Indigo Persuasion

Like a falcon in search of prey, an attractive blue-eyed young man approached the entrance of a new teen social club—The Flash. The arcade is a favorite video arcade of boys born to Georgetown fathers with incredibly deep pockets. Georgetown is an established upper-class neighborhood situated along the Potomac River in the northwest section of Washington DC. Embassies of foreign governments are also located there.

Paul Redding placed his hand on the large, metal handle and opened the heavy black door. He quickly stepped inside to initiate the hunt for his next ill-fated victim.

The age limit posted on the arcade front door stated, “Males ages fourteen to eighteen only.” The up-and-coming local leaders claimed The Flash as their private club. Young men flocked here, searching for challenges to verify their macho status, test their skills while pushing to dominate the current social scene.

The Flash Club staffers are young—barely twenty-one years old. All management and security remained hidden in the mezzanine offices, concealing the senior staff.

Evenly spaced surveillance cameras were nearly invisible against the sizeable black ceiling.

Once inside, flashing video screens and floor consoles stunned Paul’s eyes. He stood a few moments, surveying his domain. At just a bit past eight-teen, his smooth face and impish smile deceived everyone.

He felt especially proud that he no longer carried a trace of the grubby thirteen-year-old his father abandoned five years ago on a back street in Las Vegas. The person he became carefully dresses his lean, six-foot frame inexpensive, casual attire reflecting the other players’ style. They all wore designer logo T-shirts, leather trainers or driver loafers without socks. Multi-zippered Hoodie, denim cargo pants or slim-fit, weathered jeans were clearly the uniform of the day.

Paul’s thick blond hair was hipster styled; with shaved sides, the locks on the top left uncombed in a trendy, tousled mop. It was evident that the younger boys thought highly of him and wished to be as cool and handsome as he was.

He moved effortlessly crossing the main room, stopping now and then to watch someone shoot for a new game record, and then cheering them on.

Quietly he continued passing by many of the most popular interactive games, smiling— everyone’s friend—each one his potential target.

At last, he stopped by the favorite game named Indigo Wars, Super Bots Edition. The screen displayed fighting robots armed with blue laser weapons. The light emitted from the screen caused Paul’s pale blue eyes to become a bright shade of Indigo blue.

Two younger kids were going head-to-head in a battle of Indigo Super-Bots. In ultra-high definition, avatar robots attacked and fought, instantly acting out each player’s combat moves. They were deeply engaged in a gladiator-like conflict in the middle of different deafening sound effects.

Paul’s false player name, Furor, was at the top of the list of all-time high scores.

Watching the final round, Paul waved a one hundred dollar bill, asking if he could play the winner. Neither boy wanted to play—sure they would lose, and unable to pay such a debt. Paying for each game always diminished their allowance cash quickly; often the month’s entertainment money was gone in one day.

Indigo Wars Super-Bots was also the one game at The Flash with a “hypnotic” warning and rating.

This game offered instant stimulation to the brain’s pleasure center much like drugs or sex. Indigo bore a warning label: May be dangerous or addictive to any people with addictive tendencies.

Young players loved it—too much. The price of the latest top-quality games, Xbox or play stations advertised on home TV screens were more than even these youngsters could afford. Most Georgetown parents refused to buy such an expensive plaything.

They did not understand the extreme fascination with a crazy video game. However, parents did appreciate that it did keep the children occupied for a few hours. Even better yet, if they spend an entire day at the arcade. Parents of local students living at home or boarding at the near-by private school diligently tracked each kid’s personal credit card balance.

The monthly deposit of thousands of dollars covered the exact projected expenditures for sports equipment, private tutors, cleaners, clubs, new clothes, carfare, a favorite food, computers, phones, entertainment and prep school room and board for those not living at home.

If a youngster exceeded the monthly allotment, a corresponding decrease appeared the next month. No fudging or begging—an ice-cold accounting firm retained by the wealthiest families in D.C., Maryland and New York City impersonally handled these accounts.

“Come on, I’ll pay upfront if you win, No bets, okay?” Paul put his hand on the shoulder of the chunky, auburn-haired boy who had just won the last round played.

“You’re Buddy, right? I’ve watched you play. You’re damn good. Come on, one game?”

Buddy declined, his face reddening. “No way!

I don’t own this game, and I can’t afford to play here often enough to win against you. I know who you are: The Furor, High Scoring Robot number five, one hundred million points in one game. Nope, I’m not good enough”, he muttered and edged his tall frame toward the door.

Paul quickly followed him. “Look, Buddy, it’s only one-thirty. You’re not expected home until roughly five. I’m just around the corner from here—I have this same setup for Indigo Super Bots at my townhouse. Free unlimited play if we go to my place. Okay?”

The boy, nearly sixteen, knew Paul. He admired the artistry in his games and dreamed of being the same—a famous gamer, a big money title holder. He desperately wanted to own this game and beat everyone, every damn one, mainly that spoiled-brat gamer, Jamey, who regularly called him pudgy.

Without much convincing, the two young men left the game arcade and hopped into Paul’s red Porsche. Buddy was laughing and taking a drink of Perrier water when friends exiting The Flash lost sight of him.

Paul’s townhouse was one mile from the arcade in the affluent area of Georgetown, away from an enclosed mall and commercial district. The stylish apartment was leased not to Paul, but to a man named Marcus James, a personal finance manager. Marcus rarely visited. Paul was the lone resident.

The furnishings came from an elegant designer rental package selected to impress wealthy young guests, computers and huge TV screens included.

“Come on in, Buddy. How about a real drink? Beer okay?” He knew most of the kids drank beer and, at times, the hard stuff. They grinned at each other.

What happened next, Buddy never remembered.

The drink was refreshing, relaxing. Paul quickly switched on the gigantic screen in a media room, took out the hand controls and opened Indigo Wars, Super Bots. They sat down to play, using quantum sound headsets.

Paul, acting the older brother, encouraged his guest to play as much as he wanted.

Buddy failed to notice that the Indigo blue laser weapons used by the bots were the exact color of his host’s eyes.

“Good going Buddy, you’ll beat me in no time. You can play here for free, anytime.”

Smiling Paul thought. ’Daddy will pay the piper’s price later.’