Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Cat
I’d hoped to drop my kunai like a mic, but it bounces unsatisfyingly on the carpet before rolling under the seat of a Sailor Mars. Figures. I start to retrieve it until I clock the two security guards wearing too-tight polo shirts bearing down on me from opposite ends of the aisle. In front of me, Jan Eschler’s face is the color and texture of a burst beefsteak tomato. I check my scarf and am relieved to find it in place around my mouth. Hopefully he doesn’t figure out my name and blackball me from the gaming industry.
“Don’t take your eyes off the enemy,” Sailor Mars says. Beside her, a skeleton dressed in a blue hoodie gives me a thumbs-up. It fills me with determination.
I nod grimly. Any second now, I’ll be engaged in battle. My perception tunnels, as if I’m getting sucked into a random encounter in an old-school RPG.
Fight or run?
Definitely run. Time to make like Sheik and vanish without a trace.
I squeeze through a gap in the rows, hurdling knees and bags and loot crates. I trip on a Jibbitz-decorated Croc and catch myself on a chair back, then vault off it over the rest of the laps in my way. Landing on my feet, I tear up the side of the room, my scarf coming loose and drifting to the ground. All the while, people are clapping and yelling, egging me on, because if there’s anything gamers love more than games, it’s drama that can be filmed, thrown on the internet, and discussed ad nauseum.
Find me in the comments section , I think deliriously as I make for the double doors. Crashing through them, I bolt up the wide hallway and dive into the relative anonymity of the exhibit floor.
I don’t pause in my full-tilt sprint until I get to the edge of the indie games section. It’s slightly less crowded here, and I arch onto my tiptoes to see if I’m still being followed. No baddies in sight, at least none of the convention center security variety. Holding on to the corner of a table advertising a game called Fantasy DILF , I sink into a crouch and catch my breath.
The events of the last five minutes rush back to me all at once. The panel. Andi, her face as tense as a nun’s playing Resident Evil under those bright lights. Jan freaking Eschler.
What the hell was with that question? I’d always thought of Eschler as one of those blowhard titans—white, confident, full of himself because he occasionally has a good idea—but what kind of loser comes to IAX to lob a grenade at a past employee? When he could’ve been doing literally anything else: paying $8.99 for a hot dog at the concessions stand, demoing whatever game he wanted, hosting his own panel full of fartfaces.
Nothing bugs me more than gamers who tear other gamers down.
I shouldn’t have interceded, though. My scarf came close to slipping multiple times during my little speech. If Andi revealed my identity to Philo and Gabe, it’s likely they’re conferring right now about the best way to let me go. Whatever publicity they hoped to drum up for Compass Hollow by being at IAX, it didn’t include a rogue cosplayer laying into EA’s new creative-in-residence.
Slumping lower into my crouch, I cover my face with my hands. What was I thinking, jumping in like that? Not to mention the cringeworthy phrase “The buck stops with you, buddy.” And that stupid kunai-mic drop at the end.
I groan into my thighs, loud enough that a Fantasy DILF person comes over to check on me. “You okay, honey?”
“Yep,” I sniffle. I have to hold my breath to keep the balloons in my chest from inflating and overwhelming me.
“Oh, baby, no you’re not. Here, come sit, and I’ll get you a tissue and something to drink.”
I let myself be led over to a metal folding chair, where I sit and wait for my breathing to return to normal. Caeneus—I read their name and pronouns on a sticker on their chest—brings me a bottle of Mountain Dew and a stack of paper towels pilfered from the bathroom, along with a handful of Hershey’s kisses, which I systematically unwrap and shove into my mouth. After ten or so kisses (I lose count), I feel well enough to get up and thank them.
“Don’t worry about it.” They wave me off. “As you can see, my table ain’t exactly bustling.”
I look around at the three gaming laptops set up behind them in roped-off cubicles. All of them are vacant. Strange. I would’ve imagined a game called Fantasy DILF to be overrun by thirsty almost-thirty-year-olds like me.
“Maybe I can try it out?” I offer.
“You don’t gotta do me any favors,” Caeneus says. Their eyes light up, though, so I smile and occupy the outermost cubicle.
Fantasy DILF turns out to be the best dating sim I’ve played in years, so I buy a copy for the Switch and convince a handful of passersby to give the demo a shot too. I’m halfway up the escalator to the convention center’s exit when my phone buzzes in the pocket I’ve sewn on the inside of my Sheik tunic. I pull it out as soon as I’m back on stationary ground and out of the way.
My pulse trips over itself. I have a new text. From Andi.
Hey.
Three undulating dots appear under her one-word greeting. I zero in on them, trying to avoid rereading the last thing I sent her.
We should talk. You’re at the Tempo, right? Meet at the Top Note bar?
I tuck my chin into my chest. We should talk? That sounds serious, especially since she just blew past any acknowledgment of (a) my text about her eating what I put out, (b) whatever happened between us on the floor as Link and Sheik, and (c) my completely inappropriate outburst at the Heartrender mainstage event.
She must be on her way to fire me. She’s been wanting to since the second she laid eyes on me. Now, finally, I’ve given her a good-enough reason to.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, I force my fingers to type, Sure. See ya there.