He doesn’t talk much about the years before he met my mom. When he does, it’s often with rue and regret, talking about this bad retail job or that, gigs he’d taken over the years since moving to America, struggling to save money to send back home. Sometimes he’d joke about how all those places and jobs had aged him prematurely, and I could see it, every single time, in the eyes of a man who was only in his forties but looked like he was nearing sixty years old.
Those weary eyes meet mine, and I move behind the desk to stand beside him. “Why don’t you go on break?” I suggest.
“Oh good. Someone who speaks English,” the man spits.
My blood turns to fire in my veins, furious heat warming me all over as I inhale sharply and clench my teeth. How dare he. Never mind the fact that my father speaks perfect English, but for the man to insult him, my family, in our home?
My dad gives me a look before I can tear into this guy. “Aaron, it is fine,” he says, but I can tell that it isn’t. Whenever Dad gets harried and upset, his accent comes thundering back, way thicker than it usually is. I’ve seen this happen with Jason sometimes, when he gets all worked up, only his accent is more South Philadelphia, saying “water” like “wudder” and whatnot. And on top of that, my father sounds exhausted.
“Your mom will be back any minute,” he insists. “You have your games. It’s the weekend. Go work on your—”
“Are one of you going to get me my damn prescription, or should I come back when the actual doctor is here?!” the man growls.
I turn my head to stare at the man. He’s older, white and bald with thick jowls that seem to quiver a little as he eyes me in return.
“Is this your first time here?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“Yes, I was referred by—” he starts.
I cut him off. “You’re aware that the actual doctor is my mother, right?”
“Aaron,” my dad says, a subtle warning tone in his voice.
I ignore it, continuing to address the patient. “And did you also know that the man you’re currently berating is her husband?” I glance back at my dad, who looks away, fixing his gaze on the computer screen. “My father?”
The man’s eyes narrow, his mouth a thin line, like he’s trying to think of something not awful to say, and it’s breaking his fragile racist mind.
“Dad,” I say gently, speaking to my father while still glaring at the man. The patient looks away, exhaling heavily. He knows he fucked up. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of all this.”
Dad gets up from his seat, groaning a little. I swear I hear his back crack as he stands upright, and his hand pats my shoulder. It’s moments like this that make me think maybe I should give up the gaming thing, become a doctor, just so I can get him out of here.
“See you at dinner,” he says, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze without looking at me or the man in the office. He makes his way through the door that leads into our house, and I sit down at his desk, hitting a couple keys on the keyboard to get the ridiculously old computer going. It makes no sense that we have this thing, a relic of who knows when, but Mom and Dad are both stubborn. We’ll replace it when it breaks, they say.
The screen lights up, and I’m taken aback by what’s on it. It looks like some kind of...video game? There’s a wizard-looking person on the left-hand side, and in the center the avatar is in some kind of a tavern. But the scene is shown from above, letting you see through the walls, in this old-school isometric view.
I shake the mouse, but nothing happens. I tap on the keyboard. Again nothing. Whatever it is, it’s frozen.
“Just a minute,” I mumble to the patient, who is practically burning holes in me with his stare.
There are some names in light blue and others in yellow above the different frozen characters. But the one that catches my eye is the one in the center, surrounded by a bunch of other avatars.
Souschef the Bold.
Sous-chef? I squint at the name and suppress the urge to laugh. Totally sounds like something Dad would make up for himself if he was a gamer. I give the mouse a final shake before discreetly pulling my phone out and taking a picture of the screen, making a mental note to do some digging later.
Turning the computer off and on again, I clear my throat and say, “Sorry, looks like our system froze up. It’ll take just a minute to reload.”
The man grunts in response. While we both wait, I adjust a photo of my parents on the desk—young, pre-me, Dad still looking older, Mom looking much the same as she does now, blessed with genes that make her seem eternally ageless.
The computer finally finishes booting up, and I exhale with relief. “Now,” I say, “how can I help you?”
As the man rattles off his requests, I can’t help but let my mind wander. The money might not be here to take me where I want to go. Away from this office. Away from people like this man standing in front of me. No. Not yet. But there’s a game upstairs in my room that certainly can.
5
DIVYA
(RE)BEKAH: You ready yet? We could do some streaming today.
ME: Not even a little. My new ship is as basic as a pumpkin spice latte.
(RE)BEKAH: How dare you. You know I’m counting down the days until fall.
ME:
ME: How’s your new ship looking? Pick a bookish name yet?
(RE)BEKAH: Eh, getting there.
(RE)BEKAH: And yes, the Savage Song.
ME: Awesome.
(RE)BEKAH: Well, let me know when you’re done leveling and resource grinding. Or if you go exploring.
ME: I’m not terribly eager to see myself get blown up live again.
(RE)BEKAH: Noted. Can’t hide forever though, D1V. Your fans are waiting.
My new ship is devastating.
Not in the way that I want it to be, either.
No, a devastating ship in Reclaim the Sun would be as sleek and beautiful as it is fast and deadly, but right now, my ship is just emotionally devastating. Even after tons of grinding the other night—running quest missions, blowing up asteroids, clearing out space trash around my pilot’s assigned home planet—I’ve barely got enough credits for a new paint job. Forget improved blasters or faster warp travel or advanced sensors or anything even remotely helpful.
It would have been easier to level up and get more supplies if I hadn’t spent the past few days answering emails galore regarding what happened in the attack during my last stream. Feels like every damn video game outlet has reached out, a majority asking the same questions again and again:
Why do you think it happened?