Live, Laugh, Crunch

On dying a slow death under strip lights, still finding love, and refusing to stay within the margins of the workplace.

Heatwave, 2015.

I’ve been getting into murder podcasts lately. They help me focus as I rework a map from a previous title, expanding it into a more detailed environment for the new game. Millions of fans are waiting, and the world we’re building stretches further than it ever has before. Through large Sennheiser headphones, I’m thrust into the worlds of Charles Manson, the Boston Strangler, and the Night Stalker. On my screen, the sun blazes down from stark blue skies over a desert near the Mexican border. I’m painting the warm adobe walls of a bandit hideout, adding patches of dirt and wear to expose the stone structure beneath.

It’s a world of smoke and mirrors, built from polygons and pixels. Yet I get so immersed I lose all sense of my body. I’m an architect, a painter and decorator, a gardener and a set dresser, shaping a vision of early 20th-century America. I’m the weather: I turn pine wood orange in the sun, chip at plaster, streak façades with mud and grow weeds between paving slabs. I fly from north to south, east to west, building streets, shops, and churches. My hands are glued to a PlayStation 4 controller and my eyes melt into the screen.

I feel a tickle on my shoulder and flinch, nearly knocking my drink over and smacking my would-be assailant. It’s my Art Lead, stopping by for a catch-up with a steaming mug of coffee and that ever-present smile. He’s been trying to get my attention for a while, but I’ve been wrapped up in a shower curtain and buried in the desert. It takes a moment to come back to the real world and shake off the atrocities of the Toy-Box Killers.

I peel off my headphones and drape them over their stand, hitting into my trinkets with hands that don’t quite feel like mine. I update him on the work I’ve been doing, voice gravelly from the dry air and not speaking all day. He tells me I’m lucky to be entrusted with this task. It'll bring good visibility within the company. I love my job as a 3D artist, but the work is beginning to seep into places it shouldn’t.

I stretch out, wander to the break-out room where I can see the outside world. The real skies are not unlike those in the game. We’re in a heatwave, and the aircon struggles to keep up with the rising temperatures of the early afternoon. The standard-issue system is no match for the heat pumped out by our high-spec computers and development kits. A unit rattles overhead as it works overtime to blast cool air into our space.

Time for another coffee.

My Facebook wall is full of evidence that life is happening elsewhere. My auntie, back home, is on the beach. She lives ten minutes from a trendy seaside resort, and I’m stuck on an industrial estate in Leeds. An old schoolfriend is heading to Bali to study yoga. An ex-colleague is gearing up for Burning Man. He got out before another round of crunch and now seems to be living.

A wordy email lands in our inbox with chirpy ding. We all knew it was coming. Everyone on the Art Floor reads it at once. The studio goes quiet. Eyes stay fixed on monitors, gazing through the screens. I see only blank expressions, slumped shoulders, unkempt facial hair and dry lips.

The email sounds friendly, even speculative, but the message is clear: you’re coming in this weekend. There’s a milestone approaching. Please make sure all outstanding tasks are completed. All food and transport are covered. Just keep the receipts.

The fluorescent lighting seems harsher now. The letters on my screen begin to shimmer, then blur. My body is still at the desk, typing, checking in to see what others make of the news, but my soul has floated to the far corner of the room. She’s hiding behind a barricade of empty computer boxes in the discarded furniture section, tucked into a makeshift pillow fort made of sofa cushions. From there, she looks out of the only window without frosted film.

My surroundings dissolve into the soft clatter of keyboards, the drag of mice on plastic woodgrain. The air is thick with the stale tang of last night’s pizza boxes and the dull scent of tired humans. People moan, but no one pushes back. There’s comfort in the rhythm of it all, and eventually, the pay will make it all seem worth it. We are living the dream, aren’t we?

Life outside moves on without us, as our bodies quietly fade into the synthetic fibres of our workplace.

My eyes find yours, peeking out from above your monitor, quick and magnetic. They’re the only thing offering something solid to hold onto. You blink rapidly. I know that look: you’re tired. I want to disappear into those pale green eyes beneath your cheeky curved brows. You always look like you’ve just climbed out of a swimming pool – eyes slightly red, long lashes clumped. I want to wrap myself around you like a towel. You notice me and your gaze goes soft.

At least I get to spend the weekend near you. I’ll try to stay as close as possible, caught in the bubble of your clean scent. Your shampoo and laundry detergent smell both alien and oddly familiar to me. I'll brush my arm against the fine blond hairs on yours. The thick veins on your lower arms trace the only path I want to follow.

In my mind, I float out of the building, across the car park, over one of Leeds’ busiest arterial roads, towards a patch of grass beside a Greggs. A helicopter once landed there and a businessman popped out to buy sandwiches. The roundabout opposite was the scene of a dramatic crash involving our colleague after a Friday afternoon in the pub.

Our patch of grass is just a scrap of green in a concrete wasteland, but right now it feels like the closest thing to freedom. It may be scorched yellow and uneven, littered with crushed cans and crisp packets, but wildflowers still push through. Subversive flashes of purple against the grey.

I picture myself stretched out, you beside me, our fingers laced together. Faces tilted to the sun, soaking up the warmth as I quietly plot our escape.