My eyes were still closed when I came out of the game. A deep crimson sheathed over my eyes like thin slices of beef Carpaccio. My mouth tasted foul, like bad breath with a hint of metal. Being in the ARMOR rig for a couple of hours had a way of setting one’s body back a bit; it took a little acclimatizing to get back to reality.

I finally opened my eyes to my dim cubicle. The strategically placed, life-sucking fluorescent lights gracing me with their flat lighting only accentuated the roundness of my face and features. People said I was two sandwiches away from being fat, but they could kiss off.

I blamed it on the damn free lunches here. Snacks to go, soda fountains on every floor, and a dozen cookies sent on your birthday. Ari and Hera had warned me about the ‘Iconoclast Fifteen’; I’d only started to listen when I gained the ‘Iconoclast Twenty’.

Despite the gain in my mass, my cubicle didn’t feel smaller.

I pulled back from my ARMOR. The ’T’-shaped rig, which was made up of a long, ratcheted spinal tail and crested with what looked like a pair of archangel wings severed at the nubs, was suspended on a set of cables that terminated in the ceiling.

A pair of monitors and my computer desktop sat under a large window, which was blacked out with just a thin strip of light cutting it by half, the earthly light of reality trying to fight its way into my cave-like workspace.

Iconoclast was the Google of game companies when it came to amenities and campuses. We had the largest high-rise complex in Silicon Forest, just outside the Portland Metro Area, where other companies such as Intel, Nike, and Hewlett Packard had set up. Sprawling greenery led to winding pathways that were tucked against mounds of grassy knolls, purposefully built as natural viewing obstructions. These companies maintained their privacy in style.

My average height allowed me to see just over the hundreds of cubicles behind me. The clean surrounding walls were adorned with spotlights on framed and mounted posters of the latest games released by Iconoclast.

“Shazam!” someone said, startling me from behind. I immediately recognized her voice; it was a sweet serenade sung every time she popped in on me, which was on the daily.

Hera’s brown hair ran just past her shoulders, which framed her natural look and high cheekbones nicely. She wasn’t as thin or as blonde as my on and off high school sweetheart, Jessica — Hera sported a six-pack and a voluptuous waist, and was what some would call ‘thick fit’, like a Ms. Universe contestant or a volleyball champ — but none of that mattered, as I’d never really had a type. I thought she was gorgeous. Perhaps that was due to the stark contrast in hers and Jessica’s figures.

Is this what monogamy is? Thinking about other girls?

Sometimes I wondered if we were meant to be with just one person.

“Admit it,” Hera said, adjusting the waist of her skinny jeans that only accentuated her thick thighs. She wore a tight superhero-emblemed shirt over them. “You were scared.”

I blushed at her flirtatious smile. There was something I’d always liked about her, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Maybe it was her dying love for superheroes? Hera was a perfectionist. So much so, she never turned down a warrior race or one of those super triple athletic events. Her body was super toned and fit because she idolized superheroes on another level, unlike Jessica who just liked to cosplay as them.

My brother James used to love when Jess dressed up.

“No, no. Not this time.” I said, rubbing my eyes and readjusting to reality. “Besides, it’s okay to be scared. Fear is the path to the dark side.”

Hera smiled. She always appreciated when I threw in those Easter egg references. She folded her arms and leaned against the cubicle wall, revealing her toned, muscular, tanned arms. She was a goddess, and her tight fandom t-shirt revealed everything. I tried not to look at her breasts, instead focusing on the small strawberry mole on her upper right arm, just below the cuff of her short sleeve.

“So, I saw you in your game,” she said, arching her left, perfect eyebrow.

She glanced over my cubicle, inspecting my collectible toys, pointing out the villainy paraphernalia. From a large, oversized clown mallet covered in lipstick kisses, to a brilliant gold gauntlet studded with multiple colored ingots, they contrasted well against the set of collectible space opera soda cans from a first episode far, far away.

Led not by the menacing, horn-crowned, heavily tattooed, evil lord cloaked in black, but the very much hated, bumbling, duck-billed, platypus-looking comic relief.

“You really do like bad guys,” she joked.

“Duh,” I said, caught at a loss for words, thinking about how I was standing and if it looked cool enough to her. “The game is called ‘Supervillain, Me’.”

“Yeah, but the object is to pass it on, not dwell as one,” she said.

I looked back at my workstation, and the computer screen showing the hundreds of company emails and social media notifications I’d missed. Praise from colleagues and fans for taking what Iconoclast had created, a sub-dimensional space, and making a masterpiece of a title.

“Yeah, it’s a hit,” she said smiling, shaking her head. “You really lucked out. I can’t believe they invited you down to San Diego for Comic Con! You gotta take me. And what about Ari?”

I looked around nervously, making sure no one had heard her. “Shhh. That hasn’t been announced yet. And I don’t even know if anyone is allowed to come.”

“Of course they are,” Hera said. “I am sure there will some bigwigs, too, but what about your best mates? You know, the ones that supported you during the lowest of times?”

She was right. She and Ari were big influences. When I first launched Supervillain, Me in the Subspace, it had only two subscribers: them. But naturally, the ratings gradually began to climb, tickling Iconoclast’s ‘algo’, as we say in the industry. The public’s increasing awareness pushed my title more and more; it was this slow build that led to its success, with it being shown to more and more people. It was hard to imagine. I just dreamt up the game dynamics… I never thought it would lead to this, or a trip to San Diego to talk with a panel interview.

“You going to take Jessica?” Hera asked, the words sounding weird coming from her lips.

I glanced at the photo of Jessica next to a crimson red light saber. We were holding hands. It was her twenty-first birthday. Her pert figure was undeniable and she was so stunning to look at. In the other hand, we cheers’d and clinked together frosty mugs of fine Belgian beer. The large smiles on our faces revealing our true emotions.

“Yes and no. She already left. She and her girlfriends go every year and make a ‘girls’ trip’ out of cosplaying for it.”

“That’s right. Wasn’t she Wonder Woman last year?” Hera asked.

“Yeah,” I said, disappointed in being reminded of the memory. “I wanted her to be Poison Ivy, but she vetoed that suggestion.”

Hera laughed. “You two are hilarious. I wish I had stayed with my high school sweetheart.”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my cubicle. I could now see a slew of developers at work, each one in their own little world within the Subspace.

“Come on, Dark Lord,” she said, “Let’s grab lunch.”

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Three floors down, the elevator opened into the grand lobby, where more posters of successful projects adorned the space, along with plush leather couches, and glass cases holding concept artwork and various polished awards. In the center of it all was a security guard checking in visitors and watching for unscanned badges.

We exited into the long hallway that led to the cafeteria. Thousands of tattered Polaroids filled each side of the infamous passage, taken on every employee’s first day at Iconoclast. Some pictures stemmed all the way back to the nineteen-nineties. Mine, much further down, was closer to Hera’s, as we had both started only a year ago.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

She stopped me at the end of the row that held our photos. Hers looked like it had been taken during a damn professional Ms. Universe model shoot, as she posed flexing her overly defined biceps. The real Hera chuckled, noticing my pictured awkward half-smile that was only accentuated by my squinting eye above it.

“You look like you are biting into a lemon,” she said.

“Let’s go, smartass,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the cafeteria.

She jogged ahead of me like it was a race and shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, better than being a dumbass.”

She quickly turned the corner. As I followed her, I noticed that the HR table, which normally advertised the endless benefits the company provided, was missing, and in its place was a very detailed statue of Tessa. Her pose was contrapposto, with one hand on a jutted hip and the other flashing a set of claws. Below that, the familiar Iconoclast logo was shining bright, the lowercase ‘i’ enclosed within a circle.

Just past this homage, I saw what looked like a margarita machine and an endless chips and salsa station being freshly prepared. This was not unusual, as Iconoclast seemed to celebrate everything under the sun. If it was someone’s half-birthday, there would be a flipping fiesta. Sometimes I wondered how we ever got anything done.

To my horror, an assembly of people was spread throughout the cafeteria, gathered and waiting for my entrance. I immediately stopped and blushed from cheek to cheek, astonished to see the CEO of Iconoclast, Phil Travis, approach me in his usual attire of neutral-colored shorts and a vibrant Hawaiian shirt. It was like the guy had gone to Margaritaville and forgot to check out. Up close, I could see his white chicklet teeth that contrasted brightly against his leathered skin, pockmarked with lighter blots; an indicator of his lengthy trips to the indigenous islands of wherever.

He placed his arm around my shoulder like an old friend and said, “Michael, we want to congratulate you on your success. Supervillain, Me is not just tickling the algo and climbing… It’s punching it straight in the face.”

I smiled at his bold comment. I didn’t know what to say in front of the crowd that was stuffing tortilla chips by the handful into their mouths and washing them down with sugary, blended Mexican drinks. I wished I could tickle his mouth shut. One clap broke out and was shortly followed by an uproar of additional applause.

“Now, I understand you are at a loss for words,” Phil Travis said to the crowd like the professional spokesman he was. “But I just wanted to let everyone know that we have been nominated for Game of the Year, and will have the first dedicated game panel in Hall H at Comic Con San Diego!”

More applause and more blushing for me. Why can’t I just imbibe the villainy traits I love and exude when I’m in my game, I thought. I tried to smile when the whistles came. I caught Hera looking at me while she clapped. She was dreamy to look at.

Not too far away from her was Ari. His rumpled, button-up shirt, plain shorts, and non-branded shoes made him blend in with the other fifty hipsters that wore the same thing. Despite the lack of individuality in his fashion choices, he stood out from the crowd with his curly, blonde locks under a backward PBR trucker hat, what he called ‘the Jewfro container’.

He nodded his head in excitement as Phil Travis began to divulge more. “In addition, we will be hosting a PR event for the fans.”

I still didn’t know what to say in front of the big crowd. I fiddled with my hands and turned three shades redder than a tomato.

That’s when Ari stepped out confidently, like an announcer belting his voice across the room, and said, “PR event?”

I felt relieved to hear him instead of the silence of people focusing their attention on me like I was a superstar or something. My introverted nature was on full throttle when I looked around, but there was Ari -- ready to be my backup.

“Yes, thank you, Ari. I’ve had people in marketing brainstorming for weeks to create quite the event down there,” Phil Travis said. “An event that will show what Supervillain, Me really is at its core.”

I waited for him to finish his reveal. I could tell he was stalling with each sentence, speaking with such gravitas, igniting the curiosity of every person in that room. He had all of us by the balls.

“A bank heist!” he yelled out.

Everyone was dumbfounded and surprised by what he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to comprehend his words. “Did you say ‘bank heist’?”

“Yes, yes,” he continued, stepping away from me and solely addressing the audience. “Just imagine. In a sea of cosplayers dressed as superheroes, what would be a better escape plan? It's the perfect getaway!”

I could see everyone slowly nodding their heads in brown-nosing goodness.

“Now, we have rented out a local bank that was willing to let us take them over,” he continued. “There, we will be letting villainous cosplayers live out their fantasy of robbing a bank. They will think they are getting away, only to be hunted down by a powerful superhero.”

The oohs and ahs were undeniable. A unanimous clap ignited, and Phil Travis took a bow before spinning on one foot and coming back to where I was standing with my lemon-bitten half-smile.

“As for you, Michael; you get to choose two lucky employees to go with you to Comic Con and help with this event and the panel. The decision will be entirely up to you,” he finally said.

I looked at the crowd, scanning the eager faces of hundreds of coworkers I didn’t know. But then there was Hera and Ari, each one with an ear to ear smile.

“Thank you, everyone,” Phil said, spinning on his heel again and walking away, but not forgetting to say in closing, “Enjoy the margaritas, folks!”

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“Dude, you gotta take us,” Ari said, setting down his usual lunch of a salad and a pizza slice minus any pork product. Hera was next to him with a kale smoothie and a plate full of spinach greens, like Popeye himself was her dad or something.

They were both game creators.

Ari had made the moderate selling series ‘Kah! Baller’, where a user’s superpower was based on using golden vambraces to channel the ancient Jewish teachings of the Kabbala. I, of course, took more notice of the villain he’d created: the one and only Gator, a large alligator beast that was inspired by the time Ari had spent in Florida growing up.

Hera had created an intellectual property called ‘Mubble Fubbles’. It was a kids’ game where they became superheroes and learned about truth, justice, and the American way from an extreme sport amputee. It was a crazy property where each of the hero’s limbs were bonded with squid-like aliens. It never really sold, except for the toys of the villain characters.

Figures. People want to be the bad guy, even if it meant they were going to change from being one. It was called a character arc: if they weren’t changing, they weren’t learning. It was just a matter of whether they died before it happened.

I looked down at my ‘new usual’, soup and salad, trying not to think of the dessert table, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take you both.”

The cafeteria at Iconoclast was periwinkle blue with rows of long tables, like someone had ripped off and modernized the interior of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The layout made it easy for cliques to form. Groups of artists naturally banded together, as if it was a gamer’s prison of some sort.

Modelers and FX dynamics each stuck with their own kind, the Animators used to have their own designated area but were let go due to the new implementation of the ARMOR tech, and then there was us: the Creatives. We designed the game mechanics, story, and character arcs from scratch. If it wasn’t for our ideas, no one would have anything to work on.

“Cool,” Ari continued, “ ‘cause I heard of some sick shit happening down there this year. Fucking LayBoy ARMOR booths, crazy rooftop parties, and the first ever three-D printed body! It's gonna be mack, son!”

Ari was a character. Born and raised in Florida, he talked like a white trash rapper from the ‘glades. Supposedly, his family still called him ‘Gator’, but I had never heard that.

Despite being an overt urban hipster now, he was always interested in the newest of the new. One time, he snuck into E3, the video game expo, just to get his hands on the latest ARMOR tech, which they were showcasing that day. It’s like he couldn’t wait and had to experience it as soon as he read about it. He swears he just wanted to try out the new feature and see what pizza tasted like in the Subspace.

The guy was religious for a slice of pie. He always made sure to chat with the chefs before lunch to see what kinds were available for the day, and ask if they were pork product free, of course. If it wasn’t kosher, then someone in HR was sure to hear about it.

“Yo,” Ari said, stuffing another bite of greasy cheese pizza into his mouth. “Is Jess going?”

I was so used to him talking with his mouth full that it only took me a second to decipher that he was asking if Jess was going.

“Yes, but not with me,” I said hesitantly, knowing this would lead to one of his heated rants.

“What?” Ari asked, his hands up in the air. “The biggest weekend in pop culture, you are headlining a panel, not to mention an awesome bank robbery PR event, and she still wants to do girls’ weekend?”

I was silent, watching Hera chomp down her spinach salad while nodding her head in agreement.

“She already left for it,” Hera told him.

“Listen, this is Jess’s seventh expo in a row,” I said, trying to slurp at the bland tasting goop the cafeteria called soup. “Her friends have a whole plan down there.”

“Man, you are pussy whipped,” Ari said, leaning in and making sure not everyone at work heard him. “And you are hardly dating anymore!”

“You need to gets the pussy before you gets whipped by it,” Hera qualified, stirring her salad with a flirtatious smile.

They both chuckled at my expense, and I grew sad, knowing where the conversation would lead next, like it always did: my virginity. I dipped my spoon around in the slop waiting for it.

“You still haven’t fucked?” Ari asked, his voice falling lower. “You’ve been dating on and off for like three years. Ever since high school, man.”

“She wants to wait for marriage,” I said, feeling low.

“That, my friend, is what we call stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he said, shaking his head.

“Scratch that,” Hera said. “More like a rock and a hard dick.”

“A rock hard dick,” Ari added, as they both chuckled.

I rolled my eyes as they piled on the insults. I was used it, but I didn’t mind it coming from them. They had always been there for me, and now they would be with me at Comic Con; the largest pop culture festival in the world. A blanket of relief fell over me, knowing this.

I pulled out my phone, checking for any missed texts, but there was nothing. I decided to send one to Jess to let her know I was thinking of her. Because that’s what high school sweethearts did.

Michael: Miss you.

Jess: Miss you too.

Michael: Can’t wait to see you.

Jess: So great to see you’re finally are coming down.

She was right. Never had I been to San Diego for Comic Con. The idea of large crowds had always been a turn off. I mean, I was an artist, and introversion was never far from the creative side. Besides, I always had work to do.