Then the orange swirl returned. And the text appeared again, smaller this time, nested in the bottom corner like a forgotten order ticket:
PRESS START TO SERVE.
The Dreamcast’s fan, usually a quiet whisper, roared like a jet engine. The air in Marcus’s apartment grew hot, thick with the smell of vinegar and ozone. He looked down at his hands. They were gone. In their place were two, low-poly, textureless blocks—the generic hand models from a bad PS1 game. Sushi Bar Dreamcast ISO -Atomiswave Port-
He wasn’t playing the game anymore. The game was playing him. Then the orange swirl returned
“Three seconds?” Marcus muttered. He grabbed the mouse—the Dreamcast’s mouse, which he hadn’t touched since Typing of the Dead —and realized it was his only control. A cursor, a thin red laser dot, moved where he pointed. The air in Marcus’s apartment grew hot, thick
He dragged the cursor in a frantic slice. The cursor passed through the tuna. Nothing happened. The timer hit zero.