SLAY

by Brittney Morris

  “Candace, this game is all about Black culture?”

  There’s a long pause before she says, “Yeah.”

  “It’s pretty cool,” says Joshua. “My character is a wrestler!”

  “You can’t actually be a wrestler in the game,” argues Asher. “That’s not a thing. He’s just got a wrestling mask. Calls himself ‘TheNight.’ ”

  “Your name is TheNight?” I ask with a chuckle at the idea of my littlest nephew calling himself something so ridiculously badass and menacing. “All right, li’l man!”

  “Ooh, ooh, ooh!” cry both the boys together, startling me again. “Duel request!”

  “What?” I scream, leaning back and then remembering to close out of the screen. Panicked that I’ll be met mano a mano by some extremely ripped guy, I scramble to click the X in the corner, but to my surprise, I’m standing in the middle of tall brown grasses. The sun is blazing against a brilliant blue sky, and there’s nothing but a few green trees in the distance. Looks like some footage off Nat Geo, and I half expect to see a cheetah run past me and pounce on a gazelle. The sound is back on now that I’m out of the menu screen, and I can hear the grasses brushing against each other, and a secretary-bird call migrate from my right ear to my left. Something groans heavily behind me, and I flinch and turn to see an enormous rhino standing there munching on some grass a mere ten feet behind me.

  “Oh God,” I whisper as if it might hear me, and I back away from it slowly. “Boys, there’s a rhino here. It’s right here. What do I do?”

  They both erupt in giggles.

  “That’s Ananias,” says Joshua.

  “He’s my pet,” says Asher. “You’re playing as my character, LitMus.”

  I don’t like Ananias. He looks too real. “He’s making me nervous. Just a little bit.”

  “He doesn’t really do anything except get you around faster. Don’t get him anywhere near water, or he’ll start blinking all weird and fall right through the map. Respond to that duel request, though. Don’t leave that guy hanging. Top right corner.”

  It’s taken me this long to notice a flashing red button in the top right corner of the screen. I direct my arm to the right and click on it with my index finger. A window comes up that says:

  Duel Request

  From

  SPADE

  Accept?

  “Holy shit!” exclaims Asher.

  “Hey!” cries Candace. “Absolutely not in my house!”

  “Asher, come on, man,” I coax.

  “Sorry,” he says, “but it’s Spade!”

  “Spaaade, Spade, Spade, Spade!” squeals Joshua.

  “He’s the king of the Rain Forest! Why is he here in the Savanna? He’s never out here. You have to duel him! Even if you lose, it’ll give you some serious XP just playing him!”

  I am made of questions. We’re in the Savanna? Apparently there’s also a rain forest? With a king? Apparently there are political hierarchies in this game—regional hierarchies contingent on how much “XP” one has?

  “We’re dueling!” yells Asher. Suddenly the white hand that I was supposed to be commanding flies to the accept button, courtesy of Asher operating the controller, and I explode in panic.

  “No, no, no! Wait!”

  “You’re in it now, Uncle!”

  Another window flies onto the screen out of nowhere, followed by another, and another, and another. Words are flying so fast across panels that I only catch pieces of phrases.

  . . . uncle’s playing.

  . . . going down.

  Energy.

  Arena: Zulu.

  Region: Savanna.

  Spade vs. LitMus.

  Duel begins in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  9. THE GAME PLAN

  * * *

  I’ve never had to get a lawyer before. I’m sure my parents would be able to help me, but the whole point of getting a lawyer is to protect my identity from everyone, including my parents, so it’s just me and Google today. I find the only Black lawyer in the entire city of Bellevue and call her office, and the conversation goes like this:

  “Hi, you’ve reached the law offices of Annette Coleman. This is Michelle. How may I direct your call?”

  “Hi, uh, I want to make an appointment for a consultation with Annette Coleman.”

  “Absolutely. Ms. Coleman does charge a consultation fee of one hundred twenty-five dollars per hour. Are you prepared to pay that at the time of consultation?”

  “How long is the consultation?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, starting at one hour. Ms. Coleman’s next availability is on June first.”

  “That’s in three months!”

  “The only sooner time available is in twenty minutes, at 1 p.m. I had another appointment cancel at the last minute.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, excellent. What’s your name?”

  “Can I stay anonymous? I don’t know if this line is tapped.”

  “I have to put something down.”

  “Put down Wakandria.”

  And so here I am, Saturday afternoon, sitting alone on the light-rail toward downtown, holding a jar of money I didn’t even have time to count. With these big round glasses, yellow sweater, maroon pants, and my hair still in jumbo twists, I look like Celie from The Color Purple would if she lived in 2019 and went to USC.

  I’m trying to keep my head down to avoid the attention, but I can still feel the stares, and they make me keenly aware that I’m the only Black girl in this car. I think back to Derek and Jan’s news segment, about what Jan said about me. Emerald’s the one we should be tracking down and demanding answers from. I think of Jamal again. I think of his face, his piercing eyes staring at me across the Ping-Pong table, holding up that peace sign. I can’t help it. I google his name again, this time under “news,” and find a whole list of things I wish I could unread.

  Honors Student Killed for Video Game Coins

  SLAY: Black History Game, or Virtual Reality Gangbanging?

  Black Kansas City Teen Was Captain of Entrepreneurship Club, Family Says

  SLAY Murder: Elusive Game Developer Emerald Silent

  Silent, it says. That word is a knife in my stomach. I quoted Elie Wiesel in my Boston University essay, and it’s coming back up with a vengeance, like a bad case of heartburn: “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

  What is my silence saying?

  I feel a little sweaty, and a little nauseated. I’m surrounded by staring eyes on this train, reminding me that there’s an all-out media manhunt after me, demanding answers. Demanding my un-silence. What does un-silence look like? I open WhatsApp to see if Cicada is online. She’s not, but I could use her company right now.

  We’re passing Lake Washington, and the sun is peeking through the clouds and glinting off the water. I love it out here, and I imagine the Atlanta humidity and hope it doesn’t wreak havoc on my hair. My phone buzzes with a text from Malcolm, as if he can read my thoughts.

  Malcolm: You never answered my question.

  My chest tightens. It’s been a whole day since we last talked, and his last text is still sitting there above this one: I better not find out you play that shit. It’s not even a question. It’s a threat. I realize I really don’t want to talk to him, because I don’t want to have to lie. How can I denounce the hundreds of thousands of people I talk to in SLAY ? I remember my duel with Q.Diamond and their rainbow-striped face staring at me, and I can’t deny how incredible it felt to realize what this game means to me, and what it means for others. After staring at my phone for a solid ten minutes, I finally figure out what I’m going to text back.

  Me: Play what shit?

  Malcolm: The shit that got that li’l king killed.

  Me: The video game? You know I don’t have time to play video games.

  Malcolm: You females only start texts with “you know” when you lyin’.


  I toss my phone in my backpack. He won’t be getting a reply out of me until I see him on Monday. If he’s lucky. I cross one leg over the other and tap my foot against the wall while I try to calm down. I love Malcolm, but I hate it when he gets like this, moody and disrespectful, throwing words like “females” around dismissively.

  My phone buzzes three more times before my stop, and I finally cave and check it when I get off the train and start walking. But I tell myself it’s okay to read the texts as long as I don’t reply.

  Malcolm: I didn’t mean that.

  Malcolm: I’m sorry. It just scares me to think you might be getting brainwashed playing it.

  Malcolm: If something happens to you, a nigga goin to jail.

  I smile at the apology, although I realize he’s just rerouted his anger from me to anyone who would hurt me. But I decide to reply anyway.

  Me: You don’t have to worry about that.

  Malcolm: But for real, don’t let them distract you. Stay focused.

  By “them” he means white people. But “they” didn’t make this game. I did. And now the whole damn American media wants my opinion about it.

  Me: SLAY isn’t made by white people, babe. The developer is Black.

  Malcolm: And Carter G. Woodson, a Black man, created Black History Month.

  He keeps typing as I reach the intersection and click the crosswalk button at the corner of Fourth Street and Bellevue Way.

  Malcolm: Black people will create their own distractions using the white man’s tools. You forget I used to be addicted to video games way back in the day?

  The signal changes and I step off the curb. Malcolm once told me he used to spend every waking moment playing Mario Party 2 when he was little. His mom has always been a working single mom, leaving him home all summer with nothing to do but hold a controller and try to beat his own high score against three CPUs. He didn’t talk to anyone. He had no friends. Until he met me.

  Malcolm: I could’ve spent all that time reading. I could’ve been decolonizing, undoing everything I was seeing on TV. I could’ve been surrounding myself with Black rhetoric.

  Me: I know, babe.

  Malcolm: Good. This game, SLAY, it may look like a step forward for us, but it’s another way to keep us from being great. Don’t let it fool you, babe. Promise me you won’t try it, ok?

  I take a deep breath and wonder if Malcolm will ever understand. He surrounds himself with Black rhetoric in the form of written words. I surround myself with the company of Black gamers worldwide. What’s the difference?

  Me: I gotta go babe, I’ll talk to you later.

  I find the brick building with the giant white letters that spell out THE LAW OFFICES OF ANNETTE COLEMAN, press open the heavy glass door, and step into a spotless, minimalist, chic New York loft–style office with white leather sofas, bamboo floors, and unfinished concrete walls. A dark, slender woman with high cheekbones, round eyes, and a natural hair updo greets me with a smile. She’s wearing all black, long, drapey clothing that looks like something you’d see on a fashion show runway. Her style overshadows mine.

  “Good afternoon,” she says warmly. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” I say. I feel weird standing in this posh office looking like a runaway from the South Bronx, clutching a jar of loose change. “I’m here to see Ms. Coleman. Are you Michelle?”

  Her eyes drift from my face to the jar, but somehow I don’t feel like she’s judging me—just assessing the situation. Her eyes are kind, and I’m shocked when she stands and holds her hand out to shake mine like I’m a bona fide adult.

  “You must be Wakandria,” she says warmly. “You’re right on time. I’ll take you to Ms. Coleman’s office.”

  This woman isn’t clueless, and neither am I. I know she knows my name isn’t Wakandria, but she must get all kinds of hopeful clients coming through here with absurd names and even more absurd cases. As I follow her down the hallway with the almost-white concrete floor, I notice a gray smudge at the tip of my right shoe, which would otherwise be paper white, and I hope there’s a box of tissues in the room that can serve as a stand-in for my toothbrush until I get home.

  I don’t want to admit it, but I’m nervous. What if she doesn’t take my case? What if she doesn’t answer my questions? What if she finds out who I really am and calls the police? Why am I so afraid of being turned in when I didn’t do anything wrong? I’m not a murderer, but I feel responsible. If I hadn’t created SLAY, if I hadn’t shared Emerald with the world, that boy—Jamal—would still be alive. And then I remember Q.Diamond with the rainbow face again, and I wonder if giving Q.Diamond a space to be themselves, assuming they’re not out and proud and surrounded by supportive friends in the real world, is worth the life of a sixteen-year-old boy.

  As I follow her down the hallway and Michelle ushers me through a door into a tiny conference room, I try to tell myself that I’m not responsible for either of their lives, and that none of this is my fault.

  I try, but I don’t really believe it.

  The lights are off, but it’s bright in here. Natural sunlight is shining brilliantly through the gray blinds, and I wonder what the view would be like if we opened them. There’s a wooden table in here with two black swivel chairs, one on each side. I slide one out and have a seat in its cushy flexible mesh. Michelle offers me a cup of water, and I gladly accept, and then she leaves me alone in the room to think. I feel out of place in here, especially with this jar, and I set it on the wooden floor next to my rolling chair. My pocket vibrates and I pull out my phone to find a message from Cicada, who is awake in the middle of the night in Paris.

  Cicada: That thing I was going to tell you . . . I’m only half-Black. My mother is white Italian. I don’t know when I could have told you that wouldn’t make this awkward. I don’t blame you if you don’t let me keep playing the game. I should have told you sooner.

  My stomach turns. Not at the revelation that Cicada is mixed, but at the idea that she might think I’m that prejudiced, that I might actually ban her from the game because she’s only half-Black. I begin to text her back just as another message comes in.

  Cicada: Am I Black enough to keep playing?

  The door opens, cutting off what I was about to type, which would have been Of course you’re Black enough! What kind of question is that?

  “Hello, you must be Wakandria!” says Annette, beaming. I stand up to shake her hand. I expected her to walk in here in all black—blazer, pants, and shoes, like lawyers on TV always wear—but instead she’s wearing a navy blouse with bold yellow flowers and a mustard-yellow blazer on top. She has black pants and matching black heels, her handshake is strong, and her eyes are sure. Her hair falls shoulder-length in the most perfect bell-shaped twist-out I’ve ever seen, and I’m suddenly very conscious of my jumbo twists. She’s stunning. I look like I just rolled out of bed. I remember the jar on the floor, and I’m so impressed with how nice she’s being to me.

  “Hi,” I muster. “Nice to meet you.”

  We both sit, and she opens a binder and folds her hands on the table between us, looking into my eyes, eager to listen to what I have to say. I don’t have anything prepared. I just plan to tell her exactly what happened without giving her enough details to figure out I’m Emerald, if she even knows who Emerald is.

  “So,” she says, “Wakandria, it’s so nice to meet you. I was thrilled when Michelle told me she’d booked a consultation with twenty minutes’ notice. I hate last-minute afternoon cancellations that leave an hour open. They’re too short to go get a massage, too late to grab lunch, and too early for dinner. Thank you for coming. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  I like her already. I like her energy. She’s already making me feel like hope isn’t lost, which I guess is her job, but I like to believe she’s being genuine. Under different circumstances, I might ask her the SLAY code question, “Do you eat meat?” so we can duel later, but she probably doesn’t have time to play, and when it comes to my identity, I’
ve sworn myself to secrecy.

  “Before we begin . . .” She turns the first page in the binder.

  She’s about to ask me for money up front. I lean down, grab the jar, and hoist it into my lap.

  “. . . I want to review the terms of this consultation.” Then she notices the jar, brushes her hand through the air with a grin, and says, “Oh, don’t worry about that yet. We’ll come back to that at the end. I want to make sure I give you the full hour.”

  I put the jar back down and feel heat creep into my cheeks. How ridiculous of me to assume she needed my little allowance money. Her blazer alone looks like it costs a few consultations.

  “I do charge one hundred twenty-five dollars per hour for a consultation, but if it ends earlier, I prorate for low-income-qualifying clients. To inquire about our low-income options, please see Michelle. She’ll be more than happy to help you. During this consultation, I can provide legal counsel with the promise of confidentiality. However, if the client—that’s you—reveals explicitly or implies the intent to carry out an illegal act, I have the responsibility to report said intent to the appropriate authorities without notifying the client. If you agree and concede to these terms and conditions, please sign here.”

  She unclips a page from the binder and hands it to me along with a heavy, cold silver pen that feels expensive. Since I don’t intend to do anything illegal anytime soon, I sign and pass it back to her.

  “Wonderful,” she says. “So, Miss Wakandria, what brings you into my office today?”

  I take a deep breath to calm my pulse, and I think of Cicada, of how she’s depending on me. I think of how boldly and cleverly Steph would navigate this meeting, and I try to channel her energy right now.

  “Am I allowed to ask you questions in hypotheticals?”

  She nods with a smile as warm as my mom’s.

  “If I created a . . . thing . . . that made other people feel like I was discriminating against them, could they sue me?”

  “Hmm,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I’d have to know a little more about this thing. Is it a club? A fraternity?”

  “Kind of like a club. It’s an online club for . . . a certain demographic. Could they sue me if I didn’t let their demographic in?”