Wedding Games

Into The Lion's Den

Shivering in the chilly air of a snowy morning in early December, I stand on the icy sidewalk outside the enormous thirty-story office building headquarters of WIC - the Winsworth Interactive Company. Almost three months have passed since that fateful day that I fought for my game and lost my job at WhiteStar Gaming Studios. 

I’m wearing the same outfit today that I wore back then - an elegant black suit and block-heeled grey pumps, plus my ultra-thin lightweight gold-frame glasses, instead of my usual thicker black-frame ones. I even put on makeup, in hopes it might give me an edge over the other candidates.

It’s a sad but true fact that looks really do matter when it comes to job interviews, and if I’m up against someone with an equally impressive resume and skills to match, it might simply come down to whoever the interviewer found more attractive and presentable.

Especially if that interviewer is male.

I have to do whatever it takes to get employed here - even if it means fluttering my eyelashes a bit and taking a pay cut compared to my previous job.

At this point, I’m pretty much desperate for work and will take anything. There’s been a drought of jobs in the gaming sector over the past few months, so I’ve been living off my meagre savings, scouring the job boards for positions in my industry. Most of the jobs are likely to open up next month in late January and early February, when people return to work after having reassessed their lives over the Christmas and New Year’s break, and decide it’s time to move or switch roles. But I can’t wait that long.

I’m down to my last couple of hundred dollars in the bank, and Kerry can’t cover rent for both of us forever. And my parents are no help. Dad pretty much gambled and drank away what little money he had left after the divorce, and although mom’s pretty comfortable with her new highflying hedge fund manager husband, I wouldn’t dream of asking her for money. Too much drama. Too much guilt.

I really need this job - like, yesterday.

And besides - once I’m financially on track again, I’m going to hire a lawyer and take WhiteStar Gaming Studios’ ass to court.

And a sweet new position as a concept artist at Winsworth Interactive Company is going to be my ticket.

It’s now or never.

I check the time on my phone.

8.45am. My interview’s in fifteen minutes. Time to go in.

My skin prickles over with goosebumps as I walk through the huge glass front doors into a vast lobby - all dark steel and shiny glass and sleek black stone. Something about it almost reminds me of the gloomy volcanic caverns and catacombs beneath Rivenstar, a city of necromancers in the Night Lands of ShadowStrike Legends.

That should be comforting or even exciting for a fantasy games geek like me, but the moment I step inside, I get this sudden rush of panic. A feeling of wrongness and an intense desire to flee.

Maybe it’s the intimidating, dark cavernous space, or the awareness that I’m walking directly into the lion’s den - the lair of “the enemy,” a rival gaming studio. 

Or at least, I used to think of Winsworth Interactive Company as the enemy, when I still worked for WhiteStar.

Now, WhiteStar is my enemy.

And the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I walk over to an imposing black marble desk, where a pretty young woman with platinum blonde hair looks up from her widescreen computer monitor and smiles coldly at me.

“I’m here for an interview,” I say, fighting back the butterflies in my stomach.

She stares at me blankly for a moment.

“Are you going to tell me who your interview is with?” She asks. “We have over seven hundred people working in this building, you know.”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” I apologise nervously. “Um… I’m here to see Annemie Beenhouwer.”

I pronounce the name carefully, unsure if I’m saying it right. From what I could see on LinkedIn, Annemie is Dutch American, and has worked in human resources at a bunch of impressive tech companies in Amsterdam, Silicon Valley and New York.

“Sign in,” the receptionist says, passing me a sleek touchscreen tablet. While I fill in my details, she makes a quick call to Annemie, nodding with satisfaction.

“Ok, Ms. Beenhouwer is expecting you,” she says boredly. “Her office is on the twenty second floor. Take the first elevator on the left at the end of the lobby. Oh, and wear this.”

She passes me a slip of paper, which I quickly realise is a printed peel-away sticker with my full name and the word “VISITOR” in big block letters.

“Stick it on your blazer’s lapel or something,” she says, when she notices me staring blankly at the sticker. “That’s where most people put it. Or over your boob if you want to make it awkward for everyone who reads it. Up to you.”

She smirks at her little joke, before turning her attention back to her computer’s screen.

I peel off the sticker and smooth it onto the blazer’s jet black fabric, hoping the glue doesn’t leave a mark.

This is the only blazer I have - and if this interview doesn’t work out, I’ll probably be needing it again in the near future.

I follow her instructions and make my way over to the elevators at the other end of the enormous lobby. Stepping inside, I’m reminded of the last time I was in an elevator.

I’ve thought about Oliver - the handsome, mysterious guy from the elevator on that fateful final day at WhiteStar - almost every single day over the past three months.

Mostly I just replay our conversation over in my head - wondering if I could have said or done anything differently. But overall, I know it’s pointless.

I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Not until I’ve got my life back on track, anyway. And besides - I’d just end up getting hurt, like last time.

But daydreaming can’t hurt me, so I do that a lot. 

Too much, probably.

I’m trying to remember the exact shade of green Oliver’s eyes were (were they more vivid spring bud chartreuse or bright emerald?) when the elevator doors slide open on the twenty second floor and I’m face to face with those same eyes, just a couple of feet away from me, gazing into my own.

Damn. What are the chances?