The Twitch chat went wild with laughter.
"Hahaha, what a genius game!"
"Classic WindyPeak move."
"Is WinterMelon's nickname 'CrashDummy' now?"
"Flying out the window? LMAO!"
"PJ didn't see that kid coming."
"Pure chaos, like a cartoon gone wrong."
"You know Jim Carrey vibes."
"Calling your own kid a moron? Savage, PJ!"
"This game's next-level weird…"
The chat was having a blast, but PJ Larson was sweating bullets. He couldn't let WinterMelon's character die like this! Otherwise, he'd be stuck playing the kid next round.
"WinterMelon! Dude, you dead?" PJ yelled, sprinting downstairs to check the backyard.
He yanked open the door—and something flew at his face like a stretched-out gummy bear, smacking him with a splat.
WinterMelon's voice screeched through the voice chat: "Take that, Dad!"
The diapered baby WinterMelon launched a flying kick at PJ's character.
"Hold up! Daddy's under attack!" PJ shouted.
Thanks to Gus Shepard's orders to skip collision detection, the game's physics were a mess. Under the right conditions, it went haywire.
WinterMelon's kick sent PJ's character soaring like a deflated balloon, bouncing around the living room before crashing into a spinning ragdoll heap.
The stream erupted with their screams:
"Yo, I'm done for! Help, help, HELP!" PJ wailed.
"Dad's flying! Wooo! Look at him soar!" WinterMelon cackled.
The Twitch chat lost it:
"Filial piety level: expert."
"Haha, father-son bonding at its finest."
"Is this even a game humans made?"
"Three years of art school, and this is the result."
"Too bizarre, I'm dying."
"Dad's down, and I'm wheezing."
"Bringing the chaos kid energy."
"Double rage mode activated."
"Designer's gotta be unhinged."
"This stream's a goldmine."
WinterMelon was living for it. He'd never played anything this absurd, and the prank potential had him hyped. While PJ's character was still flopping on the floor, WinterMelon's baby waddled to the fridge in a gloriously janky run.
"Daddy! I'm starving! Gimme food!" WinterMelon called.
No way a baby that size should reach the fridge handle, but logic wasn't invited to this party. WinterMelon's arms stretched like taffy, yanking the fridge open with a cartoonish tug.
"Wooo! Let's see… any rat poison in here?" WinterMelon teased.
PJ's character finally staggered up. "How'd you even open that?! Yo, don't eat random stuff!" he yelled, scrambling after the baby.
"Too late! I'm making burgers!" WinterMelon laughed, ignoring PJ. If he could "accidentally" kill his character, he'd get to play dad next.
WinterMelon's baby hopped into the fridge, grabbed a burger—box and all—and stuffed it in. One bite, and the hunger bar jumped a fifth, but a green poison icon flashed.
PJ's face dropped. "No! Spit it out, kid! You're gonna croak!"
"Nope! I'm chowing down!" WinterMelon cackled, fully in chaos mode. "Not even a pro streamer can save me now!"
PJ watched the poison meter climb, panicking. He tried to grab the baby to stop the madness, but in his rush, he fumbled.
"Oh no, no, NO!" PJ shouted.
Bang! He accidentally slammed the fridge door shut.
The stream echoed with his despair: "I hit the wrong button! Why'd I lock my kid in the fridge?!"
The chat was in stitches:
"Hahaha, PJ just sealed the deal!"
"PJ: 'You're dying too slow, let me speed it up.'"
"Family harmony at its peak."
"When danger's low, Dad's the real threat."
"How many steps to fridge your own kid?"
"No saving him now."
"This game's pure chaos."
"I'm crying from laughing so hard."
"It's janky, but weirdly fun."
"PJ's a total clown."
"Did PJ trap him on purpose?"
"Bet he wants to play the kid next."
"Playing the kid's where it's at."
Five seconds later, the screen flashed: You Lose.
WinterMelon's victory whoop blasted through the voice chat: "Yes! I'm unstoppable! Died like a champ!"
"Young and reckless, out like a light!" he added. "PJ, guess what? I'm your daddy now!"
PJ, meanwhile, went full meltdown, ranting like a cartoon villain as the chat egged him on.
The stream was electric.
…
Meanwhile, Zoey Parker checked the time. 10 p.m.
In the Twitch gaming section, Alex "Yin" Carter's stream was wrapping up.
"That's it for today, folks," Yin's voice boomed. "Same time tomorrow. Catch you later!"
The stream went dark.
Zoey exhaled, relieved. No disasters tonight.
She'd lurked in Yin's stream early, bracing for a repeat of Cat Leo's viral fluke with a top streamer. But Yin's "bad game" segment skipped Who's the Daddy, sticking to forgettable duds before signing off.
"Score!" Zoey grinned. No big streamer boost meant her plan was safe. At $5 a pop, even selling a few thousand copies in a week would leave them $80,000–$90,000 in the red—translating to $800,000–$900,000 in rebates.
She'd recoup Cat Leo's losses and then some. Financial freedom was so close she could taste it. If her dad nagged about her lounging at home, she'd rent a yacht and sail the world.
Thank you, Investment Rebate System, she thought, smirking.
But what Zoey didn't know? As she crawled into bed, dreaming of riches, Alex Yin, fresh off his stream in Portland, opened his phone.
A short clip popped up on his feed, full of laughter and chaos.
"I don't care! I'm eating it! I'm not surviving today!"
"Kid! Why the hell did I shut the fridge?!"
"Wooo! Dead!"
"Man, I'm gonna roast you, you little…"
Yin cracked up. "This game's wild…"