Van's Now Live

A short story by Bryant Rogers

There’s that pause, the split-second before I hit ‘Start Stream,’ where I feel it, my diner name tag still clipped to the front of my chest, the weight of the day pressing down with it. The smell of bacon lingers as I glide my index finger over the mouse. For a second, I consider changing out of my grease-covered uniform, maybe washing my hands.

But then, click. Mic’s on. "Alright, Van's now live.”

The ‘Stream Starting Soon’ screen fades, and my left monitor’s desktop appears on my right monitor’s smaller screen. A small picture-in-picture box of my webcam appears in the corner. Chat’s already rolling.

I crack a smile and suddenly, I’m not Donovan anymore, I’m Van; I’m that guy. The name they spam in chat, the one whose voice can make them laugh, whose plays make them spam ‘GOAT’ in all caps.

My PC hums causing the LEDs to flicker against the dark walls. The place isn’t much. Kinda my fault. My mattress is on the floor, desk drowning in energy drink cans, closet stuffed with grease-stained Sammy’s Diner uniforms. But online? None of that matters. I select my character in the game. I’m not a guy who gets ignored in break rooms or overlooked on schedules. Here, I’m a legend. Messages flood in, fast and excited. Feels good. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, lean in, smirk as I read them out loud. Feels right.

“Van, are you going for the legendary sword tonight?” DragonKnight_88 types, their name a neon blur in the corner of my screen.

I laugh hard into the mic. “You already know, Dragon. Tonight’s the night we conquer the Shadow Fortress. ” The game loads, and just like that, I’m somewhere else. The dull ache of a ten-hour shift, the grease under my nails, the awkwardness of dodging small talk with my coworkers. All gone.

The chat hypes me up as I guide my character through the darkened woods, spinning a story as I go. “Alright, hear me out, chat. This rogue knight? He’s gotta be cursed, right? But not, like, regular ‘bad luck’ cursed. I’m talking full-on existential crisis cursed. Every night, this man resets like a medieval Groundhog Day, and every night, he storms this fortress like it owes him rent. He’s just a dude having the worst case of the Mondays ever. It’s tragic, honestly. Someone should start a GoFundMe.” The chat erupts. ‘#FreeTheRogue’ starts trending in real-time, and someone even drops a fake donation link. I pretend to wipe away a tear. “Stay strong, my guy.”

Halfway through the stream, something unexpected happens. In a hidden chamber, tucked behind a false wall I almost missed, a new quest notification flickers across the screen.

“Prophecy of the Hollow King—Secret Quest Discovered.”

My breath catches. The chat explodes.

“Yo, Van, this is NEW!”

“I’ve played 300 hours and NEVER seen this???”

“Bro just unlocked some hidden lore like it’s a dev stream.”

I blink, shaking off the shock. “Looks like we’re in for a real adventure tonight, gamers.”

I guide my character forward, the dim torchlight flickering against the stone corridors. Every footstep echoes through the hollow halls, the kind of level design that makes your skin prickle. The chat’s alive with theories, calling back lore details from past updates, piecing together the puzzle like a shared mind. And that’s what makes this more than just a game. It’s a story, unfolding in real-time, a legend being written with every move.

The first puzzle? A series of ancient runes scattered across the chamber. A wrong step triggers razor-sharp spikes to burst from the ground. The chat fires off rapid suggestions, some helpful, some absolute chaos.

“Try the third rune from the left—it matches the inscription!”

“Nah, bro, YOLO it.”

I smirk. “C’mon, chat, have a little faith.” With a practiced eye, I decode the pattern, stepping onto the correct sequence of stones. The chamber rumbles, and a hidden passage slides open.

“HE’S A GENIUS!”

“VAN NEVER MISSES!”

As we push deeper into the game, the stakes rise. Pressure plates that trigger dart traps, echoes that mask the approach of unseen enemies, eerie whispers laced into the soundtrack. Every step I make is deliberate, calculated. And when a sudden ambush of spectral knights swarms me, I don’t panic. This is instinct. Blade swings, perfect parries, dodges executed in flawless rhythm. My fingers move faster than thought, every frame of the fight a dance I’ve rehearsed a thousand times over. The chat is losing it.

“BRO’S ACTUALLY BUILT DIFFERENT.”

“Van is HIM.”

“Somebody clip that parry chain. Insane.”

Then comes the final challenge. A vaulted chamber, swallowed in mist. The air is thick with a low, pulsing hum feeling like something ancient, something waiting. A colossal shape emerges from the dark, its eyes glowing like dying embers. The Hollow King. A forgotten myth. A secret boss so well-hidden that even the most dedicated players had only theorized its existence. I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. “Alright, chat. This is it.”

The Hollow King moves like liquid shadow, a blade of obsidian cleaving through the fog. The fight is brutal,. An unforgiving battle, perfectly balanced between chaos and control. My reflexes blur with muscle memory, dodging with a hair’s breadth of space, countering with surgical precision. Every close call sends shockwaves through the chat. Every clutch moment feels like an electric pulse through my fingertips. And then, the final opening. I capitalize on a narrow window with a perfect dodge, my blade arcing in a deadly final strike. The Hollow King lets out a guttural roar before crumbling into dust. VICTORY. A pause. Silence. Then—

“HOLY SH*T.”

“ACTUAL GOD GAMER.”

“This man just made history.”

And then, a reward unlike any other. The game doesn’t just give me gold or experience. It grants me something rarer.

“New Title Unlocked: The Storyteller.”

The chat goes berserk.

“Yo, that’s not in the wiki???”

“Van just got an exclusive title. Bro, you’re LITERALLY in the lore now.”

My screen is flooded with donations, messages flying too fast to read. My fingers hover over the keyboard, my heart hammering. It’s more than just a game. It’s proof that I’m more than Donovan, scrubbing griddles in the back of Sammy’s Diner. As I wrap up the stream, I can't help but feel amped. I contemplate staying on for longer, but I’ve got an early shift and breakfast rushes were the worst.

“Yo, we’re actually GOATed chat. Thanks for an amazing night, everyone," I say, a genuine warmth in my voice. “Shoutout to all of the new names in the chat, and one love to all my day ones, I’ll catch you guys same time tomorrow night!”

The next morning, the smell of burnt toast clings to the air as I slip into the back of Sammy’s Diner, tying my apron behind me. The breakfast rush is already in full swing—college students nursing hangovers, old regulars reading the paper, a couple of exhausted parents trying to keep a toddler from launching sugar packets across the table.

The air is thick with movement, but I keep my head down, slipping into the rhythm of the kitchen. Crack eggs. Flip omelets. Keep moving.

The other line cooks don’t talk to me much unless they have to. The waitstaff; Chris, Jordan, Maria all hover in a different orbit. They belong in a way I don’t, tossing jokes back and forth between orders, their voices threading through the morning noise like a separate frequency I can’t quite tune into. Then I hear, “Yo, Van!”

My stomach tightens. No one calls me that here. I hesitate for half a second before turning. Chris leans over the counter, wearing his usual cocky, half-awake grin. “Saw your stream last night, man. That shit was crazy.”

For a moment, I don’t know how to respond. People don’t notice me here. Not really. I’ve spent months blending into the background, an extra pair of hands at the griddle. But Van still gets noticed. Chris isn’t talking to Donovan, the guy with egg yoke dripping down his apron. He’s talking to the guy who clutched the Hollow King fight in front of thousands last night. I swallow, feeling the weight of it. I force out a short laugh, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Didn’t think you watched.”

Chris flips his receipt pad against the counter. “My brother does. Sent me a clip of you freaking out over that boss fight.” He shakes his head, grinning. “You’re seriously cracked, man. The freakin' Storyteller.” I can feel the attention creeping in now. Maria glances over as she refills the coffee pot. Jordan, walking past, slows just a fraction. I don’t think they care, not really at least. But the way they reacted showed they’d heard.

Chris’s grin lingers. “You ever think about doing it full-time?” The spatula stills in my hand. My pulse jumps.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it. The idea drifts in late at night, when the chat spams my name, when the noise and excitement feel like proof that I exist in some bigger way than this. But hearing someone else say it… someone from this world, makes it feel dangerous, like a question I can’t unhear. I don’t answer right away. Because what am I supposed to say? That I think about it all the time? That I dream about quitting, about walking out the back door of Sammy’s and never coming back? That some nights, when I’m watching the donations roll in and the chat hypes me up, I almost believe I could? Instead, I shake my head, turning back to the egg pan. “Nah,” I mumble. “It’s just something I do.”

Chris watches me for a second longer, like he’s about to say something else. But then someone calls his name, and just like that, he’s gone, sliding back into the easy current of the diner.

I stay behind the counter, scraping burnt egg off the side of a pan, right where I always am. And yet, the thought lingers through my shift, through the lunch rush, through the walk home as the Cleveland skyline blurs under the suburban streetlights. For a second, just a second, I let myself wonder, What if I wasn’t just Van on the screen? What if I could be him all the time?

Over the next few weeks, my shifts at Sammy’s start feeling… off. The orders don’t change at all. Pancakes still drown in syrup, burgers still bleed grease onto paper plates, the fryer still spits like it’s personally offended by every frozen batch I drop in, but something else has. I have. I catch whispers now, murmured between orders, half-heard over the sizzle of bacon.

I notice the way my coworkers glance at me when they think I’m not looking, not in the way they acknowledge Chris, or Maria, or Jordan. It’s curiosity, like they’re seeing me for the first time, but still don’t know what to make of it. And maybe, just maybe, I like it. Because outside of this place; Van is exploding. Every night, my numbers climb. Hundreds become thousands. Thousands become tens of thousands. My chat moves too fast to read, a flood of emotes and clipped reactions. Subscribers pile in, flashing their renewal streaks like badges of honor. People stay up all night watching me. I wake up to notifications that a clip just hit 50,000 views. By the time I get out of the shower? 75,000. By the end of my shift? 100K.

And then come the brands.

First, an email from a gaming chair company that wants to send me one, just to use on stream. Then a headset sponsor, a custom keyboard manufacturer, an energy drink brand that wants to slap their logo under my webcam. Real companies. Real money. I get my first actual check. Legit. Not just streamer donations or gifted subs, but a sponsorship deal with numbers that make me lightheaded. I take a screenshot of the email. I read it three times. Then I put my phone down, walk to the mirror, and say it out loud just to hear it: “I got paid to play video games.” The realization rushes through me, intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

So I upgrade. I swap my budget mic for a pro-grade condenser setup, the kind with a shock mount and crisp, radio-level clarity. My old, creaky desk chair? Gone. The new one arrives in a massive box, my name printed on the shipping label like I’m someone important. I run my hands over the leather, sink into the seat, adjust the armrests. I feel like I’m sitting in a throne. The changes bleed into my streams. The chat notices immediately.

“Damn, Van got the pro mic now??”

“Yo, streamer money looking NICE.”

“Man’s got that sponsorship bag.”

And every time they say it, every time someone calls me a professional, a real content creator, the words press into my brain, reshaping the way I see myself. But at Sammy’s? I’m still just the quiet guy behind the grill. Just Donovan. The afterthought. The ghost in the break room. The one who eats alone, works unnoticed, and walks home invisible. I dodge small talk. I keep my head down.

And then, like a lifeline, my phone buzzes in my pocket. A new notification. The total payout from monthly subscribers. The kind of money that pays more than an entire year of shifts at Sammy’s. I stare at the screen for a long time, the numbers blurring together. The contrast is too sharp, too undeniable. And suddenly, staying at Sammy’s feels less like a job and more like a cage.

That night, after another long shift, I go live with the intention of keeping things short. But the energy from the chat is electric, and I ride the wave. Before I know it, the sun is creeping through my window, and the chat is still going. I close my eyes, rubbing my face. Something has to give.

The next morning, I walk into Sammy’s, the smell of grease and coffee clinging to me as I step behind the counter. Sammy barely looks up as I clear my throat. “I’m quitting.”

He finally glances at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he nods. “Chasing the dream, huh?” He flips a server checkbook with unnecessary flair. “Just don’t forget us when you’re famous.” I promise him I won’t. But as I walk out, the bell above the door jingling behind me, I don’t look back.

Streaming full-time is everything I thought it would be. Well, at first. The numbers explode. Viewership doubles, then triples. Streams that used to cap out at a couple hundred people now pull thousands. Brands aren’t just emailing me, they’re competing for me. They want my face on their campaigns, my logo on their gear. Van isn’t just a name anymore. It’s a business. I have influence. So I start giving back. The first giveaway is simple, just a new gaming mouse, courtesy of a brand deal. My chat erupts.

“Yo, Van’s actually giving back to the community!”

“Legend. Absolute legend.”

“I NEED THIS. PLS RNG GODS.”

The entries flood in. Hundreds. Then thousands. By the time the timer runs out, my viewership has doubled for the night. So I do it again. A new keyboard. A pro headset. A full setup, courtesy of a sponsor that insisted I mention their name at least three times during the stream. With every giveaway, my numbers jump. People show up just for the chance to win. The chat moves too fast to read. At first, it’s thrilling. The flood of messages, the sheer weight of engagement is proof. Proof that I made it. Proof that I matter. But then something shifts. I notice the messages change.

“When’s the next giveaway?”

“What do we win today?”

“Does donating increase my chances?”

The messages that used to feel personal with jokes, inside references, genuine conversation all get drowned out. The ones who used to care about me now care about what I can give them.

I try not to let it bother me. Instead, I stream harder. Longer hours. Bigger prizes. More engagement, more sponsorships, more growth. But the bigger I get, the more Van takes over. The expectations tighten. The chat demands a performance. Always on, always funny, always in control. When I’m not live, I edit videos, post on my timeline, or stay updated with the community. Always tapped in. Some nights, I stare at the countdown screen before going live, my fingers hovering over the Start Stream button, knowing that the moment I click, I cease to be Donovan. Because Van doesn’t get tired. Van doesn’t have bad days. Van is exactly what they expect him to be. And if I stop? If I slow down? Every time I hit “Start Stream,” my chat explodes, a blur of emotes and capital letters flooding the screen.

“THE GOAT IS LIVE!”

“Big moves, Van!”

“Secured the bag fr.”

At first, it’s exhilarating. The apartment transforms, the mattress on the floor gets replaced with a proper bed, the cheap desk swapped for a sleek, ergonomic setup. My fridge is stocked with branded energy drinks, my walls decorated with posters and LED lighting from companies that want their name posted up behind me.

The money pours in, sponsorships rolling out faster than I can sign them. And I do sign them. All of them. My schedule is a machine now with every stream planned down to the second, every joke landing exactly where it should. It’s a performance, polished and efficient, a constant cycle of engagement. The games I play are always trending, and the giveaways keep getting bigger, so the viewership keeps growing. It’s just… more people come for the prizes than for me, but hey, numbers are numbers, right?

Then comes the one sponsorship that I know I shouldn’t take. It’s an absurd amount of money for a product I don’t use, for a brand that doesn’t fit me. But the check has more zeros than I’ve ever seen, and at this level, the brand is part of the job. I stare at it for a long time, rereading my name at the top. Not Van. Donovan Mitchell. A name that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. It should feel like a win. A moment to celebrate. Instead, I hesitate. Then, I sign. And just like that, it’s real.

So I run the ad. At first, the chat's business as usual. Then, the tone shifts.

"So many ads!"

“L streamer.”

“Van’s a walking billboard now?”

“Man’s officially a sellout.”

The roasting is relentless. I try to laugh it off, but it spreads beyond the chat. Twitter clips, reaction threads, memes. My numbers still climb though it's not out of respect, but out of spectacle. They aren’t here for me. They’re here to watch me fall. And for the first time, I realize they don’t even know me. I cut the stream short, log off without saying goodbye. The silence that follows is suffocating. I go to bed without checking my notifications, but I dream in scrolling text and flashing alerts. The next morning, I don’t stream. I don’t check my email. Instead, for the first time in a while, I go back to Sammy’s.

The diner looks exactly the same. The smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air, the radio hums low in the background, the regulars sit in their usual booths. I should feel out of place, but I don’t. If anything, this is the most real I’ve felt in months. Maria spots me first, grinning as she leans over the counter. “Holy shit, the prodigal son returns.”

Chris nudges Jordan while waling back from a booth, smirking. “Hey, look. Van’s back.”

I brace for sarcasm, for jokes at my expense, but they don’t come. There’s no judgment, no expectations. Just a sense of familiarity, just recognition. I take a seat at the counter, and before I can even ask, Sammy slides a coffee in front of me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans on the counter with arms crossed, watching me carefully before finally speaking.

“You look like hell.”

I let out a genuine laugh. “Yeah,” I admit. “Feel like it too.”

I sip my coffee, letting the moment settle. The staff moves around me, the same rhythm they’ve always had, customers lingering not because they have to, but because they want to. For the first time, I understand why. I spent years chasing acceptance online, building a version of myself people would admire. But I would have always been liked here, if I had just let myself be known. If I had joked with my coworkers, spoken up, let people see me beyond the guy behind the apron. I glance around. The diner is quieter than I remember. A couple of regulars sip their coffee at the corner booth, but there are open tables, empty counter stools. Even at breakfast rush, there should be more people.

“Kind of slow for this time of day, huh?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

Sammy shrugs, still leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Yeah, well, all you kids skip breakfast now. Too busy with your frapp-a-chinos and crow-saunts from the drive-thru.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a faint smirk underneath.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Still, you can’t beat a coffee and pie for two bucks. Nobody’s doing that anymore.”

“Damn ads in the paper ain’t worth what they used to be either,” he grumbles. “So I’m through wasting money on marketing.” He glances at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “You quitting streaming?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I set my cup down, pausing. This is the moment where I could just say good to see you again and walk out the door. I could leave Sammy’s behind for good, let the diner fade into my past the same way Donovan had.

But I don’t. Because this place matters. “But I want to do something real with it.”

Sammy raises a brow. “Real, huh?”

I take a breath, knowing how ridiculous it’s about to sound, knowing I’m about to say something that the old me never would have imagined saying. “I want to sponsor the diner.”

Sammy blinks. “What?”

“An exclusive deal.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “No more newspaper ads. No wasted marketing budgets. Just me. I’ll put Sammy’s on every stream, every video. I’ll wear the logo, talk about the menu, offer discount codes.” I pause. “Hell, I’ll give away gift cards to my subscribers.” I let it settle before adding, “Let me advertise for you.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why the hell would you do that?”

Because it’s mine, I almost say. Because it’s home.nInstead, I shrug. “Because it’s a damn good diner.”

Sammy doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his chin, glancing around the place, the empty tables, the old neon sign humming in the window. His skepticism is obvious, but he’s thinking about it.

“You’d wear a Sammy’s Diner shirt on that fancy livestream of yours?” he asks.

“Every time.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You get millions of people watching you. And you’re tellin’ me you want them thinking about my little hole-in-the-wall?”

I smirk. “Why not? Internet loves nostalgia. Half my chat would kill for a place like this in their hometown.”

Another pause. Then, a chuckle. “Damn.” He picks up the coffee pot and pours himself a fresh cup, considering me like I’m some kind of alien. “Never thought I’d live to see the day one of my ex-line cooks made it big and still wanted to come back.”

I grin. “Well, don’t get all sentimental on me. I still owe you for all those shifts I called off.”

“Damn right you do.” He sighs, taking a sip of coffee. “You really think this could work?”

I nod. “I know it will.”

Sammy rubs the back of his neck, muttering something under his breath. Then he sticks out his hand. “Alright, Donovan. Let’s do it.” I shake his hand, and just like that, it’s sealed. That night, when I hit 'Start Stream', I’m wearing a Sammy’s Diner t-shirt. The chat notices immediately.

“Yo what’s with the shirt?”

“Van working at a diner now??”

“New merch drop??”

I smirk, leaning into the mic. “Nah. Just decided to sponsor the best damn diner in Bay Village.”

“Wait what, I think I know that place??”

“No way you got sponsored by a local diner.”

“This is actually fire.”

I pull up a promo code on screen. VANFAM10 for 10% off any meal over $5. My phone buzzes a second later, someone already used it. And for the first time in a long time, I feel real. The numbers will still go up and down. The sponsors will still come and go. Van will still exist, because he has to. But for once, so does Donovan.