The Pomeranian growled. A high-pitched little rattle, like a wind-up toy with bloodlust. The blonde bastard just smiled, cooing at it like it hadn’t just threatened me.
“I’m not asking,” he said, voice honey-slick. “You want this game to matter? You put me in it. The fans love a blonde. Give him a dragon punch and a denim vest—hell, just trace over me if you want. We won’t mind.”
Skull Toque leaned in, breath like raw meat. “And I better see a mech-wrestler. Atomic suplexes. References to Getter Robo and Sentai, and spinning piledrivers. None of this all-girls bullshit. Where’s the manliness?"
I let the silence stretch, took a sip of my drink. Burned like ambition.
“We’re not asking,” said Blondie. “Put me in your game. American icon type. Like Ken, or Terry. Fans eat that up.”
“I’m not your dancing dev,” I said. “And GM doesn’t need your bargain-bin mascots. You want to play dollhouse with your egos? Go fund your own vanity project.”
“We’re just trying to help. Be a shame if your project got…buried in discourse. Or if certain communities stopped supporting it.”
Toque cracked his knuckles. “Yeah. No visibility. No scene support. Just you and your waifus in a dusty
itch.io grave.”
I stood. “You two think being influencers makes you designers? I’m making the game I want to make,” I told them.
"One cold take from us and your game’s a meme.”
“If GM burns bridges, I’ll walk through the fire.”
Toque moved first. I grabbed my sketch, flicked my drink into Toque’s face, and vaulted over the back of the booth. Glass shattered behind me. A scream. Blondie shouted something about daggers. The Pomeranian yipped like it saw a squirrel.
I ran through the rain-soaked alley until my coat was 10 pounds heavier. But in my coat pocket, the napkin sketch stayed safe and dry like the dream it carried. GigaMaidens would live. On my terms.
They could gatekeep their broken scene.
I’d build a new one.
