Chapter 2
Luca
If you get stuck in Desolate Dread, press Q for an overview of all current quests.
“Fuck!”
“And a good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“Morning,” I grumble in reply as Maleek flops down behind his desk, which is right next to mine.
His black curls are a windblown mess, and after a few seconds of trying to tame them in the window’s reflection, he sighs and gives up.
He’s early; it’s still quiet in the building, but there are sounds drifting over from the other corner of the open-plan office, and they’re about as desperate as my own.
No surprise there—the team of developers working on the game Lawless, our studio’s own pride and joy, hasn’t been getting any real sleep these past few weeks.
They’ve had to push through to avoid any more delays in the release of part two.
It’s crunch time—the dreaded phrase in our industry for eighty-hour weeks and unpaid overtime.
The shadows under the developers’ eyes are even darker than mine, but I envy them.
At least their game will be finished soon.
Mine, on the other hand, seems to be regressing.
“Have you slept at all? Or showered? Please tell me you’ve left the office . . .” Maleek gives me an appraising look, but he knows the answer full well. When I take this as an occasion to remain silent, he heaves a loud sigh. “Luca, bruv, you need some sleep.”
I hadn’t been planning on another all-nighter at all; I’d just forgotten the time. I only realized how long I’d been staring at my screen when the first few rays of sunlight made their way into our thirteenth-floor office. But some things are more important than sleep right now.
“Other people our age go out on the town. And people with your looks end those kinds of nights in all sorts of different beds around London. You really need a break. Badly.”
“I need a working demo by tomorrow morning, but I can’t seem to fix this bloody bug.”
I chuck my mouse down on my desk in frustration, the cable being the only thing that keeps it from falling to the floor.
It would be the second mouse this week to fall victim to my sleep-deprived anger—and another expense that’s definitely outside our budget.
This is another thing I envy the other team for: their budget.
“Well, what’s the matter then?”
I scoot my chair back and gesture at the three screens in front of me so Maleek can take a look for himself. He scoots his chair forward a little and rests his elbows on the dark-brown adjustable desk, whose standing function I use entirely too rarely.
“‘Set actor location,’” he mutters, reading along with the code as he moves Zachary, our MC, around using the keyboard.
Zachary floats cheerfully up a flight of stairs.
Which would be great if he were a ghost or a bird.
But he’s not. Zachary has legs. And he should be bloody using them to walk upstairs.
“Hmm,” Maleek says and scoots even closer to the screen, his near-black eyes zeroing in on the code.
I lean back and let my gaze wander from him to my messy workstation, taking in the three empty coffee mugs that somehow helped me stay awake last night.
I stifle a yawn and run a hand through my dark-brown hair, which is in need of a trim.
There’s a scratching noise as I run my hands over my cheeks.
I have no idea when I last shaved, but it’s clearly about time for that as well.
My life’s a mess. If I don’t win this prize money, all of this will have been for nothing.
“I wish this were a game-crashing bug, at least,” I say a few minutes later, while Maleek is still checking the code, the frown lines on his forehead deepening. “Something serious. But this? Just embarrassing. This is a basic mistake, one I shouldn’t be making at this point.”
“Nonsense, this sort of thing happens to the best of us now and then. Why don’t you pop over and ask our friends from Lawless? Some of their NPCs were glitching around yesterday. Amanda was swearing so loudly I could hear her from over here. Through my headset.”
“Or maybe I’m just rubbish at this. Maybe pitching this game was a stupid idea. Maybe we should accept Hank’s offer before we waste even more money and just switch to the Lawless team. It’s all hands on deck over there, and . . .”
“Ah, fuck me.”
“This isn’t exactly the kind of pep talk I was hoping for.”
“No, fuck me as in, ‘I think I’ve got it.’” Maleek’s words are followed by ferocious typing, and I peer over his shoulder as he edits the code and utters a triumphant “Ha!” a few seconds later. Zachary’s running. And I sink back into my chair in relief, closing my eyes.
“Fuck,” I say again, but gratefully this time.
“Right, and now that our friend Zach is fixed, back to you.” I can hear the quiet noise of wheels on carpet, and when I open my eyes again, Maleek is sitting next to me with a serious look in his eye.
“You need sleep. How many hours have you been awake for now? No wonder you can’t think straight.
Our game’s absolutely wicked, and you know it.
You’re going to finish up the demo now, and then you’ll go home, have a lie-in, and tomorrow, you’ll go to that conference, and you’ll blow them away so hard that they’ll hand over the cash prize right then and there. ”
“Now that’s more like it.”
“Thanks, I’m a quick learner.”
I smile wearily. “True. But I don’t think that’s how things work over there.”
“Whatever. You said the same sort of thing before you applied to Bytes I bet they have a pool!”
“It’s a possibility, but our competition will probably try to drown me in it.”
Maleek puts the flyer back down, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Right, definitely less horror gaming for you. Just listen to yourself! And now off you pop for nutrients, fresh air, and some sun. You need it.”
I put my PC on standby and follow Maleek over to the lift. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“Yep. That’s why you’ll be treating me to a cheese toastie at Pret a Manger.”
“That’s a deal,” I reply, and Maleek’s self-satisfied expression makes me laugh for the first time today.
Hank’s office looks like it’s straight out of a posh interior design catalog. Some pictures that probably count as art decorate the walls, and the shelves hold trophies from all the computer game awards he’s won. No family photos, no plants, not even a single misplaced sticky note.
The good mood brought on by my full stomach and Maleek’s rambling about some new bit of Warhammer lore evaporates the moment Hank’s blue-gray eyes land on me.
His face has more forehead wrinkles than laugh lines, which always makes him look slightly reproachful.
But today we deserve it, I suppose. A feeling of guilt sneaks up on me, because I’ve made no real progress.
Again. Sure, all in all, we’re making headway, but each finished to-do item just seems to create two new ones.
“You’re behind schedule.” As usual, Hank gets straight to the point with us.
Small talk has never really been his thing.
Normally, I appreciate his bluntness, because uncompromising though he may be with his critiques, he’s also straightforward when he’s excited about something.
When I pitched Desolate Dread to him, he told me in no uncertain terms that the idea was one of the best he’d heard in a long time.
Not to flatter me or win me over for his team, but because he really believed in the idea—I’ll always be grateful to him for that.
“Ever so slightly,” I say, which is a bit of an understatement, because we are, in fact, far behind. I’ve been investing all my hours this week in completing the demo instead of working on the programming.
Hank must realize I’m glossing over some of the facts, because he chuckles and raises an eyebrow. “‘Ever so slightly’? Have you made any progress at all since our last meeting?”
“We’ve been focusing on different details, fixing bugs . . .”
“But you’ve made no progress with the really tricky bits,” Hank concludes correctly and sighs. “We have a release date that we can’t postpone. We can fix little bugs later on, but we can’t release an unfinished game.”
I bite my tongue so I don’t snap at him that there’s no way I’m launching a game with bugs in it that I know about and could have fixed.
“If we had more budget . . . ,” Maleek begins, and I watch as Hank’s eyebrow travels even further up his forehead. “At least to hire someone part-time. Or a working student,” Maleek backs down.
Another second and Hank’s eyebrow might just take off into orbit.
“You presented this project to me with a budget plan, and I agreed to that budget. I even raised it a few months ago. But now it’s your turn to deliver,” he says firmly, and my heart is in my mouth, because I know he’s right.
I signed a contract. Hank believed in us and our game when no one else did.
I need to deliver. “I can’t and won’t stump up any more money.
” He looks back and forth between the two of us. “Will you manage?”
I nod and suppress a sigh. I know it’s not Hank’s fault.
If not for him, I’d be nowhere near having the funds necessary to develop this game.
Without him, Maleek and I would be on our own, we wouldn’t have anybody to support us with marketing, and we’d have to write the QA tests ourselves.
I’d be facing endless crowdfunding campaigns right now.
Unfortunately, I was far too naive planning the budget—an easy beginner’s mistake to make, as I’ve learned from friends over a pint or two.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everything costs more and takes longer than you think.
“Good,” Hank says as Maleek nods too. “Chin up. The GameChanger prelims are tomorrow, right? You’ll wow the judges and win that prize money.” Hank grants us one of his rare smiles.
“I hope so,” I reply. “The competition is strong.”
“Not as strong as you lot,” he says, and the absolute certainty in his voice gives me a spark of hope. “Rodrick Crow recognizes potential when he sees it. Don’t worry so much.”
I’m not surprised that he’s familiar with the name Rodrick Crow, the organizer of GameChanger and estate owner. Considering how popular Hank is in the scene, they’ve probably known each other for years.
“I got the email with the list of participants.” Hank is drumming his fingers on the desk, the only noise in the otherwise completely silent office. “PixelPulse is going to be there.”
I nod again. “Yes, I’ve had a look around their socials. They’re doing a kind of pixel-art farming simulator, only it’s a bookshop in a small town you’re supposed to be building, not a farm.”
“That’s right. The developer, Sophia Richards . . .” He hesitates, and a crease appears between his eyebrows. “She’s not someone you want to pick a fight with, or trust.”
“OK . . . ,” I say slowly, confused about the change in subject. “How do you know each other?”
“She used to work here. For me. That was a long time ago, but she didn’t leave on her own terms, and when she left .
. . Let’s just say she was willing to drag us down with her.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries everything she can to find out your weaknesses and then use them against you without so much as batting an eyelid.
She seems cute when you first meet her, but don’t underestimate her.
She’s certainly your strongest competition on this entire list.”
“Got it,” I reply and make a mental note to find out more about her, because so far, I’ve been focusing more on the games and less on the people behind them.
“What did she do?” Maleek presses with his usual lack of tact, but to my surprise, Hank answers him.
“I’ve concluded that her plan was to open her own studio from the start. She nicked our contacts here and used them for herself. This is no rarity, unfortunately; these things happen. But what’s much worse: She stole one of our ideas. Novel Haven, the game she’s applying with now.”
I let out a big breath. “I beg your pardon?”
“And you’re allowing her to participate?
” Maleek sounds annoyed as well. Because as supportive as Hank may have been with us and his teams, he’s not exactly known for giving in or letting others have their way.
“This is PixelPulse’s first game; they’ve been developing it for two years. You must have proof, right?”
“We dropped the project before we really even got started.” Hank waves us down. “There are good reasons why we didn’t end up making the game ourselves; 2D is not our thing. Still, she mustn’t win, and she won’t.”