[chapter_6]
Emmett's expression is, at best, dazed when he shuffles into the dorm, the door behind him left open until Peter trots in after him, stars in his eyes as he bumps the door shut with his hip. Looking between the two of them, it's obvious that something has happened on their trip to the library - but their reactions are so vastly different that Masen can only brace himself.
He knows it very well, this feeling. Nonsense is about to happen. It's impossible to not be able to sense it after spending his entire college life rooming with either Emmett or Peter. He wisely saves his work and then jots down where he left off in his coding in a leather-bound notebook he keeps with him at all times. The blue ink of his favorite pen bleeds into the page just a bit, the side of his pinky smearing the note as hurries to get his last thought down before the inevitable interruption begins.
Just in the nick of time, he thinks as an explosive sigh sounds from Emmett's side of the room. "I talked to her," he says dreamily. He's laying on his back, hugging his pillow to his chest with the dopiest lovesick look on his face. Masen immediately knows who he's talking about. "She looked at me."
Peter laughs. "You mean she glared at you."
Emmett sits up, throws his pillow at Peter, who dodges it. The pillow hits the back of the door with a thump, smack in the middle of Albert Einstein's poster. "It's the same thing because it means she looked at me," Emmett says forcefully. He looks toward Masen, seeking affirmation. "Right, Masen?"
Masen does not want to contribute to this conversation. He never wants to contribute. He would much rather talk about something else, or not talk at all, but he does care for his friends. They're the only people he's ever met that appreciate him for himself. If appreciating them in return means submitting himself to asinine conversations, then so be it.
Masen dips his chin, sitting back in his desk chair with his fingers woven over his stomach. "It's an improvement," he says honestly. Usually Rose Hale doesn't even give Emmett the time of day, let alone look at him long enough to categorize it as a glare. Yes, that's certainly some kind of improvement.
"Don't ask him," Peter says with a shake of his head, jerking his thumb at Masen. "He can't relate. When aren't girls looking at him?"
Masen says nothing. There's really no need. He'll save his words for when they'll be heard.
Emmett is quick to respond. "That's irrelevant. I'm in unrequited love and my goddess looked at me today. Maybe next time she'll even tell me to get lost!"
Masen recalls the last time Emmett had come back to the dorm after running into Rose Hale at the library; that time Emmett said the same thing. It's a strange goal to have, he thinks, wanting to be verbally rejected by an infatuation.
"I thought you called it worship?" Peter asks.
"Obviously it's both, you plebeian," Emmett sneers. He jabs his finger at Peter with warning. "Today is the best day of my life and you will not ruin it for me."
Peter points back at Emmett, wagging his own finger. "Fuck off, today is the best day of my life and you will not ruin it for me."
Masen thinks the two of them point way too much to be considered polite. Of course, raised under the hawkish eye of Grandfather Cullen, he might have a slightly different understanding of what constitutes polite by his own generation.
Seeing the offense on Emmett's face and the challenging expression on Peter's, Masen suppresses a sigh. Where is Alistair when he needs him? Catching up on sleep, probably, that damn insomniac. Masen has many regrets about switching roommates with Peter as a favor. Emmett is a good person, but he's loud all the time, even snoring like a beast at night. If not for Masen's general constitution, he might be as sleep deprived as Peter was last year. In a perfect world, Masen would be rooming with Alistair or Peter, who at least can be quiet for sustained periods of time - but this was the only possible arrangement, because Peter is unable to sleep with Emmett in the same room and Emmett gets into too many spats with Alistair if unsupervised. This way was the only path to some kind of peace for everyone.
And for Masen, who needs his friends and business partners to be productive, peace is absolutely necessary.
But that doesn't mean Masen doesn't daydream about having his own room. Or a quiet roommate. Or at least a wall between him and the chaos. Soon enough, he thinks, his mind briefly flicking to the lease agreement sitting in his email, waiting to be negotiated and signed.
Emmett scoffs. "How is it your best day?"
Peter crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. "You might not have been paying attention, but your so-called goddess was there with a friend."
"She was?" On the tail of Emmett's question is a suspicious look, a hint of jealousy hiding around his gills. "Wait, what friend?"
Peter's chin lifts even higher with his pride. "Who else but the current campus beauty? The belle of our department two years running, the girl with the highest test scores in her class, proving once and for all that techy girls can be competent and beautiful? That friend, standing right in front of my face, with her face looking like her face…"
Peter's wistful sigh is drowned out by Emmett sucking his teeth. "I didn't see anyone else," he says.
"You blind fool."
"My goddess is the only one that matters! My eyes are only for her," Emmett says shamelessly.
"Your loss then." A wide grin, equally as shameless, lights Peter's expression. "She really is so cute in person. Have you seen her, Masen? Don't you think so?"
Masen stares at Peter blankly, his mind equally a vast wasteland of not knowing. He knows Peter is speaking words, probably words that even make some iota of sense to him, but for all of Masen's intellect he cannot suss the meaning. He has no earthly idea what or who Peter is talking about.
His lack of understanding must be obvious, because Peter rears back in surprise, almost stumbling over his own feet. "Masen? Don't tell me you don't know about the contest…?" Peter throws Emmett a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "H-how is that possible? How can he not know?"
Emmett shrugs, broad shoulders rolling beneath a blue plaid shirt, the collar done all the way up the neck. "You can't be that surprised, Pete." Emmett jerks his chin toward Masen. "Mr. Robot over there doesn't know about these things. He doesn't care about the finer things in life, like vacations or women."
Peter is swiftly shaking his head, fumbling to pull his phone out of his pocket as he hastens to Masen's side. "Well, whatever, you can't be ignorant about this! Here, Mase, look at this-"
Masen ignores the screen being thrust in his face, slowly pushing Peter's hand aside so he can see his own laptop. "I don't care about it," he says calmly.
"But you have to see her! Look, this is Bella Sw-"
"Don't care."
Emmett falls off the bed laughing once he catches sight of Peter's gobsmacked face.
Masen couldn't care less. As far as he's concerned, he's already taken - there is only one girl has his attention, and he knows he will find her - in the flesh - soon enough.
Peter C. ʘpeteypete
Some of you don't know ANYTHING about ANYTHING and it shows
Em for MC ʘmathmagician
We been knew, pete
Peter C. ʘpeteypete
ʘmathmagician ʘratherbealone Who will tell ʘmaestro? Volunteers?
Em for MC ʘmathmagician
Hard pass ʘpeteypete
Alistair the Recluse ʘratherbealone
Don't involve me ʘpeteypete I don't even know what's happening, thank God.
Peter C. ʘpeteypete
ʘmaestro I got to do everything in this goddamn house!
Masen Cullen ʘmaestro
Stop tagging me
Peter C. ʘpeteypete
The fucking audacity? Fine! ʘmaestro can keep his ignorance!
They have dragged the rickety card table into the middle of the dorm room, each of their laptops crowded together with a collection of beef jerky, chips, and canned drinks that Emmett had scrounged together from the hoard they all know he keeps under his bed. The set up brings back fond memories of LAN parties when he was a teenager and his only real friends he had were the gamers he would meet up with at gaming parties. Masen collects his preferred snacks, sets them on his lap, and sits back to watch his friends with a placid sort of amusement.
Peter is complaining that there are no Cheetos, which makes Emmett get on his case about how bad cheese dust can be for a keyboard. Alistair, tone as deadened as ever, bemoans a lack of nachos.
Emmett shakes his head at them. "Heathens, the both of you," he says accusingly. "Don't you know the cardinal rule of computer snacking? Keep it clean."
"This is rich coming from the guy wrist-deep in a bag of chili cheese Fritos," Alistair says with a raised brow. "And is that bean dip?"
"How are Cheetos more messy than that?" Peter demands.
"Hypocritical," Masen murmurs, a slight tilt to his lips.
Emmett looks at Masen with the greatest expression of betrayal. "Now you decide to contribute?"
Masen rolls his shoulders.
"This is bullshit!," Emmett says explosively. But he does not find much sympathy from his friends, as Peter has now torn into a bag of corn-nuts and Alistair is slurping an energy drink that, as they all know, will not give him any additional energy. Masen, for his part, is concentrated on logging onto his Dawn of Warcraft account. When Emmett sees that he is not getting the reaction he was looking for, he deflates and sullenly shovels chips into his mouth.
The intro for Dawn of Warcraft flashes across Masen's laptop screen. Each time he watches the game load, he feels a complicated mixture of nostalgia and yearning - nostalgia because this game has been his refuge for so long, and yearning because Masen wants to make something better. He wants to make a game that revolutionizes the entire industry, a game that redefines what a good MMORPG is, and completely innovates the current capabilities of technology. He wants to take what is already great and make it better.
The game loads his master account. It's just his imagination that his white-robed character looks as excited to meet with his in-game spouse as Masen feels. He's projecting, of course. Unlike the characters he plans to design, the avatars on this game aren't expressive at all. He double checks the equipment he has on his character, then loads to his last save.
Master Culler appears in the Tyndall Forest, a wide span of bluish forestry filled with sudden gorges, fallen trees, and sweeping rivers flowing south toward places with higher populations. Just off the forest is Dall Town, a village of NPCs that deliver quest instructions for many of the quests that happen in the northern region of the map. Master Culler hasn't needed to visit Dall for over a year, having completed all the current quests loaded on the master game.
Swansong is waiting at the agreed coordinates, the avatar dressed in the equipment he gave to her. He wonders if she knows he made that equipment specifically for her, tracking down rare materials from dungeon bosses to forge something with her current capabilities in mind. Does she see how this armor bolsters her weak points? Does she understand that he gave her this equipment for more than one reason? Not just for the upcoming competition, but because he thinks she deserves it?
Never more has Masen wanted to pick another person's brain before. Swansong calls to him in so many ways he can hardly fathom it - and all from a single glimpse of a girl's back, all because he could see her skill. Part of him is hesitant, wondering how much he has projected onto her. From observing Swansong's gameplay, he imagines that she has a deft intelligence, that she is diligent, that she can think on her feet. But these are all assumptions.
What is the real girl like? What are the dimensions of her personality? Her goals and her dreams?
Masen can only imagine, because he does not know who she is - the only name he has is her handle.
But if there is one irrational thing Masen believes in - if there is one thing Grandfather Cullen hadn't managed to stomped out of him, the way he had ironed out so many other things - is the fact he believes in serendipity. He found this girl once by chance; he will find her by chance again.
Masen observes as Swansong seems to be finishing one of her daily quests - hunting pheasants by the looks of it - with a faint tilt of his lips. His own daily quests are stacked up on each other; after all, daily quests are mostly for the benefit of a guild, or to give players the ability to make trades with goods in the game. Master Culler has no need for hunting and gathering, not unless he's looking for something in particular and he can kill two birds with one stone. Watching Swansong commit to her daily quests, he feels inspired to do the same.
But another time. Certain people are getting impatient.
Behind Master Culler appear three other players. He knows them well, but he wonders if Swansong has hard of them. Each of them is ranked on one list or another, perhaps not as high as him, but usually within the top ten.
"Equipment looks good," Peter says around a mouthful of chips. "Can't believe it only took you a week to make. What, do you just have rare materials laying around your inventory?"
"Mm."
"That is not an answer," Peter says.
"Did you really think he would tell it to you straight?"
Peter sulks for a minute before a devilish expression crosses his face. He dusts his fingers off, swiping them across the front of his cargo shorts, and then sets his fingers to the keyboard. On the screen, Pestulent, a Monk class Draenei dressed in green armors, struts through the forest. Peter types on his screen, opening up a closed group chat for their five players.
《 Pestulent: hey hey hey!
《 Pestulent: if it isn't our first lady, the great Swansong
Swansong doesn't answer in the group chat. Instead, she opens a private chat directly to Master Culler. Masen tramps down on his smugness when Peter realizes that Swansong is not going to answer him and pouts at the laptop.
》Swansong: these are your teammates?
《 Master Culler: yes. Introductions?
》Swansong: please
"Introduce yourselves," Masen says to the room at large. He sits back in his chair, helping himself to a chunk of beef jerky while his friends send a rapid series of messages to Swansong. On the screen, Swansong is surrounded by the three other players. Pestulent jumps up and down in front of her, likely trying to irritate her into initiating a duel, although Swansong does not bite the bait. Pythagoras, a Rogue class Worgen dressed in blue armor, demonstrates his axe prowess, while Hermit, a Paladin class Dwarf stands sedately in front of Swansong and sends a single message in greeting.
To the group chat Swansong says hello and nice to meet you and I look forward to raiding with you. And then she switches to the private chat and the terrible greedy beast making a home for itself in his chest rumbles, pleased.
》Swansong: why not make a guild?
A good question, Masen has to admit. Although guilds are usually much larger, it's true that there are some loopholes that allow guilds to be smaller collections of players - sub-guilds, almost. But their group hasn't ever been interested in it. For one, being in a guild can narrow down the types of raids players can participate, with some raids only allowing one guild to try at a time. Not being in a guild gives a player more freedom, but also less support. The sole exception to playing outside of a guild is having an in-game marriage, a partnership that supersedes a guild. He suspects Swansong already understands all of this, belonging to a top-notch guild herself and knowing the restrictions placed on her playing - all she wants to know is his personal reason for not creating a guild.
So he returns her question with one of his own.
《 Master Culler: why be tied down?
》Swansong: fair point
Knowing that Swansong is part of a guild, Masen wonders if she has ever considered leaving her guild. Will she, now that she is allied with him? She didn't when she was allied with Relentless, but Masen can't quash the idea that he - Master Culler - is different than Relentless. He thinks he wants to be. He has plans on how to make himself be.
But these are thoughts for the future. For now, it is enough to watch Swansong and his closest friends interact. He is keen to see how their personalities mesh. Peter, in particular, has a way of teasing reactions out of people, and Masen is curious enough about his new in-game spouse that he lets it happen without much interference. It isn't a test exactly, not really.
《 Pestulent: hey missus
《 Pestulent: let me tell you about your husband okay
《 Pestulent: he's a beast
《 Pythagoras: a total monster, for real!
《 Hermit: he's arrogant, probably a narcissist
《 Pestulent: that's right!
《 Pestulent: he lets the game get to his head!
《 Pythagoras: you don't know what you've gotten yourself into
《 Hermit: run while you still can
Over the tops of their computers, Peter and Emmett exchange taunting grins, while even Alistair looks deeply amused by the egging of the group chat. There's a clear feeling of waiting, of wondering. Will Swansong play along?
Four computers ting with a new message at the same time. Masen reads the message, then lets a sly smile cross his face.
》Swansong: is this what jealousy sounds like?
Peter fairly chokes on his own spit and Emmett slaps his knee as he laughs. For his part, Alistair stares as the message for a moment, then decides, "I think I like this girl."
《 Pestulent: NO it is NOT jealousy
《 Pestulent: there's no reason to be jealous of him or his massive ego!
》Swansong: I see :)
《 Pythagoras: whyyyy
《 Pythagoras: she's just like HIM
《 Pythagoras: there's two of them now
《 Pestulent: two conversation assassins
《 Hermit: one word and we're dead
《 Hermit: I like it
《 Pestulent: I want a refund
"Get a new wife," Peter demands. "This one has too much - too much…something!"
Masen does not even dignify that with a response.
《 Master Culler: stop messing around
《 Master Culler: did you want to run a raid?
》Swansong: I have some time
》Swansong: let's set a record
"Let's set a record," Emmett echoes. "She says it so casually, like that's something that people can just decide to do."
"Maybe she can," Alistair says. "She's higher than you on the dueling ranking."
Peter chortles. "Man, Emmett isn't even on the dueling ranking anymore!"
"Shut up!"
"No, you shut up!"
The chaos unfolds around him and on the screen, but all Masen can feel is a sense of contentment. It's just as he thought - Swansong fits, with his friends, with the game, with himself.
Won't it be wonderful when she fits in other places of his life, too?
Peter C. ʘpeteypete
How can he not know about the top beauties of the school? Someone has to correct this travesty. I have to tell him. I have to I have to I have to I have to
Em for MC ʘmathmagician
Good luck comrade ʘpeteypete
Alistair the Recluse ʘratherbealone
ʘpeteypete is the bravest soldier
The Emergent Games Conference happens on a Saturday afternoon at a tall, towering building in San Francisco's business district. Still living out of the dorms, the founding members of Midnight Sun have spent a morning rising at the crack of dawn, finalizing their presentation, suffering through Masen's triple-check, and finally boarding a BART train. The rail carries them southwest to San Francisco in under an hour, but the trip is filled with Peter repeatedly and loudly voicing his anxiety about public speaking.
Nobody bats an eye, not even the other passengers. Peter finds no sympathy here. Masen silently passes him the talking points printed onto notecards by his own hand and instructs Peter to memorize them. Peter whines, but complies anyway.
Mentally, Masen feels that he is prepared for the conference. He has put a lot of effort into making them appear more than new graduates. Their start-up is sleek, a well-oiled machine, and their output can rival anything that massive corporations with dozens of teams can create. He is reasonably confident in how this conference will go, but there is always room for error and that must be accounted for.
In Emmett's words, they need a "slam dunk" if they want to bag the kind of investors they need to reach their bigger goals. They've already been doing recruiting, tapping the shoulders of their own upperclassmen and some of the more brilliant minds in their graduating class. Midnight Sun is a start-up with a bright future and Masen knows success is right around the corner. All he wants is for that success to happen without any missteps, and for that he needs to be diligent, on top of his game, fully keyed in. He has to be the spare heir Grandfather Cullen never asked for, the one who sits down with his brother to help complete some of the company's workload when Carlisle's residency takes up too much of his time.
Masen will rise to the occasion. He always does.
They disembark the train, huddle into an Uber, and arrive at the glass-front building teeming of people who are potentially in charge of their dreams. The four of them stand shoulder to shoulder, Peter nervously swiping his hands on the seat of his pants, Emmett fiddling with the skinny tie around his neck, Alistair tucking lank hair behind his ears. Masen eyes their reflections, the new jeans and sport coats, the crisp button-downs and borrowed ties, the youthful faces. His fingers curl more firmly around the leather computer case he carries.
He takes the first step, leading the charge in life as much as he does in the game. The others follow.
Inside, the conference is a league of confined chaos. There is the usual tedium of registration and ID cards hung on lanyards around necks, followed by directions on where they should sit in a room crowded with circular tables in front of a medium-sized projector screen. Although they are giving a presentation, their call is later in the line-up and as a start-up they do not have the clout more established companies have to sit in the front where the investors are located. It's a tactical disadvantage, and one that Masen can only hope to overcome by overwhelming the audience with their ideas.
His confidence does not waver. He has anticipated all of this, planned it all out and researched everything to the last detail. There is not a name or face in the room that he does not know. He locks on to his targeted investors, nudges Peter to point them out, and emphasizes - for the final time - that Midnight Sun is speaking to those half-dozen people.
This is their best shot.
"Don't drink too much water," Alistair mutters, pulling Peter's glass away from him between presentations. Then he taps the top of Emmett's hand, halting the sound of Emmett's fingers dully drumming on the cloth tabletop. "And stop that."
At the same time, two voices hiss a low response. "I'm nervous," Peter and Emmett say, only to shoot each other surprised looks.
Alistair sighs, long suffering. He is as at-ease in this situation as Masen, likely because the two share a similar background. Formal, business-oriented events such as these are old hat for Masen and Alistair, who both come from families entrenched in old money and business. While the Cullens gathered their vast wealth starting during the Californian Gold Rush, Alistair's family hails from a country estate in England that is still overseeing land in place of the crown family. As a cousin of an Earl, Alistair has the freedom to choose his own path, but in return for that freedom his childhood resembled Masen's very closely - neither of them could get away from certain duties. But like Masen, Alistair has made choices to give himself independence, and he does not plan on taking advantage of the old money his family is willing to extend.
The two share a commiserating glance, and then Alistair's pale eyes turn to their companions. "All the same," he says under his breath, tone sharpened with a stronger British lilt than he usually allows to surface. "Keep your nerves to yourself. Have some decorum."
Emmett looks like he wants to retort, but another look from Masen keeps his mouth shut. Peter simply wilts in his chair and licks his lips, eyes darting to the stage and skittering away.
Soon enough, Midnight Sun is called forward for their presentation. Masen passes his laptop to Peter, their simulation program and presentation already cued up, and then takes his place at the podium. Seamlessly, Masen shifts into an old persona he knows well, shoulders pulled back and a neutral, amicable expression on his face. "Good afternoon. I am Masen Cullen, CEO of Midnight Sun, and on behalf of our company I would first like to say how honored we are for the invitation to this conference." Beside him, Peter has connected the laptop to the projector, and an image of their game simulation dominates the screen. "We have developed Pagan Immortals, a novel mobile game that combines the greatness of traditional slash-and-hack games with highly developed NPCs. To illustrate, please watch our demo…"
Peter taps the keyboard and behind them the screen resolves into a vibrant illustration of the Pagan Immortals gameplay. The simulation is well-polished, and objectively speaking more advanced than some of the previous presentations. As Masen and Peter switch places so that Peter is standing at the podium, Masen takes stock of the reactions of the audience, his eyes easily picking out his goal investors.
They look interested. Some are even surprised. And other investors, ones he had shelved as hard sells, look impressed. Good. Things are going well.
When the demo ends and it is Peter's turn to speak, he only stutters through the first few sentences before he hits his stride, just as Masen knew he would. Peter likes to talk more than anyone else he knows - of course a fear of public speaking would be overcome, especially if Peter is talking about something he is passionate about. As Masen moves through the presentation, the screen changing along with Peter's talking points, his confidence doubles.
The goal was to make an impression. To prove themselves. To announce themselves as a group that was innovative, even if they are green. Looking at the audience, seeing the faces of his competitors, Masen feels the same rush he gets when he beats a boss playing Dawn of Warcraft. It is victory, the kind that is so certain it can be tasted.
And at the end, when all the presentations are done and people begin to mingle, when Masen is approached by three more investors than he anticipated, all of whom want to schedule meetings with him as soon as possible, that surge of victory solidifies as something tangible in his chest. His friends exchange grins and covert fistbumps when the last of the investors depart, and Masen turns to them with his hands in his pockets, eyes alight with excitement.
"We did it," Peter whispers, a wide grin stretched across his mouth.
"Did you see their faces? They were all whoa and wow," Emmett adds.
"It went well," Alistair agrees. He cranes his head around, taking stock of the room, and then stops when something catches his attention over Masen's shoulder. He arches a brow. "Perhaps too well," he amends.
Masen turns, sees what Alistair does, and silently agrees.
They caught the attention of the investors, but they also caught the attention of their competitors. They made an impression - not just impressive, but also a potential threat. The man heading their way is Mr. Banner of Denali Corp., a snake of a man if rumors are correct. Plain-looking, Mr. Banner presents himself as an ordinary fellow, but as the Vice President of Sales at Denali, he certainly is more formidable than he appears. His reputation speaks for itself.
Masen knows all about him and his underhanded tactics.
But he's curious and he has always believed that knowing the enemy is the best defense, so he turns to greet Mr. Banner with a palatable expression. He shakes his hand firmly when Mr. Banner introduces himself and says that Denali Corp. was very impressed by the presentation.
"You're too kind," Masen says. "We were lucky to be able to present alongside a company like yours, Mr. Banner. We know it's a rare opportunity for new graduates like ourselves."
"Ah, are you new graduates?" Mr. Banner asks, and to his credit, he does sound genuinely interested. It's just that the interest doesn't meet his eyes, which are hungry and sharp, a shark searching for blood in the water.
"The graduation ceremony is in two weeks," Masen confides. "I suppose we aren't new graduates just yet."
"Close enough, close enough," Mr. Banner says quickly. "Ah, it's so delightful to know that such promising minds are joining the field. Where are you graduating from, again?"
"Stanford."
"Ah, a great school! Many excellent minds have come from Stanford," Mr. Banner says. He reaches into his pocket, passes along a small rectangular business card. "Speaking of great minds, I would like to sit down and talk with you about your mobile app - it's such a fascinating idea! Do you have time soon?"
Not very subtle, is he? Masen wonders, even as he makes a point of pulling out his phone and scrolling through his calendar. "Next Tuesday is open for me," he says after a moment, making sure his tone is the right balance between eager and nervous, although he is neither. Acting is merely a part of business, as he well knows.
Mr. Banner looks too triumphant, just this side of too slick. "Around three?"
"I'll see you then," Masen confirms. He waits until Mr. Banner and his two colleagues leave before turning to his friends. He takes in their expressions, the surprise and skepticism, and then he leans just close enough that they will hear the words he speaks under his breath. "All part of the plan."
Emmett's eyebrows lift. "That was part of the plan?"
"Of course," Masen says. He had prepared for every eventuality.
"I don't get it," Peter says. "I thought we wanted investors."
Alistair, naturally, is the one who grasps the situation first. He sighs. "We do want investors," he tells Peter. "But we also want to know which way the wind is blowing."
"I still don't get it," Peter mutters.
Masen claps Peter's shoulder, his mouth tilting into a smirk. "Think of it like chess. We're just moving pawns."
Emmett shakes his head. "That's not helpful at all. But whatever. I trust you, Mase. You and your Machiavellian ways will see us through everything, just like always."
"Mm," Masen hums as he turns, walks out of the conference room, then out of the building and into the sun. He's touched by the trust his friends have in him, and he knows he won't let them down - not in this, not in anything that truly matters.
Masen lets the sun soak into his skin, taking a moment to breathe as his thoughts organize themselves into a new formation, new plans slotting into place.
But he wonders if any of them know how far his so-called Machiavellian ways extend - how far he is willing to use cunning to get what he wants, how patience he is willing to extend to reach his ambitions, whatever they may be.
They probably do. It isn't as if Masen has ever done anything to hide his polarizing personality, and his friends don't seem to care.
Will Swansong care? What type of girl is she in real life? For the first time, Masen regrets that he had only ever seen the back of her - after all, long brown hair and freckles aren't much to go on. He shouldn't have walked away at The Coffee Circuit without at least seeing her face.
But she must be close. She must be.
His curiosity might eat him alive.
A/N: Did I surprise you? Remember that we only know what Masen knows, and then we only know what Bella knows - and neither of them know shit at this point. Anyway, here's a long note for the chapter. What else do you have to do in the midst of...whatever the hell is happening in the world?
Machiavellianism is a political school of thought and a part of a triad of negative personality traits in psychology. Essentially, Machiavelli is a philosopher who is associated with manipulation, deception, and the phrase "it is better to be feared than loved"; in psychology, Machiavelli is closely tied to psychopathy and narcissism. However, Machiavelli is a complex figure, and so is his controversial political philosophy. Machiavelli is commonly referred to as the "father of political science" and he had a very pragmatic approach to politics - he was a realist who understood that politicians seek power whether they are guided by morals or not. In fact, Machiavelli argued that morals have no place in politics, specifically morals related to religion or other schools of thought that do not have practical, real-world meaning in the lives of the masses. Machiavellianism is closely related to consequentialism, which is a philosophy that says the consequences of actions are the basis of right and wrong. Machiavelli was also a materialist, which is a branch of metaphysics that suggests all things, including ideas, are the product of material interactions, which means he didn't put a lot of stock into things that cannot be proven - he was a "seeing is believing" type. Machiavelli advocated for republicanism in politics, which refers to representation of people in government rather than the current political party. Machiavelli essentially believed that "the ends justify the means" in politics, but he was rather ambivalent whether the "ends" should be morally good or bad. You could say his fundamental belief was "by hook or crook" so long as ambitions were met. To that end, in psychology, people with high traits of Machiavellianism (high Mach) are associated with charisma, skills in deception, and those who are difficult to persuade but who can easily persuade others. People with Machiavellian personality traits are those who are willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want, so at best they can be described as morally ambiguous.
Now, whether Masen exhibits Machiavellian traits and whether those traits are a bad thing is up to you. There is a tendency to associate Machiavelli with "evil" and "corruption", but the works of Machiavelli himself are astoundingly neutral, so I tend to think of him as neutral as well. Machiavelli basically said "we do what we have to do to get what we want and survive" and followed it up with "reality and the consequences of our actions are the only things that matter". Like I said, he's a complicated figure. You can't really put him in a box.
Moving on!
LAN parties are a throwback to how gamers used to gather about 10-15 years ago when internet connections had to be shared with the same router. At a LAN party, everyone would bring their own computer and cluster off an internet connection while they all played the same RPG, usually to complete all-night campaigns or something similar. Recent developments in gaming have made LAN parties an old-school thing, but like I said, they're still around - the spirit of them continues in gaming meet-ups and live tournaments.
MMORPG stands for Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game, such as WOW, Skyrim: Elder Scrolls, Final Fantasy, and many, many others. MMORPG are probably the most common online games right now, and they allow for player-to-player interaction such as what has been in this story so far. Some people use the terms RPG and MMORPG interchangeably; either is technically correct in terms of how these games are constructed.
Handles:
Master Culler is Masen Cullen
Mad Hatter is Masen Cullen
maestro is Masen Cullen
Pythagoras is Emmett McCarty
Em Likes Pi is Emmett McCarty
mathmagician is Emmett McCarty
Pestulent is Peter Charlet
Peter Panda is Peter Charlet
peteypete is Peter Charlet
(Charlet is an alternate spelling of Charlotte, which is the only Charlotte we'll be seeing in this story)
Hermit is Alistair Anderson
Squidward is Alistair Anderson
ratherbealone is Alistair Anderson
(Alistair has no last name in canon, so he gets the last name of the guy who played him in the movie)
I can't even tell you how chuffed I am about the handles - I feel very clever. Anyway, I think that's everything! As always, be brutally honest. I can take it!
~Rae