Player vs Player

by Amelia C. Gormley

  Rosie let him take it in, watching Niles try to plug it into his worldview that one of their fans had drawn these. She could practically see the “Does not compute” alarm going off in his brain, followed by a cascade of attempts to rationalize rather than accept.

  “It just turns into an orgy of gratuitous violence.” He shook his head as though denying it. “Here it’s the same with Marc’s crisis storyline. The PC never shows up, so he dies. And Sang’s. Grace, Halliday, and Chino, too. All the companion characters. It branches off from a point where they’re in danger and proceeds as though the PC doesn’t exist.”

  Rosie nodded. All that was bad, but the implications from the final series of sketches actually hurt. “Now check out the ones with Gairi,” she urged, still trying to pick her own way between betrayal and disbelief.

  Niles paged forward and promptly shot to his feet. “What the fuck? How did they get that?”

  “Now you see why I’m not all that worried about the beta content.”

  “This is from the DLC. None of this has been made public yet!”

  The last series of sketches began by depicting Gairi’s enslavement during his return to his home planet, giving loving detail to violence that was only implied in the game itself, such as Gairi being whipped by the slavers. The images focused on his back as the lash shredded his tunic and cut into the skin below, then continued to show his recapture by his mother’s people and, eventually, the moment where he’s to be thrown off the cliff into a river, the same moment when the player character would normally arrive and save him.

  The last image was of Gairi floating facedown in the river. As though the viewer were in the water beneath him, his dead eyes stared at them, open and unseeing. Again, if not for the fact that the series of sketches included all the other characters, it might have seemed a pointed mockery of Charity’s and Lakshmi’s deaths.

  “Either whoever did these works for us or we have a leak.” Rosie sighed, hugging herself to rub the gooseflesh off her arms.

  Niles shook his head adamantly. “No one who works for us would do this!”

  Rosie could understand his resistance to the idea. There was something about the way the violent scenes were depicted that spoke of a deep-seated malice she was unwilling to believe anyone in her company held toward their brainchildren. “Would someone who works for us leak these sorts of story details?”

  “I did.” Niles’s face was pinched and pale, and Rosie pulled out a chair, pushing him down into it as she did a double take.

  “What?”

  “Off the record, with Daniel Fortesen last week.” Niles’s shoulders shifted, as though he was trying not to squirm. “He asked me what was in store for Gairi, and I told him. But he’s a professional. He wouldn’t—”

  “Give him a call, find out who has access to his notes.” It was probably ridiculous to feel so violated by images of one’s characters being gratuitously murdered in such grotesque ways, but Rosie couldn’t help feeling creeped out by it. And if the nauseated twist of Niles’s mouth was anything to go by, he was too. They were still reeling from the news of Charity’s and Lakshmi’s murders. If felt personal. Threatening, even. Which it wasn’t, of course. It hadn’t been sent to them directly. It was just fan art, posted to a forum that wasn’t even run by Third Wave by someone who would likely never know anyone at the gaming studio had ever seen it.

  Perhaps it felt personal because she and Niles had invested so much of themselves in the characters. Or perhaps it was the lingering unease of the hand delivered notes Niles had gotten and the attack on Jordan. There was no reason to assume a connection between the two, but taken altogether, it had her feeling besieged.

  As she pondered why this felt so overwhelming, the light around the edges of everything in the room started to take on a distinctly sparkly, glaring quality, punctuated by floating blobs of shadow. Niles’s normally subtle cologne became suffocatingly strong.

  Fuck. Rosie dropped into her desk chair and pulled open a drawer, grabbing her migraine meds.

  “What about that kid interning for the art department? Did he ever turn up?”

  “Patrick. He was in the writing department, and no, he never did. He just stopped coming in. He’s not answering his phone, either. I’ve been trying to reach him.”

  “Have someone call his school, find out if he’s still showing up for classes. If he’s the one who leaked the DLC material, I’m going to have his ass.”

  “You’ll have to get in line.” Niles strode out of her office, his phone already to his ear and his movements jerky with irritation. She was almost glad for it, and for her own anger. Since the news of the murders and Jordan having gotten bashed with a rock last week, she and Niles had both been keeping their heads down, as though afraid that they—or anyone who worked for them—might be next. It wasn’t a good mindset for a company whose raison d’être was to overthrow the dominant paradigm and give a voice to a sector that was so frequently muted. They needed to get louder with each attempt to silence them.

  Grimacing one last time at the image of Gairi drowned in the river, she turned off the monitors and went back to work.

  Niles poured a shot of crème de menthe into a steaming mug of cocoa and carried it to the desk in his den, listening again to the small creaks and thumps of the house. The sounds came part and parcel of living in a late-nineteenth-century house. He’d fallen in love with it the moment he’d seen it, but he’d never thought he’d be able to live here working for an upstart game studio with a social-justice mission. Only the unforeseen success of the first Phoenix Force title had made it possible. He’d bought it and made it his, renovated and decorated and turned it not just into a historic house, but a real home.

  Now he didn’t dare turn on music to listen to while he worked for fear he might not hear if someone tried to get in. All he could do was wonder what might have happened to his brother if the neighbors hadn’t checked on the house. What if the attacker came back?

  Was this how Rosie had felt when the trolls had posted those images of her house?

  Sipping his drink, trying to let the alcohol and mint soothe him, Niles stared at his computer and tried to get his thoughts back in order. He was writing the preliminary outline for what would be the second PF3 DLC, the one featuring Marc. Issis’s story would be the third. Niles didn’t write the dialogue for any other PF3 characters besides Gairi, but he was still the lead writer for the Phoenix Force franchise and coming up with the framework for the story was his purview.

  A knock at the door froze him just as he set his hands on the keyboard. He breathed through the automatic leap of his heart into his throat. He grabbed his mug of hot chocolate to toss into the face of anyone who might attack him and called through the door, “Who is it?”

  “Niles? It’s Tim. Are you busy?”

  Groaning, Niles slumped against the wall, drawing a couple of deep breaths before he unlocked the dead bolt and unhooked the chain. Tim stood in the block of yellowish light thrown by the fixture over the door, bundled against the chilly rain in a leather bomber jacket and jeans. Obviously off duty, then.

  “You okay?” Tim’s brow furrowed as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Niles managed to push himself away from the wall, but his heart was still racing.

  “Yeah, just jumpy.” He grimaced, leading the way into the living room. “What’s up? Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing. If there have been any more problems? And yeah, thanks. Got a beer?”

  “I’m doing all right, I guess. Only drama today has been that a reporter and an intern, either of whom might have leaked spoiler details about an upcoming release, have both fallen off the face of the earth and aren’t returning anyone’s calls.” Niles ducked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of Widmer Hefeweizen out of the fridge and handed it to Tim as he passed. Niles set his cocoa on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa with a frown. “Have a seat.”

  “That’
s a big deal, these . . . spoilers?” Tim asked, ignoring the chair across from Niles in favor of the sofa beside him.

  “Sort of. You really want to control the flow of information about upcoming titles as much as you can. If the audience knows the story in advance, they might not want to play. You want them to be surprised. Or sometimes, if it’s something really good, you want to arrange an ‘accidental’ leak a few days before it hits the shelves. So yeah, the spoilers aren’t good. Frankly, I feel pretty betrayed.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because the intern was in my writing department and the reporter got the details from me, in confidence.”

  “Ah. That reporter.”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  The silence that followed grew more and more awkward.

  “But that’s not why I came. I swung by to check on you.”

  “You’re off the clock,” Niles said stupidly.

  “I can’t be concerned about you off the clock? Your brother was attacked on your doorstep a few days ago. I’ve got patrol cars driving past periodically, but I wanted to check in also. Have there been any other incidences?”

  Niles shook his head. “It’s been quiet.”

  “Good. You’ll let me know if that changes?” Tim stared at him hard until Niles sighed and nodded.

  Awkward silence again.

  “So, you seem like you’ve gotten married to your work since college.” It was a clumsy segue on Tim’s part, but it was better than sitting there staring at each other.

  Niles chuffed a soft laugh. “I pretty much have. You’re a cop, you should get how that goes.”

  “What is it about the job that makes it worth it?” Tim cocked his head to the side, watching Niles in an intent way that felt far too familiar.

  Niles shrugged. “Part of it’s personal loyalty. Rosena Candelaria is brilliant. She’s an amazing person to work for, and her vision is so powerful and so easy to believe in, you can’t help but throw yourself behind her wholeheartedly, you know?” Tim nodded as Niles paused to sip his cocoa, shifting to face Tim better. “When I got in with Third Wave, it was just a start-up that no one thought would go anywhere. Where would a gaming company producing hardcore titles intended to appeal to women and queer gamers possibly go in such a market, right?”

  “But you proved them wrong.”

  “Fuck yeah, we did. Phoenix Force even ended up winning at the Spike TV Video Game Awards, which are all about the testosterone, because Rosie’s smart. She knew there were plenty of men out there who wanted more intelligent, more engaging material, where the focus was on the gameplay and the story. So we make a game that is first and foremost engaging and entertaining and challenging, yes. But along the way, we make sure to eliminate the factors that have made the genre so unfriendly to women, queer, and POC gamers. The majority of the male gaming audience doesn’t care about all that, if the gameplay is good.”

  Tim’s smile seemed less forced now. “You’re really proud of what you’ve done. That’s why you work so hard.”

  “Yeah.” Niles returned his cocoa to the coffee table and leaned his head on the back of the sofa. “This is where change begins. In a culture’s art. Whatever snooty intellectuals might say, video games are art. So are comic books and anime and television. The Coalition for Responsible Media isn’t wrong. When it comes down to it, we are after the hearts and minds of the kids.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” Tim’s look was soft, almost intimate. It reminded Niles too much of similar looks he’d received after far too many amazing fucks in too-narrow dorm-room beds. “I don’t think many people do. It’s fascinating to see how much you love it, something that most people dismiss as being trivial. For you, it’s a crusade.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I’m not going to downplay the importance of reversing the media trends that have helped oppress us. Gaming is the fastest growing form of entertainment on the market today. We need to have a strong foothold there.”

  “Is the culture behind it all really that bad?” Tim asked. “I mean, you showed me those texts, but . . .”

  “Those were the tip of the iceberg. Here.” Niles grabbed his laptop and opened it, scanning through his libraries for a particular folder. “These are screencaps of the tweets and text messages Rosie gets every single day.”

  Niles watched Tim grow steadily paler as he read the messages:

  I’ll rape u and keep ur head in my freezer if u don’t leave my games the fuck alone.

  Who let this feminazi dyke out of the kitchen?

  Reporting u to INS so they’ll send ur fat ass back to Mexico.

  Tim blinked and turned a disbelieving stare to Niles. “This is for real?”

  “She has thousands of those. Maybe tens of thousands.” Niles opened another directory. “And it’s not just text. These are audio files of voice mails she’s received after someone posted her home phone number online.”

  Tim grimaced and clicked the first one.

  “I’m warning you, you need to resign. Shut Third Wave down and don’t ever pick up another controller again. I’m coming after you. I’m going to murder you. Not just you. Your whole fucking family. I’m going to slice your tits off with a box cutter and nail them to my wall while you watch. I’m going to . . .”

  Tim swallowed hard and stopped the playback. “Jesus.” He blew out a deep breath and wiped his mouth. “I don’t get how anyone could act like this about a game.”

  Niles shrugged. “Cross online anonymity with a threat to cis-het white male privilege and this is what you get. We came across some fan art today that was so creepy I can’t even make myself look at it again. And watch this.” He set the laptop on the table and stood to retrieve the remote and controller for his Xbox. “Here, choose a game. One of the first-person shooters. Any one.”

  Tim chose Front Lines, and Niles started a new game and created an avatar, naming it GaymerTW. He logged into the multiplayer chat, turned up the speakers, and entered the game, beginning to chase after an opponent. For a few seconds, no one took notice of him, chattering about the gameplay, but then someone scoffed.

  “GaymerTW—What are you, some sort of fag?”

  “Oh, Jesus, we’ve got a fag in here.”

  “Hey, Gaymer, you gonna play or you too busy sucking a dick?”

  Niles noticed his avatar taking damage and checked around to see who was targeting him. “Look.” He pointed out the name to Tim. “I’m about to be killed by my own teammate.”

  “Ha-ha, check it out, gonna frag the queer,” someone shouted. “Yep, he’s dead. The fag’s goin’ ta hell!”

  “Not cool, dude,” Niles murmured into the microphone. “Come on, we’re all just here to play the game, okay?”

  “Not my fault you’re goin’ ta hell, cocksucker. Someone wipe him out again.”

  It was a nonstop stream of invective until Niles had no more lives left and quit the match, with self-congratulatory hoots about making the pussy run away echoing over the speakers.

  “So, this is what it is like for women and queers in gaming spaces when they don’t hide the fact that they’re women or queer. And as you can see from Rosie’s messages, there’s plenty of racism to go around too.” Niles smiled sadly.

  Tim propped an elbow on the back of the couch, resting his chin on his forearm. “Until that, I was enjoying seeing you talk about it. You light up, you know. So beautiful.”

  Niles snorted, trying to ignore the nervous thud in his chest. “So much for waiting for me to call you. Is that why you came here?”

  “No. I really did come to check up on you. I was worried.” Tim reached for his beer again, his eyes shuttering, becoming more guarded. “You just make it so easy.”

  “To what? Flirt?” He shot for cynical, imbuing his voice with disdain, but he wasn’t sure it translated.

  “Yeah, that’s a safe place to start.” Tim’s smile held more than a dollop of regret. “I was a scared kid, Niles. I can’t apologize en
ough. What’s it going to take to convince you it wouldn’t happen again?”

  “I believe you mean it.” Niles shrugged, looking away. “I just don’t know if I’m capable of letting go of baggage like that. And you’ve had seven years to contact me and apologize. Obviously it wasn’t a priority.”

  “That’s not true.” Tim shook his head emphatically, setting his beer back down on the coffee table. “I thought about you all the time.”

  “Then why?”

  Tim went oddly still, as though he were fighting the urge to squirm. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.”

  That . . . was actually a pretty good point. There was a time when Niles wouldn’t have wanted to hear what Tim had to say for himself, no matter how remorseful he might have been. Niles looked down into his mug, where the cocoa had grown cool, a scum of chocolate forming on the top. Sighing, he set it aside. He should ask Tim to leave. There was nothing good that could come of his being there. But Niles couldn’t seem to make himself say the words.

  “So tell me more about your game,” Tim urged, sparing them another laden silence as he finished off his beer. “You’ve told me about the company, but what about the games themselves? What are they about?”

  “Well, why don’t I show you?” He pushed himself up off the sofa and crossed to the desk, undocking his laptop and carrying it back to the coffee table. He set it in front of Tim and plugged in the wireless mouse.

  “I’ll pull up PF3.” Sitting this close to Tim, a spicy cologne—something vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon, but not so sweet—mingled with the yeasty tang of beer. The scent distracted him for a moment, making him stutter as he showed Tim the character-creation screen.

  “We have default PCs you can use, male or female and from a number of different races and backgrounds. Your background often determines how non-player characters react to you in the game. You might encounter enhanced acceptance from some NPCs and uncooperative bigotry from others. You won’t get the same reception from a wealthy socialite if you’re the uneducated son of an asteroid miner than if you were the cultured daughter of an alien ambassador.”