Page 45 of Caught A Vibe

“I guess I should have paid more attention to the measurements.” He chuckles at his mistake. “I think I burned off my taste buds.”

“Nope. If you had, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Why did you keep eating it?” I wipe my eyes on a clean napkin, careful to avoid getting any chilies on my face. I don’t want to be crying for the rest of the night.

“I thought you couldn’t taste it. You haven’t been eating much lately, and I didn’t want to put you off it. Plus I didn’t want to ruin our date if it wasn’t bothering you.”

“Dash, that’s sweet, but for the love of all that’s holy, don’t take another bite.”

I get up to grab bread, peanut butter, and jelly. My steps stutter to a halt as I take in the state of my kitchen. Apparently a war occurred during the preparation of this meal, and casualties were left where they fell. It certainly explains the nuclear heat levels. I find a clean butter knife and back out slowly, steeling myself not to say anything. He isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to spoil our first date.

Back at the table, I assemble two sandwiches and hand him one.

“Cheers!” I grin and raise my sammy in salute.

He taps his to mine and takes a resigned bite. “Some first date this turned out to be.” He hasn’t looked at me since I came back with the PB&J.

I lean my head on his shoulder and kiss his neck. “At the very least it’s memorable. I know I’ll never forget it. Someday we’ll—” I almost say “tell our kids about it” but I catch that rogue thought before it can escape my lips. “—laugh about it over dinner with friends, and I’ll tell them we stick to eating me out and takeout, thank you very much.”

Dash finally smiles down at me, and I know this is a memory I will treasure.

“I’ll take that.” He kisses me, his tongue brushing against mine before he jerks his head back. “Damn, you’re spicy.”

“So I’ve been told.” I wink and begin to clear the table.

“Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of that later. I want to write up this article real quick before I forget how terrible it was.”

I know how he gets lost in his work, and his nightly nine o’clock deadline is fast approaching. “Go ahead. You cooked. I’ll clean.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’ll feel good to get back in the groove.”

“You’re the best.”

Damn straight I am. I find a certain zen peace in the monotony of washing dishes. It’s a meditation on cleanliness. At least that’s what I tell myself as I clean every pan, bowl, and utensil I own.

DASH

It is three p.m. on a Tuesday. I am cocooned on the couch, noise-canceling headphones on, completely immersed in the world on my screen.Call of Anarchyis my happy place when I’m not reviewing new games for the magazine, even if it’s now bittersweet. I’ve had the same account since college when it first came out, and a group of old friends meet up online to play at least once a month. This is the game that convinced me I wanted to be a game designer.

My fingers fly over the buttons and levers on my controller without conscious thought. It’s an extension of my hand, responding directly to impulses from my brain. I nimbly dodge and duck, before firing again and taking out my opponent.

I win the level and the cut scene of my player talking to the Boss takes me straight to my memory bank. I helped design this. This bastardization of my dream. Glimpses ofAstraiaare still visible if you know where to look. I was such a fool, but I can’t stop coming back to my creation.

Astraia. Just thinking that name fills me with shame. For my senior thesis in undergrad, I designed the framework for a game. Going above and beyond as I do on projects I love, I poured my heart and soul into its creation for months.

I fully fleshed out the storyline for a space odyssey based on the ancient Greek goddess of justice who fled to the heavens to escape how terrible humanity had become. In my game the descendants of those horrible humans who had completely destroyed Earth looked to the skies for escape, bringing them once again into her sphere of justice. Post-apocalyptic earthlings venturing into space had to adapt and make good choices in the face of unimaginable odds to earn her favor and blessings which helped them survive and thrive in their harsh new environment.

If I couldn’t have justice in real life, I could at least earn it in my pretend world.

In terms of my thesis, I wanted to prove that a game based around positive play and rewarding engagement could be just as compelling as single-shooter games that relied on violence and the thrill of vicarious lawlessness.

And I succeeded. Everyone who played it became obsessed, striving for an ounce of approval from the fickle goddess.

My little game about putting thoughts into action to please the goddess of justice in space blew away my advisors. The graphics had been basic but clear. The decision trees? Complex and flawless. The gamer feedback? Ninety-five percent positive. I not only graduated with honors—no small feat for a video game junkie who struggled all the way through middle and high school—but I came away with a coveted job offer from RPGiga. Powerhouse firm and legend in the industry, it’s the very firm that designed the game I’m playing right now.

When I took the job, I naively brought my project with me in hopes of finishing it and producing it through RPGiga’s impressive pipeline.

Instead, my IP got chopped up and integrated into aCall of Anarchyupdate, taking my dreams along with it.

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