Friday morning, I arrive at the office before anyone else on the art team, ready to take on another day and do my best to be worthy of being here.
I love the office early in the morning. The late May sun creeps up just between the buildings outside, making the leaves and light dance on the frosted windows on this side of the building.
“Early bird,” a voice says from behind me, and I jump, turning to see Silas, one of the team members I met this week. He’s worked here for three years and won some sort of big deal digital art thing he likes to remind us all if it’s been over twenty minutes since last time it came up.
“What’s your story, Rey?” he asks, leaning on my desk next to me. “You’re doodling a lot.” He peers over my notebook, getting into my personal space. He’s wearing way too much deodorant.
“Yes,” I answer lightly, hiding my revulsion with his choice of antiperspirant. “I have ideas and need to draw them as they come to me so they don’t get all jumbled up.”
I close my notebook. Something in me wants to protect it from him, although there’s nothing he’d be able to do with it. It’s my style.
“Did you drawthese?” he asks, stroking a finger down my upper arm, over my intricate black and grey wildflower tattoo. I move back, away from his touch, but don’t comment on it.
“Yes, I did,” I answer, my tone clipped.
“Alright,” he says, smirking. What the fuck does that face mean?
I snatch up my notebook and leave to do some more brainstorming over coffee.
It seems impossible to get away from this type of guy, whether I’m in a bar or in an office. In a group of such diversity as this one, there’s still the guy who feels he’s got all the privilege to do as he pleases. Ugh, just like the man at the bank when I worked as a secretary after I quit painting. Mum couldn’t believe I’d waste an opportunity at a bank…
I stomp over to the coffee machine and, in an over-emotional state, I can’t stop myself from writing one last message to Robin although I know I shouldn’t. It just pisses me off that men think they can behave however they fucking please.
I know I shouldn’t write this as you’re clearly ghosting me. I can’t stop this wild spin you’ve set me off on, and I thought you felt the same way, so if you change your mind and stop being a silly man, I’m here. But don’t think for too long
That wasn’t half as angry as I wanted it to be, but I’ve sent it. Bollocks to you, Robin. One evening together, and he’s where my mind goes when it gets a moment’s break from everything I’m trying to learn.
To my relief, I find Tolu, Kaia, and Noor in the lounge area, talking animatedly over a laptop. Their energy immediately refills my joy.
“Morning,” I chirp. “PlayingGrunge?” Yep, I’ve done my research on Infinio’s games.
“Yes,” Noor answers, and the group shifts, making space for me.
“I’ve not played it yet. Is it as good asDragon Trials?”
I don’t even know for sure if the game is good, I’m just taking everyone’s word for it. It’s too dark and earth-toned for my taste.
“It’s pretty good. We’re studying the style, we have to make a prototype as part of a fun competition between the development pods,” Tolu says, wiggling their eyebrows. “I recognise what Horace talked about. The lighting, level of detail, colour palette—it’s all consistent withDragon Trialsand the others. It’s a solid Infinio visual.”
“What’s the prototype you’re making?” I ask, keen to understand more about how it all works. “Do you need any concept art to kick you off?” I’m half joking, but I also wrap my arms more tightly around my notebook.
“Sure, why not? Do you have something to share?”
I flick through some of my sketches, explainingthe environment, the last elf-like survivors, and the surrounding magic.
“I’m practicing drawing it all up on the tablet. What do you think?”
The three budding game developers look at each other and back at my notebook that’s covered in my sketches. “It sounds really fun,” Noor says, flicking through some of the pages.
“I’m sensing a but.”
“But it’s not Infinio’s style, is it? It’s more stylised, or were you thinking of making it look realistic?”
“No, like this,” I point to the illustrated elves, and my game-version of Beanie, but I know he’ll look much better in movement.
“But we have to do it in the style Damian set,” Tolu says, scratching their chin with a blue-painted nail matching their curly hair.
“But why, though? I know I’m new at this, but don’t people get tired of playing the same games again and again? The same dreadful colour palette, angry faces, and scary creatures?”
