Backward Compatible: A Geek Love Story

by Sarah Daltry

  “You’re a sweet kid. Don’t ever change.”

  I type in Katie’s email address and put my fingers to the keyboard. Then, nothing.

  “What the hell should I write?” I ask.

  “What about, Dear firm-breasted female, please copulate with me and I will forgive the money I am owed. Also, wear more cosplay. I request an Asari or Harley Quinn.” Lanyon takes a deep breath. “Dear God, Harley Quinn is hot.”

  “Her voice pisses me off,” I argue.

  “I don’t care about her voice. I care about everything else.”

  “You know she’s a cartoon, right?”

  “Piss off, Princess Peach. I don’t care. I’m sick of that argument. Cartoons can be hot. Besides, I’ve seen girls dress up as Harley and every damn one of them is hot.”

  “You’re one of those clown lover guys, aren’t you? Get off on masturbating with grease paint and the like?” I ask him.

  “Write your damn email.”

  I turn back to the blank, not yet composed, email. “All right. I’ll keep it simple.” I type. Hello, this is George, the guy who handed you his FDX game. Any chance I can get the money for that? Is there some place we can meet up?

  I look at it. Lanyon reads over my shoulder. “Hmmm.”

  “‘Hmmm’ what? Does it sound too douchey? Forceful? Am I being a dick? How should I end it without coming off like a stalker?”

  “All good questions,” Lanyon says. Then he leans over and hits send. “Boom goes the dynamite.”

  I slap him in the balls and he doubles over. “One hundred skill shot points for that, bitch.” I look at the screen again. “Well, at least it’s out of my hands. Out of my hands and onto your balls.”

  “I hate you,” Lanyon wheezes.

  “Quiet, little dove. Let us now stare sadly at my computer until something happens.”

  Katie

  Seventeen hours. I’ve been playing for seventeen hours straight. Actually, no, that’s not true. It’s actually been sixteen hours and forty three minutes. I took six minutes to go downstairs and pee and another eleven to heat up and scarf down a microwavable French bread pizza.

  The barren landscape is pissing me off. They’ve placed the same damn rock continuously throughout the terrain. At first, I thought the shadow effects were cool, but now I’m mad. Two years and they couldn’t even vary texture? Bullshit.

  The screen pings. Seynar’s online. I debate. I could invite him to join me. He’s been pretty good in other games where we’ve teamed up and he’ll definitely be up for grinding. Apparently I need to grind, since Vargalog the Magnificent is a cheating piece of shit who thinks it’s completely acceptable to both teleport and sprout tentacles at 75%. Not cool. Not at all. However, I can almost guarantee that Seynar’s going to play soldier. Soldiers are so boring, and I really don’t feel like having to keep reviving his ass. I’m fairly low on potions as it is. Seriously. Who the fuck plays soldier?

  Of course, all of eight minutes pass before he sends me a PM.

  U got FDX? Wanna grind?

  I sigh and message him back. Yeah. What level are you? I pass the rock again. Assholes.

  6. U?

  Six? Did he sleep? God, this guy is a loser.

  23. What class are you playing?

  I lean over and grab my Code Red. I’m starting to get the twitches, but nothing a little caffeine can’t fix. I evaporate a hawk that swoops overhead and tries to peck me to death. Three XP. Fuckers.

  Soldier. U?

  I grab my headset and send Seynar an invite. He pops up and I nearly evaporate him, too, just because, well, soldier.

  “So, where are we?” he asks.

  “The Nova Desert on Flanor. I just got my ass tentacled.”

  “Huh. I was still at the Estate.”

  “Seriously? When did you get the game?” I ask.

  “A couple hours ago.”

  “You didn’t go last night?”

  “Nah, I preordered it. I was waiting for the mailman,” he explains. Another hawk swoops down and rips Seynar in half. “Shit. What was that?”

  “A hawk.”

  “No kidding,” he says. “Fuck. Where the hell am I?”

  I don’t know where the spawn point is, although I can almost promise it’s near a rock. Since the only enemies so far have been hawks that grant three XP, I haven’t really needed a spawn point. Of course, I’m not a level six soldier.

  “Just stay where you are,” I tell him.

  Through incredibly vague directions on his part and a lot of cursing on mine, I track him down. I suggest we teleport to a level more, well, boring so that he can grind a bit. I end up watching him shoot lasers at wolves for twenty minutes. I don’t even bother. Instead, I turn on my laptop and check my email. I have one from George – or ZombieSlayer92, I guess – but it doesn’t say anything of value. I’ll respond later. I don’t have a car and I don’t feel like asking my mom to bring me to the ATM right now anyway.

  I continue through my messages. Some spam, a couple coupons from GameStop, and a shipping confirmation for my electronic dragon shout hoodie. Sweet.

  Seynar’s talking, but I’m distracted by my hoodie. What the hell is a AAAA battery?

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “You’re in Elmwood, right?” he repeats.

  “Yeah.” How does he know that? Is he a stalker? “Did I tell you that?”

  “It’s on your Facebook,” he replies.

  Oh, right. I should log in there once in a while. I forgot I even accepted his friend request. Jeff Browning. That’s his real name. His profile picture is of Thor, though. I sincerely doubt he looks like Thor, but considering his dumbass choice of class in FDX, who knows? Either way, Thor sucks.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I have an extra ticket for The Hobbit Thursday night, if you want to go.”

  I weigh my options. I don’t want to go. Not only do I not care at all about The Hobbit, but I also most certainly do not want to go on a date with Seynar/Jeff Browning. However, the movie’s been sold out and I like midnight shows. Even for crap movies. I suppose I can break out my Arwen costume, despite the fact that she isn’t in The Hobbit. Plus, my mom will be thrilled. I’ll tell her it’s a date. And, to be honest, I have absolutely nothing better to do.

  “I guess,” I say.

  He’s so happy that he doesn’t even notice his soldier is being gnawed on by a wolf. I let out a fireball, but it’s too late. He’s already fading from the screen, almost as fast as my 1 XP.

  George

  Lanyon hits me with a stray devil stick. “Watch it, snickerdoodle,” I tell him.

  “Ah, a pet name. You’re such a dear.”

  “You’re such a jizz snorter. Put down my devil sticks; you don’t know how to use them.”

  “Neither do you,” he says.

  He’s right. “Yeah, but they’re mine.”

  I continue to stare at my computer. It is really a sad sight. If I wasn’t me, I would definitely make fun of me.

  “Listen,” Lanyon starts as he sits on my bed, “she stole your game. You aren’t getting your money and, chances are, your email is about to be raped by spam.”

  “Raped by sandwich meat. That should be a band name. And she didn’t steal the game. I gave it to her.”

  “Fine. Then she isn’t a thief. You’re just a dumbass.”

  “Maybe I could play a thief in FDX this time?” I ponder, although it’s unlikely.

  “You won’t play shit because we don’t have the game.”

  “Well, why don’t we just go and get it now?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any money. You know, what with you already sort of buying it once,” he says.

  “I don’t, but you do. You didn’t buy anything, except for your endless supply of Snickers.”

  “True. But I never had money in the first place.” On cue, he pulls out a candy bar.

  “Wait. You came to the store with me at midnight and didn’t bring money? Why the hell did you come?” I
ask.

  “To keep you company. Also, I figured I could play it, too.”

  “You goddamn tapeworm.”

  “Meh. Maybe I can borrow money from my mom?”

  “Damn. How do you keep the ladies away?”

  “Really?” he says. “How’s the email looking?”

  “Go Zark yourself.” My computer pings. “Aha. Email ahoy. How do you like that, Laggy?”

  “Whatever. I’m still the AR and you’re still the Klobb.” He chucks his Snickers wrapper on my floor, where it disappears amongst the swarming piles of filth that already live there. I’ve only been home for a couple of days and already, all my mom’s hard work has been lost.

  I check the email. “Balls.”

  “So she doesn’t want to fellate you?” Lanyon asks.

  “I don’t know yet. It’s Seynar.”

  “Maybe he wants to fellate you.”

  “Doubtful,” I say.

  “That dude has too much free time. Anything amusing?” Lanyon asks.

  I read the email. “Ugh. This guy. He sent a blog post informing us of a future blog post, in which he’s going to review the new Hobbit movie. Who the hell does promos for a blog post about a movie that anyone reading this dwarf scab’s blog will have already seen?”

  “Your sentence structure confuses me.” Lanyon says. “But I think I got it. When’s he going to see it?”

  “Smaug’s dick sweat. He’s going Thursday night, like us. Gao yang jong. He’ll probably be dressed as a gorram dragon.”

  “Who cares what he’s dressed as? Maybe we can go to his house after and play FDX?”

  “Screw that. I want my cash from the damsel with big breasts. Then I can get my own game.” I sit back in my chair. “This blows.”

  “Yes, but so does your mother.”

  I turn to look at Lanyon. “Some people may say that you’re a son of a bitch. But I know different.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because sons have to have testicles.” I punch him in the nuts again. “Skill shot.” He collapses once more. “You’d think at some point you’d be ready for that.”

  “No man is ever ready for a friend’s betrayal,” he mutters through a mist of tears.

  “Get up, douche wagon. Let’s go and ask that sexy mother of yours for some money so we can buy another game in which we murder pixels and try to forget about our miserable existence.”

  “You should be a poet.” He pulls himself to his feet.

  “I am a poet.”

  “No. You’re a whale’s vagina.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” I thrust my finger in the air with much fanfare. “To Crimson Lightning!”

  We trot down stairs, passing my father, who’s asleep in his chair.

  “We’re going out, Snorlax. Be back soon,” Lanyon says.

  I stop to look at Lanyon. “Think you’re clever, do you?”

  “Hey, you’re the asshole who named his car Crimson Lightning.”

  “It is an electrical surge of red awesomeness.”

  “It’s a Geo Metro.”

  “I guess we could take your bicycle.” I stare him down.

  “Fine. Let’s take Crimson Lightning.”

  We get in the car and he grabs my arm as if he’s been struck by a bolt of genius. “Did you remember to bring your phone?” He starts to chuckle. “You know. In case she emails you. Bwah ha ha.” He starts shaking he’s laughing so hard.

  “Great one. It would have been better if you didn’t laugh before you delivered the punch line.”

  He can barely breathe. “No. It was still good.”

  I start up the car and drive toward his house. “Fucking Daxter.”

  Katie

  I’m bored. Seynar has wasted my entire day. At least he’s finally doing something. For someone who’s so badass at FPSs, he blows at RPGs. I don’t know how. My character is wandering aimlessly around rocks in the desert and taking out hawks with ease. I’ve been reading and just pressing X sporadically and I’m still knocking out nearly 90 XP every ten minutes.

  He’s babbling about getting dinner before the movie. I already regret saying yes. I’m going to have to listen to him for hours. He wants to “get to know me,” which is code for trying to get some action. I don’t do action. I have no need for it. It’s messy and dramatic and far less impressive than a well-timed Volcano spell.

  Shit. Maybe my mom’s right, I think. Oh, well. Even if she is, I remain bored. “Hey, I gotta get some sleep. I’ve been playing since I got the game,” I tell Seynar.

  “Cool. Listen, send me your number and I’ll text you later.”

  I don’t want him to text me. I kind of wish I’d never needed help with Crawmerax. I wish Jeff Browning was like the hawk that circles above me only to be turned into an icy barrage of bird meat.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say and then I sign off, pissed that I have to stop playing because I was dumb enough to encourage this nonsense in the first place. My book isn’t very interesting and I don’t know what else to do with myself. I don’t feel like sleeping, and I don’t want to borrow my mom’s car and do anything. I settle on texting Anna. She did, in fact, make me walk home from Chad’s house last night. I’m still not sure whether I’m grateful or irritated that not one passing car honked or pulled over, despite the fact that I looked like a space hooker.

  Anna says she feels like going to the mall, so even though I haven’t slept and I don’t want to go, I brush my teeth and get dressed. She comes to pick me up and rolls her eyes when she takes in my ripped jeans and “Would You Kindly” sweatshirt.

  “You’re never going to get laid,” she says.

  “Oh, drat. My entire life plan is ruined.”

  “A little sex is good for you, you know.”

  “I bet Chad would be thrilled to know you think he’s little.”

  She giggles. “He’s not little. In fact, he’s-”

  I turn the radio up and start singing. I don’t even know the song or the words, but I definitely do not want to hear about how big or little Chad’s penis is. I prefer imagining Chad as the sexless vortex into which my formerly intelligent friend was lost and through which came this vapid clone.

  “You’re hopeless,” she says, but it works and she stops giving me Chad’s erectile dimensions.

  The mall is, as per usual, lame. It’s abnormally warm, making me sweaty and gross, and my lack of sleep makes me cranky. When Anna goes into Victoria’s Secret, I decide to go wait by Orange Julius. Which, in turn, leads me to buy an Orange Julius. I don’t like Orange Julius, I soon discover. But I’m stuck with it so I drink it anyway.

  I’m sitting on the bench between Orange Julius and Victoria’s Secret, watching a toddler spill bottles of Bath and Body Works gels all over the floor of the store while his mom ignores him, when he walks by. Wayfarer, the game-stealing ass, aka George, aka ZombieSlayer92, aka kind of yuckily adorable boy wearing a Hyrule Coffee t-shirt and khaki shorts. It’s winter, and it’s cold, but he’s wearing shorts. His scrawny, pale legs look scrawnier and paler between the oversized cargo shorts and his green Chucks.

  Stop it, I tell myself. He’s not cute. He’s a thieving douche potato whom you had to scam into giving you your game back. Also, you owe him eighty bucks, so stop staring.

  I don’t listen to myself. I keep staring. He’s really cute. His glasses are obscenely large. I can just hear Anna now, but I don’t care.

  The Orange Julius has made me bold. I get up and walk toward him and his friend. They don’t notice me approaching. I almost say something, until I realize what I’m doing at the last second. I duck behind the Verizon kiosk. Shit. I almost just talked to a guy. Like in a flirty way. Like a girl or some crap.

  “Can I help you?” asks the unnaturally tan guy in the Verizon shirt.

  “Shhh. I don’t want to be seen.”

  “Are you looking to lower your current cell phone bill?”

  “No, asshole. I’m looking to hide,” I tell him.

 
; “Well, we happen to have a special going right now. If you sign up for a two year contract-”

  I cut him off. You know, real life would be so much better if you could temporarily borrow your gaming abilities. This guy is a prime candidate for my Eviscerator spell. “Are you daft?” I ask.

  He doesn’t stop. He just continues his spiel and I give up. I suppose I could let Verizon Ken look schizophrenic, but my knees hurt from bending down like this. I stand up, ignoring the popping noise that comes from my back, and come face to face with George. Whose friend is apparently shopping for a new wireless plan. Oh, hell. I’m a moron.

  George

  “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get cash from your mom. And under no circumstances are you to fail. Do you understand?” I ask Lanyon.

  “Did you buy Mission Impossible on DVD?”

  “Yes. Yes I did.”

  “We should watch it later,” he says as I follow him into his house. “Ma,” he belts out, as if he’s executing a dragon shout. “I’m home.”

  “Smooth, baby. Should I hang around or disappear?” I’m not sure what brand of mom he has, even though I’ve met her over a hundred times.

  “Stay close. She has no problem telling me to piss off, but she feels like a failure as a parent if she does it in front of anyone.”

  “Really?” I ask. “But I don’t matter.”

  “No one knows that better than me. But moms are crazy, so stay close. Maybe you can check your phone and cry a little because no one loves you.”

  I pinch his nipple and he screeches as his mom comes downstairs, carrying laundry.

  “Lanyon, why are your towels always so crusty? What kind of dirt do you get involved in?” she asks.

  “Sexy dirt,” I mutter.

  “What’s that, George dear?”

  “Nice to see you, Mrs. Utterson,” I reply.

  “Nice to see you, too. Are you staying for dinner?” She smiles as if my staying for dinner could make up for the fact that she has to wash her son’s spunk off her towels. Moms are crazy.