The Housewife Assassin's Killer App (17 page)

My team is made up of one Caucasian dude with a goatee. “His nickname is Fu Manchu,” Emma whispers into my ear, and another who is too tall and too thin. “Ichabod,” Emma deadpans. “Hey, don’t look at me. It’s what the other geeks call him.” There is also an Asian-American guy, a chubby dude with a ponytail, and an East Indian guy. “Orphan of Zhao, Wise Ass, and Bollywood in that order,” Emma informs me. They are dressed in the shlubwear coveted by the industry: a T-shirt touting some startup, a hoodie or ironic meme sweatshirt, and cargo pants or saggy jeans, with sneakers or flip-flops.

Already, I’m the odd-person-out in this geek clique cliché.
 

If they had the nerve to ask, I’d go ahead and tell them so that I could get on with the task at hand: spying on our team leader and boss.
 

Shazaaaam’s celebrated creative director, Roger White, is in the middle of a pep talk when I take my seat. He is around my age, maybe a year younger. His hair is bleached platinum and held in a topknot, he wears a V-neck black tee shirt over tight black jeans.
 

Too tight, in fact. I wonder if there’s an app that will validate that he’s wearing an inordinately flattering codpiece.
 

“—got to get on the ball, people! The damn thing still has a serious A-bug!” Roger stares pointedly at Fu Manchu, who cowers in his chair. Noting that his victim is duly chastised, Roger continues, “Have you forgotten that we’ve only got another forty-eight hours before code release? Wiz expects this to be a triple-A game with an LTV to CAC ratio of five-point-eight! All of us—all of
you,
have to pull your—” Finally, he notices me, “weight.”

He gives me the onceover. I don’t like the smirk on his face.

Or the fact that his eyes never reach my face, but stay chest-high.

Click goes his Google Glass.
 

I swear, if I find out it’s equipped with an x-ray app, I’ll stomp it into the ground—while he’s still wearing it.

“Who the hell are you?” Roger demands.

I hold out my hand. “Donna Gray, the tester for
Queen of Hearts
.”
 

He stares down at my hand. Finally, he grasps it cautiously.

Limply. Let me put it this way: if Tinder rated handshakes, he’d never get a right-swipe.
 

“Is this the rest of my team?” It’s a duh statement, but hey, I’ve got to break the ice somehow.

Roger shrugs, then waves toward the others. “Yeah, right. Meet Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo, and Gummo.”

The others snicker and wave weakly.

“What do I need to know about the game?” I ask.

“
Queen of Hearts
still has a bug or two to work out. We’re talking about it now, as a matter of fact. But, as far as you’re concerned, all you need to know is that it’s a combination of MMORPG and life simulation. It’s geared at female players with families, preferably stay-at-home moms with discretionary income.”

“Cough—MILFs—cough!” Wise Ass thinks he’s being cute.
 

While the others giggle, Rodney flips him a bird. “The goal is to ensure
Queen of Hearts
is realistic, engaging, and most of all, addictive.”
 

In other words, currently the game is viewed as a money pit for the company. And yet, he shows less interest in it than the yacht sales website on his screen. A lot less interest. A little eye contact would be nice—but no, I’m all but invisible.

“We’re under a tight deadline,” he continues. “So, if you hit a bug, signal any of these cretins, but keep playing. When you’re done with your pest report, offer beta keys on some of the free beta-test loops. Maybe you can tempt a few suckers to give you feedback before Wonder-Con next weekend, Friday through Sunday.”

I pray that whatever the Mad Hacker warned us about goes down on Friday, so that it’s out of the way before Carl shows up on my doorstep.

And if it goes down the way I hope, he’ll be met by a SWAT team.

“Speaking of Wonder-Con,” says Zhao, “Since
QofH
has its own booth, I presume our team gets free passes, right?”

Roger shakes his head. “Wrong. After my pass and the booth babe’s, I’ve got just one pass left. How ‘bout you guys strip to your skivvies and death-match it out?”

His suggestion goes over like a wet fart. No doubt, each of them still wakes from nightmares of gym class.

Roger shrugs. “Thought not. Okay, here’s the deal. Since this clown”—he points to Fu Manchu—“can’t find the A-bug, let alone his dick, I’ll make the pass the reward for the programmer who can exterminate it, and I’ll let the winner choose the booth babe. How’s that?”

They high-five each other, but none of them has the balls to glance over at Fu Manchu, who is steaming over Roger’s diss.

I’m steaming too. If I don’t get into that booth, Acme loses its eyes and ears during the hand-off.

“Time is money, so get to work.” He motions me toward a glassed-in cubicle with a door that actually closes. It holds a glass-top desk and a laptop.

The second I sit down in the chair in front of it, I hear Emma’s voice through my ear bud: “Guess what they’re doing right now.”

“I have no idea,” I mutter, as I turn around to look into the group pit.

They are staring back at me. When I wave at them, they snicker and blush.
 

Emma growls, “They’re taking bets on your bra size.”

I sigh. “Let me guess, those Glass-holes are using some sort of x-ray app, coded with some sort of size algorithm.”

“Nothing like that is on the market yet, but I’m sure one will be available soon. In the meantime, handle it any way you want.”

I hear a ping on my cell phone. Emma has sent me a transcript of a group chat:

Roger: Time’s up. All bets in, guys.

Ichabod: 32 A?

Fu Manchu: I’m in a generous mood, so 32 C.

Bollywood: Grow a pair! They’re at least 36’s! I say 36 B.

Wise Ass: UR giving her too much credit. I’ll go with 34 B. Maybe a C.

Zhao: I’ll double that to 36 D.

Roger: Then that leaves me with 32 B. What can I say? She underwhelms me.

I
underwhelm
him?

I do my best to hold my head high (and to jut my breasts out).

Instead of glaring, I smile pretty and blow him a kiss.

The smirk on his face is replaced by a frown. His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the newest member of the team that will make his reputation, one way or another.
 

He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m his worst nightmare.

After six hours of nonstop playing, I’ve come to the conclusion that the game outright sucks.

My avatar is a sweet-looking mommy whom I’ve named Donna S. Like me, she has medium brown hair, gray eyes, dimples, and loves simple sundresses. Her life is also simple: husband, three children (two girls and a boy sandwiched in the middle) and two dogs—a collie and a German shepherd.

Unlike me, she’s got Barbie proportions and doesn’t need to wear a bra or Spanx, because she’s perky in all the right places, including her attitude.

When she stays around the house, she tackles the dishes, vacuums, bakes, goes to the grocery store, does the laundry, tends her garden, and cleans out the cupboards.

Sometimes she hops into her mommy-mobile (the one I covet—Emma’s Yukon Denali XL hybrid) to carpool, buy groceries, and shop to her little heart’s content.

In fact, hearts are more than the name of the game. Like the old television show
Queen for a Day,
accomplishment of household tasks are rewarded with tiny hearts that can be traded in for stuff like high-tech appliances, make-up, or dresses, shoes or other accessories—all the latest-and-greatest, all top-of-the-line name brands—or girls-nights-out with celebrities. The grand prize is a mystery date with an actor of the player’s choice.
 

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Emma mutters in my ear.

“You’re not still going through morning sickness, are you?” I ask.

“No! It’s just that this game is so stupid and boring! My God, is this what it’s like to settle down?”
 

No arguments there.
 

“By the way, I’ve already found the A-bug and fixed it. Between their ADD issues, looking at online porn, and screwing around with their Google Glass apps, your team is too distracted to focus on a line-by-line code check.” I can imagine her rolling her eyes.
 

“So, how do we fix this game?” I ask.

“I’m no miracle worker. If this is as good as it gets in the real world, I’m surprised real women aren’t throwing themselves out of their sparkling clean windows.”

“That’s just it, Emma—real life is much more than this! Women have doubts about themselves, and their relationships. They have fears—for their children, their significant others, and for themselves. It’s the joy of finding your true love, of marrying him, and having children with him. And it’s not just emotional highs, either. Sure, women worry if they’re gaining weight or if they spot another wrinkle or gray hair. But they also get cancer, or have to deal with aging parents, or are juggling part-time jobs, or losing their jobs and homes when the economy tanks. If Shazaaaam wants them to play this game, it’s got to resemble real life, not the games we played when we were ten, when we didn’t know any better.”

“Donna, was that enough for you?”

Her question stops me cold. “What do you mean?”

“I guess what I’m trying to ask is whether or not you’d prefer everything you just mentioned. In other words, reality.”

I snort. “As opposed to what, this super-saccharine fantasy?”

She pauses as she searches for the right words. “By that, I mean as opposed to some of the excitement you’ve had since becoming an assassin.”

“Yes, okay, to be honest, when I was a full-time housewife, I never felt I was living up to my full potential. When Ryan asked me to join Acme, I had a mission—I wanted to avenge Carl’s death. Now I do it to prevent him killing others. Each mission puts me into situations that challenge me—emotionally, mentally, and physically.” I sigh. “To be honest with you, I’ve never felt as alive as I do right now.”

“Because of the danger you find yourself in at every turn.” Emma’s presumption comes out in a quiet whisper.
 

“No,” I insist, “Because the stakes are so high—my children’s lives, Jack’s life, the world we live in. I fail, I lose it all—this ‘normal life’ we take for granted.” My voice is trembling, but I can’t make it stop. “But, Emma, the way
Queen of Hearts
depicts real life is far from it! All life is always a challenge. We grow, we change, and we mature. The rosy happily ever after isn’t the journey. It’s
the reward.”

Emma is so quiet that I can’t tell if we’re still connected until she practically yells into my ear, “That’s it, Donna!”

“Ouch! What are you yelling about?” I swap the bud from one ear to the other in order to save my hearing.
 

“I’ll re-code
Queen of Hearts
to resemble your life—and by that, I mean everything! The kids and the dogs, as well as the bad guys. Avatar Donna not only has to do carpool, she has to save the world too.” I hear her clicking away on her keyboard. “She’ll get her missive via interesting drops—the ice cream vendor, the librarian, in a bouquet of roses, whatever. The clock is always ticking against her. Can she stop an assassination before she has to put dinner on the table? Can she disarm a bomb and still take her daughter to ballet? The hearts she wins will be purple, for valor and bravery. And the men in her life are—well, they’re complicated. They’ll be sexy and romantic and adventurous—but at the same time, they have hidden agendas. She won’t know if they’re good or evil.” Emma is so excited, she’s practically squealing. “Oh, my God, I think I can pull this off before you get to work tomorrow morning.”

“Emma, you’re pregnant, remember? You need your sleep! Take some down-time tonight—with Arnie.”

“Are you kidding me? He just texted me that he’s got other plans for the evening. Apparently, Nymphette and a group of his new coder buddies are staying on campus after work for a special showing of
Blade Runner.
Harrison Ford will be taking questions afterward. So that everyone gets into the vibe, Shazaaaam has hired salon stylists to give the female employees blunt cuts, just like the replicants in the movie.” Her laugh is harsh. No joy there.
 

“Maybe I should text him to remind him why he’s really here—to break into Roger’s email and files,” I mutter.

“He did that about an hour ago. I’ve already lateralled the intel to my SignInt and ComInt teams for cipher analysis. One thing’s for sure—Roger is anxious about Comic-Con. Reading between the lines, his role in our little drama is certainly taking place there—all the more reason you have to be there too.” She sounds deflated. “Donna, please don’t worry about me. Until this baby comes, I’m on the job. And besides, I haven’t coded a game in a while. It’ll be fun.” But her tone is anything but fun as she adds, “Oh, hell!”

“What’s happened now?” I force myself to keep my eyes on my laptop screen as opposed to turning around to look into the group pit.