all depends. I just wanted to let you know, if that makes any
sense.”
“Of course it
does.” Her voice was calm now, soothing. “Look, sweetheart, I really have to
go. First day in the new position, and they're watching me like a hawk. But we
can talk about it tonight, OK? Just don't worry and know that whatever happens,
I love you.”
“Love you
too,” I said and broke the connection. My office felt stifling and dim, the
tasteful light from the wall sconce barely enough to illuminate the papers on
my desk. I looked at them. Design specs for Blue Lightning, sample promotional
material, a list of basic interview questions from BlackStone PR that they'd
been planning on feeding to magazines and websites once the game got a little
more play—all of it worthless. I stacked them next to my monitor and headed to
the conference room. As far as I knew, there was still a version of Blue
Lightning set up in there, minding its own business. In under an hour, it would
get shut down. The debug kit, a sample version of the finished console
hardware, would get its hard drive wiped, and the equipment would get assigned
to another project. The television would get something else jacked into it, the
controllers would go back in a box somewhere, and the code that made up Blue
Lightning would get backed up and hidden away.
If I was going
to play, this was going to be my last chance.
I stalked down
the hallway, nodding and smiling and minimally waving to the folks who said
hello as I passed. A couple shouted out questions—had I seen Eric's email, did
I know what was going on, did I have time to talk? I gave a shrug for an
answer, or a “Dunno” or “I'll catch you after the meeting, OK?” Stopping seemed
like a bad idea; I'd get swamped and never get started again. No one was
working. Everyone was talking, huddled into clumps or jabbering excitedly into
smartphones. A couple of the younger kids just sat there, staring at their
monitors with looks of dread on their faces. They hadn't been through it before
and probably thought that they might never get another job in gamedev. Someone
else would set them straight, I was sure. Someone always did.
The clock on
the wall of the conference room read 10:30 by the time I made it there. Half an
hour, then, to get in my last licks. I shut the door, debated going back out
for coffee, and decided against it. Instead, I booted up the debug kit and
killed the lights. The room went dark for a minute, then went electric blue as
the game's load screen flared out from the television. The placeholder logo was
there, bright and jagged, and next to it…her.
She was
crouched, predatory, one hand cradling a smooth, streamlined pistol, the other
held up so that electricity could drip off her fingers like water. Sparks
flowed down and puddled at her feet, while the blankness where her face ought
to be was turned to the camera, its challenge implicit. She was almost too
bright to look at, the sheer intensity of her coloration illuminating the room
even as it faded everything else onscreen to insignificance. Below her, the
words “PRESS START TO PLAY” throbbed slowly, fading in and out in time with what
might have been her imaginary heartbeat.
I picked up
the controller. It was warm, as if someone had just been playing it. Thumbing
it on, I walked over in front of the television and braced myself. There was a
chair behind me, but I gave it a little kick and it skidded off. Standing would
show respect for the game, and I was too wired to sit in any case. As an
afterthought, I found the remote for the TV and thumbed up the volume. Let her
go out with a bang, I thought. A bang, and a crash, and a couple of big-ass
explosions.
A couple more
button presses and the action screen faded in. I recognized the space, a
futuristic library. Multi-leveled and chopped into innumerable small rooms, it
was a claustrophobic nightmare generously stocked with hunter-killer robots,
alien nasties, and human commandos
sense.”
“Of course it
does.” Her voice was calm now, soothing. “Look, sweetheart, I really have to
go. First day in the new position, and they're watching me like a hawk. But we
can talk about it tonight, OK? Just don't worry and know that whatever happens,
I love you.”
“Love you
too,” I said and broke the connection. My office felt stifling and dim, the
tasteful light from the wall sconce barely enough to illuminate the papers on
my desk. I looked at them. Design specs for Blue Lightning, sample promotional
material, a list of basic interview questions from BlackStone PR that they'd
been planning on feeding to magazines and websites once the game got a little
more play—all of it worthless. I stacked them next to my monitor and headed to
the conference room. As far as I knew, there was still a version of Blue
Lightning set up in there, minding its own business. In under an hour, it would
get shut down. The debug kit, a sample version of the finished console
hardware, would get its hard drive wiped, and the equipment would get assigned
to another project. The television would get something else jacked into it, the
controllers would go back in a box somewhere, and the code that made up Blue
Lightning would get backed up and hidden away.
If I was going
to play, this was going to be my last chance.
I stalked down
the hallway, nodding and smiling and minimally waving to the folks who said
hello as I passed. A couple shouted out questions—had I seen Eric's email, did
I know what was going on, did I have time to talk? I gave a shrug for an
answer, or a “Dunno” or “I'll catch you after the meeting, OK?” Stopping seemed
like a bad idea; I'd get swamped and never get started again. No one was
working. Everyone was talking, huddled into clumps or jabbering excitedly into
smartphones. A couple of the younger kids just sat there, staring at their
monitors with looks of dread on their faces. They hadn't been through it before
and probably thought that they might never get another job in gamedev. Someone
else would set them straight, I was sure. Someone always did.
The clock on
the wall of the conference room read 10:30 by the time I made it there. Half an
hour, then, to get in my last licks. I shut the door, debated going back out
for coffee, and decided against it. Instead, I booted up the debug kit and
killed the lights. The room went dark for a minute, then went electric blue as
the game's load screen flared out from the television. The placeholder logo was
there, bright and jagged, and next to it…her.
She was
crouched, predatory, one hand cradling a smooth, streamlined pistol, the other
held up so that electricity could drip off her fingers like water. Sparks
flowed down and puddled at her feet, while the blankness where her face ought
to be was turned to the camera, its challenge implicit. She was almost too
bright to look at, the sheer intensity of her coloration illuminating the room
even as it faded everything else onscreen to insignificance. Below her, the
words “PRESS START TO PLAY” throbbed slowly, fading in and out in time with what
might have been her imaginary heartbeat.
I picked up
the controller. It was warm, as if someone had just been playing it. Thumbing
it on, I walked over in front of the television and braced myself. There was a
chair behind me, but I gave it a little kick and it skidded off. Standing would
show respect for the game, and I was too wired to sit in any case. As an
afterthought, I found the remote for the TV and thumbed up the volume. Let her
go out with a bang, I thought. A bang, and a crash, and a couple of big-ass
explosions.
A couple more
button presses and the action screen faded in. I recognized the space, a
futuristic library. Multi-leveled and chopped into innumerable small rooms, it
was a claustrophobic nightmare generously stocked with hunter-killer robots,
alien nasties, and human commandos
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