Same Time Next Week
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 1
Dinner was already in the oven when Ethan powered up his console.
“Couple of hours,” his mom said from the kitchen, checking the timer before leaning against the counter. “Your dad won’t be home for dinner — he’s got a work thing — so I’m going to knock out a few things in the home office.”
Ethan nodded, already half somewhere else. The familiar pre-game ritual had started: controller seated right, thumbsticks loose, headset snug. His posture shifted—not slouching now. Locked.
She watched him for a moment, the way parents do when they’ve learned the difference between playing and competing.
“You playing with your friends today?” she asked. “I thought you said something about a tourney this weekend.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “This one’s scheduled.”
“Okay.” She smiled, satisfied. Not checking. Just tracking. “I’ll be around.”
She turned down the hall, then paused.
“Call it if it starts getting too intense,” she added lightly. “I don’t want you buzzing when dinner’s ready.”
“I won’t,” Ethan said.
He meant it.
The door to the home office closed softly.
The headset chimed.
Lobby loaded.
“Commander online,” Razor said.
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He was scanning the roster, eyes narrowing at one unfamiliar tag.
GENERAL_ZERO No clan tag.No flair.That usually meant one of two things.
“Alright,” Ethan said finally, voice calm through the modulator. “Slow open. No ego challs. We play info first.”
Map loaded.
From the first rotation, he felt it.
The other team didn’t sprint lanes or bunny-hop corners. They held angles. Cleared methodically. Checked flanks like they expected pressure that hadn’t arrived yet.
“Hold,” Ethan said. “They’re baiting mid.”
A voice came back over opposing comms — female, filtered, steady.
“Set conditions,” the General said. “Let them waste utility.”
Smokes bloomed.
Ethan blinked once.
Not surprised.Just ... interested.
“They’re burning stuns early,” Nova said. “Trying to force pushes.”
“Copy,” Ethan said. “Don’t take it. Back up. Let ‘em think they’re winning space.”
They traded ground in inches. Hard clears. Soft retreats. Nobody overextended. Nobody panicked.
“Commander,” Razor muttered, “this team’s tight.”
“I know,” Ethan said. “She’s not reacting. She’s shaping lanes.”
Across the map, the General adjusted again — rotating late, stacking just enough presence to threaten without committing.
“Reset,” she said calmly. “They’ll try to split A.”
Ethan felt a grin pull at one corner of his mouth.
“Alright,” he said. “She’s reading us. New look.”
He split his squad, staggered timing, forced a double peek that shouldn’t have worked.
It barely did.
“Good break,” Razor breathed.
Ethan was already calling the next hold.
The General countered immediately — pinched supply, cut off respawns, forced them to play slower than they wanted.
No trash talk.
No hype.
Just pressure.
By the final round, both teams were running on instincts sharpened by respect.
Timer bled down.
Objective locked.
The screen flashed: QUALIFIED — BOTH TEAMS ADVANCE Silence.
Then exhalations.
“Okay,” Ethan said, leaning forward. “Then we need another match.”
“Commander,” Razor said carefully, “we already punched our ticket.”
“I know,” Ethan said. “I see it now.”
Across comms, the General chuckled once — low, knowing.