Page 9 of Push My Buttons
I slip them on and boot up the game. The familiar chime of the menu makes something in my chest ease. This is the one place I don’t have to fake a voice. I don’t need to be on camera. They don’t care who I am or what I look like. I don’t need to be anything but a skilled gamer.
It’s been days since I logged in. Too many. And right now, I need that controlled chaos more than I need air. A little violence, a little camaraderie, and a whole lot of people who don’t expect anything from me but kills and backup.
Voices filter through the moment I log in—distorted slightly by audio compression, but still loud enough to be familiar in that detached, digital way. They’re already in a match.
I’ve got an open invite to their fireteam, so I slip in the moment the last round ends.
WrathSpawn. HexedOut.
Troublemakers. Entertainers. Absolute menaces when they work together.
"Finally," WrathSpawn says, his voice clipped but pleased.
"Look who decided to grace us with her dark, brooding presence," HexedOut chimes in with a laugh. "We thought you died. Or worse—got a life."
I type a quick greeting. A non-answer with a little wink emoji.
"Oh, shedefinitelymissed me," HexedOut says. "Emoji confirms it."
"She logged in. That’s enough," WrathSpawn replies.
I smirk and settle deeper into my chair, stretching out my legs with a sigh. This is exactly what I needed.
The match queue pops. I click ready.
The second we drop into the map, it's like slipping into a second skin.
For some reason we drop into a game with a four-player squad, but our fourth is some random kid with a username like Xx420Sn1p3Zz. He dies in the first five minutes and rage-quits.
HexedOut sighs. “Another loss for the randomizer gods. Guess it’s up to us.”
“Isn’t it always?” WrathSpawn mutters, already laying traps and barking out directions.
WrathSpawn takes point like always—methodical, merciless. HexedOut zips around like a gremlin with a grenade fetish. And me? I hang back, sniper rifle ready, watching for targets through the scope while the chaos unfolds in front of me.
We move like a machine, every attack calculated. Every retreat planned. I hug the wall of a crumbling warehouse, scope up on a rooftop camper, and time my shots between breaths.
“Left ridge,” WrathSpawn says. “Two snipers. I’ll flank.”
“I’ll distract.” HexedOut whistles into his mic. “Silence, sweetheart, want to light them up?”
I ping the snipers and drop a grenade at their feet.
HexedOut lets out a laugh. “See? That’s why she’s my favorite. Deadly and silent. Like a sexy ninja.”
We win the first round.
"God, that headshot was sexy. You been practicing without me?" HexedOut asks.
I send an emoji shrug.
"Don’t make it weird," WrathSpawn mutters.
"She likes it when I make it weird," HexedOut retorts.
"Pretty sure she likes it better when you’re muted."
I chuckle—quiet, almost involuntary—but the soft sound carries through my headset.
