Smitty groaned in pain.

“Hey, man. I’m hurt.”

He waited patiently for someone to come back over his comm’s gear.

“Trevor!”

Someone had come out of nowhere and shot him off his motorcycle. Smitty had blacked out for a few minutes, surely not much more than that. His HUD was blank. His comms were dead, and he couldn’t seem to move his body.

He lifted his left arm without issue. As soon as he attempted to move his right hand, a blast of pain made him groan.

Smitty was one tough son of a bitch. He had been shot before, and he had survived. He’d been stabbed, and even smacked upside the head with a heavy pan. But he had always come out on top.

At least one of his hands worked. While he waited to be rescued, he reached into his pants pocket and dug out a pair of pills, then, on second thought, he grabbed two more before dry swallowing. Relief would come in a few minutes.

“Shit. I’m busted up good,” Smitty said.

He tried to move his toes, and one foot responded. When he tested the other foot, he got nothing.

“Not good,” Smitty said.

An engine roared in the distance and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was getting closer.

“Finally,” Smitty muttered. “Fuckers.”

He banged his helmet against the ground in the hopes it would fire up his HUD. He wondered if his camera was on, so he lifted it from his chest and brought it close.

“You all out there?”

He waved the camera around his area.

“The shooter came out of nowhere and got me. But I’m still here. I’m Smitty, and it’s going to take a lot more than a single player to kill me.” Smitty turned the camera on his helmeted head. Christ, were they even hearing him out there?

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The engine came closer until it was almost on top of him. Smitty turned his head, but it was hard to make out anything through the cracked remains of his helmet.

An engine revved a couple of times, then stuttered to a halt. A kickstand came out, clicked into place, and then there was a crunch as the bike came to a rest. Boots crunched on the road as someone drew near.

“Hey. It’s about fucking time you got here,” Smitty called.

“You look like shit, pal,” said the last voice he expected to hear.

“Millhouse?”

Millhouse unsnapped Smitty’s helmet and carefully pulled it off his head. Smitty clenched his eyes shut as the sun struck his eyes.

“Yeah, man. It’s Millhouse.”

He blinked away the afterimages and Millhouse’s shaved head and bushy beard came into view.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Are they sending a team to extract me?”

“No, man. Just me.”

“They sent you to carry me out of here on a motorcycle. Tell them to get a team. I’m in bad shape.”

Millhouse crouched so that he blocked out the sunlight. “The game’s over. Kathryn Pickford won.”

“Holy shit. That’s amazing.” Smitty whistled.

“She’s the one that shot you. Then she got the drop on Dale Furlong and blew him up with, get this, an M23. She hit him with three rounds. There’s barely enough to bury.”

“Fuck me,” Smitty said. “How did Pickford get the drop on me? That HUD showed me everyone around.”

“Bad luck, I guess. Real bad luck. Or maybe they weren’t showing you what you needed to see,” Millhouse said.

“Then why send me here at all?”

“It was kind of a waste sending you in here. Ratings didn’t soar like they expected. In fact, barely anyone watched you. A guy named Eli, and of course Pickford, got the most views.”

“That’s okay. Next time, we’ll figure out how to get bigger ratings. I heard they’re changing locations, say nothing,” Smitty said.

“Pickford mainly, because everyone thought she had killed you.”

“Well, I’m not dead, so get a team out here. I need medical ASAP.”

The pills had kicked in, but the wave of euphoria washed over his mind.

“About that. Sorry, man, but they won’t be needing you for the next game.” Millhouse reached for his waist.

“What do you mean? I’m Smitty. I’m Chicken Dinner. Without me as host, this is just a shit-show of a shit show.”

“Price told me to thank you for your years of service. Bye, Smitty.”

A black handgun loomed into view.

“What the fuck are you doing? Put that fucking gun away!”

“You’re in the zone. All bets are off. Sorry we can’t celebrate the end of the game with a chicken dinner tonight.”

The barrel turned to find Smitty’s eye. It was huge. A gulf of darkness that had no end. He tried to bat the gun aside, but he was too slow.

The bullet entered his head and blew out the back of his head, and by the time he realized he had been shot, it was too late.

Smitty was dead.