by Suzanne Park
I laughed. “Okay, no more doughnuts for me. At least not today. If I needed to justify to the press why the stripper characters were say, shirtless ninety percent of the time, could I say that we had to limit our clothing options to improve performance? It would reduce texture memory and polygon count, right?”
Xin, the engineer intern, nodded furiously. “Yes! Yes!” That’s all he said, but that was enough for me.
I walked up to the screen and pointed out the upcoming milestones, trying to avoid the blinding light of the projector beam. “Once we get the game running with a consistent frame rate, we’ll have the alpha version ready for the team to tinker with. Wait . . . do we actually have any testers for our game, or did Ian steal those, too?”
Kat shrugged. “I have friends in that department. We’ll find someone. They like doughnuts too.”
The other developer intern, also named Xin (maybe our technical recruiter liked people named Xin?), asked, “Can you approve which size you want?”
“Which size? What do you mean?”
He pointed to his laptop and toggled between three screens. Each had the same female lead character, with different boob sizes.
Xin number two said, “You want small, medium, or large? I can also make . . . bigger.”
On screen three he typed in some commands and the character’s breasts inflated from B cups to DDD.
My mouth fell open and I gasped. “Please stop!” The breasts were now so big they covered her face.
Xin number two turned to look at Xin number one. “This is too big. She cannot breathe.”
Death by boob suffocation. “Let’s go with medium,” I said definitively.
With the help of our talented artists, Kat’s game characters looked so lifelike, a far departure from her zoo games, where the romping animals were doe-eyed and cartoony. Not that I’d seen a ton of strippers and apocalyptic female warriors in real life, but the character depictions looked amazingly realistic. The men looked heroic. The women looked athletic, but not like she-beasts.
“Everything you touch is magic,” I said to Kat. “Your work is stunning.”
“This was all possible because of you.” She smiled, which wasn’t something that happened often. “You had one hell of a steep learning curve, but honestly, you’re the best producer I’ve ever worked with at this company.”
Everyone around the table nodded and smiled. The Xins held up their doughnuts and saluted me.
“And I have the best team,” I said, choking up. It was true, I’d never had the pleasure of working with such passionate and creative people in my life. Even though my job had a lot of ups and downs, seeing the impact I had on my team (and they had on me) made me want to stick around to finish what I started.
While we chattered about the good work we’d been doing, my phone vibrated a few times with several text messages from unknown senders.
How do I say this in the most non-misogynistic way possible? Fuck you, bitch!
Slut bitch whore slut slut slut sluttttttt
And then this one: You dumb cronut. I hope you die.
Quickly followed by: *Cunt. Autocorrect.
I shot a panicked look across the room. How did this loser, or group of losers, find me? I googled my ten-digit number and discovered that UltimateDDay had fucking doxed me: my cell number, apartment building address, and work location had been posted online for the world to see. He’d even added a link to a Google Maps location of the office.
I scrolled through more posts and came across a friend of UltimateDDay who declared he’d be visiting me later that night, through my window. He posted a street-view picture of my apartment building. Another troll suggested that someone get me “swatted” (which I had to look up because I had no idea what that was), and it turned out he tried to get someone to call the police to send a SWAT team to my apartment building.
What the holy fuck.
There were pages and pages of sickening posts from the last few hours. My chest constricted, like a larger, stronger person had bear-hugged me and refused to let go. With each inhale it became harder and harder to take in oxygen.
My sobs caught me off guard, like I was having an out-of-body experience. Why would someone target me like this? Why did I even matter to anyone? Kat jumped out of her chair and grabbed my shoulders. She looked me in the eyes. “Okay, Melody. Just breathe slowly. Inhale. Exhale.”
I did as she instructed and showed her my phone. “My god, Melody, we’re leaving and going to the police. NOW.”
Before we left the building she wrapped my scarf around my head and made me wear some neon-pink promotional sunglasses I’d picked up from GameCon. If the goal was to not draw attention to myself, we had failed.
We sped through the workstation maze. “Keep your head down, Melody. We don’t know who the mole is.” Kat guided me past the kitchen, copy room, and mailroom. We went down seven flights of stairs and ended up at the parking garage. I had no idea that back stairwell existed.
She started the ignition to her Subaru. “That used to be my escape route when I needed to make pediatrician appointments, or pump in my car. You’ll understand one day if you have kids.”
As we hightailed it to the police station, Jane messaged me.
I’m freaking the fuck out. My wedding planner just quit! She said I stressed her out. I can’t believe she’d say that to me. It’s my wedding! Of course I’m stressed! Can you meet today, I need to vent. I can stop by your office if you’re around. And just emailed you what I’d like you to do for my bachelorette party.
And one from my mom: You dating anyone yet? Your umma and appa are old. We want grandchilds.
And another from Jane, ten minutes later: Hey, I just stopped by your office. The receptionist (Kendra?) said you went to the POLICE?! Holy shit, this must be bad! Don’t worry about the bachelorette party email, but just note that we should be RSVPing places by this weekend <3
Kat dropped me off in front of the precinct while she found parking. I walked in through the door and didn’t expect to see a modern-looking, IKEA-esque office interior. Maybe I’d watched too many crime shows on television, but I sort of envisioned a front desk behind bulletproof glass, and then jail cells somewhere in the back, with a bunch of imprisoned people clamoring for their lawyers or their one phone call. This place didn’t look like that. Instead, this police station looked like it might have a legit Starbucks coffee machine.
The officer sitting in the front barely looked up at me. “Um, hi? I wanted to speak to someone about a harassment complaint.”
“Name?” she asked with a yawn not politely covered by her hand. I stared at her badge. Officer Greeley.
“Sure, it’s Melody Jae-Eun Joo.”
Officer Greeley’s downturned mouth accentuated her frown lines. “Melanie Choo? C-H-O-O?”
I sighed. “Melody J-O-O.”
She henpecked the keys with her two index fingers. “It says here that someone has already filed a harassment complaint on your behalf. A lawyer from Seventeen Studios. This investigation opened a few weeks ago. If you show me your ID I can print this out for you.”
She printed out over fifty pages and handed me the stack. Kat came up to me, panting hard. “I had to park a long way down. And I thought it would be a good idea to run back here. I’m sweaty. Sorry.”
She looked over my shoulder and we skimmed the police report document together. A few sections stood out to me:
BlueBaller42 interview: Traced IP address. BB42 admitted he sent threatening emails to the work email address listed on BetaGank website but he does not actually own a sawed-off shotgun. Jamie Frazier (alias BlueBaller42) understood it was a federal crime to send messages like these and will never do it again.
SamuraiStud: Active tweeterer (sp?). Made death threats from his grandma’s IP address. Just turned 18, and out of our local jurisdiction.
NoHmburgrH8rs: Heard about victim on BetaGank and 4chan. Could not recall specific comment he made about killing anyone named “M
elody” but believed his comments were jokes. The post has since been deleted.
Dozens of these threat investigations were declared dead ends, inconclusive, or ended with a light slap on the wrist. None had moved forward as prosecutable due to a lack of concrete evidence. Numb and light-headed, I sat down and squeezed my eyes shut. The Seattle Police brought in the WBIS (Washington Bureau of Investigation Services) to investigate some of the more large-scale threats (like multiple bomb threats targeting Seventeen Studios, which employees didn’t know about), but the WBIS dismissed them as hoaxes, and no serious effort went into hunting down and punishing the culprits.
With eyes still closed, I said calmly, “This report only covers a handful of the threats I received. What about the hundreds of others?”
Officer Greeley answered, “Miss, we don’t have a large team here. It’s still an ongoing investigation.” My eyes shot open and my steady breaths quickened.
Kat raised her voice. “Look, you’ve only researched a dozen of these and it took over two months. At this rate she’ll be retired by the time you finish this investigation.”
I exploded. “Or I’ll be blown to smithereens tomorrow by someone who actually has a sawed-off shotgun at his disposal and knows how to use it!”
Officer Greeley continued to look at us with an uninterested gaze, as if we had offered her a ho-hum Salisbury steak microwave dinner and weren’t talking about saving my goddamned life. She’d been with the department for twenty-three years, according to the framed certificate above her head. She had several pictures of her family on her wall and appeared to have grown children. She didn’t seem the type to know anything about gaming or have a clue what an IP address was.
I pleaded, “If you look through these threats, you’ll see that this could happen to anyone.” I glanced again at her picture frames. “You have daughters. Granddaughters. Please help me.”
Candace texted while I stood by Officer Greeley’s desk. Jane told me what’s going on. I know people who can help.
Kat whispered, “Let’s go.” I clenched the police report to my chest and followed Kat out the door.
Once we were outside, she turned to me. “I didn’t realize how unhelpful the police would be at handling your situation. I’m so sorry.”
Driving back to the office with Kat, I noticed Candace called a few times and left voice mails. Worried that something was wrong with the baby, I called her back immediately. She picked up on the first ring. “Oh good, it’s you. I have a group of . . . um . . . friends . . . that have agreed to help you.”
My whole body tensed. “What kind of friends are we talking about?”
“Well, you know in my early PR days I worked at a firm who handled celebrity clients. I met some interesting people along the way. These friends of mine are a group of um . . . female renegade investigators. They’re wanted by the government because they’re straight-up hackers. Well, they are more like social justice avengers really. They’ve been called hacktivists in the media and they like that term. Their sole mission is to right the world of unjust things, and, well, this problem of yours is exactly the kind of thing they take an interest in.”
I wasn’t politically inclined, so maybe these fem-hackers wouldn’t take my case. I voted, most of the time, in presidential elections. But that was it. Being a die-by-the-sword social justice warrior wasn’t my thing. I was more the “social justice worrier” type.
“How do I get in touch with these friends of yours?”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll go ahead and send them your email and phone number now. They’ll reach out to you soon and send you a link that will activate an encrypted video chat right away. They’ll probably grill you with questions, but remember, their intentions are noble, and their goal is to help you and they’ll explain how. It’s a motley crew of women: security consultants, computer programmers, there’s even a stay-at-home hacker mom of twin toddlers.”
“Okay, at this point I’m desperate. Thanks, Candace.”
“No problem. Let’s chat later.”
Kat and I pulled into our work garage. “Thanks, Kat, for everything. And about what you just heard—”
She opened her door. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I need some quiet time, so I’m going to sit in my car a few minutes. I’ll be back up soon.” She hugged me and headed up the elevator. Ian had parked his Porsche next to me and gave me so little room that I dinged his car when half opening my door. Oops.
Brrrrrrring!
A new message notification popped on my screen. Amazing that my phone worked so well in the garage. “Please click on video chat link sent to your email from WheedWackerPony.” The creativity with some of these bizarre online names astounded me.
The link on my phone opened up on my browser, cycling through a series of redirected URLs. This happened a dozen times before I landed on a screen with a static picture of a My Little Pony. The rainbow one, Rainbow Dash? She had swirly black-and-white eyes, like she was being hypnotized. Very dizzying, yet calming. I shut my eyes, in case this was a weird plan to put me under a hypnotic spell and steal my bank account number.
The screen switched from Rainbow Dash to a gender-ambiguous silhouette. A voice that sounded like Morgan Freeman boomed from my speakerphone.
“Melody Joo! We have a question for you. What justice do you seek?”
Could anyone bring justice for what had happened to me? An online troll mob was out for my blood. Justice would be for all these monsters to quit hiding behind the cloak of anonymity and show their faces, and then get locked away forever by the police or FBI. But that wasn’t ever going to happen.
“Um, I’m new to all this. What sort of justice are you able to get me?”
Morgan Freeman answered, “We at the Justice Brigade believe in . . . well, getting justice. You have been viciously attacked online, and you have restrained yourself from responding or going on the counterattack. We respect your restraint.”
Interrupting Morgan Freeman to mention the company’s gag order didn’t feel appropriate. I’d bring that up another time, maybe.
The baritone voice continued. “We can help you. We want to help you. Many of your attackers have been problematic before, and we now have the resources and tools to figure out who these persons are behind the pseudonyms and avatars. We can trace IPs, hack into the gaming message boards, and dox these assholes right back, too.” It was weird to hear Morgan Freeman say those words.
I looked down and caught myself wringing my hands. “This is all so impressive and I appreciate your willingness to help. But I’m extremely risk averse.” In fact, so risk averse that I drove the speed limit exactly and always paid parking tickets and taxes months in advance. What the hell am I doing with these rulebreakers? “Is everything you’re doing within the confines of the law?”
She laughed hard. “Melody, you are very funny. You don’t worry. We’ll get you justice. We can figure out the identities of these assholes and we’ll take full credit for bringing them down. You don’t even have to take part in anything.”
“So that’s basically a no then.”
This whole idea of fighting evil with more evil didn’t seem to be the best way to handle this. Like drinking black coffee on an empty stomach, an acidic uneasiness in the pit of my gut presented itself physically. A wave of nausea hit. “Um, Miss WheedWacker, before you publish anything, could you let me know what you find first? Then maybe we, I mean you, can decide what to do with that information. I want to see who we’re dealing with, like if it’s an eighty-year-old granny from Kansas, or a twelve-year-old schoolgirl from Osaka, I’d be less excited about retaliation on those types of people.”
She paused before answering. “Yes. That is an acceptable arrangement. We’ll bring the info to you as it comes in, as you requested,” said Morgan Freeman. “We’ve actually already tracked down a few IP addresses since we’ve been on the phone with you. We should have some verified identities revealed in the next few hours.”
“Wow! Thank you so much. I mean it.” Although this path we were taking felt a little uncertain, it was nice to have people rallying around me. Even if they were hackers flying under the radar of the authorities. “Also, since you’re investigating, could you find out who leaked the original info to BetaGank in the first place? The person who started the shit tsunami?”
“It might be difficult, but we will try. You’re a friend of Candace, so you’re a friend of ours.” The call ended, and I headed back upstairs, feeling more optimistic. Finally, I was regaining control of my life again.
COMING BACK FROM a quick walk to clear my head, someone bellowed “Hold the elevator!” as the doors nearly closed. Feeling generous, and lucky enough to mash the door open button instead of the door close one, I allowed elevator refuge.
Unfortunately, the person benefiting was Asher. Crashing back into my life again like an annoying Twitter user who kept unfollowing and refollowing you.
He hurtled in just as I hit the door close button. Damn it.
“Oh, hey,” he said, noticing me, panting from his fifteen feet of running. Not that I should say anything about that. After all, sometimes pulling off a sports bra got me winded.
Up, up, up we went in silence. The quietness between us was excruciatingly painful, but on the flip side, it was also much better than him talking.
He shifted his feet and looked over at me. “I want to apologize for taking your lead title status. My dad had sway with the board, and he and Ian are college buddies. I didn’t earn any of it. It was just plain, dumb luck.”
I closed my eyes and calmed my breathing. This was an apology, but I didn’t want to accept it. Sure, I had my own fair share of lucky breaks, but the difference was that people like Asher didn’t get undermined, scrutinized, and second-guessed all the time. I’d proven my competence time and time again, but every day I lived with a nagging feeling that everyone was waiting for me to fail.
The elevator lurched to a stop and my eyes flew open. “Asher, what’d you do?!” I hissed.
