Two Can Play

Chapter 1

Let's start with the good news," Mike says, and I immediately clutch the edge of the conference table to brace myself.

It's the specific combination of words-start and good-that switches on my fight-or-flight reflex. It implies that there will be an end, one we can surmise will be bad, and that's not what I want to hear from the CEO of the indie video game studio I work for. My mind, often prone to suspicion and overthinking, cannot help catastrophizing.

Slumps in sales. Impending bankruptcy. Mass layoffs.

On the streets, dumpsters burst into flames.

"You're still welcome to return home. Stay with me for a few weeks while you get back on your feet and look for a real job." Mom's worried voice sounds crystal clear in my head, probably because Thanksgiving was just last week, and she had the opportunity to rehash her talking points multiple times over a five-hour dinner. "Viola, you can't really believe that designing video games will pay the bills in the long term."

And yet, when I glance around the conference room, the rest of the core team broadcasts excitement, lots of it, and no panic. It dials down both my fight and my flight. Clearly, I'm being overcautious. FlyButter Studios is doing great. Better than ever, in fact. Six months ago we released our most successful game to date, selling millions of copies. I was among its lead designers. My job is safer than it's ever been.

Not to mention, a major US video game publisher just invited us to submit a proposal for-

"StarPlay got back to us regarding our ideas for the Limerence 3 game," Mike says. His eyes circle the table and come to rest on me. It makes sense, since I'm in charge of that project. However, I'm not a fan of his three-second dramatic pause, which I spend perched on the edge of my seat, contemplating whether to strangle him. Until he continues, "And they believe we are the right people to develop the new game."

Suddenly, the conference room sounds like Coachella. FlyButter's core team is small, fewer than ten people, but we can make some impressive noise when there's something to celebrate. People clap and whistle. One of our programmers even stands for some quick flossing. It's a rare moment of joy in an industry that's mostly energy drinks sipped late at night while wailing over ergonomic keyboards.

"I don't have to remind you that the Limerence franchise is an incredibly hot property," Mike goes on once the cheering has died down, "and that StarPlay has been in talks with several other studios. So it really speaks to your talent that we were able to impress them with our work."

My gaze catches Ethan's. Like me, he's a game designer, and he and I have been close friends since our first year of college, when we nearly flunked out of a software engineering class because we were too busy . . . talking about video games, for the most part.

He knows, better than anyone else in the room, that The Limerence Saga books were my favorite while growing up. Some of my most cherished memories involve my dad reading them aloud and pointing at the black-and-white illustrations of the first editions-and nearly two decades later, after his eyesight took a turn for the worse, me doing the same for him. When Ethan and I heard that StarPlay, the publisher holding the licensing rights, was thinking of developing the third installment in the game series based on the saga, we immediately started lobbying to have our name in the ring.

I may have taken the lead position when it came to developing a proposal for this project, but Ethan was with me every step of the way. There were a lot of early mornings and late nights to make the deadline-so many that our colleagues at FlyButter started wondering whether we were carrying on a secret affair-but all that work clearly paid off.

Ethan grins at me, and his hand lifts in a high five. I clap back, elated-until Mike cuts through the clamor and continues.

"The catch is . . ."

I stiffen and reclutch the table. Here it comes. The bad news.

"StarPlay would like to do something different from the first two games. The audience has changed, the tech has evolved, the market has expanded, yada yada. They're thinking of adding a significant combat component, which . . . Well, I don't have to tell you guys that our strength lies more on the role-play side of gaming." Mike scratches the back of his neck, like what he's about to say is giving him psoriasis. "As I mentioned, there were other teams in the running to develop the Limerence franchise. One of them is Nephilim Studios, and as you all know-"

A loud snort interrupts him. It overlaps with several grunts, a muttered "Those fuckers," and a swell of murmurs expressing varying degrees of discontent. Our quality assurance manager looks like he might spit on the floor at the mention of Nephilim. I glance around the room, half expecting someone to make the sign of the cross, but Mike spreads his arms to shush the protests and powers through.

"-and as you all know, Nephilim recently put out Zephyr's Blade, which was the combat game of the year. Naturally, they are not as experienced as we are when it comes to role-playing, which is why StarPlay had the, um, unorthodox idea of asking whether we could team up with them and-"

"No." Shannon, our character artist, bursts out of her chair as if intending to flee the premises. The rest of my colleagues remain sitting, but heads are shaking, upper lips are curling, breaths are gasping, and-

"Quiet," Mike orders, and the room hushes. He's usually a relaxed, easygoing boss, but he surveys the room with such a stern expression, I'm a bit scared. "Do I have to remind you that we are a midsized studio? We're in the black now, but every time we develop a new game, we run the risk of the product not being a hit and going bankrupt. You know what kind of opportunity StarPlay's funds would afford us. The influx of cash that would come with producing a Limerence game could carry us for years. So if you could take a seat, Shannon."

Shannon does, fully pouting. The room falls into silence, and Ethan clenches a hand around his mug, like he's considering throwing it across the room. Instead he says, surprisingly calm: "The thing is, we know most of the guys at Nephilim. They're not exactly . . . There is history."

"I am aware. And so is StarPlay. And so is Otto, the head of Nephilim." Mike drops the name casually, as though we're not all aware that Otto and Mike are decade-long fuckbuddies. They're spotted sneaking in and out of each other's hotel rooms about once per convention. Well, Mike sneaks. Otto just struts around, usually holding a box of condoms.

"It's a small industry," Mike continues, "and some of you have, um, worked with Nephilim's employees in the past, been in relationships with them, or had"-he side-eyes at Shannon-"run-ins of other kinds. The compatibility between our teams is a valid concern, and we've been discussing ways of establishing whether a collaboration is possible. And that's why we've come up with an idea." A single deep, fortifying breath. "A few weeks ago, I asked you to block off a few days in the middle of December for a FlyButter team retreat."

"No," Shannon whispers, quickly shaking her head. Beside her, Ethan covers his mouth. Mila, our sound designer, looks on the verge of a syncopal episode. Everyone else blinks in stunned silence.

"Yes. We have decided that the core team of Nephilim will join us at the cabin, and-"

"But why?" Shannon asks.

"-and we'll see if we can get to a place where a professional collaboration is feasible. We'll have a few days to focus on team building, group development, stuff like that. Don't make me use the word 'synergy,' you know I have no clue what it really means." He looks pained again.

"What if . . ." Mila clears her throat. "What if-and this is a real possibility-once we get to the cabin, we find out that it's all a ruse they orchestrated to harvest and traffic our internal organs?"

Mike sighs. "Given our collective lifestyles I doubt our kidneys would fetch much on any market."

"Is the lodge even large enough to host all of us?" A level designer asks. "If someone needs to stay home, I volunteer as-"

"It is, but nice try."

"What if we get snowed in with them?" Mila asks. "What if they go all Shining on us? What if we end up in the hot tub together and one of them farts in it out of spite and-"

"Okay, that's it. No more writing Nephilim fan fiction." Mike turns off the monitor and disconnects his iPad. "Next month. Retreat. It'll be a couple of days dedicated to mending this weird enmity we've developed with Nephilim. I want you to become friends with them. Or, more realistically, I want you to fake it till you make it and try to avoid physical incidents, keeping in mind that any altercation would mean no chance of working on Limerence 3." He stands, palms flat against the conference table. "You're going to ski a bit, sit in front of the fireplace with some expensive booze StarPlay will pay for, and by the time we come home we'll all be bosom buddies and live happily ever after. Or else. Meeting adjourned. Everyone, get back to work." He claps his hands. "Chop-chop."

It's to Mike's credit how impervious he is to the dirty looks people subject him to as they file out of the room, dragging their feet and muttering things like "evil corporate overlords," and "like we don't know he and Otto get it on," and "gonna key his PS5."

I linger in my seat, chewing on my bottom lip and trying to give a positive spin to the last ten minutes.

All that matters is that I'm not getting fired. Everything else will be fine.

Certainly.

Probably.

Maybe.

There is a slight chance that it will all be fine.

Sure, working on my favorite franchise was supposed to be a career highlight, and now it feels more like someone peed in my breakfast cereal and handed me the bowl, but-

"Thank you, Viola."

I hear Mike say my name and abruptly look up.

"I'm so glad at least someone is not overreacting." He smiles at me. "I know how much Limerence matters to you. You're the only one I trust to behave civilly."

I swallow. Try to gather enough words for a reply, but nothing comes.

"You look a bit pale." Mike frowns. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course." I paste a midsized grin on my face, grab my laptop, and spring to my feet. On my way out the door I even manage: "Everything's just peachy."

Chapter 2

Everything's shit. Everything's the worst. And nothing, absolutely nothing is peachy.

Because here's the deal: If I had to transcribe the list of interpersonal issues between Nephilim and FlyButter employees, I'd use up one of those forever toilet paper rolls-and fill an interaction graph worthy of a Dostoyevsky novel.

Otto once called our tools programmer a "nincompoop" in front of an audience of thousands.

Mila used to be engaged to one of their 3D artists.

Ethan quit three months into his tenure at Nephilim because of differences of opinion on what constitutes "humane working conditions"; Shannon got drunk at GameCon and provoked a physical fight with an AI programmer who called her a "spaghetti coder"; Kai-one of our programmers-saw his mail start to mysteriously disappear when a Nephilim producer moved into his apartment complex, and this overview is not even remotely comprehensive of the varicolored ways in which our studios are pretty-feuding.

For instance, it pointedly disregards what happened between me and Jesse fucking Andrews.

Then again . . . did anything happen? As the days count down to the skiing retreat, I try to talk myself into believing that the reason behind the tension between Jesse and me is just some good old competition. After all, he and I are both video game designers, both damn good ones. About the same age, trying to bring new, creative stuff to the industry. We've won awards, gotten to lead teams, made names for ourselves. It would be weird if there weren't a touch of rivalry.

Except, that's not it. As much as I'd love to pretend that the awkwardness between us is born of joy-thieving comparison, Jesse's specialty is action and adventure, while I shine at creating characters and storylines. We occupy different places in the industry, and if I'm aware of that, so is Mr. Point and Click.

We first met six or seven years ago, when I was up for my first industry position. As far as I can recall, that interaction wasn't bad. All I remember is being fresh out of college and walking into the last phase of an interview for a small software company here in Seattle. Jesse was already working there as a developer, and he stood to shake my hand the second I entered the conference room.

Initially, I barely paid attention to him, registering nothing more than a fuzzy impression of dark hair and thick-framed glasses. I had a migraine from staying up all night to prep, and Jesse's role seemed to be assisting the company CEO, who asked all the questions. I was there to prove to my mom that it was indeed possible to make a living, as she liked to put it, "playing Mario Kart," so I did my best to charm Jesse's boss, which did not work.

And ultimately, I didn't care. Not after the asshole said something about my portfolio being too "girly" to get me anywhere, gave a good chuckle, and then asked if I really enjoyed video games, or if I was just trying to impress my boyfriend.

Jesse, to his credit, stuck up for me. "This is unprofessional. And unnecessary," he told his boss firmly, speaking for the first time since the interview had started. But I was already standing to leave, and a gift of the golden wool shed by thirty magic llamas would not have persuaded me to stay and work for this shitty, shitty man.

So I walked out. And Jesse followed-I do recall that. He jogged after me, quick and long-legged, and once he caught up, he stood over me with concerned eyes. He made sure that I was okay and apologized on behalf of . . . men, presumably? I accepted-and may have vented at him for the next twenty minutes. But Jesse took it in stride, giving me some great advice about my portfolio and pointing me in the direction of this new game studio that was hiring at the time-FlyButter. A decent human being in this blighted industry, I told myself. I thanked him, said goodbye, and didn't think of him again until a year or so later, when we crossed paths at a local game expo.