Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Alistair held a controller up. As the hero moved across the TV screen, Alistair moved his arms in the same direction, but it didn’t make a difference. This game wasn’t motion-activated. All he was supposed to do was push buttons.
“Pathetically amateur” is what Charlie often called Alistair’s distracting technique, but he wasn’t about to call it that now. Alistair was on the last level, with nothing but the final boss left to defeat, and Charlie didn’t want to mess with his head. This was Charlie’s best shot at winning a game he couldn’t play himself. It had been a month since he’d blown off five of his fingers while messing with bottle rockets. His mangled hands could still press buttons, but not at the speed they once did. Not fast enough to win any video games.
“What do you think happens when we win?” Alistair asked.
“What always happens to winners,” Charlie said. “They have to win again. Until they lose.”
“Do you have another game to play after this one?” Alistair asked.
“Sure. And we can always get another one after that.”
“Not really,” Alistair said. “There are only so many video games in the world. A few thousand maybe? What if a person won them all?”
Charlie had been lazing on the sofa, but the idea brought him to his feet. He stood in the middle of the room, smacking his lips, considering such a delicious question. “Then I guess you hang up your hat and call it a day. Let someone else have a turn.”
“Like you’re doing right now?” Alistair asked, wielding the controller that for the last few years had rested firmly in Charlie’s hands. Until, of course, those fireworks put an end to that.
“Maybe,” Charlie said. Though this was hardly the end of Charlie’s turn.