Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter
Twenty-One
“Do you want to get high and play Baldur’s Gate with me tonight?” Mona asks.
I laugh, careful not to let my phone fall from where it’s tucked between my ear and my shoulder. It sounds tempting, honestly. “I thought you and Shay were going for dinner.”
“Ugh, no. She said she has more work to do on her applications.”
“On a Saturday night? What sort of applications?”
There’s a beat of silence before Mona releases a dramatic sigh that fuzzes through the speaker. “Some scholarship things, I think. Come on. I’ll order pizza.”
I bite back a smile and glance to where a freshly delivered pie waits on my countertop. The aroma of pepperoni fills my kitchen. “Can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“What plans?” Her tone is hilariously accusatory.
“Wesley and I are working on our games for NEWT.”
“You do that every night. Take a break.”
“No, we’re working on them together.”
“…Oh.”
I hear the telltale creak of the stairs, and I wonder for a moment if it’s Mona coming to snoop. But the steps are too measured, and they’re soon followed by a soft knock. Mona never knocks.
“He’s here. Gotta go.”
“I swear, Rea, you’d better tell me every detail tomorrow, or—”
I disconnect the call, toss my phone onto the couch, and open the door.
Wesley stands in an olive-green crewneck and jeans. His hair looks damp and just the slightest bit overworked with product, like he tried to smooth down the grown-out strands and lost the battle halfway.
Fine with me—I prefer it like this.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey. Hungry?”
“Oh, shit.” I notice his hands are full; a four-pack of beer from the brewery down the street dangles from his left while he balances a pizza box on his right. I laugh and point to the one I ordered.
“Great minds, huh?”
“That’s what this whole night’s about, isn’t it?”
Isn’t it?
If that’s all it’s about, why would he bother styling his hair, or wearing jeans that hug his thighs in a particularly distracting way? Why would I bother wearing a fucking skirt in my own home? (Though it is the comfiest one I have: ribbed, knit, and clingy.)
I put it out of my mind for now.
“Right,” I say. “Shall we get to it, then?”
“Where should I set up?”
I direct Wesley to prep his laptop on my living room coffee table; I’ve already got Afterwards pulled up on my office desktop.
We set plates of pizza next to each of them, my pepper pepperoni and Wesley’s square grandma pie.
Wesley sinks into my plush desk chair and takes it for a spin, a boyish grin curling at his lips as he admires the space.
“You’ve got a proper battle station in here, don’t you? ”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not a bit.”
We agree to reconvene and discuss after we’ve each had a chance to play through the other’s game. I leave him to it and am several steps out the door when I hear Wesley hiss, “Is this a fucking Wyrmwood table?”
I glance to my dad’s sorry-I’m-never-around graduation gift; I’m not surprised Wesley recognizes the brand. I turn and prop my hip against the doorframe. “Yes.”
He looks at me wide-eyed, like he’s just uncovered a crime scene. “And you’re just using it to hold junk?”
“I haven’t needed it since the Cataclysm.”
That cools him down a bit, though his eyes are still bright with excitement. “We could use it for Tyrant.”
“Slow down, Wes,” I say dryly. “It was hard enough for me to let you in here.”
Wesley holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Sure, sure. I’ll try to make the most of it.” He swivels back to my desktop, where the shifting clouds of Afterwards’s opening menu glide across the screen. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
As I sink into the world of Blood Pact—the world of Moros, I remind myself—I feel like I’m in another one of Sindra’s dream-memories.
I play as a freshly turned and desperately hungry Vadrien as he prowls the narrow alleyways of Zaska, grappling with how to sate his newfound lust for blood.
The world is rendered primarily in gray scale, save for the blood, which is always a vivid red.
In fact, the longer Vadrien goes without feeding, the brighter his potential victims glow with a hazy crimson light.
The hungrier he is, the more distracting the people are, and the more difficult it becomes to use stealth as you fight against his instinct to attack.
From both a design and a mechanical perspective, it is very, very clever. I’ve always known that Wesley’s strengths lie in art and animation, but to see how far his programming skills have come, too…It’s intimidating.
And inspiring.
When Wesley first told me about this game, I initially wondered why he would let the others play it—since it revealed Vadrien’s backstory, I assumed it would be a spoiler for the campaign.
But the NEWT competition we entered is exclusively for demos; the idea behind the contest is that the winner receives a boost of money, resources, and networking opportunities to help them finish their game.
Since Wesley’s demo takes me through only the first moments after Vadrien’s turning, it reveals very little about his circumstances or history.
It does reveal, however, Vadrien’s horror and terror at his own monstrous vampire form, which I can’t help but be curious about. Surely he wasn’t always as evil as he is in Tyrant. But what did that descent into darkness look like, and what was its catalyst?
Blood Pact, I think, will be Wesley’s answer to those questions—once it’s finished.
If he finishes it. If he wins.
I’m on my sixth playthrough of the game and my fourth page of notes for Wesley when I feel cold fingertips caress the back of my neck.
I bite down a yelp as I’m jerked back into reality. Wesley gestures to my notes and asks, “Writing me a scathing review?”
“Something like that.”
“Was the pizza that bad?”
I glance to where my plate sits untouched on the coffee table and let out a quick laugh. “Honestly, that’s probably the highest compliment I could give you,” I grumpily admit. “I started playing and forgot all about it.” I reach for a slice now; it’s not any less delicious cold.
There’s plenty of room on the couch, but Wesley drops onto the cushion right next to me.
His dark eyes are bright, and his hair is spiked up, like he’s been running his hands through it.
I can’t tell if he’s anxious or just shot with energy.
He opens and closes his mouth several times before I impatiently snap, “Well?”
His mouth curls into a small close-lipped smile.
“It’s fantastic.” He says it quietly, like it’s a secret.
“Yours, too.” We’re both whispering.
“Some of your puzzle designs could use some work—”
“Your attack mechanics are a little repetitive, and—”
“—it shouldn’t be that difficult at the beginning. You’ve got to warm people up to a challenge, Reagan, but—”
“—it can’t just be pretty; it has to be clever, too, so—”
We both shut our mouths at the same time—and then burst into laughter. I didn’t catch a word he said.
Wesley smiles. “Again, but slower? We’ll take turns.”
“Okay.”
“So. The opening frame…”
As he talks, he lays his palm atop my knee and scratches his fingernail idly down the ribbed fabric of my skirt.
He gestures animatedly with his other hand, splaying out his fingers as he describes the way I’ve built the world, or tracing them in the air when he outlines the mechanics of the puzzles.
Something in my chest squeezes tight enough that I feel myself get a little breathless.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this understood—this seen.
It’s one thing to hear Mona tell me my game is fun.
It’s another matter entirely to listen as Wesley cuts straight to the heart of how my strategies, styles, and skills weave together to make my game work brilliantly.
When he shifts to criticisms, some might assume them to be too harsh, but I hear them for what he really means.
You took the easy route with this particular mechanic, but you can handle doing this the hard way.
You can afford to trust your players more than you do.
If you want to compete with me, you need to take this to the next level—but you’re amazingly skilled and more than capable. Challenge yourself.
At the same time, my attention feels split between his thoughtful feedback and the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of my skirt as his fingertips caress the curve of my thigh. I don’t know when this sort of casual touching became normal between us. The Halloween party, maybe?
Regardless, it’s alarmingly easy to settle into.
Hours pass like this: switching spots between his laptop and my computer, playing each other’s games and working on our own, brainstorming over cold pizza on the couch.
I’ve been making good progress on Afterwards over the past few weeks, but tonight feels different.
Errors are especially glaring, solutions click into place more quickly, and Wesley is able to identify problems that I spent days fumbling through on my own.
I’m almost frustrated I didn’t let him play earlier, when he first asked. I could have gotten further so much faster.
Long past midnight, I feel like my eyeballs are about to melt out of my head, but I’m still playing.
We haven’t touched the beer, but I’m absolutely buzzed—with energy, inspiration, and something like anticipation.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen Wesley, so I pad over to the office and pause in the doorway.
He sits with his chin propped in his palm.
He’s not even playing the game anymore; he’s just watching the colors shift as the orange and purple clouds glide across the screen and admiring the way the red-scarfed wanderer idles around, sometimes lifting her hand to shield her eyes as she peers into the distance.
His eyes are half lidded and dreamy, and I doubt he even realizes he’s smiling.
I can imagine the bittersweet, whimsical background music tinkling in his ears.
Slowly, decisively, I feel a different puzzle piece click into place.