Player vs Player

by Amelia C. Gormley

  “I don’t care what she said! That kid is one of my employees. One of our people!” Fuck, her head hurt. She was taking her fear and pain out on Jordan, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “If he’s been hurt on our watch, working for us, I want to know that he’s all right and I want to know what the fuck happened!”

  “We’ve got two dead girls and now a missing intern associated with Third Wave. If you interfere with the investigation, it will look like you’re trying to cover our asses, or something.”

  She planted her fist on the desk, looming over it. “I don’t care. I just want to be sure he’s okay. What does Daniel Fortesen have to say about this?” she demanded, jumping mental tracks.

  “No one at LEET has heard from him since the day he supposedly left Portland. He sent the managing editor a text saying he was staying here longer than planned, but he’s missed the deadline for submitting his article and hasn’t checked in with anyone.” She saw Jordan slide a concerned look over to Niles, who seemed to shrink even further in on himself. “Niles, it isn’t your fault.”

  “Isn’t it?” Niles’s voice was barely audible, and his eyes were bleak when he finally lifted them. “I asked Patrick to give Daniel a lift to the train station that morning. I just can’t believe—” He swallowed and looked down at his hands again where they rubbed nervously on his knees. “Everyone around me is getting hurt.”

  “We don’t know they’re hurt,” Jordan said, massaging his shoulders reassuringly. “For all we know, they eloped together.”

  Niles shot to his feet. “I need to go. I’m supposed to be at the studio. They’re starting to record Gairi’s dialog for the DLC today.”

  “We have a director for a reason, Niles. You don’t need to do that. Why don’t you go home?” Rosie caught his shoulder, making him face her. “Or we can all go out for a drink. Try to calm down a little and figure this all out?”

  “Figure what out?” His muscles quivered under her hand before he shook her off. “That someone is after me, and everyone I care about is collateral damage? Thanks, I got that.”

  He stormed out, slamming the door behind him as he went. Rosie stared at it a long moment, then startled at the smack when Jordan’s palm hit her desk.

  “Fuck.” His voice was muffled and heavy with dismay. “Give him time to cool off, then I’ll talk to him. He’s just thrown.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered wearily, dropping into the chair behind her desk once more. “Who isn’t these days? I need a fucking bourbon and it’s not even noon yet.”

  Jordan flipped his wrist and looked at his watch, then shoved himself to his feet. “Close enough. I’m buying.”

  The blank email form on his laptop was the only light in the house as Niles sat in front of it, filling his glass from the bottle of vodka sitting on his desk. It seemed to mock him for the dozens of half-formed thoughts he wanted to send to Daniel—on the off chance that he was still getting emails—that he couldn’t seem to find the words for. In another window, he could see the accumulation of unread tweets with the hashtag #3rdWaveFail, but he didn’t have the heart to scroll through them anymore. Quips that this was what was bound to happen when they let a woman out of the kitchen and put her in charge of a video game studio were the prevailing theme.

  He’d turned off the TV a half hour ago. On the evening news, Emmerich Corbin, the disbarred lawyer who headed up the Coalition for Responsible Media’s anti–video game crusade, and Joyce Draheim, a congresswoman from Kentucky known for her homophobic platform, had been taking turns blaming video game violence and marriage equality for what had happened to Charity and Lakshmi, and now, presumably, Patrick. In Niles’s inbox was an email forwarded from human resources, which they’d received from Portland State University, where Patrick went, and messages from several other colleges where they hired interns, withdrawing from Third Wave’s internship program, citing safety concerns.

  And then there was the message from the CEO of Electronic Entertainment Unlimited, Third Wave’s parent company and distributor, scheduling a meeting Monday to discuss delaying the release of PF3 until the negative publicity died down. They also mentioned the possibility of shelving the Gairi DLC for the time being in order to focus on “less controversial” characters from the franchise.

  It was all falling apart.

  Stop being so dramatic. That wasn’t quite an accurate summation of the situation, and he knew it. Third Wave’s activist fans were defending them and feminist groups were throwing their support behind them, as well. But he was having a hard time seeing that upside, especially when their supporters were being derided as fringe ideologues.

  The only thing their lawyer had permitted was a short press release stating that their sympathies were with Charity’s and Lakshmi’s families and that they were hoping for Patrick to be found alive and well, and that they would cooperate in every way to see the culprit brought to justice.

  It was the beginning of the end. Rosie wasn’t ready to see it yet, but Niles could. EEU would start taking a heavier hand in overseeing the production of Third Wave’s titles until they were conformist, noncontroversial, and lacking anything that might be considered a socially progressive narrative. Third Wave would become just another voice in the chorus of cookie-cutter game studios making titles filled with shallow, queer stereotypes, ham-handed attempts at ethnic diversity, and images of sexualized violence intended to appeal to the male gaze.

  A creak that didn’t quite sound like the house settling came from somewhere near the door and jerked Niles out of his thoughts. He set his vodka aside, closed his eyes, and listened. A small metallic squeak, the soft swish of paper hitting the floor, and then the click of the mail slot closing brought him out of his chair. The mail had already been delivered before he’d gotten home that evening. He rushed to the door, his pulse pounding in his ears as footsteps scurried over the wooden porch and thundered down the front steps.

  Niles ripped open the front door in time to see someone in a dark jacket and stocking cap disappear around the tall hedges bordering his tiny front yard.

  “Hey!” The figure broke into a jog at his shout, rushing down the sidewalk. He looked down at his own bare feet; he’d never catch up if he decided to give chase, and the concrete was cold and wet. “Fuck.”

  Disgusted, he turned to study the letter he’d stepped over in his rush to get to the door. His name and address were printed on the envelope, but there was no stamp or postmark. Again. Rather than pick it up, Niles pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  “Tim? It’s Niles.”

  “Hey, I was just about to call you. Payne told me things went to shit this morning after I left. I wanted to check on you.”

  “Someone just put another envelope through my mail slot. Same as the others.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  Niles stared down at the envelope. “No. I haven’t even touched it. It’s right here on my floor where it fell. I caught a glimpse of whoever left it, but only from the back. They ran off before I could get a good look.”

  “Okay. Leave it there, and I’ll be right over.”

  Niles stood in the open doorway, letting the chilly November air cool the flush that had come with the adrenaline rush. He looked out at the darkened street, where the asphalt glistened wetly under the yellow-orange glow of the streetlights. Was whoever had delivered the letter still out there, waiting to break his skull open like he’d tried to do to Jordan? He knew he should go inside and shut the door, but instead, he watched the break in the hedges that opened from the sidewalk into his yard, waiting for the unknown person to appear, ready to confront him or her, tired of being passive before the nonstop onslaught of harassment and intimidation. People like that were the ones too cowardly to show their faces or even put their names to their threats and opinions, yet Niles was the one helpless and afraid, with even the security of his own home violated.

  He glared at the walkway, daring it to produce the culprit until his nerves had calm
ed and he began to shiver in the cold wind. Feeling foolish, he turned to go back inside, and promptly screamed when a voice called his name from behind him.

  “Niles?”

  “Jesus!” He spun, his heart in his throat, nearly nauseated with the sudden tension in his stomach. “Anthony! What are you doing here?”

  Anthony stood in the open gate between the hedges, clutching the front of his khaki microfiber jacket, nearly as startled as Niles himself. “Christ, you scared me. Are you okay?”

  “You’re the one who came up behind me! How long have you been there?”

  His brow beetled. “I just parked down the street a moment ago. What’s wrong?”

  “Really?” Niles strode to the edge of the porch, looking down the steps at him. “So you weren’t here five minutes ago dropping an envelope in my mail slot?”

  “What?” Anthony gawked at him. “I just got off work. I came to check on you. What’s wrong, baby? You just seemed so stressed out when you were at the recording studio today, and then I heard something on the news about an intern . . .?”

  Niles raked his hair back from his face, growling softly. “Nothing. It’s nothing you need to worry about. I’m not up for visitors right now, so you need to go.”

  “Go? I just got here. Can I at least come in for a drink? I thought we could talk.”

  “No. No, we don’t need to talk.” Niles positioned himself to block the stairs as Anthony began to mount the steps. “We need to just go our separate ways. There’s no reason for you to call me, and you certainly don’t need to stop by my house. Believe me, Anthony, you probably don’t want to be associated with me right now.”

  “Look, whatever went wrong in our relationship, I’m sure we can work on it.” Anthony laid his hand on the railing only an inch away from Niles’s. “I really care about you—”

  “God! This. This, Anthony! This is what went wrong. You. Not being able to take no for an answer when I told you I needed you to back off. Calling too often, coming by uninvited and unannounced, needing to know every single thing I was doing and when and where and with whom. Getting upset when I spent time with my brother instead of you—” He broke off, clenching his fists at his sides. “Okay, listen. I’ve had a shitty day. I can’t deal with this. Just leave and don’t come back.”

  Beneath his dark mop of hair, Anthony’s pale face started to get that pinched, irritated look he’d worn far too often before Niles had broken up with him. “Are you seeing someone else? Is that what this is about?”

  “I told you last time we spoke, what I do isn’t any of your business.” Past Anthony’s shoulder, Tim came striding up the walkway to the steps. “Good-bye, Anthony.”

  “Everything okay?” Tim asked, glancing up at Niles. Anthony jumped and whirled around, then gave Niles an accusing glare.

  “Not up for visitors, huh?”

  “Still not any of your business.” Niles refused to reassure Anthony that Tim was a cop there for a completely nonpersonal reason.

  “Fine. Fine.” Anthony threw his hands up, pushing roughly past Tim. When he reached the hedges, he turned back to face Niles. “You know, I could really be there for you, really help you with all you have to deal with if you’d give me half a chance, but whatever. You do what you’re going to do. Someday you’ll wish you’d taken the time for me.”

  Niles stripped his rain-spotted glasses off and covered his eyes with his other hand until he felt Tim touch his shoulder. When he dared to open them again, Anthony was gone and only Tim remained, his face grave.

  “You all right?” Tim’s other hand came to rest on Niles’s other shoulder, stroking up and down his arms, his touch all-encompassing and warm through his now-damp shirt.

  “Yeah.” Niles pulled away. “I definitely know how to pick ’em, don’t I? Clearly, I’m a stellar judge of character.”

  Tim let his hands drop to his sides. “Ouch.”

  “No, I didn’t mean— Shit.” He thrust his hand through his hair again, and it came away wet where the drizzling mist had beaded into droplets. Christ, was it only this morning he’d thought he might end the day taking Tim out to dinner and back to bed again? “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Tim flapped his hand dismissively and dug into his pockets, pulling out a pair of nitrile gloves. “I probably deserve at least a few more digs before I’m done with my penance. Where’s the letter?”

  “Right there on the floor.” Niles gestured to the envelope, stark white against the vintage hardwood. Tim lifted it and drew a pocketknife out of his jacket, carefully slitting the envelope, pulling out two plain sheets of printer paper.

  FINAL WAVE.

  The words were printed in a large, bold font. Niles stared at it while Tim looked at the second sheet, then held it out to show him. On it was a series of sketches of a man being crushed, mowed down by a futuristic vehicle.

  “More of those drawings. That’s Halliday, isn’t it?” Tim asked, glancing at it again. “From the game.”

  “Yeah, except it isn’t quite right. Halliday is a POC character, and this guy is white.” Niles drew as close as he dared without touching the page. “Jesus, the game hasn’t even been released and the fans are already whitewashing the characters. Come inside, into the kitchen. The light is brightest in there.”

  He led the way and flipped on the overhead light. Tim laid the drawing on the counter, and Niles stared at it. “Well, I guess that answers that. Our artist with the spoiler details—or someone associated with him—is my secret admirer. I need to grab my computer. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, he had opened up the series of JPEG attachments in a slideshow and skipped to the Halliday ones. “They are. They’re the same. Except Halliday wasn’t whitewashed to begin with. The artist either redid them or someone downloaded them and edited it.”

  “Tell me more about these scenes. What’s going on here?” Tim tabbed through the slides.

  “Someone took a pivotal crisis scene for each companion character and drew it as it would have transpired if the player character hadn’t somehow influenced events by intervening or making certain choices. Halliday gets crushed by an out-of-control ground-car because the PC was greedy and didn’t choose to set aside the funds to maintain their vehicles properly. An attack on Issis that should have been interrupted results in her being bludgeoned to death. Gairi gets thrown into a river and drowns . . .”

  Tim’s phone rang, and he withdrew it from his pocket. “Payne? . . . Yeah, I’m at Niles’s house . . . He received another threat, and it appears to be connected to whoever did those drawings of the characters . . .”

  As Tim spoke with his partner, Niles returned to the images of Halliday on the computer, comparing them to the ones that had been pushed through his mail slot. Each line was identical until he got to the face. He focused on the features themselves, rather than just the skin, and jumped back from the counter. “Shit!”

  “What? What is it?” Tim pulled the phone away from his ear.

  Niles pointed weakly to the paper on the counter. “It’s Daniel.”

  Jordan looked at his brother across the conference room table. Once again, they were waiting for Detective Payne to arrive, but this time the wait was much grimmer. Tim sat beside Niles, while near the head of the table, Rosie and Eliza murmured back and forth to one another. This late-night meeting—or what would be a meeting once Detective Payne arrived—had already prompted one vociferous argument when Eliza had asked Tim to leave the room and suggested that Niles might want to consult a criminal attorney.

  “What? What for?” He’d demanded as Jordan had tensed, prepared to launch into his own outraged tirade. Rosie had watched grimly.

  “Because right now you were one of the last people, if not the last, to have contact with two murder victims and at least one missing person.”

  “Are you saying they might try to accuse Niles of something?” Jordan had stepped in behind his brother, resting his hands on Niles’s shoulder
s, which seemed bowed under the weight of all that had happened in the past few days. Niles had taken the news of the murders like a body blow, and now he seemed to be reeling again. “Why him? Why not Rosie, or me, or any of the other thousands of attendees at the convention? We saw those young women too.”

  “But you weren’t intimate with Daniel Fortesen. If you’re right and that drawing means Fortesen could be dead, it might just start to look like too many people around Niles are dropping like flies, and that’s going to make someone ask why.” Her expression was sympathetic, but unyielding.

  “Tim already cleared my alibi for Lakshmi’s and Charity’s murders.” Niles didn’t lift his eyes as he spoke, his voice subdued.

  “All right.” Eliza pulled out a chair and dug a legal pad out of her briefcase, taking notes. “And what about the day Patrick Rutledge and Daniel Fortesen disappeared?”

  “Niles was here at work from morning until early evening,” Rosie supplied. “I don’t think he even left for lunch.”

  “I didn’t.” Niles clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “There would be records of me buying a coffee at the shop where I dropped off Daniel, and I believe he made a purchase too, so the last time I saw him was in public. I went to work, and then I left from here to go straight to the airport.”

  “Okay, good.” Eliza made more notes and gave him an encouraging smile. “This is all very good. You were places that can be easily verified, places with cameras or electronic records or witnesses. Odds are good you have nothing to worry about, though I would still encourage you to be careful how much time you spend with Detective Wyatt.” She made a face. “His job is to find someone he can charge for these crimes. You don’t know what sort of things you could say that he might interpret wrongly.”