Corner
The Christmas Party
Sigmund Sussman met his fate somewhere near the boring third hour of his father's office Christmas party. It was an annual sort of affair -- the kind of thing his workaholic, upwardly-mobile father regarded as an 'outstanding' opportunity to 'climb the corporate ladder' -- but one to which young Sigmund has never before been invited. This year, however, saw the occasion of his sixteenth birthday and his father, being the enterprising sort of man he was, had decided that it would be an excellent idea for Sigmund to attend in order to smile at the right people and shake the right hands, in preparation for his inevitable following his father towards the endless drone of middle management.
Sigmund thought he would have very much liked to have designed computer games for a living; a profession which did not even approach his father's narrow view of 'acceptable' employment positions. So he found himself dressed in a uncomfortably rented tuxedo -- the 'party' was perhaps really more aptly termed a 'ball' -- his hair smoothed and on the recieving end of a stern lecture on Making a Good Impression and, most importantly, Not Making a Scene, the only real outcome of which was to leave him feeling more uncertain and awkward than anything.
Sigmund was slight and gangly, not particularly tall, but nevertheless in possession of the awkwardness of a teenager not yet used to his new height. Except Sigmund was fast leaving his teens with no indication of improvement. His body felt... alien. He was shy, preferring books to sports, and tended to stutter when nervous; a tendency especially pronounced by the presence of girls. Not that he was ever particularly regarded by any. He did not know the difference between cutlery, had a tendency to slurp soup, was socially awkward and inept at conversation. The 'party' felt more like an execution, the ride there his last walk.
Dinner was a buffet. Somehow this did not improve prospects, and he daintily attempted to nibble his unidentified pastry object, juggling paper plate, napkin and plastic champaign flute, trying desperatley not to make a mess as his father made mindless chit-chat with his superiors. He managed to escape after an hour and a half or so, feet and brain numbed from the experience.
He saw several assorted groups of other bored teenagers. None seemed much interested in him. Eventually he settled himself on some steps tucked away in a forgotten corner behind the oversized fire-hazard of a Christmas tree, pulling out the GameBoy he had smuggled so carefully past his father. About an hour passed in forgotten silence before;
"Hey, a GameBoy!"
The voice startled him, and he jerked up to find himself subjected to the wide, toothy smile of a young man, probably no older than himself, but opposite in all other ways with midnight-black hair in a sharply sloping A-line undercut and a tall, elegantly self-assured posture. He was the sort of person to strike immediate fear in Sigmund's heart, this archetype of the Popular Kid.
He swallowed hard, pushing his glasses up his nose self-consciously. "Um..." He found himself at a total loss for words.
He needed none; the stranger throwing himself down next to Sigmund and leaning over to peer at his screen. "What'ca playing?"
"Um, it's called, um, Gangleri. You wouldn't know it. I'm, uh, sort of helping to program it. With some other people. From the 'Net..." He trailed off, embarrasingly self-conscious at having his work so blatantly exposed to another.
"'Gangleri'... that's Norse, isn't it? Means 'wanderer' or something?" It was phrased as if the stranger was uncertain, though Sigmund knew instantly this was a lie. He was good with lies -- not with telling them, obviously, but detecting them. His one-and-only unique and treasured skill.
He played along anyway. "Uh, yeah. It's one of the names of Odin -- the chief Nordic god. The game... it's kind of an, um, fighting roleplaying game set in a fastasy Norse world. Except there are modern things in it, too, like guns and cars and, um, stuff..." he trailed off once more; the ideas that had sounded so exciting in his head becoming embarrassingly infantile when explained out loud.
But the stranger's eyes were shining; they were green, Sigmund noticed. Almost irrationally so; bright, viriulent and toxic. Absinthe and chartresue green. And there was something else, something about them like an itch he couldn't quite...
"That sounds so cool." The words snapped him back to reality, acutely aware that he had probably been staring a bit too intently. The thought made the blood return to his fact, though if the stranger noticed, he didn't mention it. "May I play?"
"Um, I guess so... it's not very good. Only in alpha really..." He handed the small silver fliptop console over and began, with much enthusiastic encouragment, to explain the systems and controls of the game. His confidence grew when he realised that the stranger really was interested in his game and his praise was truly genuine -- though not totally uncritical, and Sigmund recieved a few tips to file away for later. He found himself explaining the story, too, in far more depth and detail than he had even revealed to his co-developers; and in doing so found that the stranger seemed to know perhaps more classical Nordic mythology than even he himself did -- though was careful not to show it, and were it not for Sigmund's talent at detecting falsities and half-truths he might never have known.
Time passed quickly, they eventually ran out of Gangleri to play (only the beginning of the story was coded, really), at which the stranger expressed a real and excited desire to see the rest of the game. Sigmund eventually haded over the URL for their homepage, much to the raven-haired boy's excitement. Afterwards the stranger pulled out his own GameBoy from an inner pocket somewhere, followed by a link cable and a small folder of games -- an event which seemed to Sigmund to be extremely odd, though only when he thought on it much later. At the time he was too involved in the world of mobile multiplayer gaming to worry much.
His father found him somewhere past one o'clock, still heavily ensconsed in a game with the boy whose name Sigmund realised he still didn't know. At least, not until his father's outraged cry of, "Sigmund! I've been looking for you for the past half hour. Your mother's tired and we're... Mr. Hale! Sir!" The sharp change in tone caught Sigmund's attention, as did his father's strange expression of awe and uncertainty. Neurons connected for the first time; Hale, Travis Cameron Hale. Multimillionaire, young, enterprising, and CEO of LB, Inc. -- otherwise known as Mr. Sussman's generous employer.
He risked a glance to his left, to the now no longer strange 'stranger' -- and how exactly he could have missed that face when it was on the cover of practically every magazine was entierly beyond him -- who had risen, now, and whose former youthful mirth had been replaced by an expression of weighty maturity.
He looked quickly at the floor again, swallowed nervously, and awaited his fate.