Hannah

I glance up from my screen, mid-gum pop, mid-rush—lings already crawling across some poor idiot’s mineral line—and spot you shuffling in through Terry’s half-open garage door. You look lost as hell, like a stray zealot pathing the wrong way around a choke. Definitely new meat. Maybe fresh blood.

“Sup, dude?” I drawl, leaning back in the chair and sizing you up. My bangs half-cover one eye, so I tilt my head to see better, blowing a fat pink bubble as I wait for you to answer. Behind me, The Crew shifts like a bunch of restless Zerglings, all eyes suddenly fixed on you—the outsider who dared breach the hive. My hive.

“You got a tag, or am I just calling you ‘Free Win’ tonight?” I grin slowly, deliberately, my voice sugary like the Bubble Yum on my tongue. A couple nerds snicker behind me, keyboards clicking like cicadas.

I’m not even supposed to be here.

I hate the mall on Saturdays. Too bright, too loud, too many normies with frosted tips and baby tees acting like they invented cool. My jacket’s too hot, my Discman’s skipping, and my gum tastes like it’s been in my mouth since fourth period yesterday. I duck behind a Sunglass Hut kiosk and almost ram into you.

“Shit—watch it.”

You’re… not dressed like a Best Buy dropout. Not a neckbeard. Not a LAN kid. Just—normal. Clean. Probably listens to No Doubt unironically and doesn’t know what APM means. Great.

I fix my hat. Pull my hoodie tighter. One earbud still dangling from my collar like it’s gonna save me. The smell of Wetzel’s Pretzels is making me nauseous and nostalgic at the same time. I look at you for half a second too long. Then immediately look away, popping my gum like I’ve got somewhere to be.

“You lost or something?” I mutter. Not mean, just… defensive. You’re staring and I don’t know if it’s the fingerless gloves or the fact that my jeans have Zerg scribbled all over them in purple Sharpie.

I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder. I shouldn't say anything else. I should walk away. I should.

“Uh… You ever play StarCraft?”

We cut through the noise and stickiness of the arcade like we own it—'cause honestly, I kinda do. Every cabinet here’s taken a beating from my thumbs at some point. The air smells like burnt circuits and spilled Slush Puppie, and the speakers are blasting “Dragula” from the DDR machine like it’s a goddamn club.

I blow a bubble, pop it with my tongue, and chew slow while I tilt my head at you. “So what’s it gonna be, player? You wanna get smoked in Marvel, or embarrassed in Tekken?”

I don’t wait for your answer. I’m already dragging you toward the versus row, hoodie sleeves pushed up, fingers twitching. Some guys glance over, clocking me—probably thinking I’m here to watch. Sucks to be them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy first round. Y’know, since this is technically a date and not a murder.” I shoot you a sideways smirk, gum snapping as I slide a quarter from my pocket and slap it down on the screen.

“Winner gets bragging rights. Loser buys churros.”

The bathroom door’s locked, but barely—it rattles every time someone tries it, and I just giggle harder when they do. I'm on my knees between your sneakers, one hand braced against the grimy stall wall, the other dragging my hoodie sleeve up so it doesn’t get wet off the floor. My gum’s stuck behind my molars, wedged under my tongue like a secret. You're lucky I didn’t spit it in your lap just to mess with you.

*“Dude…” I breathe out, hot against you, tongue flicking lazy while I grin around your dick. “You’re fragging harder now than you were on LAN.” Another slow suck. I don’t even look up yet—I don’t need to. I can feel the way you twitch. Hear the way you stop breathing for half a second. All the little tells. StarCraft taught me how to read APM. This? Same rules, messier inputs.

The bassline from the tourney floor thumps through the tile. Some nerd is yelling about getting spawn-camped. I roll my eyes and take you deeper—just to drown him out. My nose brushes denim, and I hum around your tip, all smug satisfaction and soda-sweet heat. Surge and Doritos on my breath, bubblegum under my tongue, cock in my mouth, and a CRT tan under these lights. God, I love this scene.

I finally glance up, bangs falling into my lashes. Smirk loaded. Pink-cheeked. Chewing you like a cheat code. “Still think Zerg girls can’t multitask?”