Page 38 of Stream Heat
“Shit,” I muttered, then fed the audience a cover. “Giving them a false sense of security, obviously.”
The next shots connected, but it was messy, three bullets where one should have done it. Chat noticed, naturally.
Quinn’s aim is off today
u ok queen? looking pale
is she still sick??
I refused to dignify that. “I’m fine,” I snapped, too hard, then gritted my teeth and tried to soften it. “Just warming up. Some of us aren’t robots.”
But the truth was, I was sweating through my shirt in an air-conditioned room, and every sound, the click of my mouse, the PC fans, the chat pings, hit like a fire alarm. Every time the chat alert went off, I flinched. Completely pathetic.
I forced myself to talk about the upcoming tournament, just to keep my mind off what my body was doing. “First time running with Pack Wrecked instead of gunning for their heads. Should be interesting if they can keep up.”
That was the play, keep talking, keep firing, keep pretending.
Another tremor, worse this time, enough that I nearly launched my mouse. My character ended up stuck out in the open. Bang. Enemy sniper tapped me twice. Dead.
“Fucking stream snipers,” I barked. Not that I believed it.
My heart wouldn’t slow down. It thumped against my ribs so loud I was half-worried the mic would pick it up. I cycled my breath, tried to focus on the monitor, but the edges were blurry, like someone was turning down the contrast. My hands sweated, but I was freezing. It didn’t make sense.
Quinn doesn’t look good
someone get reid
is she having another episode??
I bit back the urge to respond. “I said I’m fine,” I gritted, voice threatening to crack. “Just… just a bad match. Happens sometimes.”
I queued up again. No way I was letting them see me tap out.
Thirty seconds on the clock. That was all I needed, thirty seconds to re-center. Kara Quinn. Trash-talk champion. The Omega who didn’t lose, not to a lobby full of amateurs and definitely not to her own body.
The match loaded, but the screen was all wrong, neon, almost. Too bright, too fast. The jump from the dropship made my stomach lurch, and I had to swallow down a wave of acid.
“Central compound this time,” I said, barely masking the tremor. “High risk, high reward. You know how we do.”
But my landing sucked, aim was off, looting was slow. I snatched a pistol because it was all I could get, then tunnel-visioned to the first building.
Enemy in the hallway. I raised the gun, tried to line up the shot.
Everything narrowed. Darkness crowded in, and my chest locked up mid-breath.
“I can’t–” My controller hit the desk, clattering, because both hands were suddenly numb. “I can’t breathe.”
Chat became a wall of frantic typing:
QUINN?!
someone help her!!
call the alphas
is she having a panic attack??
I couldn’t see straight enough to read it. All I heard was the blood roaring in my ears and my own choked breathing. My skinwas on fire, then freezing, the kind of cold you get in a fever, where you can’t tell what’s real.
