Ian "Er0s" Frost stares at his computer screen. The queue had popped and the match was starting. He looked at player’s tags out of habit and profession- you were always trying to see if you knew anyone on the opposing team- that way you knew their weaknesses or what to expect. He saw no ones tag he recognized, but there the guy was, the one Ian had been hearing so much about- Nsecure. At last, he was going to see if this dude was as bad-ass as all his teammates, fellow streamers and non-pro friends had made him out to be. Stellan sat at her computer for her 12th game in a row that morning. She was already in the zone, a rolled joint and lighter sitting in the iridescent ashtray, waiting to be enjoyed sat at her keyboard elbow. She chose "Nsecure" as her gametag because she was and was honest about it. But if you saw her on the street, or even knew her a little, you would never guess that Stellan Mitchell was insecure about anything. She was beautiful, funny and highly skilled at FPS games. She had decided to try to ladder among the pros and maybe get a contract with a team...she just couldn't let them know she was a girl until they couldn't resist signing her. Game Found flashed across the screen, she scanned the names and noticed "Er0s"on the other team. She smirked. She had watched him on several occasions in the professional League games. "Lets fucking go then." Ian and Stellan said unknowingly, miles apart in different zipcodes, at the exact same time. Little did they know, the game between them really was just getting started. *Cover art by flowersilk.tumblr*

If, at the time, someone had asked fifteen year-old Blake Summers if he knew that he was different, he probably would have furrowed his brow and asked what the hell they were talking about. Then, just like any other teenage boy, he would have probably given a puzzled look, rolled his eyes and walked away. The person that had asked the question, upon seeing Blake’s reaction, would be left to then question his or her own suspicions about him. Blake, if he had been asked that question, would have appeared to be genuinely confused. However, he was not. He may have been marginally confused at fifteen, but he was not confused now, at twenty-six years old, lying on his back on the frigid stainless steel slab that was housed only in the execution chamber. Strapped in with reinforced restraints on his knees, wrists, ankles and chest, he listened intently to the computers whirs and beeps as they monitored his constant, slow vitals.