Six in the Surgery Queue
Six in the Surgery Queue
The antiseptic sting of the clinic waiting room clawed at my nostrils as fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps overhead. Forty minutes past my appointment time, my knee bounced uncontrollably against scratchy upholstery until my trembling fingers found salvation: that little cricket bat icon. One tap and suddenly the vinyl chairs morphed into dew-kissed grass, the murmur of sick patients became a roaring stadium crowd in my earbuds, and my racing heartbeat synced with the pulsating real-time ball-tracking algorithm as I faced the final over.
12 runs to win. Sweat slicked my thumb against the screen as the virtual bowler – some menacing AI creation with a run-up smoother than my dermatologist's promises – charged toward me. The seam position rotated visibly in mid-air, that insane attention to detail making me instinctively adjust my grip on the phone. A vicious yorker came screaming in, but my swipe connected with that sweet *thwack* only possible through haptic feedback calibrated to mimic willow meeting leather. The ball soared over long-on's head as clinic walls dissolved into digital floodlights.
Then disaster. A mistimed hook shot sent the ball spiraling toward deep square leg. Time froze as the fielder lunged – that bastard AI calculating trajectories faster than my panic – fingers grazing the rope before pulling back a certain six. I nearly hurled my phone across the room when the umpire's finger crept skyward. "Out? Are you bloody joking?" I hissed at the screen, drawing stares from germ-ridden strangers. The game's ruthlessness was brutal, glorious, and utterly addictive.
My next batsman strode in with icy calm I certainly didn't feel. Five balls left, nine runs needed. I feverishly dragged fielders into position, the interface snapping players with unnerving precision until I spotted the gap: a sliver of space behind point. The bowler delivered a leg-cutter that spun sharply off the pitch – that proprietary physics engine making the deviation visible down to the stitch rotation. A reverse-sweep sliced through my chosen gap, the ball racing across the boundary as the digital crowd detonated into chaos. Pure predatory satisfaction coursed through me.
Final ball. One run to win. The bowler's eyes glinted with pixelated malice. My thumb hovered, slick and shaking. A slower ball disguised as a rocket – the AI's cruelest trick yet. I committed too early, swing wild and desperate, hearing the death rattle before it happened. But wait! The bails lit up without falling! That millimeter-perfect stump physics saved me as the ball grazed off-stump. We scampered the winning run while nurses called my name, my shirt clinging to my back with real-world sweat and digital triumph. The ad banner popping up over the victory celebration felt like a punch to the gut – the only flaw in this masterpiece of tension.
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