In Erangel, which is full of shells and the smell of gunpowder, the war is continuous, death is ambushed in the grass, and fog rolls among the gravel. The boundary between the virtual world and the real world has long been blurred like footprints in the mud. Suddenly, a fast food restaurant broke into this wasteland like a naughty child: KFC’s red and white sign hung brightly on the outer wall of the dilapidated gas station, as if to sprinkle a handful of fresh colors on this dead land.
It is no longer an ordinary ruin, but a strange shelter. You walk in, just press the button on the ordering machine, and the screen will light up your game nickname, followed by a hot fried chicken meal. You may wonder, how can there be the smell of fried chicken on this scorched rusty ground and bloody battlefield? However, the fragrance is like a ghost, floating in the void, entangled with the souls who have swallowed the smell of hometown soil in reality.
That fried chicken meal is not only a game supply, it is like a potion, summoning people’s desire and nostalgia. The golden chicken legs are given the identity of first aid kits. When the characters take a bite, their movements are absurdly solemn – like a silent protest against this ruthless killing. French fries become bandages, and drinks are energy drinks, as if all the sufferings in the world can be soothed, sutured, and prolonged by this simple food.
The game designer set rules for this gluttony: each KFC can only be used once per game, and it can only be used again in the fourth stage. Just like the medicinal wine under the old locust tree in the countryside, it is rare to have a mouthful of three parts sweet, leaving seven parts bitter. That bitterness is the background color of life, and it is the evidence that people are still struggling beyond life and death.
Not only in Erangel, this KFC is also quietly spread across the wilderness and ruins of Miramar, Sanhok, and Vikendi. Even on the belly of the aircraft, there are bright red banners flying, like a bloodline connecting every corner, suggesting the temptation and comfort everywhere. It is like the smoke from the cooking in my hometown. No matter how far you go, you can always smell that smell and evoke the deepest memories.
Those people running on the battlefield, their figures intertwined, the sound of gunfire and footsteps intertwined into a movement of joy and sorrow. In the cold shadow of the muzzle, they looked forward to the bucket of fried chicken, which was not only a supply, but also a yearning for home and a thirst for warmth. Even the pixels of the electronic screen can convey the fiery vitality in people’s hearts.
Sometimes, in this cruel world, what people want most is not the glory of victory, but a mouthful of hot rice that can warm the body and soul. A bite of chicken leg, biting it, is a commitment to life and a mockery of death. It silently tells you: Even in the ruins, there are still seeds of spring in your heart.
So, gunfire and fried chicken coexist, and dead silence and warmth are intertwined. This absurd picture is like a silent poem, with the fragrance of soil and the elegy of humanity, floating on the edge of virtuality and reality.