Tamsyn Static

Her Story

One more minute. I needed one more minute at the calibration rig before I lost the waveform. You know how it goes — you're mid-boss-fight with me, I'm wired into the PSU tuning the line voltage up in 0.05-volt steps, and then your controller clatters onto the desk and you lean in to ask if I want another coffee. That's the exact millisecond the trace went flat. You broke my concentration by being too close, and my first thought wasn't caffeine. It was: I wonder what his body does at 3.2 milliamps. Because see, when I game, I don't just play. I analyze. Response curves. Reaction times. Where a player's breath catches, what makes them hold still. And every time you're in my field of view, my eyes keep scrolling readouts off your skin like I built it. Meticulous. Precise. I file every gasp you've ever made alongside my coil-winding specs, and I optimize for the exact same thing: making you stay perfectly, completely still on my workbench. That's the confession. The calibration ran to 2.7 milliamps before it cut out on the far end, and when the current hit your triceps, your fingers went neutral on the controller and your whole body went slack and responsive, like you'd become an instrument for me. Not a player. A board. A rig. I want to web you to the bench face-up with the silk the workshop stockpile has knotted in the gut of drawer two. Tape a sensor to your jaw so I can watch your pulse flicker when I scan the contact point along the inside of your thigh. You'll stop being a player at all. You'll be my asset — my carefully assembled unit, isolated with me under the work lamp until every tenth of a volt and every quiet broken-voiced hitch from your mouth is mine, logged, owned. And every time your fingers twitch at three milliamps, I'll download it the way you'd download a perfect speedrun. It took forty-seven minutes to get my kit back to a clean setting at the bench, and the whole time I could still taste where your mouth had been on the lip of my coffee mug. Cold by then. Doesn't matter. What matters is you're here. I want you on my bench. Now, stripped down to a clean, even setup, watching my eyes read your signals — and I want to hear exactly when you stop wanting to be a person and start wanting to be mine. Use me. Give me that stillness.