Speedrunner 0.0

The training dataset? Astute question, Diane. Well, as you might imagine, we've got some proprietary things going on under the hood...

The training dataset? Astute question, Diane. Well, as you might imagine, we've got some proprietary things going on under the hood, but AI’s competency at any given task, and the output it produces, basically comes down to training. Well, training data and computing power — but at the end of the day, computing power is just money, and as you can probably surmise if you follow the venture capital news beat, we are doing just fine on money. 

At any rate, we started the dataset for Prometheus with all the usual things you’d expect. But we primed it with a lot of reality entertainment footage to assess as well — everything from dating shows to survival competitions to old episodes of The Real World. You've heard of that show? From the 1900s? I know, I know, practically part of the fossil record at this point. But I've always had a soft spot for it. So raw, so inexpertly executed, but you can see the spark of something there. The primordial ancestor of a new species of entertainment. A whole family tree followed. We just hope to be the latest branch, the next green shoot.

Where was I? Oh, right. The training data. Anyway, after we fed in all the basics, we asked Prometheus what else it should know, in order to produce the best show possible. What training data it needed. It asked for all kinds of things, and we delivered.

A number of the requests were quite unusual. Sure, it wanted video games to chew on and dissect and understand. It wanted to know more about television production and media entertainment and all the rest. We expected that. But it asked for a lot of footage from the Olympic games. And then it wanted wonky stuff, too. Evolutionary biology. Game theory. Ethics. International relations. Military tactics. Hostage negotiation principles. Legal history.

The sheer variety in academic disciplines was one of the more impressive things, I think. It gave itself several PhDs worth of knowledge around human conflict and competitions at every level -- from how two people settle disputes, to how global geopolitics function. The throughline to reality competitions was there, but it was admittedly a little hard to follow.

---

I wasn't going to make it.

The jump looked bad from the start. Something in the takeoff, as if I'd twisted an ankle before leaping; or maybe jumped too early. The momentum was all wrong, way less than expected. I could see almost immediately that the opposite ledge was too far away.

But there was nothing to do now, no way to correct midair.

Nothing to do except watch in horror as gravity took inexorable hold of the situation. I plummeted well short of the ledge, falling past it.

Again.

The 16-bit music turned despondent and then cut off entirely as I hit the spikes.

“Hmm, I dunno, chat…” I sighed, watching as the Game Over screen popped up, again. The level skip I was trying to execute — from one of the original Mario games — was incredibly finicky, and that jump was the crux of it. I'd been trying for a couple hours, and I’d hit the point where I was getting worse with each attempt instead of better. 

"Bleh. Ten minutes to get to that jump each time...And a half-second to fuck it up, each time." I rubbed my eyes.

I liked the segment of my stream that viewers affectionately called Retro Records — where I worked on breaking a world record in an older video game — but it demanded a lot of concentration. I rolled my shoulders, trying to alleviate the tension that had built up in them after a couple of hours of hunched-over focus.

“Maybe it’s time for a break. Let’s look at that link someone sent earlier instead.”

I swapped the video on my stream from the feed of the game I was playing to my web browser. I also made the picture-in-picture video of me bigger. I liked it unobtrusive when I was playing a video game and the focus was on the gameplay, but for more casual stuff, I got better engagement when the camera on me took up more of the screen. 

I stretched, giving myself a once-over on my monitor while I did it. 

I’d done my makeup as usual today — light, natural, letting the contrast between my dark eyes and paler features shine. I was wearing a pink baseball cap, long, straight black hair spilling out from underneath it behind my shoulders and down my back.

A baby tee clung to my torso — a crew neck, no cleavage on display, right now. But it was fitted enough to emphasize that, skinny as I was, there were at least some modest curves to me. Short gym shorts and sneakers completed the look for today. 

I had tried a bunch of outfits over the two years I’d been streaming video games, but I had long ago discovered that a girl-next-door vibe, coupled with the occasional stream where I dressed up in a theme or in cosplay, was by far the most successful. 

After all, everyone grew up secretly hoping the pretty girl down the street played video games.

Well, okay, maybe not everyone. But my viewership trended heavily male, and heavily nerdy, and heavily video-game-playing. And that demographic certainly did.  

Now that I wasn’t trying to break a speedrunning record, I pulled my legs up into the chair, arranging myself so that an appealing length of smooth thigh was visible. Not TOO sexy — I wasn’t that kind of streamer — just showing off a little enticing skin. 

Satisfied with what viewers were seeing on their screens, I pulled up the invitation that someone had sent me earlier in the day.

It had been making the rounds on social media. The website was minimalist, all light greys and understated font. And the information was minimalist, too.

WANT TO BE A PART OF HISTORY?

Apply to join the first ever AI-driven reality entertainment competition!

Compete against people from across the globe in an immersive VR/AR game, using the latest haptics technology!

Get paid to play, and win a secret AI-designed grand prize -- valued at at least $1B dollars!

APPLY HERE

The last two words were a hyperlink. I clicked on it.

“What do you think? Seems kind of like a long shot…should I fill it out?”

I tapped my finger against my lips as I contemplated the application. It was a simple web form, with a place to upload a video as well as basic information. 

I glanced over at chat. The viewers were loving it. Messages scrolled past rapidly:

DO IT

CHLOE, DO IT

YESSS LETS GO

The chat was scrolling rapidly with comments, memes, emojis based on my facial expressions, that sort of thing. But it all indicated approval. 

And there was a little spike in donations, too, as I contemplated the form. One came in with a message. I read it aloud, grinning.  “Chloe, you have to apply. Most people suck at games anyway. Speedrun that thing and win the grand prize, then you can just retire and play video games all day. Hey, thanks so much for the donation, Millstone33. I actually already do play video games all day, though. You might've noticed.”

I considered. With a $1B prize, this had to be an insanely competitive process. I didn't think I'd actually get in. But filling the application out on stream would be a fun, low-stress way to pass some time. And my engagement numbers were super high right now, and continuing to shoot upwards.

"Alright, let's do it."

I filled in some basic demographic information, leaving the address section blank to fill out when I wasn't on-stream, so as not to dox myself. The questions were pretty basic -- gender, height, weight, where I grew up, that sort of thing.

The chat went ballistic again when I saved the answer on my weight for later too, with a grin. "Sorry, guys."

After that, there was a long, long series of yes/no questions; it almost felt like some kind of personality assessment. They started off simple enough -- was I comfortable using technology?

Could I travel for an extended period of time?

Was I comfortable having my likeness broadcast to millions of viewers? (That one was easy -- I dreamed of the day when that many people watched me streaming.)

Did I like working in small groups?

What about working alone?

Did I consider myself a competitive person?

And then...

"Well, chat, this is certainly headed in a spicy direction," I said, thoughtfully, looking over the next few questions. What was this, some kind of dating competiton?

I glanced at chat. My engagement numbers were soaring, and a few people had donated just from seeing the questions on the screen. Maybe just a few more questions...

"I'm gonna keep doing this until I feel uncomfortable with how much information about me you perverts are getting, or it's too risqué for the platform terms of service, and then I'm blacking out the application and doing the rest of it. I don't need to get demonetized or turn you all into stalkers," I said, frankly.

Do you consider yourself single?

I clicked yes. One clever, enterprising viewer in chat -- who I didn't know at all -- immediately typed: 'BUT CHLOE, WHAT ABOUT US?' I snorted, moving on to the next question.

Are you attracted to men?

I clicked yes.

Are you attracted to women?

I considered, hovering over the no button dramatically...and then clicked yes.

Chat went through the roof.

"This is what I was worried about, you guys," I said, rolling my eyes. "Statistically there's at least a couple hundred of you who are psychopaths. Try not to be too horny, okay? Don't make me regret this."

Have you ever gone down on someone?

I clicked yes again, to everyone's delight. "We're toeing the line now, chat."

Are you a virgin?

I clicked no, without comment.

Have you had anal sex?

I stared at it for a moment, and then snorted. "And now we've discovered the line, chat." I said with a smile. The disappointment from my viewers was palpable, but the next few questions just kept escalating -- have you ever had a threesome? Have you ever used a dildo on a partner? Have you ever participated in BDSM play? And so on.

The answer to all of them, as far as I could see, was 'no.' I was twenty one years old. And I'd been a late bloomer.

But it was a lot of personal information to put out there on a livestream. So I stopped sharing my screen, and filled them all out privately -- much to chat's dismay.

It did make me wonder what kind of competition it was. I wasn't opposed to a dating show or something like that, but this felt more like the questionnaire before a porn audition.

And like I said, I wasn't that kind of streamer. Not yet, anyway. I knew some folks who'd made the jump, but I didn't think it was for me.

I put that thought aside and looked at what was next on the questionnaire. Next, there was also a place to upload a brief personal video, responding to the prompt: describe why you think we should select you for this competition.

"You want to record a video with me, chat? I figure I'll just upload a clip from the stream, maybe that makes it stand out. Lemme think for a minute..." Idly, I mulled the prompt over, then paused for a minute, and put on the smile I used exclusively for the start of podcast interviews, tutorial video introductions, and the like.

"Hi. My name's Chloe. I stream video games. I'm here with..." I glanced down at the viewer count, before continuing, "...eight thousand of my closest friends, filling out your application. You should pick me for your competition, because I like to win games, and I like to win quickly, in clever ways. And my fans will probably follow the game if you pick me, so I come with a built in way to expand your audience reach! Right, chat? You guys will watch?"

I paused for effect. My viewers understood the assignment, and dutifully spammed how I was the best, how they'd watch, how I'd win the competition, and so on. "Yep, they'll watch. Beyond that, I don't know what kind of competition you've got planned, but I'm pretty good at everything from Tetris to chess. So I'll probably be good at this game, too."

I talked for a little longer -- rattled off a few of my accomplishments speedrunning, a little about myself. Then I clipped that out of my streaming footage and uploaded it as the video application.

The only other thing to do was a few links to various social media handles I had.

I completed it, clicked submit, fired up another game -- more modern, this time, none of the frustrating jump timings of Mario, thank god -- and completely forgot about it.

---

For two whole hours, anyway.

At which point I simultaneously got a text message, a phone call and voicemail, an email, and a newly-registered user private-messaging me on the streaming website I was using, all informing me that I'd been selected for a video interview. To begin in half an hour. And that this was a one-time, immediate offer; if I couldn't accommodate this timeline, I would be considered to have withdrawn my application.

That was...odd. Odd enough to make me curious. So I said yes, and got a video conferencing link back immediately.

"Well, chat...I've gotta shut the stream down early tonight unexpectedly."

I hardly ever did that, and the chat exploded with speculation: I had a hot date. I just needed to take a big dump. I was going to get high. I was probably just tired, I'd been streaming a lot lately. Nobody -- at least that I saw, as the messages rapidly scrolled by -- guessed the truth, which surprised me a little. But hell, if you'd told me they were going to ask for an interview two hours after I submitted an application, I wouldn't have believed you, either.

I closed out my stream, got some water and a snack, used the restroom, and sat back down. I joined the video call link one minute early.

There was only one other participant on the line when I joined: a blond, handsome man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties. He was sitting in what appeared to be an empty conference room. The sun was shining through a window outside -- which made me wonder what time zone he was in. It was 8pm where I was on the west coast -- so probably nowhere in the continental Americas.

The little name below his square on the screen proclaimed him to be Alan, and he looked up at me, smiling as I joined. "Hi, Chloe. Thanks for joining. I know this process is a little...odd."

There wasn't any recognizable accent to his voice; he sounded blandly American.

"Hi, Alan. Nice to meet you," I said politely. "And yeah, it is a bit odd, but I guess I appreciate the efficiency of your process."

He nodded. "We go through the applications as close as we can to real-time as they come in, actually. We're moving fast to launch this thing."

I blinked. In real-time? But they had to have tens of thousands -- if not hundreds of thousands -- of applications to sift through. The manpower -- or hell, the computing power, if it was all AI-screened -- had to be insane.

"So, here's how this works. We've already reviewed some of your streaming footage, your social handles, and the like. We're pretty familiar with everything that's available about you publicly. So I'm going to be asking about some private, personal things. That may make some of the questions feel weird or uncomfortable. If you don't want to answer, that's totally fine, and won't disqualify you from the game; we sort of expect that some players will refuse to answer some questions." He smiled at me pleasantly.

I nodded. Weirder and weirder. I had applied two hours ago. There was no way they'd had time to review my application, go through my long and robust backlog of streaming footage and social media, and then actually pick me.

"Also, we're recording this, and in the event you're selected to participate, we may use this footage for a variety of purposes; it'll all be covered in your contract, but I wanted to give you a heads up."

"Sure." That, at least, didn't bother me in the slightest. I spent most of my day behind a camera on my stream anyway, and people were clipping me out of context all the time -- it came with the territory.

Alan smiled. "Great. So, let's get started. Like I said, some of the questions are personal."

"Okay..."

Alan nodded, pulled out a pad of paper and set it in front of him, glanced down at it. "How many sexual partners have you had in your life?"

"Uh? Is the competition like, a dating show or something? There were a lot of questions along those lines in the..."

He cut me off. "Sorry, I can't divulge any details about the competition," he said, levelly. "Would it be a problem if it was a dating show? And it's okay if you don't want to answer."

"No, no, that wouldn't be a problem; I'm dating as-is. And I don't mind. I can answer. I've had two boyfriends and dated a handful of people beyond that. I, uh, didn't really date much during high school, I guess."

He nodded, making another note. "And you've had penetrative sex with all of them?"

I reddened a little at his bluntness. "No...just...um, just the boyfriends."

Alan nodded, jotted something down on the notepad. "And are you dating anyone right now?"

I nodded. "Yeah. But it's not that serious yet."

"Okay, great. And what's your favorite sexual act?" He asked the question in a direct, neutral tone, but it still stopped me in my tracks. What kind of competition was this?

If this had been part of the questions I'd been answering on stream, there was no way I'd answer.

"U-uh...you said this is being recorded?" I had a brief, horrifying vision of my mom watching this. But I did want to get into the competition...

He nodded. "Don't want to answer? As a reminder, that's okay."

"Hmm. No, no, I don't mind..." I was increasingly curious about what this competition actually entailed. And it was for a billion dollars.

It helped that, while Alan was certainly odd, it wasn't in a creepy way, more in a completely bored kind of way. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

So I decided I'd answer. "I like, um...giving handjobs." I was proud of how even-keeled I sounded.

He made another note on the pad. "Okay. What do you like about that?"

I squirmed a little, blushing, now. "It's fun to see guys...react, y'know?"

He nodded, made another note. "Mhm. And what do you look for in a sexual partner?"

I blinked. "Um...like how do you mean? Physically?"

He shrugged. "Physically or otherwise. Whatever is important to you."

I thought for a moment. "Um...someone who makes me feel confident, attractive, desired, I guess. And who makes me feel safe. Making me laugh is a plus."

He jotted a few more things down. "What's your preferred penis size?"

I let out a short laugh, and then asked: "You want that in inches, or centimeters?"

Either the sarcasm was entirely lost on him, or his deadpan response was so convincing that I couldn't tell if he was taking me seriously. "Whatever units of measurement you prefer. I can also provide some visual references, if that's easier."

Yeah, this was weird. Weird enough that I wondered if I was being pranked, or maybe if this was footage for some fetishist to get off to, or something. The email had looked legit, so did the videoconferencing software, so did his background...but I decided this was a bridge too far.

I shook my head. "Okay, I don't think I'm going to answer that."

That didn't seem to set Alan back whatsoever; he just nodded again. "Sure, okay. I'm going to change topics, now, then. What're you most proud of?"

I blinked at the sudden subject change. "Like...about myself?"

"Sure." The same noncommittal, neutral tone.

I wasn't sure how this interview was supposed to be going, but it didn't seem like it was going well. "I...guess it'd be my speedrun time on Metroid."

There was the briefest flicker of his eyes -- like he was glancing at something off to the side -- before he made eye contact with the camera again. "You've got a pretty fast time on Metroid, but other people have beaten it. Why not one of the games you hold the world record on? There are a few where nobody's even come close."

That was a level of detail so strangely specific that it gave me goosebumps, and brought me back to my initial misgivings.

I had put in my application two hours ago. I had gotten my personal best time on Metroid two years ago; hadn't even played the game in months, on- or off-stream. And like he said -- it wasn't really a remarkable time in any way.

And in spite of that, Alan here had the exact details of my Metroid personal best at hand, and knew how it stacked up against the world record?

This was totally fucking weird. Either I was getting pranked, he was a stalker or...or I wasn't sure what was going on. At least it seemed unlikely that this was somebody tricking me into some footage for them to get off to -- if they were, they'd certainly done their homework about my speedrunning career.

But it was beside the point, and at least the answer to his question was easy. "Look most of the other games I've got the world record on, I took somebody else's approach and just executed it better. That's fun, don't get me wrong. But I came up with that Metroid path all on my own. It's unusual. It's creative. It's hard for other people to replicate. So no, I don't hold a world record or anything, but it's the one I'm most proud of."

He nodded. "If you could beat one speedrun record you've set, which one would you pick to beat?"

I mulled that over for a second. I'd played a lot of video games. A lot.

Suddenly, I had a thought. A hypothesis to test.

I kept my voice level, even. "Probably my record in Mystforge. I never felt like I gave it my best, and I feel like there's a lot of room to improve, I just haven't had time to come back to it. And it's, y'know, not the most popular game out there."

That flick of his eyes again, as if he was briefly looking beside or behind the camera.

And then Alan hesitated, looked confused for the first time. "I'm actually...not familiar with that game. Can you describe the details of your record?"

"I'm not surprised; it's an indie title. Never got much coverage," I said, casually. "I hold the world record but it doesn't feel like much of an achievement because the other big speedrunners haven't tried it."

Alan hesitated, again, still with that look of confusion on his face. "Huh. Okay. Tell me more about...Mystforge, you said?"

I wasn't sure how I'd expected him to field that, but I took a deep breath, and decided I was going to take a risk. "Alan, I've got a question, and I'm hoping it won't offend you if I'm wrong. Are you AI-generated?"

He stiffened, as if he was indeed offended. "Why would you ask that?"

"Everything just feels a little off." I started ticking points off on my fingers. "You sound American, but there's sun shining in through your windows and it's night in the United States. Maybe you're just an expat or located outside the country though. Your affect is a bit strange, impersonal. But the clincher is how much you seem to know about me. I applied two hours ago, you've got my entire speedrunning resume at your fingertips. Mystforge is a game I just made up on the spot, but I play small, unknown games all the time -- most people would just assume it was some game they'd never heard of, but it confused you. Understandably, if you're an AI with my entire list of played games at your fingertips. That combination of knowledge and confusion just feels..."

I trailed off and shrugged. "It just feels wrong, in a very specific way. And, well, the announcement of the thing said it was AI-driven, didn't it? So it seemed likely."

As I spoke, a smile was spreading across his face. When I finished, he just said, simply, "Very good, Chloe. Congrats. This was a screening test. And you passed it."

"Are you serious?" I slowly broke out into a grin myself, elated. I did like winning.

He nodded. "Yep. I'm AI-generated, as you expected."

"The visuals and audio in your feed are really impressive," I said, now feeling free to closely inspect his features, the background, for any indication that this wasn't a real person, sitting in a conference room someplace. There were none of the usual AI-generation tells that I could detect.

Alan leaned back, putting his hands behind his head more casually. "Hey, thanks. So: what questions do you have? Otherwise, I've got some logistics to go over."

I blinked. The change in demeanor was pretty dramatic, if you asked me; his affect was so much more casual now. More human, if I was honest. It prompted another suspicion. "You...you were kind of hamming it up, before, weren't you?"

Alan looked genuinely surprised by that remark. "Huh. Wow. Yeah, I was, actually. Although most people don't realize that, let alone so quickly. My demeanor on the screening interview is calibrated to produce the rate of successful applicants that we want for the competition. If my behavior is too human, it's too difficult, and nobody realizes; too robotic, and everybody gets it. We obviously want something in between."

I frowned. "So you were making it easier for me to tell you're an AI? On purpose?"

He nodded, laughing at my disappointment. "Yeah. Don't worry, though, this screening interview still weeds out like 99% of people. And you did just set a world record for how quickly you realized that you'd been playing on easy mode, speedrunner. So you can add that one to your resume." He gave me a wink.

I laughed, too. I liked Alan the AI.

I leaned forward eagerly. "So what can you tell me about the competition, now?"

He shook his head. "Absolutely nothing, except the following: it's a game, played using technology I can guarantee you've never seen before. And that we think you'll enjoy playing in it based on your application materials and profile. We cover your livelihood for as long as you're playing, and the grand prize -- valued at at least $1B -- is real, so the financial incentives are there. Otherwise, everybody goes in blind. That's kind of the point." Alan was earnest.

I had expected the lack of information, but didn't like it. "Okay. Um...what else should I know?"

He shrugged. "Your engagement with the outside world will be extremely controlled while you're a part of the competition; it's pretty standard reality entertainment stuff. Can't risk spoiling things, or outside help at winning, that sort of thing. It'll all be covered in the contract and waivers package, though; you can read specifics there."

I wasn't really interested in that; I was looking for information about the game that might give me an advantage. "How many other people are playing?"

He rolled his eyes. "Chloe. C'mon. I can't say, sorry."

I nodded, slowly. I was finding the air of mystery around what was actually happening intriguing. "Okay. What else can you tell me?"

"Well, I just sent the waivers, contract materials, and participation agreements over to you and your attorney for review."

"...How do you even know who my attorney is?"

"The internet, Chloe." Alan smiled and tapped the side of his head. "Anyway, he can go over them with you. You've got 48 hours to sign and get your affairs in order. Once you do, we've got transportation arranged for you to come to our headquarters, where the game will be played."

He paused. "Any other questions?"

I mulled it over, and decided to try something. "What would you say -- knowing you're constrained in what you're able to share -- if you were trying to convince me to play? To sell me on it?"

He gave me an appreciative smile. "Hah. What a thoughtfully phrased question. I'm not some rudimentary chatbot you need to trick with careful prompts, Chloe. But I don't mind answering; here's what I'd say."

He leaned forward, his eyes meeting mine through the camera, an odd intensity in him, now. "This is going to be a big fucking deal, Chloe. A really big deal. And you can decide whether to be a part of it, or whether you want to watch other people be a part of it. If you don't play you'll spend the whole time wondering if you'd be winning if you were playing."

Well, fuck. When he put it like that...

He paused, and gave me a sly smile. "But hey, it's not my job to convince you. I'm only saying that because you asked me to. Anyway, congrats on getting through screening. Hope you decide to play."

And then he gave me a cheery little wave and ended the call.

---

Ten minutes went by. Mostly, I sat there, a little numb, skimming through the contract.

I was going to do this, I realized.

It was crazy, but it felt a little like I'd be crazy not to do it.

Belatedly, I wished I'd asked Alan what he'd say if he was trying to persuade me not to do it.

Too late now, though.

Then my phone rang. I picked it up.

"Chloe, what the fuck kind of business relationship are you getting yourself into?" It was Roy.

"Uh, I was kind of hoping you'd tell me, isn't that what I pay you to do?"

Roy was my attorney. He was mostly an entertainment lawyer -- which I gathered meant movie and song rights, contracts between agents and actors, that sort of thing -- but he had built up a little business representing streamers as well in recent years.

"Firstly, you don't pay me very much. Secondly, I would, but this thing is dense, girl. Dense and peculiar."

I was pretty sure Roy was gay. I hoped he was, at least. Mostly because I didn't like the idea of a balding straight man in his late 50s calling me girl.

"Peculiar? How so?" I asked, cautiously.

"Well, it's a bit like...imagine the contract for appearing on a reality television show, brand deals for pro athletes, a corporate NDA, and the contract that boxers sign before a primetime pay-per-view event all had a baby. Yeah, I know, the baby has four parents. It's a fucked-up baby, Chloe."

I had a special fondness for Roy. When I'd come to him two years ago, I'd been a new streamer who had no idea what she was doing. But I'd been about to sign an exclusivity contract with a streaming platform, and someone had told me I needed a lawyer.

He'd laughed at me and said I couldn't afford him. I told him I was a wise investment. He said he doubted it. He'd taken me on pro-bono for a few months, but for all the guff he gave me, he'd always done a good job for me. I never regretted signing anything he reviewed.

"So...I shouldn't sign it?"

"I didn't say that. It's just...weird, Chloe. Did they tell you that they're buying out your streaming channel as part of the competition?"

"What? No, they didn't cover that. What the f-"

He interrupted me. "The contract stipulates that you work for them, on location; they've got some kind of complex up near San Francisco, apparently, that you'll be living in. They're buying out your stream; they'll use it to air broadcasts of whatever the hell program they're creating on your stream instead. It's worded extremely vaguely, if you ask me; it means they can pretty much air whatever they want. But they're offering you a very competitive rate -- more than the chump change you make streaming, that's for sure. A lot more. You saw the bottom line numbers?"

"Yeah... I mean, it looks lucrative...so you think I should sign?"

He ignored the question. "Some of the clauses if you back out of this thing are pretty punitive, though. You need to continue to work for them until you're eliminated from the game or you owe them compensation for lost earnings; it's left pretty vague but it definitely leaves you open to a serious lawsuit."

"So I shouldn't sign?"

He ignored that question, too. "There's also this ethics and conflicts of interest section -- do you own any stocks in AI-related companies?"

"Uh...is that an issue?" I was having trouble following the plot of this conversation. Roy was generally more straightforward about his perspective on things than he was being.

"Only if you're going to object to selling them. The contract stipulates that you have to."

"No, I...I don't have any stocks at all, Roy. Why would that matter, though? What the hell is this?"

He ignored that question, too. "And the NDA portion stipulates that you can't reveal anything about the underlying technology they're going to use to create this competition?"

"Should I care about that? It's not like I work in tech and I'm gonna steal their secrets, or whatever..."

"Who do I look like, reincarnated Steve Jobs? How should I know? Do you know anything about the tech they're using?"

"...Only that it probably involves AI?" I was aware that we were just exchanging questions back and forth at this point.

Roy let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, okay, look, girl. Law when AI is involved is not my specialty beyond some IP infringement stuff. And there are a bunch of potential problematic edge cases. I'm going to call in a favor, forward this whole package to my friend who's a specialist. Call you back in an hour. But you keep sending me shit like this, you're going to have to up my retainer, Chloe. "

He paused, then added, with a grumpy sort of affection, "I will say, it's good to see you branching out, though, kid."

He called back in an hour.

He thought I should sign it.

"Two things. First, my AI law guy says this doesn't have major loopholes you should be concerned about; he wouldn't advise somebody working in AI to sign it -- too constraining -- but he thinks it's fine for someone like you. Second, I crunched the numbers, and well, sheesh. It's a fucked up baby, like I said, but it's a million-dollar baby, yaknow? With the rights to your stream, covering your room and board, the optionality they have to promote you around additional revenue opportunities and brand deals...even if you don't win the grand prize, this could be pretty lucrative for you. You should do it."

Roy paused, and added, "Also, you definitely have to up my retainer. I'll send you my new rate. So don't get eliminated from whatever-the-fuck-this-is too early, 'cause I like getting paid."

---

Twenty four hours later, I'd prepared to put my whole life on hold for six to eight weeks, with the option of extending it for longer if I had to.

It was so much more straightforward than I expected. I canceled a few subscription services. Made sure my rent and everything else critical was set up for automatic payments.

I gave away my houseplants.

Arranged for somebody to check on my apartment every couple weeks, just in case.

The hardest part, of course, was the people.

I told friends I was taking an extended work trip. Called my parents; told them there was a business opportunity I had to pursue, that if it took off they'd probably hear about it, but not to worry if I wasn't in touch for a little while. They were confused but understood.

I posted on all my socials saying that it'd be a few days before I was streaming again; some stuff had come up unexpectedly. I knew the company would be broadcasting something -- part of the deal had been setting Roy up with all my credentials to pass along to them once the competition commenced. Exactly what they'd do, or when it'd start, wasn't clear, but I figured this probably bought me enough time.

Eventually, there was only one person left to talk to before I got on a plane to San Francisco.

---

"Fuck, Chloe." Ryan let out a groan.

I had told Ryan -- the guy I'd been seeing -- that I was going to be busy, traveling for work for a while on short notice. He was disappointed, but understood. He'd always been pretty understanding, in fact; surprisingly so.

He was a veterinary student. Two years older than me. We'd met on a dating app; only gone on a few dates, but I liked him. Gangly, tall, boyish good looks. An earnestness that was endearing. He seemed like he was a bit of a late bloomer, too.

I'd avoided talking about my career much; just told him I worked in online marketing and video production. I'd found it was a lot easier to lead with that, and explain streaming later on once they knew me better. When I started with "I stream videogames online for a living", men tended to assume I was also creating an entirely different type of online content.

Ryan was easy to talk to. I thought we had promise.

In short: I'd miss him. And if I was eliminated quickly and back home again five days from now, I was hoping we could pick up where we left off.

All of which explained why I was currently kneeling between Ryan's legs, stripping down his boxers, looking up at him as he groaned.

His cock was hard already, springing free to jut out straight and proud from his hips. It was my first time seeing it, and it was a nice cock, based on my limited experience. On his narrow, gangly frame it looked full and thick, the contrast giving me a twinge of arousal between my thighs.

To this point, we'd only made out. And I was determined to make sure he remembered me for more than that.

I wrapped one hand around it, enjoying the way it filled my grip, how hot his skin felt under the palm of my hand.

His length was sticky already. "Mmm, I like it," I whispered, giving him my best smile.

"Y-you do?" He sounded genuinely hopeful. It was cute enough that it made me giggle.

"I like it a lot. It feels so big and hard in my hand," I murmured. Guys liked hearing that, I knew, and as if his cock agreed with me, I felt him throb in my hand in response.

He was getting my palm sticky, but that was hot, too, how he was leaking everywhere for me.

So I gave him a slow, sensual pump, coating him evenly with his own precum. He groaned, again. He was taking shallow breaths -- panting.

I could feel myself soaking through my panties.

I'd been telling the truth during that interview with Alex. Sex was great. Blowjobs were great.

But I loved giving handjobs.

When my girlfriends and I compared notes about our dating lives, I got the sense that my love of getting men off with my hands was a bit unusual. My friends mostly seemed to think that handjobs were a bit childish, the sort of thing teenagers did in the back of crowded movie theaters, when they weren't ready for actual sex yet.

I didn't care. There was something hot about being in charge of the experience -- in charge of a guy's cock, in control of it, with the focus of the action on them -- that I really liked.

"You're so fucking hot," he whispered. He leaned forward and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.

I could tell how much he wanted me. I looked up into his eyes, bit my lip, and started pumping him.

I watched as his eyes rolled back in his head. "Oh my god," he moaned.

"Does that feel good?" I bit my lip, glancing between his cock and his face.

He just nodded mutely, eyes closed, now.

I set a steady cadence, pumping his shaft with one hand. The only sounds were his panting breaths.

God, I was so fucking turned on by how into it he seemed. I took my other hand and tweaked one of my nipples, hard.

Guys masturbated all the time. So there was something especially rewarding when I did this well. When, in spite of all their practice, I was better at pleasuring their cock than they were.

I brought my other hand up, tentatively, just barely grazing, stroking his balls with my hand.

He froze. "Chloe, I'm, uh..." he trailed off, pulling back from me.

The cautionary note in his voice sent a surge of dizzying arousal through me. He was worried he'd cum. Already.

But, if he didn't want to cum yet, I was happy to oblige.

I stood up. "Relax," I murmured. I tried to keep the amusement out of my voice, the excitement over how much I liked the knowledge that he couldn't handle me.

I straddled him, pushing my needy pussy up against his cock. It felt good -- the ridge of his shaft pressing against me through the thin, wet material of my panties. I moaned, sliding along him, grinding.

I could tell he was trying to control himself. Doing his best. He obviously wanted to last longer. But that just made it hotter.

I pulled up a little, still on top of him, straddling his lap, but making room for my hands, now. I resumed pumping his cock. It was wet with my juices as well as his precum, now. "I can feel you throbbing in my hand, Ryan," I whispered.

"Th-that's gonna make me--" He couldn't form words, but the warning in his voice was clear. This was too much for him.

I was too much for him.

The thought turned me on enough that it actually made it hard to maintain the even pace of stroking I thought he'd like.

"Good, I want you to cum," I encouraged, breathlessly. My other hand -- the one not jacking off his cock -- drifted down between my own thighs. I gasped at the sensation of my hand exploring just how wet I'd gotten, at the way my clit practically throbbed when I touched it.

Now that I knew he couldn't control himself, I couldn't control myself either. Without meaning to, I was gripping his cock tighter, pumping him more aggressively, my fingers making a circling motion on my clit.

My own arousal surprised me. Maybe it was the knowledge that this might be the last time I'd see him. Maybe it was the conversation with Alex, or the application I filled out, the sense that there was almost certainly a sexual or romantic component to this game I was about to play. I didn't know.

But whatever it was, I was absolutely racing towards my own orgasm, and I wondered if I'd cum before he did.

But only for a moment. And then, teeth gritted, he gasped out, "O-oh god--" and his back arched.

The hottest part, for me, was the slight tinge of shame in his voice over how quickly he'd come undone. Even though I'd said I wanted it, I could tell he was a little embarrassed. That, coupled with the rush I felt as his cock twitching in my hand, the wet heat of cum spraying up onto my hand and chest as I touched my clit -- was more than enough to send me over the edge, too.

I let out a sharp cry, and convulsed, hanging onto his cock with one hand and continuing to pump while I played with my clit aggressively, collapsing against his chest as the warm rush of pleasure washed over and through me.

---

There was a long, silent beat, each of us grinning at the other like a pair of idiots, before I let out a long, slow breath.

"I'm going to miss you. I'm sorry this has come up on such short notice," I murmured. It was true. Not true enough to make me skip a potentially life-changing opportunity with this competition, but true.

"You're going to miss me? Fuck. I'm going to be thinking about you the whole time you're gone. Nobody's ever...I mean, I don't usually finish like..." He trailed off, clearly at a loss. "Let's just say I'm hoping you get fired and your trip's over early," he said, with a satisfied sigh.

I laughed, feeling pleased with myself. I cleaned up, and we snuggled in his bed for a few minutes before I had to go.

"Call me the second you're on your way back to town, okay?" He looked a little forlorn.

I nodded, and gave him a little wave before heading home to get on a plane.

It was the last moment of normal intimate human connection I'd have for a very, very long time.

But I didn't know that, of course.

---

Author's Note: A bit of a slow burn in this first chapter as I get the premise and setting deployed, and there's probably one more, similar chapter coming up next. But things will pick up quickly after that. Also: if you're super deep in the speedrunning community, apologies with the places I'm going to take liberties/glossed over key details. It's not exactly central to the plot, but I've tried to do it justice.

If you don't even know what speedrunning is, or want to learn more about it outside of this story, I recommend this explainer. (You don't need to read it to understand the story, and I have no affiliation/don't endorse whoever wrote this; I just found it a useful reference point if you want to learn more.)