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Then Kev had started spouting about something that his scans—his unnecessary, unauthorized, unsubstantiated scans—had found the day before, and my mood had slid from not-great right into fucking-awful.
“I believe Hux is under the false impression that there’ll be flashing red lights and warning sirens to indicate a systems breach,” Kev told Champ, “when in reality, there is a new kind of intrusion Champion Security is specifically vulnerable to, called—”
I leaned toward him, bracing a hand on the big wooden table I’d commandeered as my desk since Kev refused to share the space in his stupid super-secret lair. “Need I remind you that I was trained by the United States military?” I cried. “Stop acting like I got my experience from a STEM summer camp. Some of us worked damned hard for our cybersecurity education, and some of us continue self-educating and pursuing advanced certificates as the latest tech is released. Some of us even teach cybersecurity classes at the local community college!”
Kev wrinkled his nose pityingly at me before addressing Champ once more. “You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
Champ opened his mouth, hopefully to defend me, but I beat him to it. “I do and I teach! You don’t do either. You sit all day in your basement gaming chair and challenge cloud mavens to enchanted javelin tosses.”
Kev turned his head to me in slow motion and pushed his glasses up. “Your jealousy is both obvious and unattractive, Huxley. As you know, it took thirty in-game hours of training to get to a high enough level of enchantment where I could best the track and field mavens. Unlike certain people who call themselves ‘masters’ of Horn of Glory, some of us are dedicated.”
I gritted my teeth. He was right—if I’d learned nothing else about Kevin Rogers, I’d learned that he was committed and diligent, especially when it came to one of the many things he was passionate about.
Take, for example, his quest to make me lose my mind.
I’d come a long way from my formative years growing up in a tiny house in an unincorporated part of Pennsylvania, where my Marine dad had managed to find a mechanic job after separating from the military. I’d traveled a lot of places, met a lot of people, seen and done a lot of things, both good and bad… but nothing in the entire world had ever riled me as much as Kevin Rogers did, every moment of every day, with every word that came out of his weirdly pouty mouth.
That was dedication, alright.
“Also…” Kev pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Remind me again how well you did with the javelin toss? Will HogMasterHux be making it to the Conqueror’s Tournament?”
“I… I had connection issues,” I said between clenched teeth. “I was in Malawi that week, as you know. The lag time made accuracy impossible.”
Kev made a tsking noise. “Only a poor craftsman blames his tools, Huxley. SmittyKitty scored higher than you, and he’s a newb.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and inhaled a slow, deep breath.
Every once in a while, I wondered if I was too hard on Kev. If maybe I should apologize for having stolen his pack during our very first encounter in the cranberry swamp, back when Horn of Glory was in its infancy and we were two of only a few dozen players worldwide, before our paths had ever crossed in real life. It had been a shit thing to do, after all, and Kev was a decent guy… sometimes.
I hadn’t handled a lot of things in the game (or in life) the right way last summer. There had been extenuating circumstances, yes, but that was not an excuse. So, I’d decided, earlier this year, to slowly phase out the old “HogMasterHux” account and come back to the game under a new identity, as a guy who’d play more fairly and value connections over tournament wins.
I’d decided that having my new persona, SmittyKitty, make amends to Kev would be part of that do-over. I’d vowed not to assume the worst every time Kev opened his mouth—or his chat window. I’d reminded myself we didn’t need to be rivals because the game was plenty big enough for both of us.
But then the fucker had done one insufferable thing after another—like assuming my new alter ego was trying to loot his homestead when I absolutely had not been, or warning my new alter ego that HogMasterHux wasn’t a team player when I absolutely was, or saying something as smug and ridiculous as “only a poor craftsman blames his tools, Huxley”—and wham. I was back to looting his jam cellar just for shits and giggles and wanting to grab him with both hands and shut his big mouth with my…
I blinked in horror.
Fist.
My fist. Obviously.
My fingers clenched on the tabletop.
