower. BLU players swarmed around it like a pack of ravenous wolves, their aggressive movements just a heartbeat away from triumph.
On the other side, the RED team was struggling. Badly. Teammates were scattered across the landscape like fallen leaves, some desperately holding choke points while others were being picked off one by one, each defeat echoing through the icy structures surrounding the map. The sound of explosions and gunfire echoed ominously, creating a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the voice chat.
"We're losing last!" shouted one voice, panic lacing their words.
"Somebody stop the cart!" another voice cried out, urgency etched into each syllable.
"WHERE'S OUR DEFENSE?!" a third voice exploded in frustration, the desperation palpable.
(Y/n)'s eyes flicked toward the advancing payload, that monstrous mass of destruction rolling relentlessly forward. Then they glanced at the dwindling RED team, each member's resolve visibly crumbling under pressure.
Their frozen legs protested violently as they forced themselves forward, each step a battle against the biting cold that threatened to numb their senses. The Omnix pad adjusted beneath them, and with a surge of determination, they broke into a sprint, every muscle in their body screaming from the exertion but propelling them forward nonetheless. Their Pyro avatar lurched ahead with terrifying energy, movements erratic and sharp, embodying Pyro's deranged silhouette in a way that was both exhilarating and unsettling.
They ran like a masked lunatic charging into a playground, an embodiment of chaotic joy. Because to Pyro? This was a playground.
With a roaring flourish, flames erupted from their flamethrower, spilling across the snowy battlefield in vibrant torrents of orange and gold. The heat feedback from the haptic suit burst across their body in warm pulses, an almost euphoric relief that made (Y/n) want to laugh and cry all at once.
"MMMMMMPH HAHAHAHMPH—!" Their muffled laughter crackled through the voice chat, a chaotic mixture of Pyro's manic noises and the genuine thrill of warmth flooding back into their frozen limbs.
The BLU players scattered in an instant, their confidence shattered.
"PYRO'S ON CART!" one of them yelled in surprise.
"OH GOD WHY IS HE MOVING LIKE THAT—" another voice squeaked, panic rising in their tone.
(Y/n) weaved through incoming attacks with frantic momentum, their freestyle movement syncing unnaturally well with the avatar's animation limits. They twisted low, shoulders hunching inward before launching themselves upward with twitchy, unpredictable energy, making them look less like a player and more like a feral creature unleashed onto the server.
Then—
The axe came out, its blade gleaming wickedly in the snowy lighting as they lunged directly into the fray.
.
.
.
*CLANG.*
.
.
.
The strike connected against a BLU Scout, the sound ringing sharply against the backdrop of chaos. But instead of mere damage, a notification suddenly flashed across the victim's screen:
Weapon temporarily disarmed!
The Scout screamed, a mix of shock and fear spilling from his lips. "WAIT WHAT?!"
His bat flew from his hands, skidding helplessly across the snow before locking itself out for several agonizing seconds.
"What kind of mod IS THIS?!"
Another swing.
A BLU Soldier lost grip on his rocket launcher entirely, confusion etched across his face.
A Heavy's minigun clattered uselessly to the ground, its deadly spin halted for a brief moment before resetting.
The server erupted into chaos, confusion and excitement igniting like wildfire.
"YO THAT'S ACTUALLY INSANE—"
"HE CAN DISARM PEOPLE?!"
"THAT'S SO COOL!"
(Y/n) hadn't even meant to trigger such panic; they were just improvising wildly to stay warm and alive amidst the fray.
Through the chaos, their gaze flickered briefly across the battlefield—and then froze.
Two familiar usernames stood out like beacons in the storm:
dicksalot.
Hector0n.
Aaron's RED Soldier and Matt's RED Medic stood several meters away near the defense line, visibly fixated on the unfolding chaos. More specifically—
On them.
Aaron's Soldier had stopped reloading entirely, his focus riveted.
Matt's Medic beam had drifted off-target slightly, distracted by the sheer absurdity of the scene.
Even through avatars, stretched miles apart by distance, (Y/n) could practically feel the astonishment radiating from them, an electricity of recognition and surprise that pulled at their very core.
For a moment, everything else blurred into a soft haze, the chaotic clamor of the battlefield fading into nothingness.
They were here.
Actually here.
Playing with them again.
The realization struck so suddenly that it shattered through their concentration entirely, a dizzying rush of euphoria mixed with adrenaline. And that was exactly when disaster hit.
A grenade bounced ominously near their feet, its metallic surface glinting wickedly in the pixelated light.
(Y/n)'s eyes widened in alarm.
"MM—"
.
.
.
*BOOM.*
.
.
.
The explosion detonated violently beneath them, the force blasting their Pyro avatar backward through the air, the virtual world spinning into a disorienting whirl. Simultaneously, the haptic suit delivered a controlled burst of impact and heat across their torso—not painful, but sharp enough to make them gasp, the sensation a stark reminder of the reality behind the game.
Their body slammed into the simulated snow, the cold texture feedback surging instantly against their back like a brutal slap.
"...Mmph..." they groaned weakly, the wind momentarily knocked from their virtual lungs.
But then—
Warmth.
Residual explosive heat lingered faintly across the suit's feedback systems, seeping into their frozen muscles and loosening them just enough for proper movement to return.
(Y/n)'s eyes sharpened immediately, a fierce determination igniting within them.
"Oh thank GOD," they wheezed beneath the muffled Pyro noises, the sound a blend of urgency and excitement.
They rolled upward in one smooth motion, fluid grace returning as they charged again, the thrill of the battle coursing through their virtual veins.
A BLU Demoman launched another grenade toward them, a bright projectile arcing through the air. But this time (Y/n) reacted instantly. They darted sideways, narrowly avoiding the impending explosion before sprinting directly past the Demoman's flank, their heart racing.
A BLU Heavy stepped into view, massive and hulking, blocking their path like a brick wall.
(Y/n) planted one foot against Heavy's chest, and pushed off. Their body twisted backward in a perfect, fluid backflip, momentum carrying through the avatar seamlessly as they shoved themself away from the hulking player and creating some distance.
The Heavy staggered, disbelief etched in the player's voice.
"WHAT THE—"
Then the delayed grenade explosion erupted nearby, a shockwave radiating outward.
Because teammates couldn't damage each other directly, the blast inflicted no health loss—but the force physics still applied, and the Heavy was forced backward, screaming in utter surprise.
"AAAAAAAA—"
The battlefield descended further into chaos, a cacophony of shouts and explosions echoing all around.
Their fire axe collided against another axe, the sharp metal ringing violently in the fray.
A BLU Pyro.
The two Pyros locked weapons together, sparks flying as they shoved against one another in an intense struggle for dominance in close quarters. The opposing Pyro's fire rake scraped harshly against the wood while both avatars leaned inward aggressively, determination etched across their faces.
Then—
A sharp whistling sound cut through the air.
(Y/n)'s head snapped toward the noise instinctively, a rush of adrenaline surging through them.
In one fluid motion, they grabbed the opposing Pyro's momentum, twisting sharply as they spun around them, the world blurring as they reversed their positions in a whirlwind of movement—
And the rocket slammed directly into the BLU Pyro instead.
The enemy was sent flying backward violently, spiraling through the air like a ragdoll, the surrounding players LOOSING THEIR MINDS.
"NO WAY—"
"HE USED HIM AS A HUMAN SHIELD—"
"THIS PYRO IS INSANE!"
(Y/n) barely stopped moving, energy pulsing through their core.
They raised their axe—
And threw it.
The blade spun cleanly through the snowy air with terrifying precision, slicing through the chaos straight into the BLU Soldier's skull, an incredible shot that felt almost cinematic.
The kill feed immediately flashed in the corner of the screen with an electric thrill.
Lθrd_M!d4$ ☠ Potis_Pro
Voice chat erupted in disbelief.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
"THEY THREW THE AXE?!"
"THAT SHOULDN'T EVEN WORK!"
Without even looking toward the reactions, (Y/n) turned sharply, instinct guiding them.
Something moved behind them.
Subtle.
Fast.
.
.
.
*FWOOOSH!!*
.
.
.
Their flamethrower ignited instantly, flames roaring backward in a sudden burst of heat and light, catching the invisible BLU Spy mid-step. The cloaked silhouette flickered violently into visibility as the fire consumed them, a violent display of flames highlighting their panic.
The Spy screamed, a desperate sound echoing through the chaos.
Then disintegrated into ashes, leaving nothing but scorched remnants behind.
(Y/n) stood amidst the burning chaos, chest heaving slightly beneath the suit while snow melted around their feet from lingering flames, a wild sense of exhilaration rushing through them.
The game returned to its familiar main menu, music humming softly in the background, filling the silence as the chaos of the match faded into stillness.
And just like that—
The room felt quieter again, a gentle echo of laughter lingering in the air like an aftertaste of the joy they had shared.
(Y/n) stood motionless on the Omnix pad for a moment, breathing steadily as the adrenaline slowly drained from their system like ink dispersing in water. The headset screen reflected a soft, flickering glow in their wide eyes before they finally reached up and removed it, a rush of cool air brushing their damp skin like a refreshing breeze after a summer storm.
Their hair clung messily to their forehead, strands awkwardly flattened from the confines of the headset, each damp lock glistening under the dim light of the room. A faint sheen of sweat lingered over their neck and collarbone, and the haptic suit felt much heavier now that the charged excitement had worn off, its tight embrace suddenly oppressive. They let out a small sigh, a sound that seemed to dissipate into the silence of the space around them.
A smile tugged faintly at their lips, a fragile thing, waving between the edges of joy and weariness. But it wasn't entirely happy; it felt more like the exhaustion after a long race against time. Bittersweet. Because for a fleeting moment in there, things had felt simple. Easy. Natural. Laughter echoed in their mind—players inviting them into conversations, sharing moments together without expectations beyond "be entertaining" and "blow things up."
No resumes. No rejection emails. No meticulously polished professionalism.
Just them—or at least, a version of them, a digital avatar brought to life on the screen.
Their gaze slowly drifted down to the floor, an anchor to reality. They had no intention of revealing who they truly were—not really. The mere thought tightened their chest, an iron grip of anxiety. Fame sounded thrilling from a distance, but up close? It came with daunting pressure, suffocating expectations, and the relentless burden of others constructing flawed versions of you in their minds, only to become disappointed when the reality didn't align.
And reality, for (Y/n), was far removed from the glamor of the virtual world. It was a struggling game designer barely scraping together enough money to pay the bills, a coder jumping between precarious jobs that offered little stability, and a creator desperately trying to forge something impactful before their own motivation fizzled out like a dying flame.
Sure, they had skill. Sure, they had passion. But passion didn't cover living expenses. Passion didn't shield them from rejection. And despite everything they had accomplished tonight—despite the overwhelming sense of validation from proving that the system worked—they still felt strangely unchanged. Still stuck. Still trailing behind the aspirations they held dear.
Their fingers moved automatically as they began the tedious task of peeling off the haptic suit, piece by piece. The torso harness loosened with a soft click, peeling away from their body like a second skin. The gloves slipped off next, leaving their hands feeling oddly light, like they had just released a great weight. The sensors around their feet came free with soft, muted mechanical sounds, each strap falling away with a quiet sigh of relief.
Each piece removed pulled them further from the immersive expanse of the game and back into the harsh light of reality. Back into the room encased in comforting shadows and scattered remnants of discarded hopes. Back into being just... them.
(Y/n) rubbed a tired hand over their face, feeling the grit of exhaustion settle behind their eyelids. A shower sounded nice, warm water washing away the fatigue. Then sleep. Deep, uninterrupted sleep. And waking up tomorrow to the daunting task of surviving another day—another interview, another application, another attempt at grasping the elusive dream that danced just beyond their reach.
They needed a real job, one that allowed them to dive deeper into industry systems, to decode how large-scale mechanics functioned. They yearned to build worlds where players could lose themselves entirely—worlds where immersion transcended visual aesthetics; it would be emotional, raw, physical. Real enough to matter in the vast tapestry of life.
They stepped off the Omnix pad and paused, the transition from virtual to reality a palpable shift. The monitor still glowed brightly, its light bathing the room in a soft luminescence, illuminating the traces of their earlier excitement. TF2's menu remained open, a portal to another existence, and in the corner, two familiar names sparked to life.
╔⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤╗
[ ONLINE ] dicksalot - Community Server - Snowycoast
[ ONLINE ] Hector0n - Community Server - Snowycoast
╚⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤╝
Aaron...
Matt...
(Y/n) froze, their heart fluttering at the sight of the names, a strange tension twisting in their chest like a vine constricting around them. They slowly looked toward the headset resting nearby, then back to the monitor, a battle raging within them. Their jaw tightened slightly, the weight of their indecision heavy like an anchor.
Months—an eternity in the gaming world—had passed. They had promised them a surprise, pledged they'd return with something worth showcasing.
And this?
This ridiculous, experimental, barely tested VR immersion setup, cobbled together from sleepless nights and stubborn desperation? This was supposed to be the grand accomplishment?
Their hands curled slowly into fists, doubt surfacing with a dark wave of uncertainty. This wasn't polished. This wasn't world-changing. This wasn't the triumphant return they had envisioned. It was messy. Unstable. Held together with nothing but hope and a chaotic web of code spaghetti.
But then—memories surfaced like flashes of light: laughter from earlier, players amazed by the fluidity of movement, the connection forged through shared experiences—people genuinely having fun.
And for the first time in a very long while, (Y/n) had fun too, that simple, honest feeling flooding their chest.
Their frown deepened, transforming like the dawn breaking through the horizon. Determination flickered to life within them, igniting a spark that pushed back the darkness of doubt.
"...Fuck it," they muttered under their breath, resolve lending strength to their voice.
Their eyes locked onto the headset again, a gateway to the world they had created.
Around them, players reacted in a flurry—some bewildered, others cracking smiles, while many just struggled to keep pace with the unpredictable storm now tearing through their match.
"Yo—yo, hold up—what is that Demo doing?!"
"Bro, that voice—no way that's real."
"Is that AI? That's gotta be AI—"
(Y/n) spun mid-step, launcher tucked snugly under their arm, laughter bursting forth like firework sparks—full, booming, perfectly unhinged in that familiar, drunken cadence that wrapped around their teammates like a blanket on a cold night.
"AI? AI?! Lad, I've got more soul in me pinky than yer whole machine's got in its wires!"
With that flourish, a grenade arced lazily from their outstretched gun, tumbling through the air before landing with a satisfying thunk that resounded through the chaos. Moments later, it erupted, a fiery bloom of color and force spreading outward, illuminating the surrounding battlefield. The kill feed on the screen flickered to life, tallying a takedown, while a groan rippled through the voice chat.
"...Okay, nah, that's commitment."
"Dude's LARPing in 4D or something."
(Y/n) grinned behind the sleek visor of their headset, breath quick and heart racing—not from stress this time, but from a jolt of electricity coursing through their veins, something exhilarating, something fun. They leaned into the experience like a dancer into a rhythm, voice rolling with vibrant energy, movements syncing perfectly, each action feeding off the thrill of the game.
"I'm not drunk—you're drunk!" they barked, stumbling sideways with exaggerated flair, arms flailing before correcting smoothly, their avatar mirroring the motion just enough to sell the bit without breaking it.
The match blurred into another, then another; servers shifted like the winds of change, maps rotating like the seasons, teams swapping in a dance of strategy. And with each change, (Y/n) adapted seamlessly, becoming a new blend of chaotic energy.
Medic came next.
Their posture straightened, every movement precise, hands flicking with an almost surgical intent as they darted between teammates, a blur of practiced expertise.
"Ja, ja—stand still, I am trying to save your life, not decorate ze floor with it!"
They snapped, voice clipped, laced with a sharp, almost theatrical impatience, carrying across the clamor of battle.
A teammate chuckled mid-heal beam. "Bro, you sound like you're about to insult my entire bloodline."
"Only if you deserve it," (Y/n) replied smoothly, already pivoting to the next target with the grace of a seasoned performer.
Heavy followed.
Their steps slowed, the weight of their avatar pressing down like an earthquake's tremor. Each movement was deliberate and grounded, rolling shoulders and steady breaths giving the impression of a massive force waiting to unleash chaos.
"I am bulletproof," they rumbled, voice deep and steady, resonating like thunder before immediately unleashing a barrage of fire. The vibration pulsed through their arms, a steady roar of sensation that made it feel like the minigun had true presence, shaking the very air around them.
"WHO TOUCHED SASHA?!"
"YO—OKAY, THAT ONE'S GOOD—"
Engineer brought a shift in rhythm—relaxed, confident, an easy drawl curling through their words as if they were spinning a yarn around a campfire.
"Well now, that there's a problem... and I reckon I just solved it," (Y/n) huffed casually, placing down a sentry with a small flourish, the motion translating cleanly and naturally like poetry in motion.
"Dude's got range, what—"
Scout was chaos incarnate.
Fast. Snappy. Energy spilling out like a pot over the fire, barely contained, every word bursting forth with wild enthusiasm.
"C'mon, c'mon, is that all ya got? I've seen sandbags hit harder than you!" they taunted, darting forward, weaving through attacks with quick, sharp movements that the Omnix pad translated seamlessly beneath their feet, creating a ballet of destruction.
Each class felt different—a costume change in a high-stakes play.
Each one fit like a glove.
And with every round, the disbelief among the players morphed into something more profound—recognition.
Amusement.
A kind of shared chaos that pulled the other players into the whirlwind of unrestrained fun.
Then—
Spy.
RED team this time.
The shift was immediate. (Y/n)'s posture straightened subtly, movements becoming more fluid, every gesture calculated with an innate elegance. Their voice dropped, transforming into something quieter and silkier, each word laced with an unsettling blend of charm and precision.
"Gentlemen," they murmured, almost purring the word as they slipped seamlessly behind enemy lines, the shadows embracing them like a second skin.
A stab.
Clean.
Silent.
They turned—
Another Spy stood across from them, a perfect reflection of their own intent. Same stance. Same poise, a mirror image wrapped in shadowy fabric.
"...Well," the BLU Spy said, their voice equally refined, an echo of (Y/n)'s own. "This is unexpected."
(Y/n) tilted their head slightly, a slow, mischievous grin creeping beneath the mask, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"A mirror match, perhaps?" they replied, tone drawing out the words, perfectly synchronized in inflection and cadence.
"Or an impostor," the other countered, a hint of challenge dancing in their tone.
Before (Y/n) could respond, the opposing Spy flicked their disguise kit with a deft motion—
—and transformed into them, a flawless copy. Same model. Same stance. Same everything; they stood in uncanny unison.
A nearby teammate—clearly having witnessed the transformation—burst into laughter over comms, the joyous sound ringing through the chaos of battle.
"WAIT—WAIT—HOLD ON—NAH, THIS IS TOO GOOD—"
Another voice chimed in, excitement bubbling over. "Yo, I got it—I got it—both of you, do impressions. We'll figure out who's real."
A pause lingered in the air, charged with tension, then—
"...Acceptable," both Spies said in perfect harmony.
There was a beat of silence that hung like a fragile thread.
"Alright—uh—Pyro!"
"Do Pyro!"
Both Spies turned slightly toward the small gathering that had formed—a curious assembly of players from both teams hesitating just long enough to witness the spectacle about to unfold.
(Y/n) inhaled deeply. "Mmmph mmph mph!" they let out, the muffled sounds perfectly indistinct, yet somehow eerily accurate.
The other Spy followed suit.
"Mmhmph!"
The group went quiet, stunned.
"...That—doesn't help at all."
"Yeah, nah, that's a tie."
"Okay—Heavy! Do Heavy!"
(Y/n) didn't hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing against their chest.
"I am heavy weapons guy," they stated, their voice deep and grounded, carrying an unmistakable resonance that cut through the laughter.
The other Spy responded in kind, pushing forth an equally imposing statement.
"I am heavy weapons guy."
Close.
Really close.
But there was something—something in the subtle cadence, the nuanced emphasis—that tipped the scale ever so slightly.
"Okay, wait—wait—that one—uh—left one? I think left one—"
"Yeah, left sounds more right—wait, that sounds dumb but you get it—"
(Y/n)'s shoulders lifted ever so slightly, a quiet amusement flickering in their eyes.
Engineer came next, and they leaned into the role.
"Well, I reckon—" they began, voice smooth with practiced charm.
But the other Spy cut in, their tone effortlessly rolling out a silky Southern drawl.
"Well now, ain't that just a fine mess we got ourselves into?"
The group erupted with laughter, the sound infectious.
"OH—OKAY—RIGHT ONE—RIGHT ONE'S GOOD—"
"Yo, this is actually hard—"
The tension built, laughter bubbling forth, the match itself momentarily forgotten as the standoff evolved into something absurdly theatrical, a delightful absurdity amidst the chaos of battle.
And then—
A flicker.
Barely noticeable at first, it sent a ripple of uncertainty through the air.
The opposing Spy's disguise began to fail as if it were made of mist, the borrowed identity unraveling like smoke fading into the atmosphere.
"...Ah," the other Spy murmured, realization dawning.
Color bled through, revealing a vivid swirl of BLU.
Someone shouted—
"THAT ONE—THAT ONE—GET HIM—!"
Gunfire erupted instantly, a cacophony of sound that shattered the moment.
The opposing Spy barely had time to react before they were cut down, their form collapsing to the ground under the sudden barrage, the laughter turned to gasps and cheers.
Silence followed, thick and palpable.
Then—laughter erupted once more.
"NO WAY—"
"BRO GOT EXPOSED MID-TRYOUT—"
"THAT WAS AMAZING—"
(Y/n) stood still, a solitary pillar amidst the swirling chaos, their own disguise intact, the echo of the moment hanging in the air like the smoke of a gunfight. They let out a quiet, satisfied chuckle, the thrill of the encounter warming them from within. "Better luck next time," they murmured, slipping back into motion as the match resumed around them, the battlefield infused with renewed energy.
After another hour—maybe two; time had become slippery inside the headset—(Y/n) finally slowed down enough to realize just how warm they had gotten.
The excitement had carried them through match after match, server after server, each one feeding into the next in a blur of explosions, voice impressions, laughter, and increasingly absurd movement tech that had half the lobby questioning reality. Their body buzzed with the residue of adrenaline, sweat beginning to gather beneath the snug grip of the haptic suit, which felt more like a second skin than an article of clothing, despite the air conditioner tirelessly blowing cool air into the room.
The suit trapped heat.
Just enough to remind them that, unlike the digital battlefield they had been dancing through, their real body still had limits.
The match they had just finished ended with loud chatter overlapping through voice comms as players lingered in the server instead of immediately disconnecting, a cacophony of voices spilling over one another like an excited crowd.
"Alright, no seriously," someone exclaimed amid the laughter, "what is that movement setup?!"
"Yeah, dude, your Demo was moving like he unlocked secret animations or something."
"And the voices! Bro, how are you doing all that?"
(Y/n), still fully embodied as Demoman within the game, shifted slightly in place, the smooth fluidity of their avatar's movements a direct reflection of their own. One shoulder rolled back as they rubbed the back of their neck in real life, that familiar warmth of sheepishness creeping in.
Behind the visor, their smile was soft, yet undeniably genuine.
"...Ah, well," they started carefully, their voice still dipped in that roughened Scottish accent, though softer now, less performative, like old friends settling into a comfortable conversation. "It's... kinda a personal mod project."\
"A MOD?!" someone nearly shouted, their enthusiasm contagious.
"Aye, sorta," (Y/n) continued quickly, trying not to overexplain while simultaneously avoiding sounding suspiciously vague. "Been workin' on somethin' fer character movement. More expressive animations. Stuff that matches personality better."
That part wasn't even a lie.
Not entirely.
They were working on it.
Just... far beyond what anyone here probably imagined.
"I'm still testin' it," (Y/n) added, letting their excitement flicker through, voice warming as they spoke of their passion. "Only got one character properly compatible so far. Demo's the most stable one."
"Stable?!" another player laughed, a hint of incredulity in their tone. "Dude, if this is stable, I wanna see unstable!"
"Yeah, this looks sick!"
"You planning to upload it anywhere?"
The question made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten slightly, an uncomfortable twist of anxiety bubbling to the surface. They hesitated just enough to notice before choosing their words carefully.
"...Maybe someday," they answered with a light chuckle, sidestepping the topic with practiced ease. "Still got bugs ta iron out first."
That was also true.
Very, very true, like an underlying thread that would take meticulous care to untangle.
A pulse of heat crawled uncomfortably along their back beneath the suit, drawing their attention away for a moment. The haptic lining had started sticking slightly against their skin from the sweat buildup, and the constant movement had only made it worse, an unwelcome reminder of reality grounding them.
They exhaled softly, their breath mingling with the cool air creeping in from the AC.
"Actually, speakin' of bugs," they said, shifting their shoulders again, trying to ease the discomfort, "I gotta step away fer a bit. Suit's makin' me roast alive over here."
A chorus of reactions immediately followed, wrapping around them like a warm blanket of camaraderie.
"Fair enough."
"Take care, Demo!"
"Yo, come back later if you hop on again!"
"That was honestly the funniest match I've had all week."
(Y/n) felt something warm stir quietly in their chest at that—something not related to the suit's heat.
Something softer.
"...Heh. Thanks, lads," they replied genuinely, warmth spreading through their words. "Y'all take care."
"Later!"
"Bye, fake Scotsman!"
"I'M REALER THAN YOU'LL EVER BE!" (Y/n) shot back instantly, a smile curling on their lips as it earned another burst of laughter from the lobby.
Then, with one final wave of their avatar's hand—the gesture filled with a sense of closure—they disconnected.
(Y/n) moved through their room with a meticulous focus, a rhythm ingrained into their very being as if each action were scripted into the fabric of their muscle memory. Drawers sprang open with a soft whoosh, fabric rustled like whispers in the air, and soon their everyday work clothes were cast aside, replaced by garments more suited for the task ahead—light, flexible fabrics that slid effortlessly beneath the haptic suit, avoiding any possibility of bunching or catching. The material clung just enough to secure itself in place yet remained loose enough to facilitate movement, a second skin poised for the challenge that loomed.
With purpose, they crossed the room to the desk, their fingers dancing across the surface before uncertainty could intrude. As they made contact, the computer sprang to life, its screens igniting with a soft, inviting glow. A flurry of quick inputs followed, seamless clicks echoing in the stillness, as the system transitioned into streaming mode. Lines of intricate code swirled into view, and interface windows spiraled into a pattern of controlled chaos, a language only (Y/n) could decipher.
Next, the large monitor mounted nearby flickered into existence, its expansive display syncing flawlessly with the core system. Windows stretched and mirrored, aligning perfectly as everything converged into a singular, coherent whole. The entire setup thrummed with an energy that felt almost tangible, a collective heartbeat prepared for what lay ahead.
Behind the scenes, additional computers awakened one by one, their quiet whirr creating a low, harmonious electronic chorus. Cooling fans whirled into action, processors roared to life, and the entire array began to breathe as though it were a living organism—engineered for one singular purpose: to execute flawlessly, stutter-free.
(Y/n) reached up and adjusted the air conditioner. With a soft click, the unit responded, releasing a refreshing stream of cool air that brushed lightly against their skin, a preemptive comfort for the heat they knew would soon envelop them.
And then—
The suit.
They approached the mannequin that bore the haptic suit, pausing momentarily as their reflection caught in the visor of the headset perched above. For a fleeting moment, they stared at their own image—wondering if they were ready—before pushing the thought aside with determination.
Piece by piece, they began to step into the suit. The torso harness ensconced them first, wrapping snugly around their frame, its firm embrace settling in like a reassuring weight—a promise of sensory experience rather than a confinement. Straps tightened across their chest and back, enveloping them securely, while their arms slid effortlessly into the sleeves. Fingers slipped into the embedded controls of the gloves, each joint aligning perfectly, every sensor seeking its designated position.
Their hands flexed, and they could feel the responsiveness like a pulse beneath their skin.
Next, their feet were guided into the sensor-fitted footwear, which felt almost like stepping into your favorite pair of flats—light and unobtrusive—but (Y/n) knew better. Every shift in pressure would be meticulously tracked, every step translated into action within the immersive world.
Finally, they turned to face the center of the room, where the Omnix pad awaited—a circular stage of boundless possibilities.
(Y/n) stepped onto it.
As their weight settled, the pad reacted instinctively, igniting rings of dotted square lights that cascaded outward from beneath their feet in a soft, glowing display. It was subtle yet unmistakable; the system had recognized their presence.
With careful precision, they reached behind, grasping the flexible harness. The claw-like mechanism extended with a gentle motion, curving around their waist before locking into place with a quiet yet secure click. It held them firmly at the center, offering them stability while still granting the freedom to move—an intricate balance of grounding and liberation.
Everything was perfectly poised.
(Y/n) stood still for a moment, their chest rising and falling steadily as the weight of the impending moment settled within them. Slowly, they lifted the VR headset into their hands—the device felt heavier now, laden with expectation and promise.
This was it.
The precipice where all those late nights, the struggles of failed attempts, and fragments of code mingled with doubt and stubborn persistence would either collide to create something astounding or shatter into a thousand pieces.
Their fingers tightened instinctively around the edges, a mix of anticipation and resolve coursing through them.
They exhaled slowly, deliberately.
Then, as if sealing their fate, they brought the headset closer. The device slid into place—a veil of darkness enveloping their vision before flickering to life. The familiar home interface emerged, suspended in that digital void—a neutral expanse, both safe and predictable, that now awaited their command.
For a second, nothing happened.
.
.
.
*DING!*
.
.
.
A notification erupted into existence at the very edge of their vision, sharp and unmistakable, its presence cutting through the thick veil of darkness.
.
.
[ Code Integration Request. Accept or Decline. ]
.
.
(Y/n)'s breath caught in their throat, a tide of anticipation and anxiety surging within them. Their hand hovered in the emptiness, the virtual cursor quivering ever so slightly as it aligned with the option, each twitch reflecting the weight of the decision. There was no going back from this. Not really.
With a sense of finality, they pressed.
Accepted.
In a heartbeat, the world vanished.
Black.
Complete.
Silence descended, thick and suffocating, wrapping around them like a heavy shroud in its emptiness.
(Y/n) waited.
Seconds stretched into infinity.
Then longer.
Their breathing became the only tether anchoring them to reality—steady yet laced with a growing tension that coiled in their chest. This wasn't new. They had been here before—staring into the abyss of nothingness, desperately hoping for a flicker of possibility, only to be met repeatedly with errors. Crashes. Failures that dragged them back to the dreaded square one.
Their fingers twitched faintly at their sides, an outlet for the restlessness that coursed through them.
"...Come on," they whispered into the void, though no one would ever hear it.
More time passed.
Too much time.
The silence pressed in, an oppressive weight that felt all too familiar, mourning their every hope.
It wasn't working.
Again.
The thought crept in, quiet yet sharp, piercing through the fog of expectation.
Another failure. Another reset.
Their chest tightened—
And then—
A flicker.
Faint.
Barely there.
But real.
(Y/n) stilled completely, an electric charge of hope and dread racing through them at the subtle shift in the darkness, as if something deep beneath it was struggling to break free. A pulse of light rippled across their vision, hesitant at first, but then it gained strength—forming, shaping—
It appeared.
The unmistakable valve-shaped icon.
Bright. Centered. Alive.
(Y/n)'s breath hitched sharply, each inhalation fraught with disbelief.
They didn't move.
Didn't think.
Didn't process.
It struck them all at once, a revelation surging like a tide through their veins.
"It—"
Their voice broke, the word snagging somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to laughter, a sweet release from the weight of despair.
"It worked."
Their heart slammed against their chest, joy and adrenaline surging through them like a fire igniting in the dark, electrifying as the icon remained steady—a beacon of undeniable proof glowing before them.
"It actually worked...!"
They stood on the threshold, the shimmering boundary of what lay beyond, poised to step through.
They clicked the icon, the pointer hovering over the game. It pulsed once, then twice—a rhythmic heartbeat anticipating the transformation to come. The world snapped into place, color cascading, a vibrant wave of saturated blues, and the rugged textures of worn metal crashing into their vision like a curtain ripped wide open. The intricate details of the familiar Team Fortress 2 home screen stretched before them, no longer confined to a flat monitor but blossoming all around, layered with depth and presence that made it feel less like a digital interface and more like a living, breathing space.
(Y/n) didn't hesitate.
Their hand flicked through the menu with practiced ease, movements sharp and decisive as they navigated the options with a fluidity that spoke of countless hours spent in this virtual realm. Each selection felt as tangible as a physical choice—casual server locked in, the playful sounds of bytes filling the air. Team selection rushed forward like a well-rehearsed routine.
BLU.
Then—
Demoman.
The choice felt instinctive, like a shadow that danced alongside their thoughts.
The interface flickered for only a fraction of a second before dissolving completely, peeling away like parchment unspooling from an ancient scroll, leaving behind only the vivid reality of the game.
They were in.
The spawn room materialized around them, walls closing in with a familiarity that felt almost surreal, as if they had crossed through a portal from mundane life to this chaotic world of battle. Teammates moved about with urgency, their avatars no longer distant figures on a screen but real bodies occupying space, brushing past one another with weight and intent. Voices crackled through proximity chat, overlapping in chaotic bursts—laughter, strategy, nonsense—all blending into a symphony of sound that vibrated in the air, making the world feel palpably alive.
(Y/n) stood still for half a second, absorbing the vibrant atmosphere.
Their arm lifted with determination.
And the Demoman's arm lifted with it, perfectly mimicking the motion.
No delay. No stutter. No disconnect.
The bottle of scrumpy in their hand felt substantial—not heavy enough to be burdensome, but real enough to evoke a sense of heft. A subtle pressure surged back through the haptic suit, whispering against their senses, convincing their brain that something was undeniably there. Their other hand shifted, the grenade launcher adjusting easily in their grip, its presence echoing in faint pulses coursing along their palm, as if it were truly embedded in their grasp.
Their fingers flexed instinctively.
The suit responded instantly, tightening with a reassuring grip that simulated alignment, resistance, existence.
"...No way," they breathed, their voice barely contained, tinged with disbelief and excitement.
One more test.
They stepped forward.
The Omnix pad adjusted beneath their feet, its surface shifting in subtle, almost organic ways that guided their movement without imposing any restrictions. At the same time, the vibrant world of the game responded—each step translating cleanly and smoothly, the ground beneath their avatar melding to the rhythm of their motion, creating an uncanny harmony.
It wasn't real.
But it was close enough that their stomach flipped, a spark of exhilaration igniting within them as they shifted their weight again, testing the limits of this newfound reality.
A determined turn. A cautious step back. A quick pivot.
All of it—
Seamless.
Restraint shattered.
(Y/n) broke into motion, a surge of energy coursing through them as they dove fully into the match. The thrill hit fast and hard, spreading through their chest like wildfire, and they laughed—no, cackled—a wild, jubilant sound that resonated with the gravelly, boozy lilt of Demoman's voice echoing in their mind.
"YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT—COME GET SOME, YA BLOODY—!"
Their voice thundered through proximity chat, layered with an exaggerated Scottish bravado perfected through countless rehearsals. It flowed so effortlessly now—
Now it fits like an old glove.
With a fierce glint in their eyes, they lunged forward, grenade launcher raised high, firing in a rhythm that felt purely instinctive. Each launch sent a jolt through their arms, the haptic feedback mimicking recoil just enough to sell the illusion of genuine weaponry. Explosions erupted ahead, vibrant clouds of color and chaos blossoming, with enemies scattered like leaves caught in a tempest, ragdolls flying in grotesque, chaotic arcs.
Another bark of laughter escaped (Y/n) as they spun slightly—
And then they added a spark of flair.
A step. A twist. A shift of weight that strayed from the realm of standard animations.
Yet, the avatar followed suit.
Not perfectly synchronized—not in that unnaturally smooth manner akin to something from a different VR universe—but close. Close enough that the movement wove seamlessly into the game's existing animation without breaking the flow, fluid and almost custom.
To the observing players, it was as if Demoman had just manifested a new fighting style.
And it threw them off balance.
A nearby player hesitated—just for a split second—as (Y/n) swayed in a way that defied the usual patterns of combat.
.
.
.
Boom.
.
.
.
Another explosion erupted.
Direct hit.
"HAHA—DIDN'T SEE THAT COMIN', DID YA?!" (Y/n) crowed with unrestrained glee, their voice brimming with chaotic delight, echoing through the pandemonium.
They moved again, this time leaning into the chaos—literally.
A sidestep flowed into a spin, their body dipping low, practically brushing against the virtual ground before snapping back upright, the motion translating into something that resembled an improvised flourish rather than a glitch. To anyone watching, it was as if Demoman had suddenly discovered a sense of style that the game had never programmed.
Players missed shots.
He hesitated.
They adjusted too late.
Their rhythm shattered.
And (Y/n) seized every fleeting second.
Grenades flew through the air like fireworks. Explosions chained into a symphony of destruction. Laughter echoed, reverberating in the chaos.
Every movement, every exaggerated gesture, and every perfectly timed cackle heightened the pandemonium. Their body moved with a free abandon, unshackled by the usual rigidness of in-game animation, yet never veering into that uncanny valley that might shatter the immersion.
It worked, functionally.
"OH, THIS IS BRILLIANT—ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!" they shouted, slipping deeper into the role as they wove through the battlefield, a whirlwind of chaotic energy.
(Y/n) lingered at the doorway for a moment longer, fingers curling lightly against the warm, worn wood of the frame as if its grain could ground them to the spot. The sign on the door loomed large and foreboding, its bold letters issuing a theatrical warning—a remnant of an era when entering this room sparked a rush of excitement and anticipation without a second thought.
They drew in a deep breath, filling their lungs to capacity, and held it for a heartbeat, feeling the weight of the moment settle around them. Then, slowly, they released it, pushing the door open as a mix of nostalgia and trepidation washed over them.
The hinges protested gently, emitting a low, familiar creak that echoed into the stillness, a sound that seemed to awaken the room from an extended slumber as they crossed the threshold. A cool air greeted them, slightly artificial, carrying an unmistakable scent of electronics—sharp notes of plastic and metal mingling with an almost-electric tang, like the remnants of a storm that had passed but left traces of its energy lingering in the air.
Their hand instinctively found the switch, fingers brushing against the surface for a moment before they flicked it. A satisfying click resonated, and the lights flickered uncertainly—once, then twice—before settling into a dim, steady glow that cast a softened radiance over the room.
Consoles lined the walls meticulously, each one a piece of a carefully curated museum of escapism, showcasing generations of gaming history. An Xbox, a PlayStation, and Nintendo systems, both vintage and current, stood proudly, while a humble Wii nestled closely beside them like an old friend still holding onto its charm despite newer advancements. Cables spilled through the space with meticulous care, weaving through the area as if each device had its designated place, not cluttered but designed for seamless access. This was a sanctuary for someone yearning to escape into a myriad of worlds at any given moment.
At the heart of it all, the gaming PC hummed softly, its monitor dim but alive, pulsing gently as if beckoning for attention, patiently waiting for someone to breathe life into it once more.
(Y/n) stepped farther into the room, their gaze drifting over the familiar terrain, taking in each detail as memories began to stir like dust motes in the filtered light.
Laughter echoed faintly in the back of their mind, a joyful symphony where silence now reigned. They could almost hear the rhythmic clicking of controllers, the comforting overlap of voices tangled in playful debates over who would claim the next turn. They vividly recalled the moment Aaron had barged in, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the sheer array of gaming consoles, as if he had stumbled upon a hidden arcade filled with treasures. Matt had been quieter, his approach more measured, yet his immediate gravitation toward a specific setup, already analyzing its features, spoke volumes about his excitement.
This room had once been filled with their laughter, their camaraderie. Now, it only held the bittersweet shadow of their absence.
(Y/n)'s eyes shifted, drawn to the far side of their cluttered workspace. There, amidst a tangle of wires and tech accessories, stood their pride and joy—a VR system unlike any other. It wasn't just a mere headset tossed carelessly onto a desk; it was a meticulously designed structure—an immersive experience waiting to unfold.
A mannequin loomed upright, dressed in the full-body haptic suit like a suit of armor, prepared for its user. The suit's fabric caught the dim light in subtle, glimmering ways, boasting a sleek, aerodynamic design that whispered purpose. Each line and curve was engineered with embedded sensors, crafted to simulate the faintest touches—delicate pressure, fluid motion, and the reassuring presence of another.
Nearby, the Pimax hand controllers rested, their contours perfectly molded to echo the natural grip of an outstretched hand. They were poised to capture each movement, transforming what was virtual into a sensation that felt tantalizingly tangible. Below them, the foot sensors lay in readiness, calibrated with precise accuracy to track every step and shift of weight as if the wearer were walking through an alternate reality.
At the heart of the entire setup, the torso rig stood proud, engineered to follow the user's movements with unwavering precision. And above it all, like a crown atop a king, was the headset—decorated with small, removable stickers that showcased an eclectic mix of familiar, bright icons from TF2, painting a vibrant testament to where their interests had always resided.
Sprawled across the floor was the Omnix pad, its surface ingeniously designed to simulate various terrains, tricking the body into feeling the sensation of standing somewhere entirely different. The flexible harness extended upwards, resembling a mechanical claw, ready to latch securely around the user's waist, anchoring them physically while unleashing their freedom to move—run, spin, or even break into an impromptu dance, as ludicrous as it may seem.
A full-body gateway. A bridge between worlds.
(Y/n) held their gaze on the setup for a moment longer than necessary, drinking in the sight before allowing their attention to drift downward. Their hand cradled a USB, wrapped snugly in a thin layer of tape, its edges frayed with use, telling a story of its own. The handwritten label stared back at them, ink uneven but clear, reading: "Project: Immersion - CODE PLUG-IN."
Their thumb brushed over the worn words absentmindedly, seeking some sort of clarity, as if the tactile engagement might ease the weight of the decision looming before them. Slowly, they lifted their gaze to the glowing computer screen.
Quietly, they approached, each step echoing in the room's stillness, carrying a weight that felt more profound than mere physicality. Upon nudging the mouse, the monitor flickered to life, illuminating the dim space as the screen awoke from its idle slumber.
Lines of code filled the display, dense and structured—familiar and almost comforting. Fragments of TF2's overarching framework were embedded within it, remnants of late nights spent studying, analyzing, and building upon. This code wasn't entirely theirs, but it felt like home, a playground of possibilities they yearned to expand.
To deepen that connection. To make people truly feel.
To (Y/n), TF2 had always transcended the status of mere game; it was a world—colorful, chaotic, and alive with vibrant personality. Yet, interacting with it had always felt distant, confined to the flat boundaries of a screen. They yearned to change that, to reach out beyond those borders and envelop others in that world—fostering a tangible experience where one could not just control a character but fully inhabit the very essence of that reality.
The idea had lingered, always teasing at the back of their mind. But so too had the shadow of doubt. Sometimes it felt redundant, as though they were trying to reinvent a wheel that already rolled smoothly. And beneath that lingered a gnawing fear—what if one wrong move shattered everything? What if they corrupted the code and ruined what little foundation they had built?
Their grip on the USB tightened, knuckles whitening with the pressure.
VR was an escape.
A profound connection.
A way to transcend the confines of reality and step into boundless realms of imagination.
A break.
The word echoed in their mind again, softer this time, yet somehow more poignant.
(Y/n) exhaled slowly, taking a deep breath that dragged their shoulders upwards before they fell back into a relaxed posture. Though their chest remained tight with anxiety, beneath that tension, they felt something begin to stir—small, fragile, but nonetheless significant.
Hope, just enough to push back against the weight pressing down upon them.
Their fingers clenched firmly around the USB, the hesitation still present, but no longer wielding control over them.
"...Yeah," they murmured under their breath, resolute yet calm.
With newfound conviction, their hand moved forward. The USB hovered, suspended in that fleeting moment before action and consequence intertwined.
A quiet pause lingered in the air, thick with anticipation.
The ceiling loomed overhead, an indifferent expanse of white that didn't budge an inch. It felt as if it had made a vow to endure whatever tempest raged beneath it—a silent sentinel of the space below it.
(Y/n) lay flat on their bed, a sanctuary that felt more like a prison today, arms sprawled loosely at their sides. Their gaze remained fixed upward, eyes vacant, lost in the vastness of that unmoving ceiling. The gentle hum of the ceiling fan sliced through the oppressive silence, its rhythmic whirring becoming an almost soothing backdrop—almost, as if it could distract from the storm brewing inside.
They had donned softer, looser attire, casual indoor wear that hung off their frame like a quiet surrender, a retreat from a long, relentless fight. Their hair, still damp from earlier, fell in uneven strands, clinging stubbornly in chaotic directions—it was a testament to a day that had refused to settle into anything resembling firmness or stability.
Today had been... rough.
The weight of the day pressed down on their chest, heavy and suffocating, turning the simple act of breathing into a deliberate effort. It had begun with difficulties—and somehow, as if to mock their resolve, it had found increasingly creative ways to dig deeper. Another interview fell through, another polite dismissal wrapped in rehearsed sympathy. Another workplace, another moment where the words "not needed anymore" echoed like a cruel refrain.
Replaced.
Set aside.
They had been trying—truly trying—to keep everything afloat while juggling part-time jobs like fragile spinning plates, desperately hoping none would come crashing down before they could catch them again. Bills loomed ominously, silent reminders of time slipping through their fingers like sand. The indie games they had poured their heart and soul into—their passion, their pride—had barely made a ripple in a vast sea of indifference.
Not enough attention.
Not enough support.
Not enough.
They swallowed slowly, their throat feeling parched despite their stillness, as if even thirst had become a distant memory.
It wasn't supposed to feel this way.
All that effort.
All that passion.
All that relentless ambition to turn their dreams into something tangible—a vibrant digital world for people to dive into, explore, feel—and yet...
They found themselves immobile.
A disheartening standstill.
It was like sprinting forward while the ground beneath them stubbornly refused to shift, an endless loop of inertia.
Their chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths—a quiet reminder of the effort required just to exist.
They had pushed.
Worked.
Adjusted.
Adapted.
And yet—
Nothing seemed to move.
They felt frozen in place, like a character caught in a looped animation—running fervently but never truly going anywhere.
"...Am I doing something wrong?" they whispered, the question barely taking shape in the stillness around them.
It hung there, unanswered, suspended in the air.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"...Or is it me?"
Their voice became softer this time, a fragile whisper, almost as if it might vanish entirely if they dared to raise it any louder.
They turned their head.
Slowly.
Their gaze landed on the nearby dresser, where a single picture frame rested—a small, steady fragment of something that hadn't changed.
(Y/n) pushed themselves up just enough to reach for it, their fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood of the photo frame before lifting it carefully. The frame felt oddly familiar in their hands, worn and polished slightly from being held too many times to count.
Their thumb traced along the gently chipped edge, each nick and groove telling a story, before their eyes settled on the vibrant image inside—frozen in time, a captured moment of glee and camaraderie. The brightness of that day seemed to spill out from the frame, casting a kind of warmth that felt almost too alive for such a still picture.
There they were—mid-motion, caught in the heart of dancing the ridiculous Conga taunt, decked out head-to-toe in a Demoman costume, complete with a fake beard and exaggerated accessories. The pure, unfiltered energy in that single frame resonated like laughter had been bottled and sealed into it, almost echoing in the quiet room.
To the right, a young man with semi-tan skin and tousled dark brown hair—Aaron—held the camera out, his grin wide and infectious as he snapped the selfie. There was a spark in his expression, something lively, something easy that made the moment feel even more genuine.
On the left stood another figure—Matt, dressed sharply as a Medic in a cosplay that (Y/n) had gleefully helped assemble. He was mid-Kazotsky Kick, one leg raised high, a perfect blend of chaos and elegance. His posture was ridiculous yet flawless, capturing the spirit of the moment effortlessly.
It was chaotic.
It was utterly stupid.
It was... them.
A small, tired breath slipped from (Y/n)'s lips as their fingers gently traced over the surface of the frame, gliding across each familiar face as if they could somehow summon the warmth of that moment back into existence.
They had kept in touch as much as they could.
Messages here and there. Quick check-ins filled with casual updates. Enough to reassure, but never quite enough to maintain the bond fully. Because they had something to prove.
They had wanted to come back with something real. Something big. Something that would make all of this effort worth it.
A surprise.
Success.
A world they built—fully realized, alive, something their friends could step into and say, "Yeah. That's you."
Their grip on the frame tightened slightly, the wood pressing comfortingly into their palm.
But nothing had changed.
They had shifted ideas, reworked countless concepts, reshaped entire projects in the frantic search for that one groundbreaking idea people would latch onto. Something that would stick.
Something people would love.
Their eyes lingered on their own image in the photo, the way their younger self glowed with unabashed joy.
"...Did I change too much?" they murmured, the question drifting into the stillness of the room, devoid of expectation for answers.
Carefully, they lowered the frame back into place, the soft click as it settled bringing a sense of finality. Their hand lingered there for a second longer, as if reluctant to sever the connection before pulling away.
Silence crept back in, a heavy kind in the quiet space filled with reminders of what once was.
(Y/n) reached for their phone, the screen lighting up against the dim atmosphere, casting a brief glow that made them squint. Unlocking it, their thumb moved almost automatically toward their messages.
The group chat.
Still there.
Still quiet.
They tapped into it.
The last message lay at the bottom like a timestamp etched into stone, forming a stark reminder of the distance between them and their friends.
Their message.
A goodbye.
Not a permanent one—just "for a while."
A few months, they had said.
Time to focus. Time to build something worth showing.
Time to come back with proof that all this effort meant something.
Their eyes scanned over the gentle concern wrapped in Aaron's casual wording, Matt's blunt but genuine worry standing out like a beacon. Both of them reminding (Y/n) that they didn't have to disappear to chase something grand—that they could take breaks, that they could talk.
That they would be there.
Waiting.
Even now.
(Y/n)'s thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty bubbling within.
A break...
The thought lingered longer than it should have, a tempting whisper.
Slowly, their gaze lifted—drifting across the room.
To the desk.
Stacks of papers lay in organized chaos. Concepts layered upon one another, scattered like fallen leaves in autumn. Scribbled notes and fragments of code mingled together. Ideas that had once sparked excitement now quietly stifled under the weight of hesitation and doubt.
Then their eyes drifted further.
To the door.
Slightly ajar, as if beckoning them.
Beyond it, another doorway waited—just off to the side, almost forgotten.
They stood.
The movement felt heavier than it should have, as if gravity had chosen that moment to wrap its arms around them tighter than usual. Still, they pushed forward, crossing the room step by step, each footfall echoing in the silence.
The air felt different out here.
Quieter.
They turned left.
There it was.
The open door.
And on it—a bold, familiar sign they had bought with too much enthusiasm at the time, an impulse that now felt nostalgic and bittersweet.
A Mann Co. warning sign. Almost comically serious, as if it were meant to shatter the tension of the moment.
It stood in stark contrast to everything else they were feeling inside.
(Y/n) paused in front of it, their hand hovering just slightly as they stared at the entrance to their gaming room.
The restaurant buzzed with life—a symphony of cutlery clinking against plates, low conversations blending into a steady hum, and the occasional burst of laughter slicing through the air like fireworks. Warm lighting bathed the space in a relaxed glow, casting gentle shadows and creating an inviting atmosphere where people lingered over their meals, savoring the fleeting moments as the outside world faded away.
(Y/n), unfortunately, was doing the exact opposite.
Seated at a small table near the side, they stared at the clock with an intensity that suggested it had personally wronged them. Every tick echoed in their mind like a drumbeat, sounding louder than the last, each second stretching out longer than it had any right to, as if mocking their anxious state.
They weren't late, and that was the strange part.
Anticipation had filled their veins as they prepared for the dramatic, out-of-breath entrance they'd envisioned, but instead, they had arrived early—early enough to sit alone in their thoughts, early enough to let their imagination spiral into a restless storm of anxiety and excitement.
"...Okay, okay, this is fine," they muttered under their breath, pulling out their phone for what felt like the fifth time. The screen glowed under their fingers, and they squinted as they double-checked everything—time, date, location—each detail almost taunting in its accuracy.
"Nope. Still right. Still here. Still... waiting."
Their foot tapped against the polished wooden floor at a frantic pace, a relentless rhythm keeping time with their racing heart. One hand drummed against the table, fingers moving in uneven patterns, while the other ran through their hair—pushing it back only to let it fall wildly again seconds later.
They shifted in their seat, adjusting and readjusting, trying to find a comfortable position but failing spectacularly.
Then again.
Then again.
Still nothing.
A waiter approached, his footsteps hesitant as he took in the sight of (Y/n) practically vibrating in their chair.
"Uh... are you alright?" he asked cautiously, his voice laced with concern. "Ready to order?"
In an instant, (Y/n) straightened, energy surging through them like a wave crashing on the shore.
Their posture snapped into place, a confident grin stretching across their face as if they hadn't just been unraveling seconds ago. "Me? Oh, yeah, I'm good!" they said, their voice bright and cheerful, carrying that breezy, almost playful energy that was now a mask over the anxiety beneath. "Just waiting on someone. You know how it is—gotta let the suspense build, right?"
The waiter blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"...Right."
He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at their still-tapping foot, the nervous energy almost palpable.
"If you'd like, I could—uh—get someone? Or maybe you want to step outside for a bit?" he suggested, lowering his voice slightly. "You seem a little... tense."
"Tense? Nah, nah, I'm cool," (Y/n) waved it off with an airy flick of their wrist, maintaining the smile, though their fingers hadn't stopped their frantic dance. "Just waiting on an acquaintance. They'll be here any second. I've got this whole patience thing down. Totally mastered it. A real pro."
Their foot tapped faster, a counterpoint to the waiter's doubtful expression.
"...Uh-huh."
He slowly pointed to his left, the gesture almost imperceptible. "You mean that acquaintance?"
(Y/n) blinked, confusion knitting their brows together.
They turned.
And there she was.
Sitting just a few tables behind them, her posture straight, expression completely neutral—borderline deadpan. She had clearly been there for a while, her unreadable gaze fixed on them, unfazed by the flurry of activity that had just transpired.
Waiting.
For them.
(Y/n) froze, realization crashing down like a cold wave.
"Oh—!"
.
.
.
*SCREE- CRASH!*
.
.
.
They nearly launched themselves out of their seat, the chair screeching loudly against the polished floor as it scraped on its legs. In their haste, they tripped over one of the chair's legs, stumbling forward and hitting the ground with a soft thud that silenced nearby tables.
A few heads turned, eyes widening at the spectacle.
"...I meant to do that," they muttered quickly, embarrassment flooding their cheeks as they scrambled back up, heart pounding.
Grabbing their belongings in a flurry—bag, phone, papers—they rushed over, nearly dragging everything along with them before dropping it all beside the chair across from her. They slid into their seat, breath slightly uneven, posture stiff for a split second, before forcing their pulse and body to relax.
"Hi! Sorry! I—uh—didn't see you there," they chuckled, offering a sheepish yet energetic smile, trying to shake off the tumble.
The interviewer didn't react.
Not a flinch.
Just a steady, unblinking stare that felt like a spotlight cutting through the haze of tension.
(Y/n) straightened instinctively, suddenly hyperaware of how chaotic that entrance had been, their heart racing in the silence.
"...Right," they added, clearing their throat, desperately trying to compose themselves. Their hands folded neatly on the table—far too neatly for someone who had just tripped over a chair.
The interviewer remained completely unexpressive, her gaze flicking briefly to the pile of overprepared materials (Y/n) had brought before returning to their face, her eyes calculating.
Silent.
Measured.
Waiting.
The table fell into a quiet lull, the air thick with unspoken tension.
(Y/n) sat upright, their posture perfectly poised—hands gently folded in front of them, striking the delicate balance between composed and overly rigid as the interviewer flipped through their meticulously prepared resume and the accompanying files. Papers shifted with soft, deliberate movements—each page turned with an almost reverent care, each section scanned with an unreadable expression that left (Y/n) itching for a hint of acknowledgment.
(Y/n) waited.
Patiently.
Or at least, they made a valiant effort to appear patient.
Inside, however, their thoughts were anything but still. Every tiny sound felt like a thunderclap— the subtle slide of paper, the faint clink of utensils from nearby tables, the distant murmur of conversations that echoed like ghosts. Their eyes flicked up for just a fleeting second... then back down. Then up again, quick and subtle, as if they could catch a glimmer of emotion—a reaction, a shift, a hint of interest.
Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.
"...So," (Y/n) began carefully, their voice smooth and measured, a practiced calm. "I hope the layout isn't too cluttered. I tried to keep everything organized—clear sections, easy to follow, that kind of thing."
No response came.
The interviewer continued reading, her focus unwavering.
(Y/n)'s smile barely held in place, a fragile façade.
"I figured it'd be better to include multiple drafts and concept notes," they added, keeping their tone light but laced with professionalism. "It shows the process, not just the final result."
Still nothing.
A pause stretched like a taut line between them.
(Y/n)'s fingers twitched slightly against the polished surface of the table before they stilled themselves, resisting the urge to fidget nervously. Their gaze drifted again—quick, careful glances that sought to glean something, anything, from the interviewer's expression.
A clue.
A sign.
A reaction.
There was none.
"...Right," they murmured softly, more to themselves than anything, the weight of unreciprocated engagement settling heavily in the air.
Silence settled once more, thicker this time, a blanket of uncertainty.
This time, (Y/n) let it linger.
Their posture remained steady, an artificial calmness etched onto their face, but their eyes continued their subtle dance—glancing, retreating, returning—like a dancer trying to decipher a complex choreography that refused to reveal itself.
Then—
A voice sliced through the silence.
"I've finished reviewing your materials."
(Y/n) perked up instantly, a spark igniting in their demeanor. Their spine straightened, their expression sharpening into focus as if a switch had been flipped. Whatever uncertainty lingered was tucked away, replaced with practiced composure that felt like armor.
"Great," they replied smoothly, a small, confident smile returning to their lips. "I'm ready whenever you are."
And just like that, the interview began in earnest.
Questions were exchanged—clear, structured, professional—flowing like a well-rehearsed duet.
(Y/n) answered each one with precision, weaving in threads of their experience, their creative philosophy, their approach to design. They spoke with clarity, their words flowing concisely yet meaningfully, letting their ideas blossom without overwhelming the conversation. Occasionally, they asked thoughtful questions in return—targeted inquiries that revealed their engagement and curiosity.
Food arrived at some point, though it barely registered amid the rhythm of dialogue.
They nibbled between responses, careful not to disrupt the balance, maintaining an almost organic meld of casual dining and formal discussion. It felt... natural. Like this was exactly where they were meant to be.
And for a moment—
It seemed like it was going well.
Until it wasn't.
The shift was so subtle that (Y/n) almost missed it.
The interviewer's responses grew shorter, clipped. Her attention began to drift enough to be felt. The flicker of engagement that had barely been there to begin with seemed to wane, leaving behind something colder, a palpable distance.
Disconnected.
By the time the last question was asked, the atmosphere had morphed entirely.
"...I see," she stated flatly, closing the folder of their resume with a soft but final motion, a tangible end to the conversation.
(Y/n)'s smile remained steady, an unwavering mask.
"Is there anything else you'd like me to elaborate on?" they offered, keeping their tone even, though it felt increasingly fragile against the growing weight of silence.
She shook her head, her face a blank canvas.
"No."
A beat passed, the finality hanging like an unspoken goodbye.
Then she stood.
Just like that.
Just—done.
(Y/n)'s smile held, though something in their chest tightened, a sinking feeling taking root.
"Oh—alright," they mumbled, quickly gathering themselves, scrambling to maintain composure. "Thank you for your time, then."
She had already begun to leave, her footsteps fading into the background.
No goodbye.
No acknowledgment.
Not even a glance back.
(Y/n) watched her go, their expression frozen in place, their mind racing to grasp the abrupt end. A small part of them tried to rationalize it—maybe she was just like that. Straightforward. Efficient. Not one for pleasantries.
Yeah.
That had to be it.
...Right?
Still, that heavy, familiar feeling settled deep in their chest, an unwelcome weight that whispered of rejection.
Not their first.
Probably not their last.
Despite everything—the effort, the preparation, the qualifications—it never quite guaranteed anything, did it?
(Y/n) inhaled quietly, forcing their shoulders to relax as the subtle tension coiled within them. The café around them buzzed with muted conversations and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, but they focused elsewhere. "Hey—uh—quick question," they called out, striving to keep their tone casual, as if nothing were amiss. "When should I expect to hear back about the results?"
She paused, just for a second, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, without turning to face them—
"In a week or so."
A step forward, the soft click of her heels against the tiled floor echoed in the small space.
"...Or perhaps not at all."
And just like that, she was gone, vanishing into the hum of the café.
(Y/n) sat there, rooted to the spot. Their smile remained, stretched just a little too thin now, the edges twitching ever so slightly as the weight of her words settled in like an unwelcome guest. They fixated on the empty space where she had just stood, as if willing her to reappear, to clarify— to say something else—anything that would infuse her sentence with a softness that it lacked.
It didn't happen.
"...Hah."
A quiet, breathy sound escaped them, the shadow of disbelief flickering across their features. The illusion cracked just a fraction.
"Wow," they murmured under their breath, their voice barely audible, as if saying it louder would only solidify the harsh reality rather than dull its sting. "That was... something."
They didn't move. Didn't drop the smile that had now turned fragile, the warmth it once held fading into an awkward mask of composure.
A figure approached cautiously from the side, breaking their trance. The waiter had been nearby the entire time—close enough to overhear fragments of the exchanged words—close enough to catch the tone, the shift, the weight of the ending. In his hand were several neatly folded tissues, white and stark against the café's muted hues.
"...Hey," he said gently, offering them out with an awkward, sympathetic expression that echoed their own discomfort. "Uh... for what it's worth..."
He trailed off, clearly unsure how to finish that sentence, the air wrapping around them like a thick blanket of uncertainty. He placed the bill on the table, the paper crumpling softly against the wooden surface.
"...Sorry."
(Y/n) blinked, finally prying their gaze from the spot where she had disappeared and looking up at him. Their smile twitched again, that delicate facade threatening to crumble. Then, slowly, they reached out and took the tissues, their fingers brushing the fabric lightly, as if it were something precious.
"Thanks," they murmured lightly, a hint of feigned nonchalance in their voice.
Like it didn't bother them at all.
Like everything was totally fine.
Like their world hadn't just taken a quiet, subtle hit.
And as they sat there—alone at the table, tissues in hand, untouched food in front of them—a profound stillness enveloped the space, making the ticking of time seem to creep back in.
There was a quiet click as the car door shut, sealing (Y/n) inside the cocoon of the vehicle. They moved with a kind of eerie calm, the practiced smile still plastered on their face as they carefully set their belongings into the worn passenger seat—the rumpled portfolio, a well-used notebook, and a stylus sliding into its designated pocket. Finally, they slid behind the wheel, the comforting familiarity of the leather welcoming yet suffocating.
For a moment, they just sat there, the world outside gently muted, transforming into a distant hum of life, oblivious to the storm brewing within.
Still.
Then, like a taut string about to snap, their hand curled around the steering wheel.
Their fingers pressed into the leather, knuckles paling as the tension coiled through their arm like a snake ready to strike. One of their eyes twitched—sharp and involuntary—as if their body was reluctantly betraying the calm they'd tried so hard to maintain. Before anything else could pierce through the thick fog of their thoughts—
.
.
.
*Thunk.*
.
.
.
Their forehead smacked against the wheel, the soft thud muffled by the stillness of the car.
They stayed there, suspended in the moment, teeth clenched, the taste of iron mixing with the unease swirling in their gut. Nails dug faintly against the leather, the sensation grounding yet frantic as their grip tightened even further. Their shoulders trembled, subtle at first, but then escalating into more noticeable quakes as they fought to contain it all—the frustration, the disbelief, that sinking, gnawing sadness twisting in their chest like a relentless vice.
A shaky breath forced its way in, stuttering against the walls of their lungs then out.
Their hand slipped from the wheel, rising to pinch the bridge of their nose, the pressure a temporary balm against the growing tide of panic. They hitched another breath, sharper this time, as if their body hadn't yet decided whether to remain composed or to give in to the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume them whole. Their toes curled inside their polished shoes, pressing against the smooth leather like they needed something—anything—to anchor them in reality.
"...I didn't blow that," they muttered under their breath, the words escaping strained and uncertain.
"I didn't."
They had answered everything. Every question, every prompt—honestly, clearly. They had smiled, stayed engaged, and acted exactly as they were meant to. Professional. Personable. Normal.
The interviewer had just been... like that.
Unexpressive.
That had to be it.
Right?
Not uninterested.
Just... hard to read.
Even when (Y/n) had spoken passionately about their work—the art of video game design, the intricate philosophies behind it—all the words had flowed freely, an eloquent stream of creativity. They hadn't stumbled. If anything, that had been their strongest point—the shimmering beacon amidst the fog of doubt.
So why did it feel like—
Their grip tightened again, knuckles whitening.
"...Yeah," they exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away with a fragile resolve. "Yeah. It's fine."
The word hung in the air, felt hollow, echoing back to them without conviction, as if the universe itself questioned its truth.
◦◦,°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°◦°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°,◦◦
By the time they arrived home, the tension hadn't fully dissipated—but it had dulled just enough for them to function. They stepped out of the car and paused, inhaling deeply. The crisp, cool air filled their lungs, held there for a moment too long, before they released it in a controlled stream, the warmth of their breath mingling with the chill.
"Stay calm," they murmured to themself, the words barely a whisper, yet heavy with intent.
They already knew.
They'd start knocking things over. Slamming doors. Breaking something without meaning to, not out of malice, but a whirlwind of frustration and unspent energy.
So they paced.
Back and forth in front of their door, steps measured and deliberate, like a pendulum swinging in an effort to find balance. Each pass drained a little more of the sharp edge coiled inside them. Their shoulders slowly lowered, stiff muscles loosening as their breathing paced, each inhalation and exhalation a quiet mantra of reprieve.
By the time they reached for the handle, their expression had smoothed into something manageable.
They stepped inside.
Silence greeted them like an old friend, welcoming yet eerily hollow.
But it barely lasted.
Their phone rang.
The sharp sound sliced through the quiet like a blade, jolting them back to reality. For a split second, they froze—then quickly reached into their pocket, the action rushed yet precise, pulling it out and glancing at the screen.
Another workplace.
Right.
The one they had already interviewed with, buzzing with faint flickers of hope.
Something in their chest loosened—just slightly.
They had backup.
"Okay," they muttered to themself, answering the call with a hint of determination. "Hello—"
The voice on the other end didn't waste time.
Polite. Professional. Apologetic.
(Y/n)'s smile returned automatically, even though no one could see it, the warmth feeling like a flicker of light amidst an encroaching darkness.
"Oh, no worries," they replied lightly at first, their tone easy, accommodating, an attempt to steady the growing unease within.
But as the explanation continued, something in that smile began to strain, the tension creeping back in.
Despite being a perfect candidate...
They were being dropped.
To make room.
New individuals.
New recruits.
Fresh starts.
"::They'll be learning to improve others' work,::" the voice continued, almost reassuring, yet it sounded distant, like waves crashing against a faraway shore. "::Including yours. You've done excellent work—truly—but we believe this is the direction we need to take.::"
(Y/n)'s fingers curled slightly around the phone, a subtle plea for stability.
There was a pause, heavy with unspoken words.
A brief one.
"...I see," they said finally, their voice still steady—still polite, fighting against the tide of disappointment.
There was more—something about projects, about how things would be handled moving forward. About how one of their works—specifically stated not to be touched—would now be part of that learning process, turning into collateral in the wake of change.
Something in their chest twisted.
Tighter.
But their tone didn't break; it remained a flimsy facade against the encroaching storm.
"Understood," they hummed, forcing a small, almost sheepish chuckle, trying to find humor in the absurdity. "I appreciate you letting me know."
Another apology.
Another reassurance.
"Yeah, no—it's alright," (Y/n) replied, though the words felt like ashes in their mouth. "Thank you for the opportunity."
And just like that—
The call ended.
Silence returned.
Thicker this time.
(Y/n) stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, their expression unreadable, as if carved from stone.
Then, slowly, they moved.
Their bag slipped from their shoulder, dropping unceremoniously onto the floor with a muted thud. Papers shifted inside, barely containing whispers of what could have been. Their keys clattered, jarring against the wooden floor, then their coat tumbled off like a discarded shell.
Just... dropped.
They stood there in the quiet.
Still.
.
.
.
*BANG!!*
.
.
.
The phone left their hand in a sharp, sudden motion, slamming into the wall with enough force to echo through the house, a primal release of pent-up emotion. The impact left a visible dent in the wall where it struck, a mark of their frustration, before it clattered to the floor. The sound lingered, a resounding reminder of their inner turmoil, then faded.
(Y/n) remained where they stood, chest rising and falling a little heavier now, the last of that strained composure finally cracking beneath the weight of it all.
The steady ticking of a wall clock echoed through the early morning, filling a cluttered, messy room that resembled a chaotic warzone of creativity. Papers were strewn across the desk like fallen leaves in a gusty autumn wind, sketches layered haphazardly over one another, and a sketchbook lay half-open, its pages filled with frenetic pencil markings frozen mid-thought. Sticky notes clung desperately to every available surface, each one a vibrant splash of color, belting out reminders that had long since faded into the background noise of procrastination.
At the center of this delightful chaos, slumped against the desk, was its beleaguered creator.
The person slept soundly amidst the tornado of creativity, their head resting sideways against a disheveled pile of notes, soft snores rising and falling in a soothing rhythm that almost harmonized with the persistent ticking of the clock. One hand dangled lazily over the side of the desk, fingers grazing the floor lightly, as if in a delicate dance with the dust gathered beneath.
Suddenly, a shift.
A small movement—just enough to tip the precarious balance.
Their hand accidentally collided with a nearly-empty cup of coffee, sending it wobbling perilously before it tipped, the last remnants of lukewarm liquid splashing upwards in reckless abandon and hitting their lips and tongue like an unwelcome wake-up call.
Their snore cut off instantly.
A pause stretched awkwardly through the air.
A grimace contorted their sleepy face.
"I'm awake—!" they blurted out hoarsely, their voice cracking like glass as the bitter taste of stale coffee finally registered in their senses.
They coughed and sputtered, pushing themselves upright with surprising urgency, blinking through the hazy blur of sleep. One hand fumbled blindly across the cluttered surface for their glasses, knocking aside a rogue pen before finally grasping the much-needed frames and shoving them onto their face. The world snapped into focus, or at least into something less of a jumbled mess.
Barely.
They grimaced as they adjusted the fallen coffee cup, the remnants of its contents pooling ominously on the desk. Smacking their chapped lips together in a futile attempt to feel human again, a long, weary yawn tore its way out of them, stretching their body in a languid arch that made their back crack in protest. They rolled their shoulders, tilted their neck side to side, and gave a small shake, as if that motion alone could coax their sluggish brain to boot up properly.
That's when the realness of the moment hit them.
The sound.
Their alarm clock.
Still blaring.
Relentless. Loud. Absolutely unforgiving.
"...How long has that been going?" they mumbled, their voice thick with sleep and disbelief.
Leaning sideways in their chair, they reached weakly for the nightstand, every movement feeling like it was underwater. Their fingers barely grazed the surface before they dragged the clock closer, squinting at the glowing numbers that pulsed in the dim light. Even with their glasses perched precariously on their nose, their vision swam, the digits swirling together in a hazy blur.
"...Seven ten...?" they muttered, unsure if their mind was still caught in a dream.
A beat of silence hung in the air.
Right.
Farsighted.
With a groan, they fumbled around for the cloth kept nearby, rubbing it against their lenses with slow, sluggish movements that felt increasingly like a chore. Once satisfied—or at least slightly less blind—they looked again.
8:10 AM.
They froze, the world around them suddenly framing itself in urgent clarity.
"...Huh?"
That wasn't right.
They blinked again, as if desperate hope could somehow correct the glaring numeric offense.
It didn't.
A prickling unease crawled up their spines like an unwelcome guest. Slowly, they turned back toward their desk, reaching for their phone with trembling fingers, each movement heavy with a weight of dread. Unlocking it, the bright screen blasted their still-sleepy eyes with a harsh glare.
╔══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╗
Monday.
8:10 AM.
Reminder: Interview — 9:10 AM.
╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝
Their grip nearly faltered.
"Oh—oh no."
The words escaped their lips as a thin breath, laced with horror.
They were supposed to be up at 7:20.
Prepared by 8:30.
In a burst of adrenaline, they shot up so fast that their chair screeched against the floor, a cacophony that matched their rising panic.
"Great—fantastic—awesome start, me!" they groaned bitterly, already pulling their noodle-weak legs out from the chair and into the chaotic mess that awaited them.
The next twenty minutes became a blur of frenetic energy and movement.
They stumbled into the bathroom, the cool tiles sending a jolt through their bare feet as they twisted the shower knob, water spraying forth in a torrent. Without waiting for it to warm, they stepped in, the shock of the cold briefly shocking their senses. One hand scrubbed vigorously at their hair, strands of it dark and slick, while the other fumbled with a toothbrush, brushing their teeth in a haphazard rhythm. The foam threatened to rinse away before they could spit, bubbles mingling with droplets cascading from their chin. Water dripped everywhere, pooling at their feet as they rushed, movements clumsy yet fueled by an urgent determination.
Out. Towel. Dry.
Fast.
Too fast.
They nearly tripped over themselves as they darted back into their room, navigating through the organized chaos that had taken residence there. A comb—somewhere—almost lost in the mess—where was it—ah. There. They grasped it tightly, raking it through their damp hair, hoping for some semblance of order.
Next, they reached for a bottle from their dresser, spraying it once—only to recoil slightly, the scent wrapping around them like an unwelcome embrace.
Floral.
"That's not cologne," they blinked, the confusion evident in their expression as they stared at the bottle for half a second, brow furrowing.
Then they shrugged, the fleeting thought dismissed.
"Whatever."
A few more spritzes, and they felt ready enough to move on, the scent lingering but ignored now.
Clothes came next—thankfully, ironed just the night before, a small victory in a chaotic morning. They yanked on their shirt with urgency, fingers fumbling with the buttons, laughter of impatience simmering just below the surface as they finally lined them up within reason.
Belt. Tight.
Tie—slightly crooked but passable under the circumstances.
A trench coat, dark and slightly worn, was pulled from a nearby chair and thrown on without much thought, the fabric settling around them like a protective barrier.
Kitchen.
Move.
Think later.
They rushed in, the aroma of stale coffee hanging in the air as they reached for a half-used bag of bagels and tossed them eagerly into the waiting toaster. Water went into the boiler with a sense of purpose. Switch on. The fridge swung open with a creak—cream cheese located, thank goodness.
Ding.
The bagels popped up suddenly, like tiny missiles propelled into the air. They snatched them mid-flight, a small hiss escaping their lips at the heat, hurriedly dropping them onto a plastic plate. A quick swipe of cream cheese—sloppy and uneven, but it was all they had time for. They slammed the halves together, wrapped them in a paper towel, and shoved the oddly bulky package into their pocket.
The boiler clicked, signaling its readiness.
They poured the hot water into their tumbler, steam curling upward, scooped in coffee powder without a hint of measuring, dumped in a generous splash of creamer, and sealed the lid tightly. With a determined shake, they agitated the concoction like their very life depended on it.
Which, honestly?
It kind of did.
Coat on.
Shoes—polished, thankfully, reflective even in the dull morning light. Laces tied in a frantic rush, the knots tight but uneven.
Keys. Wallet. Phone.
They dashed back to the suitcase—files, papers, everything crammed inside haphazardly but with a desperation for organization.
"Okay—okay—go, go, go—!"
They rushed out the door—
And immediately choked.
Their heart lurched as their body jerked violently backward, cutting off their momentum as something yanked at their neck, pulling them back as forcefully as a cold splash of water.
"—ghk!"
Their coffee slipped from their hand, the tumbler hitting the ground with a dull thud, liquid dribbling out like a spilled secret. They gagged slightly, panic flooding them as they reached up, fingers scrambling against skin—only to realize—
Their tie.
Caught in the door, a simple fabric noted their hurried morning as it tightened cruelly.
They stood there for half a second, stunned, the absurdity of it washing over them.
"Seriously!?"
They fumbled for their keys again, twisting and unlocking the door, the latch clicking free, releasing the trapped fabric. They adjusted the tie quickly—crooked again and only contributing more to their disheveled appearance—and stepped back outside, grabbing their neglected tumbler.
No time to complain.
They rushed to their car, practically throwing themselves into the driver's seat as adrenaline surged through their veins. The engine roared to life, the familiar sound both comforting and alarming, and within seconds, they were pulling out, tires crunching against the pavement as they set off.
Oh—right.
Wow, I really just dove straight into that, didn't I?
Didn't even introduce myself.
Sorry about that.
Name's (Y/n).
And...
This?
This whole chaotic, exhilarating, slightly unhinged ride?
You're standing in the middle of nowhere... except it's not really nowhere, is it? It's all in your head. An entire world, crammed inside your mind like a crowded server lobby—ideas bouncing around, characters arguing over who gets the spotlight, environments rendering themselves before you even decide what they're made of.
It's loud.
It's chaotic.
It's alive.
And you?
You're the one holding the controller.
You've always wanted to get it out there, haven't you? To take that mess of imagination and turn it into something people can actually see, touch, experience. Something that makes them feel like they've stepped into your world instead of just hearing about it. So you spend years—yeah, years—grinding your skills like it's some kind of endless level-up system. Writing. Designing. Tweaking. Breaking things just to rebuild them better.
Characters? Crafted.
Themes? Refined.
Worldbuilding? Oh, you live for that.
All so you can build the perfect world out of imperfect pieces.
So here's the real question—what even is the art of being a video game designer?
Now, sure, I could go on and on about it. Trust me, I could.
There are entire essays, lectures, and probably a hundred-hour documentary somewhere explaining every tiny detail.
But let's be real—
You'd get bored halfway through and click off to something faster, louder, flashier. Or worse, I'd trap you in one of those never-ending monologues that feel like unskippable cutscenes.
Yeah... no thanks.
Let's keep this quick. Clean. One-two-three steps.
Simple.
One: You're allowed to do whatever you want!
At its core? Being a designer means freedom. Total, unrestricted, no-holds-barred freedom. No fear. No hesitation. No "what if this isn't good enough?" nonsense is crawling into your head.
Because here's something people forget—this is your creation. Yours. You built it from nothing. Every line, every mechanic, every tiny detail? That's pieces of you stitched together into something real.
And the only thing that can stop it?
...is you.
Funny how that works, right?
Two: the two types of creators.
Okay, but what if you're not alone?
What if you're working with a whole team—inside some massive company, building a world that already exists, something you didn't start but you care about?
That's where things split into two lanes.
You've got the makers—the ones who kick things off. The origin point. The architects of the whole thing.
Then you've got the contributors—the ones who jump in, expand it, shape it, refine it, breathe new life into it. They don't just follow—they interpret. They add their own flavor while keeping the core intact.
Different roles, sure.
...but strip it down, and they're not so different after all.
Because both of them?
They create.
Inspiration doesn't care about your title. It just plants the seed—and suddenly, boom, you've got an idea growing whether you're ready or not. Heck, even creators were once contributors or makers! All because of inspiration.
Three: the three Cs
Now here's the tricky part.
How does any of this actually work without everything falling apart?
You've got dozens of ideas, different people, different visions—shouldn't that just turn into chaos? Arguments? Compromises that water everything down?
Yeah, those things happen.
But there's a way to keep it from crashing.
Three things. The three Cs.
Clarity. Concision. Coherence.
Clarity means people get it. No confusion, no guesswork—your world makes sense the moment someone steps into it.
Concision? That's keeping things tight. You don't need a thousand words when ten will hit harder. Big ideas, small delivery. The details? You can build those up later.
That's where concepts come in.
Concepts are like... prototypes. Rough drafts. Possibilities waiting in line to be chosen. They don't have to be perfect—they just have to exist. Once they exist, you can shape them, polish them, turn them into something real.
Make it exist first.
Make it better later.
And then there's coherence—the glue holding everything together. Every mechanic, every story beat, every design choice—it all has to flow. Connect. Feel like it belongs.
Because once that concept becomes a full creation?
It doesn't stop there.
You maintain it. You protect it. You watch it grow.
You're basically a babysitter at that point—keeping an eye on everything, making sure your creation doesn't spiral out of control while people interact with it, reinterpret it, have it be praised through fan art, fan stories, and entire communities.
You answer questions. Clear up confusion. Ride out the silence when things go quiet.
I plan on making an animation through some Alight Motion and tweening from it.
Progress and experiments were not the very best, but not the very worst when making the product. I had used this program before despite the immense lagging, but I got a result!
Hello! Sorry for the late reblog, but here’s the response!
Because of his special body enchantment of being able to stretch and bend his limbs (only linearly) and rotate them, he’ve always want to be a guardian—like an iron golem! From that idea, he tries to do everything as accurate or something similar to a protective guardian like an iron golem would do (yes, his eyes can turn into iron golem’s ones, but they’re only an orange color). However, with that force-personality change, it sometimes makes him forget that he isn’t like them, and he would NEVER be exactly like them.
So feeling like that and acknowledging that recognition makes him feel sad, so he forgives Lara with a copper hug!
(Elahnzo is the one in the background- lol)
He tends to get a bit clingy, following the passive nature of copper golems, he can be very apologetic despite being a literal copper construct. He’s expressive in his actions (and a bit in his eyes), but because of the robotic appearance, his facial expressions through his eyes are overlooked a lot. So please let him cling comfortably until he feels better, even if it’s quite… unconventional (like Cooper stretching his legs up and hugging his arms around Lara’s head entirely whike nuzzling his face against hers)
Hello! Sorry for the late reblog, but here’s the response! Because of his special body enchantment of being able to stretch and bend his limbs (only linearly) and rotate them, he’ve always want to be a guardian like an iron golem. However, he remembers that he wasn’t like them, not being quick to rage when accidentally provoked. So feeling like that makes him feel bad, so he forgives Lara with a copper hug!
Although, I am not sure if her husband, Elahnzo, would approve of Copper’s close-proximity interaction with his lovely witch-villager wife!
(I need to know what Elahnzo will do since Cooper is taking all of Lara’s attention. If he would have a stand-off or fight him, that’ll be hilarious—jajaja. Just draw however you want, lol)
