1 Episode 1 Game Obituary

Risk & Reward: Queen's Harem was the most complicated game I have ever played. It was an RTS set in a sci-fi-magical-fantasy-post-apocalyptic world; it involved civilization-building mechanics, but it also had dungeon-crawling rogue-like events, and it managed to seamlessly add a dating-simulation mechanic featuring your vassals. I spent approximately 10,000 hours on this game, only for it to die.

I can't blame the game developers; they were just independent game-makers—just three people in a room who wanted to make a game together. Maybe that's why it's a hodgepodge of different games.

It was really difficult, though. Its player base was horrendously low because of the game difficulty; obviously, you can't expect people to focus on resource management while also earning affection points within a harem and going through dungeons.

But for me, it was the best thing I've ever played. I usually crumble under pressure in real life and have a panic attack, but in the game, I'm working like my life depends on it. I give credit to the UI for being straightforward and simple.

I have to complain about the font they chose, though. I'm not sure if the game developers really thought it was a great idea or if they were just trolling—it was Comic Sans. At first, I felt absolutely revolted, but soon, every time I booted up the game, I couldn't believe how I looked forward to the familiar Comic Sans alerting me of an incoming enemy fleet.

I can't help but think this game could have survived if there were micro-transactions like in Gacha. But I think the game developers simply wanted to enjoy and showcase the things they love to the world. It was artistry.

Rest in peace, Risk & Reward: Queen's Harem. You were like a fever-induced dream I never wanted to end.

I stared absentmindedly at my laptop, and memories I had in-game started to flash through my mind. I couldn't believe it was over. It was such a weird game!

But I loved it. It was so unique, and it lived up to its name. The risks you took in the game didn't always follow up with a reward that would make it worth it. I remember going through the dungeons for less than an hour, and when I went back to manage my civilization, a terrorist group had taken over my space fleet. I cried.

Another time, I spent more effort with the harem to gain buffs for my next conquest, but I only gained a 2% increase in shield defense. I replayed the romance scene five times, and I only got a measly boost in shields. That almost seems unfair, but I understand now. You need to pick and choose your risks. This made it so much more addictive. It was like gambling.

I watched as the numbers slowly added to the view count of my post. Wow, a whopping 20 views. I never really wrote stuff which was trending and I didn't need to be famous or anything; at most, I got 30 views. Still, to think that perhaps only 20 people played this game is kind of sad.

I sprawled out on my bed, completely absorbed in my own world. My room was a sanctuary, a place where I could escape from interacting with other people, and I was in no mood to leave it.

Just as I was about to embark on another gaming quest, my bedroom door swung open, and there stood my younger sister, her expression a mix of annoyance and even more annoyance. "Hey," she said, her voice laced with irritation. "Dinner's ready. You need to get out of your room and eat."

"I'll eat later," I mumbled, not bothering to tear my eyes away from the screen.

She took a step closer, hands on her hips. "You can't just stay in your room all the time. Why don't you get a job?"

"I'll get a job when you leave the house. I'll be there in a bit."

"It's a family dinner. You know we're supposed to eat together."

"Augh." I knew she had a point, but at that moment, I was in the middle of something important, something that couldn't be paused or saved. I was in the middle of my feelings. "I promise, I'll eat in a bit," I offered as a compromise.

Her frustration was clear, but she finally gave up. "Fine, but don't take too long." With that, she left my room, leaving the door slightly open.

I stomped over to the door and shut it; by accident, I closed it a little too strongly.

"Don't slam the doors!" Mom's voice shrieked. I heard the clatter of plates and the distant chatter of my family in the dining room.

I opened the door again. "I'm sorry! It was an accident! "

In the end, I knew I couldn't stay cocooned in my room forever. Reluctantly, I closed my laptop and made my way to the dining table, ready to reconnect with my family, if only for a little while.

I sat at the table, but there was like an invisible weight pressing down on my shoulders. My family had gathered for what was supposed to be a pleasant meal, but I could sense the impending conversation lurking beneath the surface.

I brought a spoon to my mouth, trying to focus on my plate as my younger sister, Emma, talked about her awards. Emma was the golden child, the honor student who excelled in everything she touched. Her accomplishments were a constant reminder of my own failures.

Between bites, my parents exchanged knowing glances, and then my dad cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence. "So, my dear daughter," he began, directing his gaze at me, "we've been thinking..."

I knew exactly where this was headed. I'd been avoiding it for months. Why does he always start with "my dear daughter" when he's about to say something I won't like?

Mom chimed in, her tone gentle but firm. "You know, it might be a good time to start looking for a job. You've been out of school for a while now, and it's important to think about your future."

Emma couldn't resist adding her input. "Yeah, sis," she said, her voice tinged with a hint of condescension. "I've been researching internships for you, and there are some great opportunities out there."

I rolled my eyes. "I do have a job. Thanks." I made sure to add a bit of venom to my tone. "I'm a freelancer."

"You play games," Emma said, raising her eyebrow.

"I write about games I've played!" I barked back.

"How much does that pay you?" Shit.

I clenched my spoon, trying to maintain my composure. It was a familiar scene, this constant comparison between me and my sister. While Emma was thriving academically and planning her path to success, I was struggling to find my footing in the real world after graduating.

"It pays enough," I mumbled, my voice barely audible.

My dad leaned forward, his expression a mix of concern and encouragement. "That's great to hear, but maybe you could be a bit more proactive about it. You're capable of so much, and we just want to see you reach your potential. Remember Jackson? He's an engineer now."

Emma interjected again, her words stinging like salt in an open wound. "You know, I've been balancing school and extracurriculars, and I think it's important to be responsible and set goals for yourself."

I felt like an utter disappointment. I knew they meant well, but the pressure to measure up to Emma's achievements was suffocating.

My appetite had abandoned me, and the weight of the dinner conversation hung heavily in the air. I excused myself from the table, pushing my chair back with care to avoid making any noise that might betray my frustration. The last thing I wanted was to add more tension to an already strained atmosphere.

As I climbed the stairs to my room, each step felt like a retreat from the expectations and comparisons that seemed to define my family dynamic. I couldn't help but wonder how it had come to this, where every family gathering turned into a subtle reminder of my failure as the eldest daughter.

Reaching my room, I closed the door gently behind me, mindful not to let my feelings manifest in a slammed door. Alone in the quiet sanctuary of my room, I let out a sigh of relief.

I knew I had to find my own path, one that was true to me and my aspirations. The pressure to live up to my family's expectations was a burden I needed to shed.

I opened my laptop, a sense of disappointment washing over me as I read the email from my boss. I had been working as a freelancer for a small online publishing company, primarily writing opinion articles about video games that I was passionate about. However, it seemed my latest pieces hadn't been well-received, and my boss had some suggestions for a change of focus.

"Hey there," the email began, and I could practically hear his casual tone through the words. "I've been reviewing your recent articles, and it seems that they're not generating the kind of engagement we were hoping for. The games you're covering are quite niche, and it's affecting our readership."

I sighed, feeling a pang of disappointment. I loved those games, and writing about them had been a labor of love. But it seemed that my passion wasn't resonating with the general audience.

My boss continued, "I'd like you to consider shifting your focus for the next assignment. There's a cosplay convention happening in town next week, and I think it could be a great opportunity for you to cover something different. It's a chance to broaden your horizons and appeal to a wider audience."

Cosplay? I had never been particularly interested in it. Sure, I respected the creativity and dedication of cosplayers, but it wasn't a subject I was passionate about. However, as a freelancer, I knew that sometimes you had to pivot and take on assignments that might not align perfectly with your interests for the money.

With a reluctant sigh, I typed out my response. "Thanks for the suggestion," I wrote, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I felt. "I'll give it a shot and see what I can come up with. I'm always up for a new challenge."

As I hit send, I couldn't help but wonder how I would tackle this new assignment. It was a departure from my comfort zone, but maybe it would open up new opportunities and help me grow as a writer.

I've always preferred the quiet comfort of my room and the anonymity of the internet. So, attending a convention with hordes of enthusiastic cosplayers was, in my mind, a dubious adventure at best.

As I approached the convention center, the buzz of excitement hit me long before I could even see the building. The air was thick with anticipation, and it felt like I was wading through a sea of people who were way too eager to be there. I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

But then, I spotted them—cosplayers in all their glory. They were like colorful islands in a sea of mundane everyday attire. The first thing that struck me was the level of dedication. These weren't just people in costumes; they were characters brought to life. I saw superheroes, anime characters, and even a few movie villains. The attention to detail was staggering, from the intricate props to the meticulously crafted outfits.

"Wow," I couldn't help but whisper to myself.

I couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship and creativity on display. It was as if the convention had transported a bit of fantasy into the real world, and for a moment, I felt like I had stepped into a different dimension.

Still, I couldn't help but notice the quirks of some cosplayers. There were the overly dramatic poses, the awkward interactions, and the occasional costume malfunction. It was hard not to chuckle at the sight of a superhero trying to eat a hotdog while wearing an elaborate mask.

As the day went on, I found myself caught between awe and amusement. These cosplayers were certainly a unique bunch, and while I didn't share their level of enthusiasm for dressing up, I couldn't deny the passion that drove them.

I couldn't help but notice something disturbing in the corner of my eye. I had been observing the diverse array of costumes, from superheroes to anime characters, when I saw it.

There was a cosplayer dressed as a schoolgirl. Her outfit was meticulously crafted, complete with a pleated skirt and knee-high socks. But what caught my attention wasn't her cosplay; it was the eerie presence of a man who seemed to be following her like a shadow.

The cosplayer's discomfort was obvious, she didn't need to say something for someone to notice she did not like the situation she was in. Her body language was a silent plea for someone to intervene. She glanced over her shoulder frequently, her eyes darting around nervously as she attempted to put distance between herself and her stalker.

The creeper, however, was undeterred. He kept pace with her, his gaze fixed on her in a way that sent chills down my spine. It was an unsettling and predatory look, one that no one should ever direct toward another person, especially in a public setting like this.

I looked around if anybody noticed this. A few people seemed to notice but they immediately looked away like nothing was wrong. Nobody was going to do anything?

Fine, I'll do something. I approached the cosplayer, trying to offer some semblance of support without escalating the situation further. "Hey, are you okay?" I asked, my voice low and concerned.

She looked at me with a mix of relief and fear. "No, I'm not," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That guy has been following me since I got here. I don't know what to do."

I offered to walk with her to a more crowded area, where we could find security or someone who could help. As we moved away from the man, he seemed to realize that his pursuit had been noticed, and he backed off, disappearing into the sea of cosplayers. 

It was a sobering reminder of the darker side that sometimes lurked in the midst of what should be a celebration of shared interests and creativity.

"Thank you, miss," she said, her voice trembling. I hate this. I hate looking at girls getting preyed on, but I couldn't help but hate how she was simply scared. I hate how her helplessness reminded me of me.

I stayed with the cosplayer until we found security and reported the incident. I didn't want to play the hero. It was a little ironic that so many people decided to cosplay as superheroes, but I stepped in.

Walking home after the convention, the unsettling encounter between the cosplayer and the creep lingered in my thoughts. It was an incident that needed to be addressed, not just swept under the rug like an uncomfortable secret. Plus, it might get me more readership.

As I strolled through the streets, I couldn't help but mull over the incident. It was a stark reminder of the darker side of fandom and the challenges that cosplayers, particularly women, often faced in what should be a safe and supportive community.

I reached for my phone and started jotting down notes, my fingers tapping out the beginnings of an article. The title came to me first: "Unmasking the Shadows: Harassment in Cosplay Communities."

The words flowed as I walked, my thoughts turning into sentences and paragraphs. I wanted to shed light on the issue, to bring attention to the importance of safety, respect, and consent within the cosplay world. Yeah, that should do it.

The night air had grown chilly, and I quickened my pace. But just as I turned a corner, my heart plummeted. From behind, a sudden force shoved me forward, sending me stumbling.

If I wasn't so focused on my phone for half the time, maybe I would have noticed the stalker trailing me.

I whirled around, panic rising like a storm within me. There, he stood before me, the stalker from the convention—the same man who had been following the cosplayer earlier.

Fear surged through my veins, but I refused to be paralyzed by it. Adrenaline coursed through me as I frantically considered my options. My phone was still clutched in my hand, and I could feel my fingers trembling as I contemplated calling for help.

Before I could react, he advanced, his intentions all too clear. I stepped back, my heart pounding, and my mind raced for a way out. I couldn't let this man harm me. Fuck, I could feel my helplessness strangle me.

Summoning every ounce of strength and courage, I yelled loudly, hoping to draw attention from anyone nearby. "Stay away from me! Help! Somebody, please help!"

I don't want to be my weak self anymore.

The stalker hesitated for a moment, seemingly taken aback by my resistance. It was a split-second opportunity, and I took it. With a surge of determination, I darted toward the nearest lit street, hoping to find help or safety.

As I sprinted down the illuminated sidewalk, my heart was pounding with fear. The stalker was in pursuit, his footsteps echoing ominously behind me. Panic surged through my veins, urging me to run faster, to escape him at any cost.

But in my desperation and haste, I failed to notice the traffic ahead. As I raced across the street, my vision narrowed to the point that I didn't see the oncoming truck until it was almost too late. Its blaring horn and screeching brakes were the jarring wake-up call I needed, but by then, it was already too late.

The world spun around me as I lay on the ground, my senses overwhelmed with what had happened. The screech of brakes, the frantic shouts of witnesses, and the blaring of horns all merged into a symphony of chaos. So, that was what they called a "deer in the headlights" moment. Huh.

As the ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, I couldn't help but reflect on how my life ended this way. Kind of stupid, if you asked me. The stalker, the danger I had been running from, was now forgotten, replaced by the harsh reality of the accident.