Freesia Wolff and Ace Sloan had just finished one of their impromptu roleplay sessions at the local bakery.
“We just needed more time,” Ace said.
“For a zombie and a smuggler?” Freesia scoffed. “Like that’s ever gonna work – that fight’ll always be over quick.”
“It could work,” Ace protested. “And not everything needs to be a fight all the time.”
To illustrate, Ace tried to “eat” Freesia’s brain in a quizzical, friendly manner.
“Not gonna happen, bub. I have lightning-fast smuggler reflexes and I need my brain to pilot the ship.”
Freesia jabbed playfully at Ace’s zombie face.
“OW!” he yelped.
“I’m so sorry.” Freesia said pitifully. “Does it hurt?”
“GOTCHA!” he yelled. “Zombie beats smuggler!”
“You cheating undead ass!!”
. . .
To the pack of teens that lived in the Wolff house, it probably seemed like youth would last forever. But their father Malcolm was feeling his years.
“This is it,” he thought as he struggled to fill out his daily reports. “This is all there is. I’m just going to keep going to work every day until I come home one evening and keel over on the sidewalk.“
Since he quit his sweet gig as Ede’s Life Coach, Malcolm had been slowly working through a personal goal to earn 200,000 simoleons. He was at $93,877.
“Not even halfway,” he sighed. “There’s a depressing thought!”
He’d joined the Business career and managed to work midway up the corporate ladder to Regional Manager. But promotions were few and far-between these days, and the tedium was driving him mad.
“Well, at least one of the kids will probably drag my corpse onto the lawn and bury me in the backyard,” he fantasized aloud as his wife Edelweiss walked in.
“And then you can claw your way back out and eat some brains?” she asked.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s just.. This job. It seems to be going nowhere, but we need the money.”
Ede paused for a moment in hopes of collecting sufficient tact before opening her mouth. She hadn’t quite perfected that skill yet.
“I don’t mean to tell you what to do, my sweet,” she began, “but we don’t actually need the money. And if for some reason you do, there’s plenty that can be done with the estate to generate capital. You’re Creative – use it.”
“You think I should quit,” he observed.
“Well, you’re miserable, so yeah,” she said. “You don’t need to hang onto a lousy job to make money. We have resources – hell, we have enough crap in storage to build Newcrest ourselves.”
Malcolm seemed to be seriously considering what she said, but his face went from hopeful to despondent with the changing of the clock. It was time to leave for work – the narrow window for imagining possibilities had closed for the day.
Ede pulled her husband into an embrace before she lost him to corporate drudgery for another day.
“I know you have to go now,” she said gently. “Just think about it, ok?”
“Thank you,” he said. “Really.”
“Don’t,” she hushed. “It’ll go right to my head.”