Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Andi
Hey, Andi, you’re a little intimidating, you know? You should try to be nicer. More personable.
I can hear Philo’s forthcoming lecture already. It hardly seems fair I should have to listen to it twice—once in my head and once live—so I drown it out with a mouthful of Buncha Crunch. Thanks to the fact that Heartrender’s building used to house a whiskey distillery, my office—along with several other offices and conference rooms—sits a good ten feet above the main floor where most of our cubicled gamedevs sprawl. As a result, I have an unbroken view of Philo walking the newbie (Cat?) to the elevator bank.
I watch as Gabe Lopez, our lead designer, approaches them and introduces himself. He’s broad shouldered and good looking, with the kind of smile that makes dogs wag their tails and babies coo, so I’m not surprised when the newbie beams up at him with delight in her eyes. Now there’s someone who’s appropriately nice and personable , I grouse. Unlike me.
Philo’s right, of course. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on the newbie. It’s not her fault both I and my assistant Carter lost track of Ainsley Ray, senior writer for Gaymes.exe, inside our own office. It’s not her fault that Ainsley thinks if she hounds me over email every other day, I’ll spill enough beans to win her the Pulitzer. And it’s certainly not her fault that Brett McCloy, our new “supervisor” from Elevation Art, won’t stop giving me “suggestions” for how to improve the narrative of Compass Hollow .
Days like today, it’s hard to remember the entire weight of Compass Hollow doesn’t rest on my shoulders. I’m in charge of the story of the game, which informs everything from gameplay (does the player meet a mentor who teaches them how to rappel or paraglide?) to music (what’s the emotional beat of each scene, so the composer can decide which key the hero’s leitmotif should be in?). So even though there are hundreds of people working on Hollow , it can feel like until the story is snapped into place, I’m keeping everyone from getting their jobs done. We’re only fourteen months out from our target first-of-November release date (just in time for next year’s holiday shopping season), which means if I want to avoid giving all my coworkers high blood pressure, I need to get cracking.
Still, until a month ago, my team and I were on track to deliver finalized scripts by the new year. Then Brett McCloy came along and said, “Have you considered introducing some romance to the plot?”
He appointed himself our overseer after convincing the powers that be at Elevation Art, Heartrender’s publisher and the company funding our game development, that Compass Hollow was too big an investment to let “run wild.” Overnight, he became our de facto big bad and a never-ending source of migraine-inducing emails that take way too long to respond to. Just today, he sent me a poorly formatted bar chart that supposedly proves how giving the player character, Sentinel, love interests will boost sales—“especially among females”—by thirty-five percent. “I’m a numbers guy,” he wrote, “and the numbers speak for themselves.” I deleted his message after I found an error in his math.
At least he’s not Jan, though, my old boss on Aftermath , who—for years—made my life a living hell. Who hired me, then stabbed me in the back when I rejected his advances. I suppose I should be grateful.
Down on the main floor, the newbie tosses her head back and laughs at something Gabe has said. Her fat ponytail metronomes and I count its swishes, equal parts mesmerized and exasperated. I should’ve told her in the moment that there’s no chance in hell we’re wedging in love interests, but her incongruous greeting ( I hear you need help in the romance department? Seriously?) caught me off guard. It’s just as well, given I haven’t exactly figured out the best way to inform Brett I’m not writing romance into Hollow .
Keep your head down. Pay your dues. Hearing my ex-boss’s words replay in my ears, I have to tamp down the urge to chuck my candy across the room. Jan fuckin’ Eschler. Fuck that guy.
Jan wasn’t wrong about everything, though. When I was twenty-four and still wet behind the ears, he told me I’d grow to hate this job as soon as I gained any sort of recognition for being good at it. At the time, my bigheaded self dismissed his cynicism as a middle-aged white guy trying to scare off an up-and-comer.
Then, three years ago, TornadoCon happened, and when the world realized I wasn’t yet another pasty male developer, everything changed. For weeks after my home address in Seattle and mobile phone number got leaked online, I couldn’t sleep alone in my apartment, could barely open my laptop to submit my sick days for approval. It got so bad with the drive-by honkings and eggs splattering across my windows like burst suns that ultimately, I ran away. Moved out of Washington to Colorado in an attempt to start over. Nowadays, I’d happily trade my Aftermath writing credit to have every rando on the internet forget what they think they know about me.
Including people like that newbie. Dumping out another handful of chocolate-covered crisped rice clusters, I track the progress of her elevator down to the ground floor. Six … five … four …
“Andi?”
I whirl around, eyes narrowed and heart pounding, but it’s only Carter, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“I sent Ainsley on her way. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Did she give you any trouble?” I rub my shoulder where Ainsley touched it. Since I slept with her half a year ago, she hasn’t stopped bugging me or my team. Part of me wants to applaud her journalistic determination—the part that deigned to give her a tour today, apparently—but most of me just wants her to leave me the fuck alone.
Carter shakes his head. “I told her you’re honored to be pushing the boundaries of the gaming industry as a diverse developer but your primary focus is on making a great game for the fans.”
I exhale a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Carter. Good work. Although for the record, I’m not ‘diverse.’ I’m just me. Let’s both keep a closer eye on Ainsley next time, yeah?”
He ducks his head and leaves, giving me the space I need to talk my heart down from leaping out of my chest. Work is where I have my head on the straightest, but surprise encounters still occasionally leave me shaken. After a few breaths, I feel calm enough to settle down in front of my laptop.
Not a moment too soon. A knock sounds at my door. Philo.
“’Sup,” I say, running my eyes down my inbox.
Stepping inside, she posts up against the doorframe. “You’re a little intimidating, you know? You could stand to be—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “A little nicer? More personable?”
With an eye roll that looks like it hurts, Philo vaults herself into my armchair. My special armchair, which Philo’s always threatening to get rid of because it harshes our techy “cool company” vibe. It’s ugly, a stained lump of army-green canvas that has followed me around since college, but it’s also my hermit crab shell. Some weeks, I sleep in it more than my actual bed.
“She’s new,” Philo says, hooking her knees over the sides of the chair.
“She also brought up TornadoCon and Jan Eschler within seconds of meeting me.” I think back to the way Cat’s features transformed as soon as she figured out who I was, her overbright smile that almost hurt to look at. A smile that disappeared as soon as I started questioning her about her conversation with Ainsley.
“Andi, not everyone knows about your beef with your former boss, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s the way you want it,” Philo says. “Cat was only excited to meet you. Give her a chance. She’s talented. And a woman of color . Not to mention completely adorable.”
I frown. Whether Cat is adorable or a woman of color is irrelevant, and as far as I’m concerned, her talent remains unproven. “I wasn’t mean. I told her I’d reach out. How is that mean?”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Philo groans before fixing me with a glare. “What’s new with Ainsley? You’re not getting messy again, are you?”
“No way,” I say, returning to my metastasizing emails. “Carter dispensed with her. With any luck, we’ll get to go the whole week without hearing from her.”
“She writes for Gaymes.exe, Andz.” Philo’s one of the few people I let call me that, and only because she knew me before the whole “Andz” persona became a thing. “Of course she wants to get the jump on whatever you’re cooking up.”
I think back to the way her index finger lingered on my arm. “I think she wants to get the jump on more than my proverbial cooking.”
“And whose fault is that?” Philo scoffs.
“Hey,” I return. “I don’t do relationships anymore. I told her as much the night we …”
“We’re all adults here, Andz,” Philo says. “You can say it: the night you two boinked.”
I can’t help it: I laugh. Grabbing a Morgana plushie off my desk, I lob it at her. It bounces harmlessly off her knee. “Get out of here. I’ve got a game to write.”
Cackling, Philo launches herself out of my armchair and leaves me in peace. Dragging my headphones on, I push play on a Darren Korb track and get to work.