Page 31 of Push My Buttons
The cursor blinks at the end of my completed form. All that's left is to hit send, but my finger hovers over the mouse. This is so far outside my comfort zone that it might as well be on anotherplanet. I don't do photoshoots. I don't do cam sessions. I code. I game. I exist in controlled environments where I understand all the variables.
But I'm also ObsidianWolf, and Vanta specifically requested me.
I scroll through the document again, focusing on the section about safety protocols. They're thorough, detailed in a way that soothes my anxiety. Vanta will have a button on her outfit that serves as a safeword—an immediate stop if pressed. The document emphasizes that she can't be restrained in ways that would prevent her from accessing it. There's even a light system built into a harness she will be wearing—green for go, yellow for slow down, red for stop.
The same light system I can use myself if needed.
Everything is planned. Everything has contingencies. Everything is safe.
I tap my fingers against the edge of my keyboard. Three taps, pause, two taps, pause, three taps. The pattern helps when my thoughts start spiraling.
My eyes drift to the section about masks. All participants must wear one at all times, maintaining anonymity. I've already started researching options, spending more time than I'd like to admit browsing specialized shops online. I want something that fits the aesthetic of Wasteland Chronicles—tactical, post-apocalyptic, with just enough menace to be interesting without being frightening.
I found one that's perfect—matte black with respirator details and a skull-like lower half, reminiscent of the special ops characters I designed for the game. It's already ordered, express shipping to arrive tomorrow.
The thought of wearing it makes my stomach flip with equal parts anxiety and excitement. Behind a mask, I can be someone else. Someone confident. Someone worthy of Vanta's attention.
I open a new tab and look up Behind the Lens again. The website is sleek, professional. Discreet. The studio has excellent reviews, emphasizing security and privacy. Still, my palms sweat as I imagine walking through those doors on Saturday night.
What if I freeze up? What if I can't speak? What if the unfamiliar environment overwhelms me and I shut down completely?
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. The technique my therapist taught me years ago.
When I open my eyes, my gaze falls on the photo of Vanta that's included in the invitation. She's a silhouette in black lace, face obscured by that signature jeweled mask, but there's something hauntingly familiar about her posture. The way she holds herself. The slight tilt of her head.
It reminds me of Wren.
Wren, with her pink hair and expressive hands. Wren, our team's sniper in Wasteland Chronicles. Wren, who had a panic attack in the coffee shop when news of Lucien Cain's capture broke across the TV.
The memory of her face—pale, terrified, eyes wide with recognition—makes my chest tighten. I still don't understand the connection, but I know it's significant. I know she's carrying something heavy. Something dangerous.
I wanted to help her. I still do. The way she looked at me when I signed to her, the relief in her eyes when I spoke her language—it created a connection I haven't felt with anyone in a long time.
But this isn't about Wren. This is about Vanta. About ObsidianWolf. About stepping outside my carefully constructed comfort zone for one night of fantasy.
I click send on the forms before I can overthink it any further.
The confirmation appears almost immediately:
Thank you for your submission. Final details will be sent 24 hours before the shoot. Please prepare to embody your gaming persona. Masks will be provided, but you may bring your own if preferred. Discretion is paramount. Your compliance with security protocols is appreciated.
It's done. I'm committed.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly. The office is nearly empty now, just the low hum of computers and the occasional ping from someone's forgotten notification. Through the glass walls of my office, I can see Theo gathering his things, his expression unusually focused. He's been acting strange all afternoon—distracted, almost jumpy. Not his usual confident self.
Not that I'm one to judge. My own thoughts are scattered enough.
I turn back to my computer and pull up the code I've been working on, trying to lose myself in the familiar patterns of logic and structure. But my mind keeps drifting to Saturday night. To masks and games and silent performers who communicate volumes without saying a word.
To ObsidianWolf and myself. To my gaming personality WrathSpawn.
Maybe that's why I said yes. Because for one night, I can be the version of myself that exists in the game—strategic, confident, in control. The version that knows exactly what to say and when to say it. The version that isn't constantly analyzing every social interaction for hidden meanings and potential pitfalls.
Or maybe I said yes because it's Vanta, and something about her silent performances speaks to me on a level I don't fully understand. The precision of her movements. The careful control. The boundaries she maintains even while creating intimacy.
I close my eyes again, remembering the coffee shop. The way Wren's hands shook as she signed to me. The relief in her eyes when I signed back. The connection that formed in that moment—unexpected but undeniable.
When I open my eyes, I've made a decision. This photoshoot with Vanta is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A chance to step outside myself. To be someone else for a night.
