Chapter 2
JACKSON
Being a CEO, for me, takes a lot of tennis balls.
I go through a few a week, at least. A few of my employees have hinted at getting proper stress balls, objects designed to withstand the constant tension that comes with this position.
But they don’t understand that breaking the damn thing is one of the most satisfying parts.
I leave the ruined tennis ball on my desk and walk to the tall windows of the top-floor office, looking down like some king over his kingdom.
The name I gave to my flagship video game seemed perfect before the stock price started to go down, and the shareholders made demands that had nothing to do with the integrity of the game.
I’ve just finished a meeting with our Japanese office. We run extremely similar versions of the game, but the Japanese version has far more monetization in it. Which essentially means they’re more comfortable with milking their users dry.
We’re not quite there. Yet.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes,” I grunt.
Peter walks in, head of media and one of my oldest friends.
He’s on the shorter side, with horn-rimmed glasses and a constantly hurried expression on his face.
Like he’s always thinking about the next thing.
We met in the early days of Halcyon, when I was a gamer with big dreams, and he was a slick PR guy with bleached white teeth.
“Good meeting?” he asks, gesturing at the tennis ball.
“Hmm.” I drop heavily into my seat.
“Selling stuff makes money,” he says with a note of irony. “See? I’m more than just a media guy. I’ve got business savvy too.”
I shake my head. “They’re selling horse colors, Pete. Not just specific mounts. Colors for the mounts. Five bucks and you can make your horse gray instead of black. Is that seriously what we want to become?”
“It’s just the Japanese version.”
“See? That pisses me off. Just. They deserve a good gaming experience too. And how long before the shareholders feel the bump and demand it everywhere else too?”
Peter looks at me for a long moment, then shrugs. He chuckles. “Sorry, man, I’ve got no answers.”
“How does it look from a PR perspective?”
“Bad,” he admits. “Greedy. Turns us from a lovable game developer into just another soulless corporation.”
I open my drawer. Take out a new tennis ball and squeeze.
“Anyway,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Analytics on the Emerald Cove stuff,” Peter says.
I wave a hand. “People hate it. The grind is too hard. It takes too long to get all the enchanted seashells. By the time people get them, doing the boss doesn’t feel like fun. It just feels like another chore.”
“Well…” He smiles tightly.
“Am I wrong?”
“No, Jack, you’re not.”
“I was certain people would like this,” I mutter. “There are five enemy varieties in that one area. All with unique move sets and weaknesses. What more do people want?”
“Are you genuinely asking me?”
“Yes, Pete. Goddamn it.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I can’t tell you how to make a game, but I’ve found this streamer. DakkyDuck, that’s her online name. But she uses her name on her streams. Dakota. Plays Empire’s Fall exclusively. She’s been playing it since its release.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
“Last week, during the special event, she had forty thousand viewers for the giveaway portion.”
“Good for her,” I mutter.
“That’s a lot,” he says, as if I’m not aware.
“I know—and good for her.”
He grits his teeth for a moment. A gesture I know well.
“Just say it, Pete, whatever it is,” I tell him.
“You should watch her stream,” he says.
“Should I?”
He frowns at me. “Jack, how is sulking going to help anything? You want to know why people don’t like Emerald Cove? Tune into Dakky’s stream. She makes some good points. And she’s not one of these booby streamers.”
“Booby… what? You’re aware we’re both in our forties, Pete?”
“Hey, it’s my job to know stuff like this. A booby streamer is a woman who pretends to stream games, but mostly just sits there with her tits out.”
“Why do I feel an HR call is incoming if this conversation continues?” I grunt.
“She’s got substance,” he replies. “That’s all I’m saying.” He stands, rubbing his hands as though washing them clean. “I’ve done my job.”
I ask her name again before he leaves. What have I got to lose?
I log onto the most popular streaming website. As I search her name, I expect another empty internet personality. Part of me—a big part—hates the way the internet has gone. It used to mean something. Working away for hours on end on a website or game. Getting rewarded for hard work.
Now? It’s memes, viral moments, and stupid crap half the time. Or maybe it just seems stupid because I don’t understand it.
My gamer instincts activate when I realize I’ve caught her in the middle of a raid. A raid is an event where the game sends waves of enemies at a player’s base. These are optional, meaning the player can turn them off, but keeping them on means you get better rewards.
I lean forward, watching as she ducks and dives past three zombies. She’s only got 3 health points left, and no potions.
She chews on her lip and tosses her hair to get it out of her face. Pete’s right. She’s not a booby streamer.
But, hell, she’s hot.
Even in a plain black hoodie, no makeup, she’s beautiful. Her hair frames her focused, stunning face. Wide eyes that take in all the action. Biting her lush lip in a way that triggers a wave of heat inside of me.
My dick twitches in my jeans. Like I’m one of those online weirdos drooling over a woman I’ve never even met.
“Okay,” she snaps, nodding as her health bar fills up.
I blink, then rub my eyes. What the hell just happened?
Then I let out a laugh.
That was fast. In the space of a second, she dodged two attacks, and mid dodge, she must’ve activated her life steal, bumping her health back up to halfway.
She leads the remaining enemies—a mix of deformed sea creatures, ghosts, and zombies—down a narrow corridor she’s clearly built for this purpose.
Her tone turns casual as she takes them out.
“Phew,” she says, rubbing her forehead.
I grin. Widely. Easily. It feels slightly unnatural, like my face isn’t used to the gesture, and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I smiled like this.
I can feel her relief emanating through the screen.
Suddenly, a message pops up.
Mysterious-BOI: I don’t want to be a creep, but you looked so hot when you almost died just then. I know, weird comment!
I grind my teeth together. Who the fuck is this guy? How often does she get comments like these?
It doesn’t matter to me. Obviously. Shouldn’t anyway. But… well, it’s a little goddamn presumptuous. And yeah, fine, I was just thinking the same thing. But I didn’t write it out.
She smiles, but her eyes narrow for a moment. A note of tension I feel certain no one else has noticed.
“Aw, thanks,” she says. “But to be honest, I wasn’t trying to look hot. I was just trying not to die!”
She laughs it off, then starts going through her home and repairing furniture the enemies broke. She casually talks to her viewers as she does so, responding to queries. I find myself leaning closer. Getting sucked into the stream.
“Fair point,” she murmurs. “But I’m not sure that would be a good idea, really.
Think about it. We already work with other players during bosses and dungeons.
These enemy raids are supposed to be us, on our own, protecting our player-built houses.
If they let us invite other players, it might ruin that. I don’t know?”
The added I don’t know as if she’s not sure bothers me more than it should. She is sure, but she added that to placate the men in her audience. So, she doesn’t come across as a know-it-all woman.
“You don’t have to do that,” I murmur under my breath.
I spend twenty minutes just watching her navigate the game I built. Flying her giant eagle to the city center, selling the troll skins she harvested from the raid monsters, then heading toward the mage’s quarters, where the teleportation portals are.
“See, guys?” she says, eyes bright and vivacious, smile magnetic. “No one is going to the Cove! Just look.”
I clench my jaw. She’s right. As she stands there, the Cove portal remains untouched. Ignored. All that hard work…
“So,” she goes on. “For all you people claiming that I’m being a sour puss, here’s your proof. Jackson Cross, it’s time to fix this!”
Pop.
The tennis ball explodes.
I didn’t even realize it was in my hand.
I log in to my account on the website. Donate two hundred dollars to her stream with a message.
TheRealCreator: No offense, but you’re wrong about the Cove. Message me back if you want more information.
“Oh, wow,” Dakota says, laughing gorgeously. “I suppose with a name like The Real Creator, I should expect some… let’s call it confidence, eh?” She winks at the camera. “Thank you for your generous donation, Creator. Really. But I don’t think you’re going to change my mind about the Cove.”
A moment later, a private message pops up on my screen.
DakkyDuck: Go ahead, Mr. Creator, but if you say anything silly, I WILL be sharing it. You’ve been warned.
I’m impressed by her ability to continue playing the game and interacting with her chat as she types this out, then sends it.
My head feels full of steam. Mind flashing with the countless hours spent working on the Cove. The disappointment I felt when no one seemed to get it.
TheRealCreator: There are five enemy varieties in some caves. FIVE. That’s more than any other area. Plus, they all have unique skillsets. That was one of the main criticisms for a long time: limited skillsets.
She continues playing, but somehow—perhaps typing fragments of messages between gameplay—she replies. And her response swells my respect for her even as it pours ice-cold water on my ego.
DakkyDuck: That’s true, but I would argue this is a negative.
Players have been clamoring for more variety, so Halcyon loads all this hard work into one specific end-game area?
Meaning, levelling players don’t get to experience it, and high-level players will get annoyed by constantly being killed by different abilities when they’re trying to farm materials for the late game.
Halcyon should have spread out these enemies and made the Cove a straight farming zone.
I massage my head. Fucking hell. Is she right?
TheRealCreator: Just because you know how to play the game, it doesn’t mean you know how to program one.
She doesn’t reply right away. Giving me time to look at my message and realize I’m being petty. But that doesn’t stop the tension from twisting through me.
DakkyDuck: Are you going to get nasty now, Creator? Your donation was very generous, which is why I’m messaging you. But you sound triggered.
Because I am triggered. She’s talking about my baby here.
TheRealCreator: I’m not one of those goddamn weirdos.
I’m not going to simp for you or pretend not to want you while I sniff your digital panties.
I saw, earlier, the way you handled one of them.
All smiles. All confidence. But your eyes creased like you wanted to scream.
As if you were sick of this shit. I don’t blame you.
For a moment, on camera, she looks stunned. Her cheeks flush. She twists her hair around her finger and bites her lip. Then her eyes flit to the camera, and it’s like she wakes up, realizing she’s lapsed.
Her chat is full of messages, all asking if something is wrong.