“I think we’re all on the same page here,” says Derek, clasping his hands and looking directly at the camera. “And we’re learning now about the game’s elusive creator, known only as Emerald. All we know of him is that he created the game three years ago, as ‘a fabulous mecca of Black excellence in which Nubian kings and queens across the diaspora can congregate, build each other up, and SLAY.’ ”
What about that quote could they possibly find threatening to their existence? Who, in a court of law, would challenge that mission statement as discriminatory? They didn’t even want into our world until they found out about it.
“I mean, the very name of the game seems to incite violence, right?” asks Derek. “SLAY—it just sounds so vicious, doesn’t it?”
“It absolutely does, Derek. Frankly, I’m offended by the silence of this mysterious developer, Emerald,” affirms Jan. “He’s the one we should be tracking down and demanding answers from.”
I swallow and grip the phone harder.
“Well,” continues Jan, “we thank you, Professor, for your time. Parents, if you’re as disturbed by this news as we are, be vigilant about what your kids are playing online. In these times, we need to be more careful than ever. I’m Jan Fitzgerald with Derek Bennett. Thank you for joining us tonight. Join us Sunday night at eight for an exclusive interview with Dr. Brandon Cannon, associate professor of civil rights law at Sutton University, to help us determine whether this ‘game’ is a step in the right direction for diversity, or discriminatory.”
The fact that they even have to ask that question makes my heart race with rage. I close the app and resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. I’ve gotten another couple of messages from Cicada that I hadn’t noticed.
Cicada: I can’t believe these people.
Cicada: Emerald? I’m sorry if that video upsets you. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m sorry.
Cicada: It’s just that I’m so freaked out myself right now. I can’t believe they’re actually trying to hunt you down! Have any local news stations contacted you yet?
Cicada: What are we going to do?
Cicada: I’m sorry. I should never have sent this to you. You’re probably panicking about this, and there’s nothing we can do about it. This doesn’t fix anything. It was so inconsiderate of me. I’m sorry.
First of all, in the mind of the news, I’m still a rumor, so there’s no need for us to panic, even though that’s easier said than done. And second of all, once again I find myself having to remind Cicada that she hasn’t disappointed me.
Me: It wasn’t inconsiderate. I’m actually glad you sent me this. I need to know what’s going on, even if it’s not happy news. Thanks, Cicada. I appreciate you.
Cicada: You’re not just saying that? You’re not mad?
Me: Have you ever seen me get mad at anyone for stating facts? I really do appreciate you sending me this. Thank you.
Cicada: Thank God. ♥
I do need to know what the news is saying about me, and I am grateful to Cicada for having my back and sending this to me, but my hands are definitely shaking. I don’t even know how these people would track down and identify me. All they have is my username and a masked IP that I’ve set to keep shuffling so my location changes every thirty seconds. Technically, if they took me to court or something, they’d be suing Emerald, not me, which matters. I remember when the CEO of NoonMoon was outed and the company was sued for plagiarizing a game ironically named Moral Hazard. NoonMoon no longer exists, but the CEO still has his house in the Hamptons. I’m sure it also helped that he probably had top-notch legal counsel.
Then I realize what I need to do.
I climb out of bed, get dressed, grab my backpack and a granola bar from my top drawer, slip my feet into my shoes, pick up my phone, and head out the door and down the street, trying to breathe deeply and enjoy this cool Saturday morning. I read Cicada’s next text.
Cicada: So then, what now? I’m following your lead here.
Under her message, I add my reply:
Me: We’re going to get a lawyer.
8. ANYONE’S GAME
* * *
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
My name is John, and when it comes to playing video games, I have no idea what I’m doing.
When my brother and I were kids, we used to bike home from school, pick up a box of Milk Duds from the corner store, and play pinball at the nickel arcade. It was easy. There were exactly two buttons and only three instructions: Pull the pin. Click the levers. Don’t let the ball fall in the hole.
But this? This thing I’m watching the boys play? Legacy of Planets? There’s a headset, gloves, socks, a computer screen, and a controller with fifty buttons. I’ve heard them talk about riding rhinos, building watchtowers and catapults, crafting lizard suits, mixing elixirs from crystals in the mountains, and yesterday they dueled some guy who apparently hailed from a tribe of man-size cobras. There’s an entire world in that game, and I don’t even know where to begin in understanding it.
Joshua and Asher are standing side by side in the living room, each with a lime-green headset over their eyes. Asher, my eight-year-old nephew, is at the helm, navigating through a settings screen, modifying a series of what look like health bars, talking to Joshua like they’re on another planet. I’m watching the computer screen from the kitchen, as if they’re playing a regular PC game without VR. But the boys can see the same world through their goggles, fully immersed in Legacy of Planets. Apparently, the goggles are optional. You don’t need them to play the game, but Asher made it clear last Christmas that playing Legacy of Planets without goggles is like playing basketball without shoes—it’s possible, but not nearly as fun.
“Do we have enough coins for the cheetah suit yet?” asks Asher.
Joshua shrugs and adjusts his headset, which is too big for him and keeps slipping down on his head. They don’t make them for six-year-olds.
“That’s the king of the Savanna—Orion. I’m not gonna duel him,” says Asher, reaching over and tapping his little brother’s arm before pointing to the screen. “But this guy over here? BlackBeetlejuice? He’s new. Look at him. Two cards, no armor, and he’s won one out of eight duels. I can take him down. Give me your crossbow, and we’ll split the coins fifty-fifty.”
“I wanna duel the lion,” protests Joshua.
Asher laughs and asks, “You really think we can take down Orion the Lion? That’s nuts.”
Joshua nods. “Maybe? What are our cards again?”
I smile at the sight of them getting along. Virtual reality games seem to make everything a competition between them, but it also seems to foster collaboration. With the little I’ve heard them play, they’ve loaned each other weapons, pooled their money, and given each other tips as they duel other players. I smile and pick up my wineglass and take another sip, scrolling through my phone and resisting the urge to look up footage of my own interview. As a general rule, I don’t torture myself that way. Whatever I said earlier, I said. Watching it later won’t change anything. If my tie was crooked on live TV, I don’t want to know. I hear my little sister, Candace, enter the room from behind me.
“Heyyy,” she sings, gliding into the kitchen and reaching past my head for the bottle. “Saw you on the news looking like you own MIT. You did great! Saw the whole thing, didn’t we, boys?”
She grabs the empty glass on the counter and pours until it’s halfway full. Her purple braids are tied up into a loose ponytail on top of her head, and her face is makeup free, looking freshly washed. She’s leaning comfortably against the counter in a gray sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big for her, with holes eaten into the sleeves from excessive wear.
“Boys, did you say hi to your uncle when he came in?”
Neither Asher nor Joshua responds. They don’t turn around. They don’t flinch. Understandable, since I’m over so often now, this place is like a second home to me.
“Boys!”
They both jump, their heads
whipping around, and yank off their headsets.
“Say hi to your uncle.”
Asher greets me dutifully with, “Hi, Uncle John,” but his smirk asks, Why are you bothering me?
He’s getting to that age now. But Candace seems more than prepared for it.
“I told you—if you can’t hear me with the headset on, it’s too loud,” she scolds, tipping the wineglass up and taking a long drink. Asher shakes his head, pulls his headset back over his eyes, and turns his attention forward again. Joshua is still smiling at me, headset in hand.
“Hi, Uncle John,” he says sweetly.
“Ah, my favorite nephew,” I say, holding out my arms as exaggeratedly as I can. Joshua runs to me and I get down from my chair and kneel so he can throw his little arms around my neck. Sure enough, this catches Asher’s attention, but not enough for him to fully turn around.
“Nice try, Uncle John, but he already knows I’m your favorite.”
“Whatever,” says Joshua. I smile at him now. His bright little eyes turn back to his brother, transfixed on the computer screen again.
“What’s that one?” he exclaims, darting back over and picking up his headset. He can’t get it over his head fast enough.
“They’re on that game all the time now,” Candace says. She leans on the counter and picks at a hangnail. “I thought Legacy of Planets was bad, but all they ask for now is SLAY.”
My chest tightens. My eyes fly from the computer to my sister. They’re playing SLAY right now? I clear my throat and climb back onto the bar chair.
“I know,” she says, leaning in and softening her voice so they can’t hear us across the room. “I did see the interview. I wish I’d never even let them create accounts. Asher’s friend Noah gave him a code at school a month ago, and Asher gave Joshua a code, and before I know it, I’m coming home to them talking about Nubian gods and goddesses instead of dire wolves and dragons. I can barely keep up.”
She tips the last of the wine from the glass into her mouth and pours herself another, this time filling it almost to the brim. She sighs deeply and presses her face into her hands in exasperation.
“Did you mean it, John?” I hear her mumble.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are wide, searching mine. I sigh and refill my glass. I’m not an alcoholic, but after long days like this, I appreciate the hum of a smooth wine in me. I swirl it around in the glass and smell it this time before answering.
“I always say exactly what I mean,” I reply, but I know what she’s really asking, and I lower my voice and lean in so the boys can’t hear. “It’s a game, Candy. Like any other video game, it can be an innocent learning tool, or it can be dangerous.”
I see the disappointment in her eyes. I would love to sit here and tell her that this thing her children have fallen in love with is something she can write off as safe, that she isn’t releasing her six- and eight-year-old sons into the cruel arms of interactive gaming. That they won’t be parented by the other players. But as long as she’s gone most of the day, leaving them to spend their free time however they please from the time school gets out until almost bedtime, she’s giving up control to whatever and whoever is in that game.
“I just . . .” She picks at her fingers again. “I can’t get that boy’s face out of my head.”
There’s a lump in my throat now, and I take a sip of wine, which doesn’t help. I stare at the counter, but I can feel her looking at me.
“Jamal Rice,” she says. “That photo they keep showing of him playing Ping-Pong. He looks just like Asher. Just like him! He was only a baby. And someone shot him dead as he slept.”
A tear falls from her face and lands very close to the spot on the counter I’m staring at. I shut my eyes and remember my words in the interview.
I think Black gamers deserve to have a safe arena in which they can play freely without having to deal with racial slurs and the threat of violence to them should they win a campaign.
I stand by what I said. With everything I am, I stand by it. I look up at my nephews now, playing side by side, the glow of the computer turning them into silhouettes. They’re little men—little Black men growing up down the street from Harvard University and MIT. They have every opportunity before them if they want it, if they seize it.
Should they be allowed to play online multiplayer games? I don’t know. Should they be allowed access to safe spaces should they choose to play online multiplayer games? Absolutely.
“Ooh, look at this one!” exclaims Asher. “Says it’s . . . the Satchmo card?”
This catches my attention and snaps me from my thoughts. I look at the screen as the card appears, a bloodred rectangle with an ornate golden border. The card hovers in midair and rotates slowly, light glinting off the border and the glistening golden trumpet in the center.
“What’s that about Satchmo?” I ask.
They both turn around, lift their goggles, and look at me in surprise, and then look at each other.
“It’s uh . . .” Asher shrugs. “It’s some jazz card, I think. It lets you play a trumpet super loud and knock points off your enemy in a duel.”
“Well, of course it does!” I exclaim. I push myself away from the kitchen bar and step down into the living room. “If the card is named after the Satchmo, I bet it’ll do some significant damage.”
“What’s a Satchmo?” asks Joshua.
I can only hope these boys at least know Satchmo by his real name.
“More like who is Satchmo,” I say, lifting my arms. “The great Louis Daniel Armstrong himself.”
The boys exchange glances before looking at their mother. I look at Candace in just as much surprise.
“You haven’t told these boys about the Louis Armstrong? What kind of household are you running here?”
That gets her to smile and roll her eyes.
“I was too busy playing classic R and B around here. They may not know who Louis Armstrong is, but I made sure they know who was taking over for the nine-nine and the two thousand.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” I say. “Someone deal me in. Y’all gotta learn today.”
I’m going to fail miserably at this, but what kind of uncle would I be if I let my two nephews wander this earth ignorant of the history of jazz music? So I walk my fifty-five-year-old ass into the living room and stand right between the two of them. Asher and Joshua look up at me like I just announced we’re all going to pack up our bags, hop in the car, and drive to Florida for a trip to Disney World.
“Josh, give him your headset and stuff,” commands Asher.
“Noooo,” whines Joshua. “I wanna play with Uncle John.”
“I’ll play with each of you in turn,” I promise, and after a spirited three-game tournament of Rock Paper Scissors, Asher relinquishes his headset, gloves, and socks to me. I’m impressed the gloves and socks are stretchy enough to fit me. They’re disgustingly sweaty, and I wonder if they’re even machine washable, and how long it’s been since Candace washed them. The headset strap is somehow rubbing more against my left ear than my right, which I’m trying not to let bother me.
“Now,” I say, adjusting the headset one last time, “what about this Satchmo card?”
I’m staring at a dashboard with a million controls, which is now curved slightly as if I’m looking at one of those fancy concave TVs, as opposed to how it looked on the computer screen when I wasn’t wearing the goggles. Looks like there’s a calendar in the bottom left corner with an X marked on several upcoming dates, and an energy meter that reads sixty out of a hundred. There’s a whole list of weapons and items, including a Basic Spear, a Wooden Bowl, a Ram Horn, a Bone Ax, and an Elephant Tusk, the last of which alarms me.
“You . . . kill elephants in this game?”
“Nope!” exclaims Asher. “You can’t hunt in SLAY. You have to wait until animals die on their own. Usually another animal will take them down if you wait long enough. The Bone Ax and Elephant Tusk are super rare.”
That’
s thoughtful of the developer. What did the newscasters call him? Emerald.
“You use cards in duels,” explains Asher further. “Click the deck in the top left corner.”
I see a large white Mickey Mouse cartoon hand reach forward as I move the controller joystick up, and I tilt it left until it hovers over the black rectangle with gold trim.
“To click it, you can either press A or click with your finger.”
“Wait, click what?” I ask, looking down at the controller. The screen goes nowhere, and I remember too late that I’m wearing the headset and can’t actually see the controller.
“Here, give me this,” says Asher, and I feel the controller being ripped from my hands. “Just use your fingers. It’s easier.”
I move my right hand around gingerly and watch the white hand move as mine does.
“Whoa!” I exclaim. This is actually pretty cool. I can feel a large set of adult footsteps join mine to my left, and I realize Candace has entered the living room to watch. She’s silent, but I hope this is bringing her some joy in the midst of uncertainty about what her kids are playing.
“So, I just . . .” I say, poking my index finger forward, virtually clicking the rectangle. The deck of cards explodes across the screen in a slideshow, startling me into a reflexive hands-in-front-of-my-face, one-leg-curled-up-against-my-chest position as I let out a yelp of surprise. Both boys giggle, and Candace chuckles behind me.
“Cute.” I nod. “Okay, what now?”
“Use your finger!” contributes Joshua.
“You can slide through the cards with your index finger,” says Asher.
I do as he says, flipping through red, blue, and purple cards, all with that ornate gold trim, each with gorgeous artwork in the middle. I read them one by one:
Wobble.
Carefree Black Girl.
Bad and Boujee.
Innovation.
Langston Hughes.
Satchmo.
I grin and nod, looking back in Candace’s direction, and then I remember I can’t see her because of the headset. But she can still hear me.
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