Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

October

Lucy

I pluck the stylus from my braided updo, removing the fog at the base of the creature's legs. I tap the interactive whiteboard—switching from eraser to oil paint—and add midnight blue scales to his hooves.

"The Demon God will manipulate the environment to disorient the player," I tell Harley, the author of this board. Other concept artists have gathered, and are editing their templates to mimic my changes. "But once it makes its presence known, we don't want special effects to detract from the artistry."

Harley squints at the scales, then nods in agreement. I leave her to it, taking a few steps toward the next screen. Another member of the creative team is working on the home of the Drowned Queen and her King of Shadow. Their castle is built into a vertical cliffside, the sea beneath it churning with violent activity. I point to the black sand beach, speaking to Vincent.

"Don't forget to add the floating docks. Once they level to Seafarer, the player will have to pass through this gateway to get to the kingdom."

Vincent taps the screen, locating the specs for the dock. "I was thinking of including a tunnel from the beach to the castle dungeons. Something dark and dank, with rotten seaweed walls. The sound team can add whispers from the dead trapped in the crypts."

"That's awesome," I encourage, indicating a part of the cliff hidden in shadow. "Right here?"

Vincent makes a mark where my finger is, highlighting it for later.

It's been three months since I signed that contract, handing ownership of my story to 215 Technology. I worked from home for the first week, but curiosity got the better of me. Instead of being debriefed by Isaac at the end of each day, I wanted to be onsite, witnessing my idea bloom into something I never dreamed possible.

My only concern with being present at 215 Headquarters was the possibility of running into Blake. However, his offices are on the top floor, and he seldom makes an appearance in the conceptual art department. My fellow coworkers have made good-natured jokes about their boss's lack of artistical ability.

"One time, he tried to draw a dungeon map and I thought it was something his niece made at daycare."

"He can write code out of his ass but can't create a stick figure to save his life."

Instead, Blake has been working alongside the animators and programmers. They are beginning to upload the main characters into the game, which are all we've completed thus far. We're still on schedule. I'm currently working with my team on topography, architecture, and NPCs.

My team.

I, Brigid Calloway, have a fucking team. People greet me first thing in the morning, shoving their Wraiths under my nose to float ideas. College graduates and veteran artists ask my opinion on things like color theory, hair texture, and focal points. My coworkers have become friends. We meet for lunch in the café downstairs, chatting about horror movies and weekend plans.

This morning, I threw on a yellow blazer, distressed denim, and heels. I purchased the clothing myself. They weren't torn from a discount rack at the thrift store, or selected by one of Henrietta's stylists. I'm wearing a blazer, and not because I'm accompanying a seventy-year-old client to a rare cigar auction.

"You have great leadership qualities," Isaac compliments when I return to our command station. "Last time I tried to critique Harley, she put salt in my coffee."

I grin, sliding an electronic document across the worktop. The master table at the center of the room is a touchscreen, enabling us to view and comment on various designs within the department. It took me a handful of days to adjust to the high-tech equipment. Even the directory in the lobby is made of interactive glass, changing to show which employees are on break or gone for the day. As a result, I keep my stylus tucked behind my ear or buried in my hair at all times.