Jeremy Elbertson XII was part of a long line of entertainers stretching back to 21st-century Terra. Between the UMS takeover of the Federal territory of Nevada and its eventual restoration to the NUSA, the Elbertson line shifted focus from basic synchnet entertainment to UMS-approved morale exercises.
Even after the Restoration, the Elbertsons continued to find greater success streaming from combat zones rather than virtual entertainment programs. Regardless of format, be it on the synchnet or in a warzone, the Elbertsons have always had one rule:
Don't listen to chat.
Elbertson XII was used to this exchange. It was the same dance that his father performed, and his father's father, and so on into Terran antiquity. The observers would be permitted, indeed encouraged to comment on his performance in the field, and he would respond to their comments in a kind of conversation with the gestalt. At current there were ~16 million observers, each permitted one message per day free of charge.
Certain observers - those who had funded repairs, ammunition, upgrades - were permitted more messages in larger fonts, obscuring their less-moneyed colleagues. That simple change gave them the illusion of camaraderie - surely paying a person for permission to send them multiple daily messages in 36-point font qualifies as a kind of friendship? Such was the bargain the Elbertsons have made since time immemorial - money for engagement.
"Chat, we aren't working for an NGO, we can't just roll through public infrastructure." The messages continued to pour in - thousands of observers throwing their weight behind their desire for destruction. Elbertson XII didn't even see the names anymore - he had long since learned to read the observer feed's mood rather than specific messages, and right now they were in the mood to be contrarian. Fedland had fallen back into old habits after forming the NUSA, and demographic scans showed that the chat had skewed corporate over the last few months. Fortunately, between his own natural talents and his father's career of ruthless pragmatism, he had enough resources to pick and choose his clients when he didn't want to let the observers decide.
"Look, if my big fucking foot - not my foot, my feet are normal - if my mech's big fucking robot foot slips and clips a railway, that's one thing, unloading an ACS/10 into the cancer ward is a different thing, that's like, illegal. Shut up, my feet are normal! I have regular feet. I'm not going to put feet on the feed, chat. I'm in a full suit, I couldn't put my feet up if I wanted to! And there's nothing - no, I don't have trench foot, you can't get trench foot in a mech!"
And on and on it went. Keep talking, keep moving, keep shooting. The stream is only a few hours a day, after all - there is worse work.