Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Five

Blake

"Next," I mutter, rubbing at a migraine forming in my temple.

Lilian's face darkens with shame. She is ushered aside by Vincent, another member of my creative team. Vincent removes Lilian's boards from the easels, replacing them with his own. The three easels are arranged to showcase the pivotal moments in each staff member's storyline. Vincent's artwork is immaculate, but too realistic for what I'm looking for. Not that I know what I'm looking for, but I usually get a gut feeling about these things.

"In 'Death's Shadow,' our customizable main character is stranded in a postapocalyptic world, forced to forage for food and supplies to make weapons," Vincent begins, clearing his throat of nerves. "There will be enemies in the form of mutated animals and rival humans, as well as boss battles involving machines controlled by the tyrannical government. The map is interactive—"

"No."

His sentence dies. He freezes and the room descends into silence, apart from the sound of Vincent's static breathing. The remaining six employees bow their heads—suddenly enraptured by their shoes—in a form of secondhand embarrassment for their fallen comrade.

"It's been done, Vincent," I explain, tapping my pen on the cherrywood conference table. "Countless times."

He nods, stepping back from the podium. I check the time on my watch, then rise from my seat at the head of the table. I'm meeting Lucy soon, and my primary team is getting nowhere on these storyboards. If anything, my staff is recycling old material, throwing garbage at my feet and attempting to pass it off as gold.

"We need something fresh. Innovative. A concept that will grab players from the tutorial, and keep them glued to their screens until the credits roll," I remind them of their jobs, getting ready to drop another bomb. "I'll be leaving early today, and I won't return until next week."

Seven heads snap toward me, then ping around the room to look at one another. By their furrowed brows and wide eyes, they're sharing the same panic. We need to get an idea formulated soon, or the developers won't have enough time to design the game. If we don't make the deadline, we won't have a product next year. We'll piss a lot of teenagers off, as well as the shareholders that keep a keen eye on our stock value.

"I'm always available via email if you need to float something by me," I state, powering through the uncomfortable silence. Contrary to my current abrasive nature, I'm a hands-on boss, approachable and understanding. I blame my short fuse on stress, as well as the desire to impress at the upcoming wedding. "When I get back, our secondary team will present three more boards. If those fail, we may need to start brainstorming a continuation of a previous title."

Again, I'm met with shocked faces. 215 Tech has never released a sequel to a game. My products don't have loose ends. In my own words, a continuing storyline is a result of outside pressure, greed, and lack of creativity. But we're already suffering from two of those criteria.

"I'll see you next week," I bid them farewell, exiting the conference room and swinging by my office on the same floor to triple check I've set the alarm.

The security company we outsource is excellent, but I refuse to take chances. Rival companies have been trying to get their hands on our data for years, so I keep the most important things close. I've learned to safeguard my systems by taking advantage of the weaknesses in others.

Keeping an eye on the clock, I make a final stop in the basement, ensuring the frigid server rooms are equipped with round-the-clock maintenance staff and analysts for the duration of my leave. I have just enough time to purchase some coffee from the cafe before walking to Logan Square, which is just a handful of blocks from my company's headquarters.