Brennan
How often do accidents like these happen?
Nellie
We minimize it.—N
Brennan
What does that mean?
Nellie
We have population control, restrictions on turning people, restrictions on killing, and penalties in place for this very reason. To protect both humans and vampires.—N
Brennan
Well maybe that’s not good enough!
Nellie
I’m sensing frustration that might be misdirected? Do you want to schedule a therapy appointment?—N
Brennan
You know what? Yes.
The address for his one-on-one with Nellie led him to a side entrance down an alley that led to a retro arcade. The carpet was a bright swirl of colors to distract from the stains and smudges, and there were rows of old game machines spread out in a wide-open, tall-ceilinged warehouse.
Next to the entrance, there was a silvery cafeteria with an Instagram-ready wall of neon signs. Sunny was perched at one of the tables with her MacBook, long hair loose around her face, typing furiously, but she spared Brennan an arched eyebrow in greeting before returning to her task.
Brennan scanned the arcade—a kid and her parent, two college students on what might have been a date, and a lone figure staring down a Skee-Ball alley with the ball clutched to her chest.
Brennan approached Nellie and watched as she prepared to pitch, reeling back and mimicking the motion of throwing the ball underhand a few times without releasing it. She wore big hoop earrings, a fanny pack, and a colorful shirt that had a similar pattern to the arcade’s carpets.
“Hold that thought, Brennan,” she said without looking over her shoulder. “I need to get this shot.”
He didn’t know how the game worked, but the numbers at the top of the machine were high, and she only had one ball left. Nellie wound her arm back, and this time released the ball to skid across the alley and hop straight into the smallest hole marked with 1000.
The machine trilled with electronic music and started spitting out tickets. Nellie jumped and squealed.
“A perfect game of Skee-Ball!” she announced, clutching her tickets and beaming at Brennan.
“Impressive,” Brennan said, and offered a smile in return, nowhere near matching her enthusiasm.
“Do you wanna playStreet Fighter? I find it’s great to talk about things that are stressing you out while playingStreet Fighter.”
“I can’t say I’ve played before,” Brennan said, with the sinking feeling that he didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“You’ll pick it up,” Nellie said, tucking her tickets into her fanny pack around her hips and beelining toward the machine in question. Brennan followed.
The machine pretty much explained it: a joystick for moving, an array of buttons for attacking, two sets of controls for two players.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to annihilate me?”
“I’ll go easy on you,” Nellie said, but there was a glint in her eyes that agreed with me. “So, tell me: how are you doing? How are you adjusting? How are things?”
She inserted coins to start the game without taking her attention off Brennan.
