Chapter 30 #2
Before I know it, it’s senior showcase day.
The auditorium is packed. Three hundred seats, all filled with students, professors, industry professionals, and parents pretending they understand what their kids have been doing for four years.
My name is fourth on the presentation list, which means I have approximately thirty minutes to not vomit from nerves.
I peek out into the audience, searching for her.
She’s not here.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I didn’t exactly encourage her to come from our last conversation.
I'm backstage in my only clean button-down—navy blue, Freddie ironed it for me—clutching my laptop like a lifeline. The guy before me is showing some VR meditation experience that involves a lot of whale sounds. The audience seems into it.
“Prescott, you're up next,” the stage manager whispers.
My hands are shaking. Two years of work, my entire future, compressed into a fifteen-minute presentation and five minutes of Q&A.
Troy, Freddie, and Alfie are somewhere in the third row. They promised not to make faces during my presentation, but I don't trust them. My parents are here too—Dad drove down this morning, sitting somewhere in the back with Mom.
“And now,” Professor Long's voice echoes through the sound system, “presenting Fault Line, a narrative-driven game exploring choice and consequence, Ethan Prescott.”
Deep breath.
I walk onto the stage, the lights bright enough that I can barely see past the first few rows. The projection screen behind me flickers to life with my title card. I set up my laptop with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
“Hi everyone. I'm Ethan, and I'd like to tell you a story about losing everything.”
That gets their attention. The rustling stops.
“Two years ago, I started building a game about a wizard's apprentice whose magical staff gets destroyed. I thought I was writing about adventure and magic and heroic triumph.” I click to the first gameplay footage—the apprentice in his tower, staff gleaming with power. “Turns out I was writing about myself.”
A few chuckles from the audience. Good. They're listening.
“This is Fault Line—a six-hour narrative experience about what happens when the thing that defines you gets taken away.”
I walk them through the gameplay—the careful character development, the mechanics of spell-casting, the slow build of attachment between player and staff. On the screen behind me, footage shows the progression system, the way players invest hours in crafting their perfect weapon.
“By hour five, players have put everything into this staff. It's not just a tool—it's their identity in the game world. Their choices, their style, their progress. It represents mastery.”
Click. The second act footage plays—darker, more intense.
“Which is why this moment—” The destruction scene plays on screen, the staff shattering in slow motion, “—should destroy them.”
I hear a few gasps from the audience. Someone who hasn't seen the game before.
“My first version ended here. The staff breaks, game over, credits roll. It was meant to be profound.” I pause, letting them sit with that. “It was actually just cruel.”
Click. New slide.
“A beta tester told me something that changed everything. They said 'shock doesn't equal satisfaction.' They were absolutely right. I'd confused making players feel something with making them feel something meaningful.”
I can feel the audience leaning in now. Even the industry reps in the front row have put down their phones.
“So I rebuilt the entire ending around a simple question. What if losing isn't about the loss itself, but about how we choose to face it?”
The new ending plays on screen. The three choices shimmer into existence.
“Three paths. Same destination. Completely different emotional experiences.”
I demonstrate each choice, showing how the apprentice tries to repair the staff and fails, accepts the loss and gets overwhelmed, or surrenders to destruction. Each path leads to darkness, to that single heartbeat.
“Players don't get to choose whether they lose. But they get to choose how they lose. And that choice—that agency in the face of powerlessness—transforms devastation into something else. Something participatory.”
The demo ends. The screen goes dark except for my final slide: a simple quote.
“The best stories aren't about avoiding failure. They're about choosing how to fail better.”
I close my laptop. “Thank you.”
The applause is immediate and louder than I expected. Someone whistles—definitely Troy. I can see a few industry people making notes, which has to be good, right?
“We'll now take questions,” Professor Long announces.
A hand shoots up immediately—older woman, probably industry.
“The narrative structure is sophisticated for a student project. What inspired you to focus on failure as a game mechanic?”
I think about Dad, about football, about everyone who said I was wasting my time.
“Personal experience,” I say simply. “I've had some practice with losing things that mattered. Games let us practice emotions safely. I wanted to make a space where failure felt... permissive. Where it's okay to not be okay.”
More hands. A student asks about the technical implementation. Someone else wants to know about the art style choices. I'm in the zone now, the nervousness replaced by passion for the work.
Then, from the middle of the audience, a familiar voice—Marcus from Nebula, Professor Long's brother.
“The choice mechanism at the end is revolutionary. It solves a problem we've been discussing in the industry for years—how to give players agency without sacrificing narrative integrity. How did you come up with that solution?”
I take a breath, scanning the audience. I swear for a moment my heart stops beating.
In the fifth row, I spot her—Piper, tucked into an aisle seat, wearing her oversized UMS hoodie.
She's here.
She came.