A mass of reporters, cameras, and microphones spread out before
Richard Scott and his near-worshipped team of employees, most of which were
near collapse under the weight of all this attention. This, however, was a
much different sort of press meeting than usual. This had nothing to do
with game play enhancements, sequel news, or the acceptance of some
profoundly unimaginative and trivial award proclaiming them the "best game
of the year". Something that they had received on so many occasions
beforehand, Scott seriously considered melting down the bulk of the awards
statuettes and selling the gold for a tidy profit.
He stepped up to the jungle of microphones, cleared his throat, opened his mouth and was suddenly assaulted by such a barrage of questions he almost fell back. The room erupted in nothing more than white noise as reporters screamed like animals trying to get their questions answered. Naturally none of these immensely educated human beings realized that if they just shut up the question on everyone's mind would indeed be answered. More or less, anyway.
He stepped up to the podium again and shouted, "One at a time! One at time! I have plenty of time to get to all your questions!" He pointed randomly at a tall, lean, African-American reporter. "You sir."
The middle aged man stood up, wiping the sweat off his broad forehead. Obviously the heat from the light bulbs was getting to the audience as much as Scott. "Sir, can we have a comment on the situation involving Jessica Marshall? I realize CyberConnect released a statement a week ago regarding it, but have there been any new developments?"
Scott raised his eyebrows, "I believe, sir, that question should be fielded by the doctors who are caring for the child." Jessica, he thought, that stupid little bitch is causing me more trouble than she's worth. Jessica Marshall, the fourteen year old girl who had slipped into a coma after playing CyberConnect's best selling game software, The World, had been infecting news stations, print, and online magazines for the last two weeks. One customer in the ten million plus that had purchased his company's flagship product and suddenly he found himself defending his job from the media, parents, and rabid, unwashed, computer geeks who couldn't give a flying shit about the effort that went into developing it.
Now that he thought about it, there had been other cases of players slipping into comas during play. Although the Marshall case was the first one that was actually traced back to The World and Scott had readily put on his bullshit deflectors to keep from getting completely swamped in the accusations that something was horribly wrong with his product.
His attention snapped back to the reporter and a look of annoyance crossed his normally reserved and calculated expression. "Sir, had there been any new developments in our internal review we would have reported them. We've concluded that The World has not been responsible for Jessica's, or any other players for that matter, condition. We along with every software company warn against the triggering of epilepsy in our products and..."
The reporter cut him short, "Mr. Scott, Jessica does not have an epileptic condition."
Scott eyes narrowed dangerously, "Well, then, sir, I suggest you speak to her doctors because I am not a physician and I have no intentions of giving a diagnosis. Now if there are no other stupid questions I believe I can start fielding some real ones."
A female Caucasian stood up, "I believe that we were supposed to be addressed by the main programmer, Mr." she fumbled with her papers. Scott tapped his foot impatiently, he really wished these bloody reporters would do their homework before opening their mouths.
"Mr. Nakamura," he finished for her, "unfortunately was unable to come because of some pressing personal issue."
The woman stopped, "Like?"
"Personal matters are just that," Scott folded his arms, "beyond that I have no comment."
The next hour was nothing more than Richard trying to figure out how many ways he could say "No comment," before the vultures realized they were not going to get anywhere by repeating the same things over and over.
Scott closed the information session quickly and lead his team down the hall and out a back door so the media couldn't corner them.
He stepped into his office and slumped into his chair sighing audibly. This was getting exhausting. He was developing a knack for lying, but just keeping track of his stories was becoming taxing. He pulled a bottle out of his desk and slowly poured himself a drink. He stared into it, getting lost in the color and smell. What he was doing was worth it, he told himself that constantly. So much so that it was becoming a morning mantra for him. All the interviews, the sleepless nights, the accusations. The end result would make it all worthwhile.
Nakamura stormed into his office and heaved the folder he was carrying at his boss, spilling Scott's drink onto the desk and his pants. "Who the fuck do you think you are?!"
Scott looked down at his pants and watched the liquid begin to seep through the fabric. He raised his eyebrows. "You always were one for dramatic entrances."
His employee was unfazed, "Personal matters? What the hell was that? I was supposed to speak about our current situation! You don't speak for me!"
Scott motioned towards the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit down Mr. Nakamura, and let's try to speak civilly to one another."
He sat down but his eyes never left his boss. Scott regarded the younger, fit programmer as somewhat of an oddity in his company. He was married, one son, with the kind of build you wouldn't expect from someone who sat staring at a computer screen all day. He also had one of the shortest tempers on the team and if it wasn't for his absolute brilliance Scott would have fired him long ago. The work he and a select few on his team did for The World would have been thought impossible by most, but Nakamura simply tackled it with a kind of quiet, Zen-like, problem-solving approach that seemed completely out of character from the man he normally knew.
Scott leaned closer and for the first time Nakamura sensed a menacing aura around him. "You were going to reveal the details on our project. Were you not?"
Nakamura's eyes widened and he stood up, "No, of course not. I just. I prefer to speak for myself."
Scott now seemed bigger, more threatening than before. He stood up, "Don't lie to me, son. It's annoying."
Nakamura began to back up, "I. Sir, I wasn't." he whipped around and bolted for the door, slamming into someone who looked like he could be a bouncer at a night club. The man grabbed the young programmer by the shoulder, squeezing tight. Nakamura winced and dropped to one knee desperately trying to loosen his assailant's grip. He was unbelievably strong, and the young cried out swearing that in a moment his shoulder was going to break.
Nakamura didn't even see the knee before it exploded in his face. He fell back on the floor, blood pouring out of his nose, running into his mouth and down his clothes. The bouncer grabbed him by the hair and tilted his head back causing blood to begin running down his throat. He coughed violently and kicked the man hard in the stomach, which made the grip loosen enough for Nakamura to roll away and spit out the crimson that was threatening to choke him.
Through all this Scott simply watched with a smile on his face. Eventually he got up and strolled over to his worker. He leaned in close, "Never again, boy, will you think about crossing me." He stepped back and produced a small handgun from his desk. He placed it against the programmer's forehead. Nakamura simply remained quiet, shaking as Scott leaned in close. "Thanks for your help, by the way."
He pulled the trigger.
The body slumped to the floor, bright red life spilled out of the man's head as Scott looked toward his guard. "I want this cleaned up. Quickly."
The bouncer nodded and pulled out his cell phone. Richard Scott straightened his tie and walked out. He needed another drink.
He stepped up to the jungle of microphones, cleared his throat, opened his mouth and was suddenly assaulted by such a barrage of questions he almost fell back. The room erupted in nothing more than white noise as reporters screamed like animals trying to get their questions answered. Naturally none of these immensely educated human beings realized that if they just shut up the question on everyone's mind would indeed be answered. More or less, anyway.
He stepped up to the podium again and shouted, "One at a time! One at time! I have plenty of time to get to all your questions!" He pointed randomly at a tall, lean, African-American reporter. "You sir."
The middle aged man stood up, wiping the sweat off his broad forehead. Obviously the heat from the light bulbs was getting to the audience as much as Scott. "Sir, can we have a comment on the situation involving Jessica Marshall? I realize CyberConnect released a statement a week ago regarding it, but have there been any new developments?"
Scott raised his eyebrows, "I believe, sir, that question should be fielded by the doctors who are caring for the child." Jessica, he thought, that stupid little bitch is causing me more trouble than she's worth. Jessica Marshall, the fourteen year old girl who had slipped into a coma after playing CyberConnect's best selling game software, The World, had been infecting news stations, print, and online magazines for the last two weeks. One customer in the ten million plus that had purchased his company's flagship product and suddenly he found himself defending his job from the media, parents, and rabid, unwashed, computer geeks who couldn't give a flying shit about the effort that went into developing it.
Now that he thought about it, there had been other cases of players slipping into comas during play. Although the Marshall case was the first one that was actually traced back to The World and Scott had readily put on his bullshit deflectors to keep from getting completely swamped in the accusations that something was horribly wrong with his product.
His attention snapped back to the reporter and a look of annoyance crossed his normally reserved and calculated expression. "Sir, had there been any new developments in our internal review we would have reported them. We've concluded that The World has not been responsible for Jessica's, or any other players for that matter, condition. We along with every software company warn against the triggering of epilepsy in our products and..."
The reporter cut him short, "Mr. Scott, Jessica does not have an epileptic condition."
Scott eyes narrowed dangerously, "Well, then, sir, I suggest you speak to her doctors because I am not a physician and I have no intentions of giving a diagnosis. Now if there are no other stupid questions I believe I can start fielding some real ones."
A female Caucasian stood up, "I believe that we were supposed to be addressed by the main programmer, Mr." she fumbled with her papers. Scott tapped his foot impatiently, he really wished these bloody reporters would do their homework before opening their mouths.
"Mr. Nakamura," he finished for her, "unfortunately was unable to come because of some pressing personal issue."
The woman stopped, "Like?"
"Personal matters are just that," Scott folded his arms, "beyond that I have no comment."
The next hour was nothing more than Richard trying to figure out how many ways he could say "No comment," before the vultures realized they were not going to get anywhere by repeating the same things over and over.
Scott closed the information session quickly and lead his team down the hall and out a back door so the media couldn't corner them.
He stepped into his office and slumped into his chair sighing audibly. This was getting exhausting. He was developing a knack for lying, but just keeping track of his stories was becoming taxing. He pulled a bottle out of his desk and slowly poured himself a drink. He stared into it, getting lost in the color and smell. What he was doing was worth it, he told himself that constantly. So much so that it was becoming a morning mantra for him. All the interviews, the sleepless nights, the accusations. The end result would make it all worthwhile.
Nakamura stormed into his office and heaved the folder he was carrying at his boss, spilling Scott's drink onto the desk and his pants. "Who the fuck do you think you are?!"
Scott looked down at his pants and watched the liquid begin to seep through the fabric. He raised his eyebrows. "You always were one for dramatic entrances."
His employee was unfazed, "Personal matters? What the hell was that? I was supposed to speak about our current situation! You don't speak for me!"
Scott motioned towards the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit down Mr. Nakamura, and let's try to speak civilly to one another."
He sat down but his eyes never left his boss. Scott regarded the younger, fit programmer as somewhat of an oddity in his company. He was married, one son, with the kind of build you wouldn't expect from someone who sat staring at a computer screen all day. He also had one of the shortest tempers on the team and if it wasn't for his absolute brilliance Scott would have fired him long ago. The work he and a select few on his team did for The World would have been thought impossible by most, but Nakamura simply tackled it with a kind of quiet, Zen-like, problem-solving approach that seemed completely out of character from the man he normally knew.
Scott leaned closer and for the first time Nakamura sensed a menacing aura around him. "You were going to reveal the details on our project. Were you not?"
Nakamura's eyes widened and he stood up, "No, of course not. I just. I prefer to speak for myself."
Scott now seemed bigger, more threatening than before. He stood up, "Don't lie to me, son. It's annoying."
Nakamura began to back up, "I. Sir, I wasn't." he whipped around and bolted for the door, slamming into someone who looked like he could be a bouncer at a night club. The man grabbed the young programmer by the shoulder, squeezing tight. Nakamura winced and dropped to one knee desperately trying to loosen his assailant's grip. He was unbelievably strong, and the young cried out swearing that in a moment his shoulder was going to break.
Nakamura didn't even see the knee before it exploded in his face. He fell back on the floor, blood pouring out of his nose, running into his mouth and down his clothes. The bouncer grabbed him by the hair and tilted his head back causing blood to begin running down his throat. He coughed violently and kicked the man hard in the stomach, which made the grip loosen enough for Nakamura to roll away and spit out the crimson that was threatening to choke him.
Through all this Scott simply watched with a smile on his face. Eventually he got up and strolled over to his worker. He leaned in close, "Never again, boy, will you think about crossing me." He stepped back and produced a small handgun from his desk. He placed it against the programmer's forehead. Nakamura simply remained quiet, shaking as Scott leaned in close. "Thanks for your help, by the way."
He pulled the trigger.
The body slumped to the floor, bright red life spilled out of the man's head as Scott looked toward his guard. "I want this cleaned up. Quickly."
The bouncer nodded and pulled out his cell phone. Richard Scott straightened his tie and walked out. He needed another drink.