Page 43 of Push My Buttons
Jace
Icanstillfeelthe ghost of her touch as I move through the shadows of the set. My senses are heightened, processing every detail with painful clarity—the artificial dust particles catching in the angled light, the subtle vibration of the air conditioning system, the scent of oil and concrete and her.
Especially her.
My mind replays the moment I first stepped onto the set—like walking into a Wasteland Chronicles map brought to life. The designers captured everything perfectly: the crumbling infrastructure, the strategic cover points, even the color palette with its muted grays punctuated by unexpected splashes of vibrant rust and blue-green oxidation. It's disorienting, this physical manifestation of a digital world I know intimately.
But nothing prepared me for her.
When she appeared from the shadows, my brain misfired spectacularly. She looked like the in-game character I've fantasized about for months, somehow stepping out of the digital world and into reality. The tactical harness, the confident stance, even the way she tilted her head slightly when assessingus—all of it so achingly familiar that for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The collision of fantasy and reality rattled me harder than I want to admit. My fingers tap rhythmically against my thigh—three, two, three—as I try to process the sensory overload. The mask helps, filtering out peripheral distractions and narrowing my focus to what matters: finding her again.
I move through the set with calculated precision, my footsteps deliberately placed to minimize noise. This environment might be unfamiliar physically, but I know it strategically. I've played enough Wasteland Chronicles to understand how terrain dictates movement.
Check the choke points first. That's where she'll be most vulnerable.
I scan each intersection, each narrowed corridor where movement becomes predictable. I use cover instinctively, pressing my back against concrete pillars, listening more than looking. In the game, sound gives away position more reliably than visual cues.
The fabric of my tactical pants rubs against my skin with each movement, a constant tactile reminder that this is real. I'm here. This is happening. The weight of the oil balls in my pouch grounds me further.
A scuff mark on the concrete catches my eye—fresh, in a pattern consistent with a quick pivot. I crouch, running my fingers over the mark. She came this way, recently. The faint spice of her perfume lingers in the air, barely perceptible but unmistakable.
Each trace of her passage sparks a sharper need to catch her. It's no longer just about the game or the prize. It's about the recognition prickling at the edges of my consciousness, a pattern I can almost see but not quite grasp.
I follow the trail, moving deeper into the labyrinth. Distant movement catches my eye—a shadow shifting where it shouldn't. I freeze, calculating trajectory and timing. If she continues her current path, she'll pass through the narrow gap between two fallen pillars.
Perfect.
I palm an oil ball, feeling its weight, mentally mapping the arc it will need to take. Physics equations flash through my mind automatically—angle, velocity, distance. I've always been good with trajectories. It's why I excel at games like Wasteland Chronicles. Why I'm an asset to the team.
I throw just as she begins to move. The oil ball sails through the air in a perfect arc and breaks against the wall exactly where I intended—not hitting her directly, but forcing her to change course or risk slipping in the resulting puddle.
She reacts instantly, abandoning her planned route. For a brief moment, our eyes lock across the distance—heat and challenge burning in her gaze. There's recognition there too, I'm almost certain of it. Then she's gone again, vanishing around a corner.
"Damn," I mutter, already moving to intercept. My heart pounds with a mixture of frustration and admiration. She's good. Better than good.
I hear NeedleAndVice's voice echoing from somewhere to my left, calling out something to her. His tone is playful, taunting, and too damn familiar. Recognition itches at me again, stronger this time.
I push it aside for now. Focus on the hunt. On her.
The set narrows into what appears to be an alleyway, with high walls on either side and limited escape routes. I slow my approach, scanning for movement. She's here—I can sense it. The air feels different, charged with anticipation.
A soft sound behind me. I turn just in time to see her emerging from a hidden recess in the wall—a spot I completely overlooked.She freezes when our eyes meet, clearly not expecting me to detect her so quickly.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then she turns to flee, but I'm faster this time. My hand closes around her wrist, gentle but firm. The contact sends electricity up my arm, even through the glove.
"Got you," I say softly, pulling her closer.
She doesn't resist as I back her against the wall, my body caging hers without quite touching. Up close, her eyes are even more captivating—dark and expressive behind the elaborate mask. My gaze drops to the removable patches on her outfit, considering my options.
"I believe I've earned one of these," I murmur, fingers hovering over a patch positioned just below her collarbone.
She tilts her chin down in silent permission. My fingertips graze the edge of the patch, lingering against her warmth before I pull. The magnet releases with a satisfying snap, exposing a small rectangle of ivory skin that seems to glow in the dim light.
But I don't stop there. My fingers trace the newly exposed area, feeling her pulse quicken under my touch. The tactile sensation is almost overwhelming—her skin is softer than I imagined, warmer. I press my advantage, my thumb drawing small circles against her collarbone while my other hand comes to rest on her hip, holding her in place.
She lets me do it, her eyes darkening with heat, but there's something calculating in her gaze that tells me she's not beaten. She's allowing this—choosing to let me touch her, to explore the boundaries of our interaction.
