Page 13 of Push My Buttons
Maya translates again but I'm not paying attention. Something about her phrasing, the specific terminology she uses—it's familiar. Too familiar. Like reading game chat messages I've seen a hundred times before.
I stare at her for a moment, her precise movements, the careful way she positions herself. A distant memory surfaces: Silence, our team's sniper, messaging about sight lines, long-range precision and patience during one of our last raid.
Holy shit.
Could she be...?
The player who communicates only through text and never uses voice chat.Because she can't.
The pieces click together with dizzying speed.
I open my mouth, then close it again. Words form and dissolve before I can speak them. The possibility alone makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
"She can't talk," Maya reminds me gently, misinterpreting my silence. "But she understands English perfectly."
I know that. Of course I know that. But my brain is still trying to process this revelation, and my ASL skills have apparently abandoned me completely.
"I... I should get going," I stammer. "Meeting. Work. Thanks for the coffee."
I nod awkwardly at Wren, grab my scone, and practically flee the café.
Outside, the morning air hits my face like a slap. I lean against the building, coffee clutched in one hand, scone in the other, heart hammering in my chest.
Silence. The player who's been part of our team for over a year. The one Theo and I have speculated about endlessly. The one whose precision and timing have saved our asses more times than I can count.
She's been here all along. Making my coffee. Watching me stumble through morning interactions like a socially stunted cave troll.
And I just walked away without saying anything remotely intelligent.
Brilliant, Wilder. Fucking brilliant.
I take a bite of my scone, barely tasting it. My mind races, connecting dots, revising every interaction we've had—both in-game and in this café.
The way she moves. Efficient. Precise. Just like her gameplay.
The quiet focus. The way she observes everything but reveals nothing.
The pink hair that I've caught myself staring at more times than I care to admit.
I've always been drawn to her. Something about her pulled at me—her silence, her self-containment, the careful way she holds herself apart from the world.
Now I understand why.
She's perfect. Not in some idealized, romanticized way. Perfect in the sense that she fits—into my life, my world, my games. She understands the systems I build. She moves through them with intuitive grace.
And I just blew my first real chance to connect with her.
I pull out my phone and open our team chat. Theo—HexedOut—sent a message an hour ago about tonight's raid. I stare at the screen, thinking about Silence. About Wren.
About second chances.
I type a quick message:
[WrathSpawn: Same time tonight?]
The response comes almost immediately:
[HexedOut: Obviously. Try not to be late this time.]
