Make a Call Worth Following

The only free room is Solomon's.

Was Solomon's. He moved his stuff into the den off the garage at six this morning without saying a word to anyone, and now there's a rectangle of cleaner paint on the wall where his poster of the 2019 Breachline Invitational used to hang.

It's directly across the hall from yours. Eight feet of carpet between your doors.

Riley drops her duffel on the bare mattress and looks around like she's scouting a map. Window, closet, outlet, the crack in the ceiling shaped like Florida.

"Cozy," she says. "Smells like Doritos and grief."

"Sol lived here two years."

"I can tell." She unzips the keyboard case. Inside, nested in foam, is a custom board with matte black keycaps and one odd key, the W, in faded sea-glass green. She sets it on the desk the way other people set down a newborn.

You lean on the doorframe and fold your arms. "House rules. Practice is ten to six. VOD review after dinner. Vash cooks, you clean. Don't touch Ika's cereal unless you want to hear about it for a week. And don't—"

"Don't call you Patch Notes in the house?" She looks over her shoulder. Up close, in daylight, her eyes are even more unfair. "I wasn't planning to. I'm saving it for special occasions."

"Why are you here, Lundqvist?"

It comes out harder than you meant. She doesn't flinch. For half a second something moves behind her face, there and gone, like a player rotating behind a wall.

"Paragon pays well," she says, and turns back to her keyboard.

Coach Ynez runs the first team meeting with a laser pointer and zero patience.

"Here's the structure." The pointer lands on the whiteboard, which now says SPEARHEAD in her cramped capitals. "Lundqvist on entry. Ethan second in, calling. You two take every first fight of every round. Vash anchors. Ika flexes. Mako lurks."

Mako, at the far end of the couch with his headphones around his neck, gives a thumbs-up without looking up from his phone.

"Every play goes through the duo," Ynez says. "If the duo doesn't work, nothing works."

"So nothing works," Ika says.

Riley laughs. It's a real laugh, sudden and bright, and Ika looks at her like a golden retriever who just got thrown a ball.

You don't laugh. You're looking at the doorway, where Solomon stands with a coffee mug, watching Riley sit in the chair that used to have his name taped to the back.

The first scrim is against Pyre Union on Saltworks. It's a practice match, private server, no crowd, no stakes. It still feels like walking into a fire.

"Default B," you call as the round opens. "Riley, wait for my utility, then swing long."

"Copy."

She does not wait for your utility. She swings long alone, kills two Pyre players before they can blink, and dies to the third.

"I said wait."

"I got two."

"And now we're four on five with no entry."

"Then call faster, Captain."

It goes like that for twelve rounds. She's incredible. You'd be lying if you said otherwise. Her crosshair snaps to heads like it's magnetized. She peeks angles that shouldn't be peekable and wins them anyway. Pyre's players start typing wtf in all chat by round six.

And Copperhead loses. Because when she's dead, which is every time she plays alone, there's no one first through the door. Because your calls land on nobody. Because Vash ends up holding a site by himself and Ika chases kills into a crossfire and Mako, bless him, lurks somewhere on the other side of the map waiting for a play that never comes.

13 to 7. Riley tops the scoreboard with twenty-nine kills.

The practice room goes quiet in that particular way it does after a loss: chairs creaking, someone pulling off a headset too hard.

Riley stretches her arms over her head. "Good warm-up."

You're out of your chair before you decide to be.

"Good warm-up?"

"Thirty-ish kills. Not bad for day one."

"We lost."

"You lost," she says. "I went twenty-nine and twelve."

The room is very still. Ika's eyes are huge. Vash quietly takes his headset off and sets it on the desk, the way people put drinks down before a bar fight.

You step close enough that she has to tip her chin up to hold your stare. She does. She smells like cold air and some kind of citrus shampoo, and the fact that you notice makes you angrier.

"You don't get to play solo on this team," you say. "I don't care how many heads you click. I call, you go. That's the job."

"Then make a call worth following."

Her voice is low. Not mocking. Not the stream voice. Something steadier underneath.

"Excuse me?"

"You called default B nine times." She holds up her fingers like she's counting. "Pyre has watched your VODs. Everyone has watched your VODs. You play scared, Ethan. You call the safe thing so nobody can blame you when it fails." She leans in an inch. "I didn't come here to lose safely."

"You came here because Paragon pays well."

Her mouth twitches. "Sure."

The two of you stand there, nose to nose, breathing hard like you've just sprinted. Your pulse is in your throat. Hers is visible at the side of her neck, fast as yours.

Coach Ynez clears her throat from the doorway.

"Fascinating," she says. "Do it again tomorrow, but with teamwork."

Riley steps back first. She picks up a can of Ika's energy drink, cracks it, and walks out.

You don't move until you hear her door click shut across the hall.

"She's right," Vash says that evening, stirring a pot of something with paprika in it.

You look up from the counter. "Whose side are you on?"

"Copperhead." He tastes the sauce, adds salt. "You do call default nine times."

"Because default works."

"Default works if your entry waits. She does not wait. Maybe call something that does not need her to wait."

You don't have an answer. You go back to scrolling through the VOD on your laptop, watching her swing long again and again, alone, beautiful and stupid.

On round eleven, she does something odd. She's about to swing and she stops. Holds. Like she's listening for a call she expected to hear.

You never made it. You called default.

You rewind and watch it three times.

The front door opens. Heels on hardwood. Ezinne Fashola sweeps into the kitchen in a camel coat, phone already raised, looking far too happy for someone who just watched you lose to Pyre Union.

"There's my headline," she says. "Where's the other half?"

"Upstairs, being right about things," Vash says.

"Perfect. Get her down here." Ezinne turns her phone so you can see it. A promo graphic, your face and Riley's, lightning between you. Under it, a countdown ticking toward 9:00 p.m. tonight. "First Respawn stream. Live. Paragon's channel, forty thousand already set reminders."

Your stomach drops through the floor. "Tonight? We've played together for one day."

"That's the story, Ethan." Ezinne swipes to the preview chat, already scrolling fast and furious. You don't have to read it closely. You can see the words from here, over and over, in caps.

PATCH NOTES. PATCH NOTES. PATCH NOTES.

Ezinne smiles. "You're live in three hours. Wear something clean."