Keyboard.
Something productive.
Something that doesn’t talk back.
I don’t have time for this. ??Being a Black woman in gaming is already a circus. Being a plus-size immigrant Black woman who codes her own engines and designs her own mechanics?
Forget it.
No one sees the work. They only see the package it comes in.
It’s wild, really.
I can build entire worlds from scratch with real-time rendering, adaptive storylines, complex emotional arcs and still I’m the one people are skeptical about.
The one they talk over during panels.
The one they assume is the “marketing girl” or “social media manager.”
The one they hand a participation trophy to and expect her to smile cute for pictures.
“But none of that matters,” I add. “Because I have work to do. So if you’ll excuse me?—”
“Maybe he wants to fuck you.”
I freeze.
“Pardon?” I swivel in my chair slowly, staring at her.
Tasha shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I can see it. Bugging you gets you talking to him, and yelling at him probably gets him hard. Maybe that’s his thing and you hating him turns him on.”
“Tasha,” I warn. “Please keep your disgusting thoughts to yourself.”
“Come on, Frank. Don’t act like you can’t sense it. You’re a professional at luring in men who worship you.”
“Not anymore,” I snap. “I learned my lesson from that group chat.”
“Oh,” she winces. “Right.That.”
“Yes.That.” I turn back to my screen, jaw tight. “I’ve put the messy games behind me. And my best friend’s brother is the messiest game of them all. So I’m focusing on my job. And these awards.”
“Booooo,” she says immediately.
I glance at her, then groan. Now I know exactly where I picked that up and why Jabari hates it so much.
But that’s just Tasha; my co-CEO, co-founder, and co-pain-in-my-ass.
We started our little indie game studio straight out of uni. Built it from nothing but long nights, cheap coffee, and stubborn, childish ambition. She handles the business side of things, like investors, press, and all that corporate bullshit.
I handle the creative. You know, the shit that matters.
We balance each other out pretty well, and she’s like a sister.
Just not Zaza-level sister.
“Speaking of work. How’s the storyboard coming?” she asks, sliding into the chair beside mine.
“Painful,” I reply. “I don’t know what’s missing.”
