These Deadly Games(3)

Zoey glanced at her phone. “I knew I saw an alert that he went live.”

“Thanks for the warning, boo,” said Randall. He ran our team’s YouTube and Twitch channels, though today Akira convinced him not to livestream while groggy as hell, pointing to his hair sticking up every which way.

I hurtled into the woods. “Where are you guys?”

Randall scratched at the hint of stubble on his square jaw. “Just north of Blackpool Lake.”

“On my way.”

“You don’t have to,” said Matty. I knew he wanted me to focus on landing more kills, to secure my spot on the team. But it’d be easier to kill Fishman together.

“If we don’t take him out pronto, he’ll hunt each of us down.” Across the forest, I found Akira’s elf sorceress building a wooden fortress on Blackpool Lake’s shoreline. I preferred peasant garb for my avatar—lots of players mistook me for a newb, but I was a lethal assassin who’d shock them with my stealth prowess and deadly aim.

Matty was already on the roof, powering up his staff. “You got him, bro?”

“His shield’s way up,” said Randall. As I slinked from shrubbery to shrubbery, fire arrows flew between Randall’s knight and Fishman’s fisherman. But Fishman had the high ground and lunged at Randall.

Fishman854 has eliminated Ran_With_It with a flame rod.

“Gah!” Randall tugged back his unruly hair. “I hate when he pulls that medieval Jedi shit. Where’d you go, man?” he asked Dylan.

“I had to brew more shield potions,” said Dylan.

Zoey also seemed to be keeping her distance, probably hoping we’d take care of this.

Matty sniped one of Fishman’s buddies with a bolt of lightning. “Nailed it.” But Fishman deflected his next blast and danced as Matty powered up again, taunting him. “Son of a butthole.”

I snuck behind Fishman. “I got him.”

“No way. He’s mine,” said Matty. He used to be such a Fishman fanboy. Then everything changed. Suddenly, Matty’s thick brows shot up. “He has a hellfire launcher!”

“Run!” said Akira. They leaped from the fortress as Fishman set it ablaze, narrowly escaping into the woods.

Matty cursed. “Crys, you got this.”

Heck yes, I did.

I whipped out my shock staff and stalked Fishman, avoiding grazing the trees to remain undetected. My stomach did mini-somersaults—knowing his massive audience was watching was almost like getting stage fright. When I got close enough, I lined up my shot, fingers tingling with anticipation—

The basement door burst open with a crash. Startled, I missed my shot, my lightning bolt barely grazing Fishman. Mom thundered downstairs as she tied her disheveled curls into a messy bun. “Crystal, have you seen my keys?”

“Ugh, Mom—”

“I can’t find them anywhere!”

Fishman spun and blasted me into oblivion. “Dammit.” I wiped a hand down my face. “They’re not in your purse?” Akira had gone rigid, cheeks flushing again, still clearly embarrassed from earlier.

“No, obviously not.” She mocked my voice, and we stuck our tongues out at each other, as per our ever-so-normal mother-daughter relationship. But stress lines deepened on her forehead.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I was just called in for an emergency surgery. Two of the nurses are down with some stomach bug, so I’ve got a double shift now, and I have to drop off Caelyn at school first.”

“Can’t she take the bus—ah, crap,” I said, remembering. “Frost Valley.” It was the first Friday of March, so my little sister had to be dropped off two hours early today; her eighth-grade class was taking an overnight field trip to a mountain lodge for a full day of sledding, zip-lining, and cheesy team-building exercises.

“Yup,” said Mom. “Everything always happens at once.”

“Murphy’s law,” Randall chimed in.

“No, it’s synchronous,” said Zoey.

“Literally no one cares,” said Randall, deadpan. Zoey glowered, but Akira chuckled and seemed to relax a bit. Randall’s chest puffed slightly—he loved making her laugh. The others were busy casting ice spears at Fishman, who’d finally stopped gyrating over my dead avatar, gloating for his audience.

Mom sighed. “Either way, it’s craptastic.”

Lately, Mom struggled to squeeze much of anything between all the extra shifts she took to cover the bills. Still, the late-night screaming matches she used to have with my drunk of a father were even more craptastic. I’d gotten good at distracting Caelyn from those. When they started a few years ago, she’d slip into my room and crawl into my bed, and I’d helplessly clutch her skinny, trembling body close as we listened to them hollering. But then I started sticking huge headphones on her head and playing Mario Kart until it was over.

Video games were reliable like that. They can distract you from the pain. They can make the tears stop.

Now, Mom’s pretty face seemed more haggard by the day, with purple half-moons like shiners under her eyes. Sometimes I thought she looked more stressed than before Dad left. My fault my fault my fault. My chest tightened.

“I’ll drive Caelyn to school,” I volunteered.

A collective grimace stretched across my friends’ faces. We were running out of time to earn MortalBucks.