by Jason Segel
He arranged for the following video to be posted to his social media accounts when his heart stopped.
Max Prince died at 6:42 this morning.
Anyone claiming to be him is an impostor.
The video that follows starts with Max, though it takes me a second to identify him. His entire face is covered in blood. Then he takes off a pair of glasses that have shielded his eyes from the splatter. From the little we can see of his surroundings, it appears he’s in a luxurious bathroom that’s drenched in gore. Something is lying on the floor behind him. One of my friends retches when they realize it’s a chunk of flesh. Max must have filmed the video on his smartphone shortly after he murdered his stepfather.
Max appears oddly emotionless. He must be in shock. “This is the future,” he announces to the camera. “From this moment forward, you won’t be able to trust your eyes. You won’t be able to tell the difference between real and unreal.”
He holds up the glasses. They’re dripping with his stepfather’s blood.
“The Company gave me these. They said I’d be able to indulge all my fantasies. They told me no one would ever get hurt. The Company lied. They’ve been lying to all of us. They call these things games, but that’s not what they are. They’re weapons that are being used to destroy humanity.”
Max’s eyes disappear as he puts the bloody glasses back on. The video ends. None of us moves.
“So he really is dead?” Kat asks.
“We think so,” Nasha says. “We know the chip was real. He had it implanted himself.”
“The Company could have gotten to him in prison,” Elvis says, stating the obvious. He glances at me as if expecting me to have some wisdom to share. It will be better for everyone if I keep my thoughts to myself.
I promised Abigail Prince we would do our best to save her son. We failed miserably. Max was told there might be someone who could save the world. We now have definitive proof that I am not that person.
“Put on the news,” Busara orders. “The Company must have responded by now. Let’s find out what they said.”
I’m expecting to see one of the Company’s well-groomed spokesmen. But when the screen comes to life, Abigail Prince’s sculpted face is in its center.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, breaking out of my shame spiral. I can’t put a finger on what it is, but there’s something off about her appearance. If I didn’t know who’s been keeping her company over the past few days, I’d assume she’d had another nip and tuck.
“It’s a fake video,” Kat says. “Just like the one they made of us.” Then the camera pulls back to show Abigail outside her apartment building. A well-known television reporter stands beside her, a microphone in his hand.
“It’s not a fake.” Elvis steps up to the television. “The reporter is real.” That means the Abigail Prince we’re seeing is real, too.
“Thank you for stopping to talk to us,” the reporter says. “I know this must be a terrible time for you.”
Abigail lifts a hand holding a handkerchief and dabs her left eye, but I don’t see any tears. “My son is dead.”
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Prince. Has it been confirmed that he took his own life?”
“It was suicide,” she says.
“And what do you make of the video that was released earlier today? Your son made some fairly startling accusations regarding the Company and what appears to be their latest offering, the augmented-reality game known as OtherEarth.”
“I loved my son very much.” The camera moves in on Abigail’s face. There’s something not quite right about it. “But my little Max grew up to be a disturbed young man.”
What? This is all very wrong. Abigail Prince adored her son.
“You don’t think the Company played any role in the murder of your late husband, Christian Guido?”
“Absolutely not,” Abigail says. “Max was mentally ill.”
There is no way in hell Abigail Prince would willingly say that. What has the Company done to her?
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Prince,” says the anchor.
Abigail has her face in her hands as the camera pulls back from the pair, revealing two bodyguards standing nearby. Busara and I both lunge for the remote at the same time. She reaches it before I do and hits Rewind and then Pause.
We meet in front of the screen. The face we’re looking at is in profile, and most of it is hidden behind the guy standing next to him.
“What do you think?” I ask, tapping the face with my finger. “Is it him?”
“Oh, it’s him,” Busara confirms. “No doubt about it.”
“Who?” Elvis asks. He and Kat don’t recognize the bodyguard. They’ve never seen him in real life. They only know him from Otherworld.
“Todd,” I sneer.
“The engineer from the Company? The one who controlled Moloch?” Kat rushes over to join Busara and me in front of the television. “That’s the monster who massacred the Children and murdered Marlow? He looks like a malnourished frat boy.”
She’s right. It’s hard to believe the debonair Moloch was an avatar controlled by this sad sack masquerading as a bodyguard. Judging by his appearance, Todd hasn’t eaten a fruit or vegetable in ages. I hope he’s developed a debilitating case of scurvy.
“Are you talking about Todd Bolton? That kid who used to work for your father?” Nasha sounds skeptical. “James always thought he was harmless.”
“Yeah, Dad wasn’t a very good judge of character,” Busara says. “He never could spot the sociopaths.”
“Think you can find out where Todd lives?” I ask Nasha. “I want to pay him a visit this evening.”
“You mean we’re going to pay him a visit,” Elvis corrects me. “I’m tired of everyone else getting to have all the fun.”
“Fun?” Kat scoffs. “Do you have any idea how much our last trip to Otherworld sucked?”
“At least you haven’t been cooped up for days!” Elvis says. “I need some guy time! I want to go visit Todd!”
“None of you are going anywhere tonight,” Nasha announces. “I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize it.”
Now the truth is going to come out. Nasha’s been pretending we’re all partners in this, but I have a feeling the situation’s not quite so simple.
“I wasn’t aware that we need your permission to leave the apartment,” Busara snaps.
“You don’t,” Nasha replies curtly. “I’m not the final authority on these matters.”
“If you’re not in charge, who is?” Kat demands. “Can we talk to them?”
“No,” Nasha says.
The five of us stand in the living room, waiting for someone to make the next move. Once again, it’s Busara. “So we’re being held prisoner? Is that what you’re telling us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m saying no because it’s too dangerous. We haven’t performed any reconnaissance. Someone from our organization would need to accompany you, and we don’t even—”
She stops abruptly. In the silence, I can hear a soft buzzing. Nasha’s face is stony as she pulls a phone from her pocket and clears her throat nervously before answering.
“This is Nasha.” Then she listens. Her eyes stay on me the entire time. “Yes, sir,” she says. The call ends immediately and she puts the phone away.
“The operation has been approved,” she tells us. “Simon and Elvis, you’re on your own. Todd Bolton lives at 428 Henry Street in Brooklyn.”
“Who approved it?” Busara demands.
“The orders came all the way from the top,” Nasha says. She turns her eyes to me. “Someone believes in you. Try not to get yourself killed.”
“Don’t you worry, Ms. Ogubu. He’ll be fine,” Elvis says in his superhero voice. “I’ll be there to protect him.”
Nasha snorts and shakes her head. “Girl, you sure
know how to pick them,” she says to her daughter.
The only thing I didn’t factor into my brilliant plan was being stuck in a car with Elvis on our way from Queens to Brooklyn. Despite everything that’s been going on, the one subject he’s eager to discuss is the one subject I’d rather avoid—the Ogubus.
“Nasha knew I was joking about protecting you, didn’t she?”
I glance over at Elvis and find his handsome face ashen with worry.
“How the hell would I know?” I tell him. “The woman’s a mystery. Her own daughter doesn’t even know if she’s a good guy or not.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. She’s definitely a good guy.” It doesn’t sound like there’s a single doubt in Elvis’s mind.
“Do you know something I don’t?” I ask.
“I know lots of things you don’t,” Elvis assures me. “But I assume you’re talking about Nasha.”
“Of course,” I say. I expect him to keep going, but I have to give him a prod. “Care to enlighten me?”
“I don’t know if it’s a secret. I mean she didn’t ask me not to say anything.”
“What!” I demand.
“She cried.”
I find that very hard to believe. “When?”
“Today, while you guys were in Otherworld. I found the video Max released. I showed it to her and she cried. Not a lot. I could tell she was trying to keep it together. But there was a tear. I saw it.”
I have no idea what that means. Did Nasha know Max—or is she just the sort of tenderhearted spy who breaks down in tears at the tragic loss of a YouTube star?
“That’s what makes you think she’s a good guy?” It seems like fairly flimsy evidence to me.
“Well, that and the fact that she was married to James Ogubu,” Elvis says. “The man’s a genius. He knew Nasha was keeping tabs on his work. He let her. They were in on it together. I’d bet you anything.”
It’s an interesting theory. “Who do you think Nasha works for?”
Elvis shrugs. “Dunno. Don’t think it’s a government. Probably not another tech company either. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s some secret society bankrolling the whole thing.”
“A secret society?” I laugh. “You mean like Skull and Bones or the Illuminati?”
Elvis laughs too, but I get the impression he’s laughing at me. “After everything we’ve been through, you find the idea of a secret society hard to believe? Is it any weirder than a pair of glasses that can turn people into murderers?”
He does have a point. “Have you shared this brilliant theory with your girlfriend?” I ask.
“I haven’t had a chance.” Elvis suddenly looks like he might break into tears too. “As you’ve probably noticed, Busara’s been giving me the cold shoulder since we left the island. To be honest, I’m not even sure if she’s still my girlfriend.”
I really don’t know why people come to me with these problems. I think maybe they just enjoy seeing me squirm. “Look, Busara just found out that she never really knew her mom. I’m sure it’s messing with her head. Maybe she’s worried that you’ll turn out to be someone different too.”
Elvis throws his hands up in frustration. “That doesn’t make any sense. Who else could I be? And if I were someone else, and I could act like me, why wouldn’t I just be me? I’m awesome!”
“And humble.”
“That too!”
“You’re making my head hurt,” I tell him.
“Imagine how mine feels!” Elvis shouts in frustration.
“You’re probably right,” I agree, eager to leave the subject behind. “I’m sure Busara knows you’re too awesome to be anyone but yourself.”
“So why do you think she’s avoiding me?”
And on and on and on it goes. By the time we get close to Todd’s house, I’m wondering if Elvis is prepared to take our mission seriously. I’m ready to call the whole thing off when he suddenly snaps into professional mode.
“Let me fix this,” he says, leaning over to adjust the brim of my hat. “As we approach the house, keep your eyes straight ahead. Don’t look for cameras, just assume there are ones we don’t know about. Even doorbell cams use facial recognition software these days. And by the way, thanks for letting me come along. As you can probably tell, I really needed to get out of that fucking apartment.”
The car comes to a stop on a tree-lined Brooklyn street. The address Nasha gave us belongs to a brownstone that looks like something you’d see on a Christmas card. Elvis studies the building through the car window.
“Weird,” he says. “Looks like he’s got a couple of deadbolts and a doorbell camera. I don’t see any fancy security.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there,” I point out, hoping I haven’t led the two of us into a trap.
* * *
—
Our driver gets out, deactivates the doorbell camera and picks the locks on the front door. When he returns to the car, it’s Elvis’s and my turn. I’m worried about what we’ll find inside, but there are no laser beams or deafening alarms. By Company standards, Todd’s practically living off the grid. The interior of the house is tastefully decorated in muted grays. There must be ten pairs of sneakers piled up in the foyer, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever entered the living room. There’s a giant picture of a cowboy hanging on one wall.
“Evil pays well,” I whisper.
“I’ve seen that picture, it’s an old Marlboro ad, isn’t it?” Elvis asks.
“Yeah, the artist steals old ads and calls them art. That piece right there is worth millions of dollars.”
“How does that work?” Elvis asks.
“No idea,” I tell him.
We head up the stairs toward the bedrooms. Todd’s snoring makes it easy to locate him. His room is as beautifully hip as the rest of the house. I suspect the only things Todd added to the décor were the empty Doritos bags strewn across the floor and the orange fingerprints on the white duvet cover.
I look down at the man who murdered Marlow Holm and did his best to kill Gorog. Not to mention the man who tried to exterminate the Children. I would like nothing more than to take one of his fluffy down pillows and smother him to death. I think Elvis knows what I have in mind, because he shakes his head and mouths the word NO.
So I rein in my impulses and sit down on the side of the bed. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” I sing in Todd’s ear.
Todd lurches forward into a sitting position. “What the actual fuck?” he mutters. Elvis makes sure Todd sees the gun he brought with him. Then I put my hand on Todd’s forehead and roughly shove him back down on the bed.
“Just relax,” I coo as I tenderly brush the hair back from his face. I am so itching to kill him right now.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Oh, come on, Todd, you don’t remember me?” I switch on a bedside light. “We used to be such good friends.”
Todd blinks furiously as his eyes adjust to the light. “Shit,” he groans. “Did I do something wrong, Mr. Gibson?”
“Gibson?” He must still be half asleep if he’s mistaken me for Wayne. “Do I look like that sadistic old douchebag to you?”
Todd rubs his eyes. “Simon? For real?” he asks as if he can’t quite believe it. Elvis steps forward and Todd gazes up at him in wonder. “Who’s this?”
Elvis takes a seat beside him on the bed. “Just your biggest fan. I saw you on television today, and I thought it might be fun to drop by to say hi.”
“On television?” Todd repeats. This isn’t the cocky smartass I’ve come to know and despise. He seems uncertain whether any of this is real.
“You were there when Abigail Prince gave her first interview following her son’s tragic death. How’d you guys arrange that one, anyway?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Todd
says. “Is this some kind of test?”
“Get up,” I order.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.
“We won’t hurt you as long as you agree to help us with a few things,” Elvis says. “Now do what he says and get your ass out of bed.”
Todd looks at Elvis, his head tilted quizzically to one side. A smile begins to spread across his face. “Okay, I know who you are now. Elvis Karaszkewycz—the only kid on Earth without a social media presence. We don’t have any footage of you. You’re so good at avoiding surveillance cameras that some of my colleagues don’t even think you exist.”
“It’s probably difficult for a bunch of Company assholes to acknowledge the existence of superior intelligence.”
Todd laughs as he slides out from beneath the covers. He’s wearing a pair of boxers with a TARDIS on the crotch.
“Adorable,” I say.
“Thanks,” he snaps back. Something about him has changed in the past sixty seconds. He’s no longer terrified. “Nice hat. Master Baiter. I’m sure it suits you.” Now, there’s the Todd I know and despise.
“Put this on.” Elvis keeps his gun trained on Todd as he pulls a gray sweat suit out of a knapsack we brought with us. “The three of us need to leave.”
“Are you guys asking me out on a date?” Todd jests.
“Oh, we’re going to have a lot of fun together,” I tell him. “There’s a place on Franklin Street that Elvis and I have been dying to check out.”
Suddenly Todd’s not laughing anymore.
“How the fuck do you know about that?” he blurts out.
“Guess you Company guys aren’t quite as smart as you think you are,” Elvis sings as he toys with a small device that’s been left on Todd’s dresser. “This is pretty cool. D’you make this? Mind if I borrow it?”
“I asked you a fucking question!” Todd snarls.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Elvis says, dropping the gadget into his pocket.
I’m going to answer Todd’s rudely posed question. Not because I feel any need to confess. The truth’s going to hurt, and I really want to rub it in. “Max Prince told us,” I inform Todd. “He said he saw something on Franklin Street that blew his mind. Elvis and I are keen to have a look too.”
