Wedding Games

A Gamer Girl's Humiliation

Is it weird for a girl to be more interested in games than in guys?

Most of my friends are settling down right now, having found their Mr. (or Mrs.) Right. Those who aren’t yet attached are on a desperate hunt for ‘the one,’ terrified of a bleak lonely spouseless future.

I guess there’s just something about turning twenty-five that makes a single woman reassess her priorities. You’re not a fresh-faced twenty year old anymore, and you haven’t yet reached the dreaded societally-imposed ‘expiration date’ of thirty.

At twenty-five, you’re halfway in between - the perfect time for an existential crisis.

Leading to a flurry of frenzied Tinder dates, a whirlwind romance, a dash down the aisle, and three kids playing in a yard enclosed by a white picket fence.

Then there’s me.

At twenty four years of age (twenty four years and nine months, to be exact), I’m perfectly happy to spend most nights alone in my gaming chair defeating orcs and trolls in my favourite online game while my roommate goes out and parties with her latest fling.

It suits me just fine.

And why shouldn’t it? I don’t buy into that ageist bullcrap dictating a woman’s worth depending on how many trips she’s had around the sun on this crazy stupid rock we all live on. And besides - all that stuff about marriage and kids and soul mates and blah blah blah just isn’t for me. Or at least, not for now.

It’s not that I don’t have any romantic thoughts or feelings at all - I’ve had my fair share of crushes (more often than not, on fictional anime characters - the ultimate unattainable man), and I even had a semi-serious boyfriend for the first two years of college.

Someday maybe I will find that ‘special someone’ - but he’d have to be really special for me to give up the sweet bachelorette gamer-girl life I’ve set up for myself.

And if that dream guy never comes around, and I end up in thirty years time with grey hair and twenty cats with names like “Baby Boo” and “Kissy Bear,” that’s ok if it means I can play ShadowStrike Combat and Jungle Fight III in peace. Although by then I’m sure it’ll be more like Jungle Fight XXVIII. That franchise is never going to end.

Gaming is pretty much my life - which is why my current predicament is so utterly devastating.

Sitting in the office of Angelique Davis - the HR manager at my workplace, WhiteStar Gaming Studios - I see my entire career flashing before my eyes.

I’m bargaining everything I’ve slaved away day and night for - all my hard work in the three and half years since I landed my dream job here - in pursuit of justice.

I won’t let that bastard off the hook.

I won’t.

***

“It’s your word against his,” Angelique says, leaning back in her chair with practiced ease. “And as you’re well aware, Lucas Bateman is the head of Game Development, while you’re a junior concept artist. I think you can appreciate our dilemma, Valerie.”

“Dilemma my ass,” I snap at her, before remembering to keep my cool.

I won’t be doing myself any favours by getting on bad terms with HR. I need to keep things civil. Stay poised and professional without backing down.

“There’s no dilemma here, Angelique,” I say more calmly, placing the stack of drawing papers on her desk again. “He stole my work. That’s all there is to it. Ghosts of Paris has been my personal solo project for the last three years. He rejects it at the very first pitch and then shits out this cheap rip-off the game five months later with his name plastered all over it. He took it all. The storyline, the environment, the characters, gameplay mechanics, everything. I put my sweat, blood, and tears into that game, and he just… he just swipes it, with no consequences.”

I pause, fighting to stay composed and stop my voice from shaking with anger.

“You need to do something.”

Angelique’s eyes are wandering over to the clock on her wall, so I spread out my watercolour sketches on her desk alongside printouts from the knock off game, pointing out the glaringly obvious similarities and the dates written at the bottom of my work.

“What more proof do you need?” I ask, battling to keep the frustration out of my voice.

“You could have done those last week after seeing the promo for Spectre Hunt: Paris, and written whatever date you liked,” she says dismissively.

“Carlos and Ivan will back me up,” I say, racking my brain for every person I showed my early concepts to. “And Jia-Xin too. She saw the sketches back in February. She gave me feedback on the character arcs, on-”

“Jia-Xin values her job here at WhiteStar Games,” Angelique cuts me off. “As do Carlos and Ivan, I’m sure.”

She nods to herself, leaning forward over the table slightly and holding my gaze in a moment of tense silence as if ready to play her trump card.

“We’ll offer you twenty thousand in severance,” she says, with a grim smile. “It’s a very generous offer. More than double what we’re required to pay you.”

I expected something like this, but I still can’t hide my shock at the audacity of it all.

“You think you can shut me up with money?” I ask between gritted teeth, clutching the edge of her desk until my knuckles turn white.

“It works for most people,” she says with a shrug, leaning back in her chair again. “Anyway, that’s our final offer. Either you take the money, walk away twenty grand richer and forget all about Ghosts of Paris... or you leave with nothing, try to take this thing to court, hire some measly second-rate lawyer, lose the case and the game, and go bankrupt in the process. I know which one I’d choose if I were in your shoes.”

“So that’s it?” I ask, feeling the cold numbness of shock and disbelief wash over me. “WhiteStar Games is just blatantly looking the other way while my work is being stolen in plain sight for all to see? Seriously?”

“You’re young,” Angelique says. “And creative. This won’t be the last game you dream up. Now, if you need some time to think about what we’re offe-”

“Screw your offer,” I practically hiss the words, steadying myself as I rise to my feet with trembling legs.

I don’t know if I want to cry or scream or laugh or faint.

I just know I need to get out of this office.... right now.

Scooping up the pile of drawing papers up off the desk and tucking them under one arm, I pick up my art portfolio case and march stiffly out the door, my heart hammering in my chest with every step.

I hurry past the cubicles of my coworkers (ex-coworkers now, I guess), struggling with all my resolve to keep the tears at bay. I need to hide my humiliation. At least, until I get to the elevator.

Standing up to Angelique like that took everything I have, and now I feel emotionally worn-out, fragile and brittle as cracked glass. In most situations, I wouldn’t actually describe myself as an assertive, confident person - I’m naturally quiet and reserved, but when it comes to stuff I care about, I’ll force myself to put on a brave face and fight tooth and nail.

Struggling against my innate shyness back there pushed me to the edge.

And it was for nothing. All for nothing.

I need to get to the elevator so I can escape this awful place… so I can cry in privacy… almost there…

The open elevator doors beckon me from across the lobby, and I rush towards them, relieved to see that the elevator is empty.

I step inside, pressing the button for the ground floor as fast as humanly possible.

As the doors begin to close, I feel the first hot angry tears slide down my cheeks, and the sob caught in my throat is finally released.

Screwing my eyes shut for just a split second, I reach up beneath the frames of my glasses to wipe away the tears… so I hear him before I see him.

There’s the sound of rapid footsteps, and then with only seconds to go before the metal doors slide shut, I open my eyes just in time to see a hand stick through the opening, stopping the doors in their tracks.

My heart plummets as the elevator doors slide back open - to reveal the most devastatingly handsome man I have ever seen in my life.

Dammit.