Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Andi
“Have a great night! See you tomorrow.”
The chorus of weeknight well-wishers echoes around me. A rapidly emptying office at six PM on a Thursday is a great sign, given Philo and I have been making a fuss about people working fewer hours. Neither of us approves of crunch, and with more than a year to go until our target release date, there’s no reason to burn people out—especially not with the recent spate of articles criticizing gaming industry culture. I don’t want anything, least of all a disgruntled employee, bringing undue attention to Heartrender, Compass Hollow , or me.
Keep your head down. Pay your dues. Jan’s mantra is so unwelcome that I rip my headset off from around my neck and fling it onto my desk.
After Aftermath ’s aftermath, my girlfriend at the time—whom I only dated for a handful of months—quickly grew frustrated with me and my newfound panic attacks over all the harassment and stalking and yes, occasional death threat. We got into so many tiffs that for a while, we stopped talking, and I packed my bags, left Seattle, and moved back in with my mom in Candlewood Springs, Colorado. My mom did her best—she always has—but after two weeks in an off-the-grid trailer with only a chessboard and a deck of cards missing the queen of hearts for entertainment, I moved out again. She didn’t do anything wrong, but I could feel her judgment in every sidelong glance she leveled at me. Now will you stop horsing around and get a normal job? In her view, games are violent. They attract Bad, Lonely People. What happened to me was just proof of that.
I can’t blame my mom for how she thinks, though. When I was six, my dad left us to take a job at Konami in Tokyo, Japan, and never came back. My mom had to raise me all by herself, in the nineties no less, right as internet fearmongering was gathering steam. Back when AIM chat rooms contained only high schoolers wearing dELiA*s T-shirts, serial killers, and no one in between. Between a missing husband who ran off to build games and all the psychopaths supposedly haunting Craigslist, I don’t wonder why she disapproves of the path I ended up on.
Settling my headset back over my ears—just because I don’t want my team to crunch doesn’t mean I’m keen on going home to an empty one-bedroom apartment at sundown—I dash off a quick reply to Brett McCloy’s latest request for an update: “Sure. We can put together a few things for you to review on Monday. See you then.”
It’s going to be a long weekend, so I place an order for Thai delivery and play a round of Minesweeper on my phone before getting down to work. Five minutes later, though, my calendar reminds me that I have an appointment at seven PM . With a … I squint at the name. Cat Li.
The newbie who’s been flooding my inbox with emails.
In a flash, Cat’s stupidly soft Charon’s Scythe hoodie comes back to me, even though I haven’t run into her since our initial encounter. For some reason, that hoodie’s been stuck in my mind—along with her round face, fat ponytail, and overbright smile that hurt to look at.
An overbright smile … My blood freezes over. Wait, have I run into her? Did she walk past me earlier today? Did I walk past her without saying hi?
I mutter a curse. In my defense, I’d just gotten out of therapy, where my therapist informed me I “could explore opening up a wee bit.” I’m not sure what pisses me off more: her softball language or the notion that hell isn’t other people.
Pushing back from my desk, I get up and begin pacing my office. It’s a nine-by-nine square surrounded on two sides by glass walls that look out onto the D-pad (the main floor where most of the developers sit), so normally I don’t give in to my more fidgety instincts. No one needs one of their higher-ups prowling half a flight of stairs above them. But it’s late, and there’s no one for me to “terrorize” with my “looming shadow” (to hear Philo tell it, I’m basically Smaug in human form), so I let myself stalk and even bounce a stress ball off the drywall every few laps.
What does this Cat Li want from me anyway? Most temps are happy to do the bare minimum and collect a paycheck, so why is this one emailing me daily asking for more work than the handful of codex assignments I’ve pitched her way? After her third plea to talk to me about romance in Compass Hollow , I stopped opening her messages entirely. I’m not about to let Brett’s “brilliant idea for tapping into the female market” sway what’s good for the game. Hollow is a serious story about the end of the world and gods who reward servitude with betrayal. None of the characters have time for frilly things like lust and romantic love, and neither do I.
Cat can’t possibly be excited about squeezing out saccharine romantic subplots. No, she must be one of those nervous types, someone who makes a big show out of their willingness to Do the Work because they’re afraid of the blowback if they don’t.
Well, that’s easy enough. I’ll just reassure her that my core team and I have got the narrative handled and convince her to leave me alone. She gets her free time back, and I get to return to my peace, quiet, and pad see ew.
Speaking of, where are my noodles? I wander down the half stairs and across the D-pad to where the main elevator bank is. As I approach, I hear the crank and clang of one of the old metal boxes heaving its way up to the sixth floor. Perfect , I think as I pull a five-dollar bill out of my wallet.
The elevator bell dings. I lean forward, tip at the ready. And see … an explosion of white.
“What the …?” I manage to say before the figure—Cat—looks up at me. She’s crouched on the floor like some sort of feral cat and sifting through several hundred pages of printouts. I take a step into the elevator and realize I recognize most of the lines: somehow, this random temp has gotten her mitts on very proprietary Compass Hollow writing.
I narrow my eyes. “Where’d you get that?”
Cat stops her shuffling and flicks her eyes to the money wadded up in my fist. Within the span of one second, I see her face run through the entire gamut of negative human emotions: confusion, guilt, fear, then finally, red-hot rage. Standing, she crosses her arms and hugs her elbows. “I’m not a TaskRabbit, you know. You don’t have to tip me.”
“Huh? This isn’t for you.” The declaration makes its way out before I can second-guess how it might sound out loud, and my mouth overcorrects by blurting, “I mean, do you want it?”
Cat stares at me with fire in her whiskey-brown eyes. “I’m here for our meeting,” she says. “I only printed these out because—”
The elevator cuts her off to inform us in loud, insistent blares that we’ve held it open for too long. With a jerk, I step back, kicking most of the loose paper into the hallway. Cat gathers up the rest as she skids through the closing doors. For a few beats, we stand in the paperdrift, breathing hard.
“You were saying?” I prompt when I regain my composure.
“I’m here for our meeting,” she repeats. Ignoring the debris at our feet, she saunters deeper into the D-pad, bumping me along the way. I get a whiff of her hair as she passes by, and my lower abs seize in response. I don’t get a chance to dissect the incongruous reflex, though, since Cat says, “I was working on codex entry nineteen—‘Catha Faevaris of the Sky Clan: Keeper Aspirant’—when it occurred to me that I have no clue how Catha feels when she first encounters Sentinel. Like, is she excited or apprehensive or something else entirely?”
“S-Sentinel?” I repeat. My brain is still hung up on the way Cat smelled when she brushed past me.
Blinking, Cat frowns. “Yeah, Sentinel—as in the main character of Compass Hollow . As in the character the player plays as.”
“Right. I mean, of course I know who Sentinel is,” I snap, more at myself than at Cat. “But what does how Catha feels about them have to do with codex nineteen?”
“We’ve been putting epigraphs in the beginning of each entry, quotes and excerpts from in-game books and letters and the like. For Catha, I’m thinking I’ll include a snippet from a letter she writes her father about meeting Sentinel, but I need to know what tone to hit. Should she gush about Sentinel, or should she be circumspect?”
I don’t understand the question. “You know her personality. Isn’t that enough?”
Cat tosses her head impatiently. “People’s personalities change depending on whom they’re talking to and whom they’re talking about. Besides, wouldn’t it be neat if the epigraph for her codex entry changed depending on if Sentinel flirted with her during their initial meeting? In the romance case, she could say to her father, ‘Sen was not at all the person I expected; they were … utterly disarming.’ It’d be a nice little nod to the choice the player made in their first interaction with Catha.
“Which is why”—she takes a breath, and my stomach plummets, sensing where this conversation is going—“you should let me work on her romance with Sentinel.”
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off before I can utter a single syllable.
“In fact, you should let me work on all eight romances. You win by getting me out of your hair, and I win by working on the piece of Hollow I’m most excited about.”
Most excited about? So she actually wants to write about the fantasy equivalent of roses and dark chocolate? To date, Heartrender has largely released zombie survival sims and World War II shooters. Who comes on board here to write romance? It’s like going to White Castle for the atmosphere.
“Hold up.” She’s headed up toward my office, and as much as it peeves me to have to run, I hustle to cut a path around her, squeezing past several desks littered with monitors, empty seltzer cans, and way too many Funko Pops. Luckily, a yoga ball narrows the way up to the second floor. I colonize the bouncy thing and prompt Cat to take some random developer’s seat across from me. “ Eight? ”
“Yes, eight,” Cat says. “Sentinel has one party member for each of the cardinal and intercardinal directions on a compass, right?”
“R-right,” I say, thrown. How’d she pick up on that a week in and without seeing any of my brainstorming docs? Pulling myself back on track, I focus on the topic at hand. “We can’t have eight romance options.” Or any.
“Why not?”
“It’s too much. There’s no way the narrative will be able to support that many branches. It’ll collapse under its own weight, and players will come after Heartrender for all the inconsistencies we’ve let slip through.” I cross my arms, which destabilizes my center of balance and pitches me backward. Not a good look for someone trying to project authority.
“Let me handle that,” Cat volunteers. “Narrative complexity doesn’t faze me.”
She says it like a goading attack; in response to her smug smile, my hackles go up. “I don’t think you understand. This is the most ambitious project Heartrender’s ever taken on, that I’ve ever taken on, and we have fourteen months till release. The main story alone is estimated to take over sixty hours to complete, for the typical gamer at least, and we’re targeting another hundred hours of meaningful side quest content on top. This isn’t exactly a fifteen-hour indie roguelike we’re talking about. You might be used to narrative taking the back seat to gameplay, but here at Heartrender, story is a first-class citizen. As a result, it can’t be messy, and it can’t include—”
I break off right as Cat stiffens and balls her hands into fists. Shoot. That sounded bad, didn’t it? I didn’t mean to insult Charon’s Scythe , but, well, here we are.
“Why are you like this?” Her voice is shaky. “What did I ever do to you?”
“That came out wrong,” I say. “ Charon’s Scythe ’s narrative was fine. I mean, great—”
“You know you’re like the most condescending person I’ve ever met? It’s actually quite the achievement considering I made the mistake of joining a sorority in college just because my sister told me to.”
Sorority? I’m momentarily baffled, trying to imagine the hoodied woman in front of me in Greek house swag. Rallying, I say, “Look, Cat, I have nothing against Charon’s Scythe , or indie games, or you even. I just don’t want you to waste your time writing love interests.”
“Waste my time!” Cat explodes, blowing past my explanation. “Are you that convinced that whatever I write will be trash?”
I press my wrist to my forehead. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what is it?” Standing, she squares off with me and clips her hands on her hips, although not before I notice them trembling. “You afraid of giving me a chance? Worried I’m gonna do too good a job and usurp you?”
The accusation stings like a slap. I’m no insecure bigwig, terrified of being overtaken by new trends and fresh blood. I’m no Jan Eschler.
Scoffing, I roll up to my feet. She’s a good six inches shorter than me, and apropos of nothing, I find myself thinking about how I could rest my chin on the top of her head without either of us needing to slouch or stand on tiptoe. Throwing back my shoulders, I clear my throat.
“The only thing I’m worried about is you fumbling what I’ve assigned you and losing your job before you’ve even really begun. The codex is important. It adds lore, gives the player a sense that they’re steeped in a world full of history and consequence.”
“It also goes largely unread,” Cat retorts.
“I’m sorry, did you get into this industry for fame and glory? Were you expecting we’d rename the game Compass Hollow: Cat Li’s Great Adventure ? Or did you become a games writer to work hard and churn out some hopefully really great games?”
Cat shakes her head, sending her ponytail swinging. “You’re not listening to me. I’ll work on the codex, but I also want—”
“Yes, you will,” I interrupt, stepping close enough to count the flecks in her brown irises. “You know why? Because that’s what we’re paying you to work on. Frankly”—I pause, consider if I should really tip my hand, then do it anyway—“I’m going to be axing the whole romance angle soon. We barely have enough time to get the game done before the end of next year as it is, and I have it on good authority that EA only wants us to add love interests because they think it’ll help us move copies with women.” I clench my jaw. “But games don’t need romance in order to appeal to women, they don’t need romance in order to sell, and they certainly don’t need romance in order to be good.”
With satisfaction, I watch as Cat’s cheeks flush a harsh, ruddy color. So I’ve managed to take her down a peg. Good.
Letting a smile, insolent and lazy, escape, I shrug and add, “Now, if that’ll be all, I’m off to do some real work.”
I leave before Cat can get another word in edgewise.
Back in my office, I collapse into my armchair. With its sagging embrace around my lower back, I press my index fingers into my temples and push.
I’m not Jan Eschler. I’m not my ex-boss. I’m not afraid of round-cheeked underlings tromping all over my work.
I am, however, afraid of writing romance.
The truth people don’t know is this: Jan never meant for me to become his cowriter for Aftermath . The only reason he brought me onto the project and its studio, Sandcastle Games, was because I lied and said I could fix his little problem with his boss. A decade ago, Sandcastle was hemorrhaging money after a very public gender discrimination lawsuit in which a whistleblower revealed pay gaps of up to fifty percent and instances of women employees (the few there were) being sexually harassed while on the job. While the settlement set the company back fifty or so million dollars, what really stung was needing to win back the fans they’d lost: “gamer girls” and their male allies. Jan’s boss (the same dude who’d settled without admitting any wrongdoing) got the bright idea that sprinkling romance into their next title, Aftermath , would put them in the good graces of gamers again. If sex sells to men, the reasoning went, then love sells to women.
Jan, who didn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin, heard me out. Me. A newly minted graduate just desperate enough for a chance to work on a triple-A game in Seattle, where my fianc é e Iris wanted us to move, to overlook all the bad press swirling around Sandcastle. Over the course of a handshake and an espresso, I somehow convinced him I could stoke the flames between Aftermath ’s white male lead and any damsel he wanted to introduce. He hired me on the spot.
Then, Iris broke off our engagement—and my heart with it.
In the years of development hell that followed, I went through hundreds of drafts of scripts, trying to get Connor White, our hero, to see his intended love interest as more than a pair of tied-up boobs that needed saving. I went to all-day write-a-thons where I typed like I was daring my wrists to develop carpal tunnel, then hit ctrl-A-delete and groveled for another extension. I even started dating again, as if that would help me deliver on the promise I’d made to Jan as a happily engaged twenty-four-year-old. Along the way, I slipped into a creative funk so devoid of hope and light that my depression began to leach out into my edits to Connor’s lines. In my desperation, I confused lovability with pitiability, and I isolated him, gave him shades of backstory so grim I thought any NPC would fall head over heels in love with him.
It didn’t work, obviously. Aftermath launched with no romance, not even a swooning kiss at the end. But that last shot of Connor, standing on a cliff in a windswept postapocalyptic world with blood dripping down his right arm? That earned me—well, Andz—the reputation for being one of the “grittiest new voices” in games writing. By the time I stepped out onto the mainstage at TornadoCon and shocked the gaming world, people had forgotten all about Jan Eschler, Narrative Director.
The rest of the story is well cataloged. Two weeks later, my personal details get released online. While the police try (and fail) to track down the culprit, Elevation publicly announces their support for me as “one of their most beloved and diverse employees and family members.” The same week, Jan’s laptop gets mysteriously stolen and I go into a tailspin, burnt out by both the post-launch stress and the yolks creaming my shutters and siding. When I emerge from my black hole three months later, I learn Jan’s gotten a raise and a promotion while I’ve been quietly “released from my responsibilities.” Like I’m a wild animal who’s served its circus purpose.
Here’s the weirdest part, though: the kerfuffle around my identity was dying down when I got doxed. In fact, the doxing was what put me and Andz and Aftermath ’s “real” writing team back on the map. It was almost like someone wanted the world to remember how much of a fraud I was. Someone who was upset at me for turning them down. Someone, maybe, like Jan.
Swiping up my stress ball, I resume bouncing it off the wall one handed. As a twenty-eight-year-old, I left Sandcastle and Jan behind. Since then, I’ve worked on a few games here and there, but Compass Hollow is my first big break in years. I’m not going to let some dating sim/otome fangirl with super-soft hoodies and stars in her eyes ruin it. Especially when games don’t need romance to be good.
I can’t prove Jan did it, published my address and number, but I can prove to the world Andi “Andz” Zhang is no fraud.