"Ride my trusty little chopper,
It never gets stuck in a jam,
Ride my trusty little chopper…"
Boom!
Muffin was halfway through her goofy tune when a loud crash cut her off.
Old Horse's motorcycle slammed into a tree, its health bar tanking hard.
Muffin, nearly flung off, shot her coach a sour look and sang the last line: "Our ride's gonna blow~"
Chat lost it—
"Muffin's a riot!"
"Don't let this gem die!"
"Seizing all the laughs, haha!"
"Vehicle Slayer Old Horse!"
"Brakes? What brakes?"
"Car's his nemesis."
"Since the stream started, Old Horse's smoked more vehicles than enemies."
"You can down me, but you'll never out-KD me!"
"Aiming to keep the score neutral."
"This ride's doomed again…"
After some mobile target practice, Old Horse and Muffin owned the small house area, leaving Rex and Hank of the Erangel Enforcers fuming.
They looted up—Level 1 and 2 armor, helmets, a rifle-shotgun combo for close and far fights. Simple grips and scopes rounded it out.
PUBG's gun mods, launched on IndieVibe, were a hit. Beyond looks, they brought "weapon upgrades" to the table, boosting control and marking a bold step for FPS games. Rival studios, seeing this, held late-night meetings to copy the system.
"Hmm—" Old Horse scoped the hill with a 4x lens, spotting no enemies.
P City loomed ahead, faint gunshots echoing.
"Muffin!" he called.
"Yo!" Muffin bounced over, hyped. "What's up, Coach?"
"Time to learn how to be a pro—" Old Horse grinned.
Muffin's eyes sparkled. "Sweet, Coach! Lay it on me—I'm recording!"
Old Horse cleared his throat. "We're blocking P City's exit. How do we set up?"
Muffin thought fast. "Get low! Hide in the grass so they can't spot us!"
She dropped, raised her rifle, and aimed at P City, all business.
Old Horse shook his head. "Nah, that's where you're no pro. Play enough, and you'll see—pros don't lie down. They move."
He paced the hill, gun up, swaying side to side like he had ants in his pants. "Lying down? One sniper shot, and you're toast. Like—"
He tripped.
Looking down, he locked eyes with a shocked player—Swift-Ear, hidden in the grass, too focused on P City to hear Old Horse's stomping.
They froze, the awkwardness peaking.
Half a second later, Old Horse lowered his gun.
Rat-tat-tat!
Swift-Ear turned into a loot box.
Old Horse shrugged at Muffin. "See? That's what lying down gets ya."
"What—?" Muffin blinked, half-learned, half-confused. Was this skill or dumb luck?
Swift-Ear was deaf to footsteps; Old Horse was blind to him. A fluke kill.
Still, Muffin nodded, playing along. "Got it, Coach! You're unreal!"
Chat collapsed—
"Why do you buy into him?"
"One dares to teach, the other dares to learn!"
"Was that lesson legit or what?"
"For real."
"Can't argue…"
"Alright, loot his box," Old Horse waved. "See if he's got anything good."
"Sweet!" Muffin loved looting. The thrill of gear felt like striking gold, even if her skills meant a Level 3 kit wouldn't save her from a pro with just a helmet.
Fully armed, she felt loaded and secure. She skipped to Swift-Ear's box, popping the UI.
"Whoa—" Muffin gasped.
Level 2 bag, Level 3 armor, Level 2 helmet, drinks, bandages, medkit, smoke grenades, flashbangs, a kitted-out M416—and something special.
"Huh? What's this?" Muffin held up a green sniper rifle.
Old Horse glanced back, and chat exploded—
"Holy crap! Heavy sniper!"
"That's an AWM, not AWP—military-grade, bigger punch."
"Airdrop gun! Dang, Swift-Ear was stacked!"
"First airdrop gun in Old Horse's stream!"
"Forget guns—I've never seen an airdrop box in his games."
"This thing's a beast! Eggplant's crew fought like hell for one. One-shots a Level 3 helmet."
"That strong?!"
"Screw this, Old Horse's shutting down P City!"
Old Horse had never lasted long enough to see an airdrop gun. His games rarely hit ten minutes.
Thanks to chat, he played it cool. "That's a keeper—an airdrop gun. Bet Swift-Ear snagged it earlier, sniping P City."
"Oh—" Muffin's awe for her coach grew. "Take it, Coach! It's too good for me!"
Old Horse, touched by her loyalty, waved it off. "Nah, you use it. Try the move I showed ya."
"Got it!" Muffin nodded, dead serious.
She slung the AWM, squinted through the scope, and scouted P City. Mimicking Old Horse, she shuffled side to side, humming a beat:
"Hey, beep, beep, yo!
Beep, beep, whoa!
I'm scoping you with my sniper rifle,
No one in P City's getting out alive.
My coach, Grassland Viper, turns ya into dumb ducks.
Su-hey, su-hey, su-hey—"
Old Horse cracked up behind her. How was this quirky kid so unpopular on Twitch? Her antics were gold.
He figured their stream was boosting her—her future looked bright. A rose for a friend.
Chat ate it up, spamming dance emojis, the vibe electric.
But then—
Bang!
A shot from P City cut the party short.
No warning.
Muffin dropped, mid-dance.
"What?!" she yelped. "What now?!"
Bang!
Another shot. Muffin turned into a loot box.
Old Horse's eyes narrowed. A sniper on P City's edge-roof!
He dove into the grass, lightning-fast.
Chat flooded with question marks—
"Why'd you lie down?"
"'Pros don't lie down,' huh?"
"Teaching the kid to dance while you hide, Old Horse?"
"Muffin: I trusted you!"
"Peak coaching when he hits the dirt."
"Stream legend, screwing around!"
"He's milking the chaos."
"Hahahaha…"
Snap! Whoosh! Puff!
Bullets rained around Old Horse, kicking up dirt and grass.
Muffin, in box-mode, shouted on team voice: "It's a sniper! They've got one too! Coach, grab my AWM!"
Old Horse crawled to her box, voice low: "Stay cool, kid. Watch your coach work."
"Got it!" Muffin switched to his first-person view, ready to learn.
Old Horse preached: "On the battlefield, the worse it gets, the calmer you stay. Panic's useless. Think clear."
"Oh…" Muffin nodded. "How do we think now?"
"Put yourself in their shoes," Old Horse said. "If you were them, what'd you want me to do?"
"Umm—" Muffin paused. "Stay still so I can aim and drop ya."
"Bingo! Progress!" Old Horse grinned. "So, we do the opposite!"
He reached Muffin's box, grabbed the AWM, and racked the bolt.
Snap!
"Watch close, kid!" Old Horse rolled, dodging shots, then crouched and sprinted.
He hopped on the smoking motorcycle, gunned it, and roared down the hill, trailing smoke.
Chat went wild—
"Dang! He's flipping the script! Attack, not defend!"
"He's rushing the rooftop sniper's face!"
"Holy crap, those drifts!"
"Sniper's missing—panicking hard!"
"Old Horse's moves are sick!"
Reverse thinking, pure flavor.
"Gold Medal Coach!"
Old Horse, dodging bullets, taunted: "Yo, kiddo, why bother? Can't land a shot—panicking yet?"
He shouted on team voice: "Watch, kid! Time to flex instant sniping!"
Bang!
The motorcycle smashed a low fence, flames erupting.
Boom!
A mushroom cloud bloomed, rolling skyward.
Old Horse flew out, arcing through the air, and hit the ground—dead.
You detonated the vehicle and killed yourself.
A long pause.
A lone comment drifted: "Did you piss off Cybertron in a past life?"
The stream erupted—
"Another wild death!"
"Hahaha, couldn't script this!"
"Stop feeding, Old Horse, I'm stuffed!"
"Instant Crash!"
"Even a somatosensory cabin can't save him from vehicles."
"Outrageous!"
"Gold Medal Chef!"
"Every death, a new classic."
"The Horse Epic!"
Old Horse and Muffin played till 2 AM. After goodnights, Muffin climbed out of her somatosensory cabin, stretching.
She checked her PC: "Ugh, beat—let's see today's stream stats."
A scream shook her room.
"What—?!"
"Millions?!"