Fix

by Ferrett Steinmetz

  When Aliyah was eight, she’d channeled the God of War to battle her way into a drug dealer’s compound.

  And when Aliyah had turned eleven, her father had finally trusted her to guard his political speeches, so she’d suited up in BioShock’s Big Daddies to ward off SMASH’s endless abduction attempts.

  Yet Aliyah had just turned thirteen – and nothing, nothing, had scared her more than the three teenaged girls kicking a soccer ball outside the Wendy’s.

  Aliyah had clutched her freshly-purchased soccer ball to her chest like a shield, wondering why she was so afraid. She’d begged her father to set aside his pro-’mancer rallies, to find a place she could play with girls her own age.

  In all the world, there were no ’mancers her age. She’d have to make do with normal girls.

  Normal girls scared the fuck out of her.

  She’d sized her fellow soccer players up for threats: too many years on the front lines of Daddy’s speeches had trained her to hunt for the gun-bulges in clothing, for the hard military stance of trained SMASH members, for the jittery look in every Unimancer’s eyes as they communicated with others of their kind.

  These girls had looked nice.

  A tall redhead had pulled open her cheeseburger, peeling off her pickles to hand them to a smiling Asian girl – a ritual exchange that spoke of friendship. The girls had shouted cheery greetings at the other soccer players as they pulled into the parking lot: everyone knew each other.

  When they’d noticed Aliyah, they’d cocked their heads: Wanna come over?

  Aliyah had almost summoned a Portal gun and teleported away.

  This is playing the game on expert, she’d told herself. Mom, Dad, Aunt Valentine: they’re obligated to love you, because they’re your family. These kids don’t have to like you.

  Her burn scars itched underneath her videogame reskinning. Would they still wave her over if they saw the shiny keloid markings on her cheeks?

  She straightened her shoulders. Like Aunt Valentine said, everyone saw the “Game Over” screen sooner or later.

  She’d walked over without looking too dorky. They’d bobbed their heads, muttering hellos – and Aliyah had realized they were as shy as she was around new people. Aliyah and the three girls had shuffled their feet, trying to remember what came after “Hello,” the silence swelling like a cancer.

  Aliyah had imagined dialogue prompts from roleplaying games, offering one of three options to choose from:

  Hey, I’m Aliyah Rachel, the new kid in town, and I’m here to be your friend!

  Name’s Aliyah Rachel. What’s yours?

  Name’s Aliyah Rachel. But you’ll never forget my name after you see how badly I’ll whip your asses.

  She blinked the dialogue suggestions away. As a videogamemancer, if she’d chosen an option, her ’mancy would have made these girls react appropriately to the Bioware standard nice/neutral/jerk conversational gambit she’d picked – and she didn’t want to influence their actions. She wanted them to like her for being her.

  How did you do that?

  Then the red-headed girl had gasped and seized her hand. Aliyah hadn’t broken the girl’s wrist; instead, she’d trusted this lanky redhead.

  “Your nails.” Her eyes had gleamed as she’d held Aliyah’s hand up to show off Aliyah’s nail art to her friends. “Did you do those?”

  Aliyah’s nails were painted glittering-gold flames. I can’t show them my burn scars, Aliyah had thought as she’d painted them last night, but I can put fire on my fingers.

  “I looked up techniques on YouTube.” She’d repressed the urge to shove her hands into her pockets.

  Which had downplayed the hours she’d spent perfecting her nail techniques – she couldn’t always play videogames when they were hiding from SMASH, but she got nervous when she wasn’t learning.

  “That’s amazing.” The red-headed girl had realized she was still gripping Aliyah’s wrist, then made a face when she realized how rude she was. “Can you teach us? After practice?”

  Aliyah had stared, too shocked to say anything.

  The girls had backed away – coltish and awkward after asking a stranger for a favor. They blushed, wondering how to extricate themselves.

  “I’m sorry,” the red-headed girl had said. “I shouldn’t–”

  Aliyah had grinned.

  You didn’t treat me like a hand grenade, she’d thought. You didn’t try to teach me how to master my powers. All you see is a kid who paints cool nails, and…

  Oh God.

  That’s all she’d ever needed.

  Aliyah had faked a sneeze to cover her tears. She’d unlocked the greatest videogame achievement ever:

  Ordinary girl.

  “I would love to paint your nails,” she told them.

  * * *

  The redhead’s name was Savannah. By the time Aliyah and Savannah finished a spirited debate on whether Steven Universe would have been better if it had been a girl-led show called Yvette Universe – Savannah liked Steven’s pluck, whereas Aliyah planted herself firmly in the “moar girl power” camp – Savannah had asked Aliyah if she wanted to ride with her family down to the field.

  Aliyah had leapt at the offer – though she fretted at how worried Daddy looked as Savannah’s family drove away. Daddy’s fears were silly; if trouble popped up, Aliyah would Scorpion-teleport to safety.

  She felt guilty at how free she felt, riding in a car without her parents – especially when Savannah’s dad put on gospel music and they all sung along. They never sung gospel music at home.

  Her freedom soured into disappointment when they pulled onto the soccer field. It had no bleachers, no changing rooms, no concession stands; it was a patch of grass down by the park, the goals made from PVC piping and fishing nets. The parents set up folding chairs around the spraypainted white touchlines, handing out Capri Suns, the mothers smearing suntan lotion on the brothers who’d come along to watch.

  It seemed… disorganized. When her daddy gave a rally, hundreds showed up – he’d draw thousands if his speeches weren’t illegal – and he made sure things were set up professionally: first-aid stations stocked with anti-tear-gas eyewash stations, Wi-Fi signals strong enough to punch through Army jamming signals, escape routes marked with signs…

  “It’s not much, is it?” Savannah asked.

  Aliyah realized what a jerk she must look like, her face scrunched up with disgust.

  “N- No!” she lied. “It’s great! It’s just–”

  “It’s OK,” Savannah assured her, grunting as she hauled her equipment out of the trunk. “See, if you’ve got any talent, Mrs McBrayer will put you up there.” She gestured up to a distant hill, where other kids were already practicing fiercely. “That’s Gold Field – the field where the kids who’ll make varsity play. They’ve got real equipment. Silver Field’s on the other side. Bronze Field’s by the lake, which means you get mosquito-bitten, so at least we don’t have to deal with that.”

  “And this?”

  Savannah swept her hand across the muddied grass. “Welcome to Washout Field. Where Morehead’s weakest players wash up.”

  “But don’t call it Washout Field in front of Mrs McBrayer,” said Bennie, the Asian girl, bending over to lace up her sneakers.

  Latisha, one of Savannah’s other friends, puffed herself up in a creditable Mrs McBrayer imitation. “Not unless you want a big lecture on how sportsmanship is the gold standard we play to here, missy.”

  Aliyah made a time-out gesture. “Whoa, whoa – you’re OK with being last?”

  Savannah, Latisha, and Bennie frowned, baffled. They consulted each other – should we be upset? – then looked out over the soccer field, as if the answer could be found out on the grass.

  The answer was out there, in a way – there was no scoreboard to be found.

  “It’s just a game,” Savannah shrugged, tying her hair back in a ponytail.

  “The best part’s the pizza afterwards,” said Bennie.

&nbs
p; “You’re gonna come out for pizza, right?” Latisha asked.

  Just a game?

  Was this what normal kids did?

  Aliyah tried to think of a game she’d played and hadn’t beaten. Rock Band had taken her a while, but that’s because her fingers had been too small to hold the plastic guitar neck – and eventually she’d gold-starred “Green Grass and High Tides.” She’d found every star in the last Mario game. She hadn’t Platinum-trophied Bloodborne yet, but that game was ridiculous.

  How could her new friends be OK with losing?

  The soccer drills were not led by Mrs McBrayer, who shouted orders up on Gold Hill, but were instead overseen by Mr Sheltowee, a stoop-shouldered black man with a drooping mustache. The coaches kept exhorting her, no matter how minor an effort she made: “Good try, good try, good hustle!”

  Were they afraid she’d get disheartened if she failed?

  The first step towards being excellent was sucking. You sucked at every game when you started. Then you died a hundred times, learning from each failure.

  Though judging from Savannah’s frowns whenever she missed a pass, some kids did need the support. Bennie missed shots she could have stopped if she’d dived for the ball. And the coaches rewarded them for this unfulfilling exertion, wrapped it in a smothering wad of “good sportsmanship.”

  When she played Destiny with Aunt Valentine, they traded high-fives for making an excellent kill – even when, especially when, they shot each other. SMASH showed no mercy, so neither would they.

  How would Savannah and Bennie and Latisha cope when they competed with people who cared?

  “Excellent footwork, kid!” Mr Sheltowee told her. Aliyah beamed with pride: she’d practiced drills with Uncle Robert all winter. “A little work on reading the other players, Rachel, and you’ll be top-notch.”

  She’d known teamwork would be her weakness. She’d memorized every play in FIFA PlayStation. But mapping out approaches from an overhead camera was different from peering through twenty players to see who was open.

  She looked at Savannah and Bennie, who sang some weird YouTube song instead of playing defense.

  Her new friends didn’t know what winning felt like.

  Aliyah could get to Gold Hill. Yet without Savannah and company, that’d be a different kind of loneliness.

  No, Aliyah vowed. She would train them. Once they saw what a winner looked like, they’d realize they didn’t belong in Washout Field. She’d forge a team of friends – they’d go home, flush with battle triumph, to a sleepover at Savannah’s house, where she’d paint Bennie’s nails…

  As the coaches split everyone off for the practice game, she looked back at the sidelines. Aunt Valentine was crushing competitors on Infinity Blade – but she randomly thrust up a fist to yell “SPORTSBALL!” Mommy laughed as she offered donuts to the other families – she’d always loved playing hostess.

  Even now, Aliyah ached, wondering what life she might have led if Anathema hadn’t inflicted magical powers upon her.

  But Daddy…

  Daddy sat glumly in his wheelchair, baseball cap pulled down over his head, scoping the other parents as though they might produce shotguns from their butts.

  Though he meant well, his concern made Aliyah feel like a dumb kid.

  She blew Daddy a kiss, a secret message: It’s gonna be all right.

  Daddy, looking frail beneath the videogame old-man reskinning, blew her a kiss back: I hope so, little firebrand.

  Then Mr Sheltowee blew the whistle.

  Game on.

  Aliyah was lucky – her team had both Savannah and Bennie on it, though judging from the way the other team cringed when Latisha shuffled over, maybe they were better off without Latisha.

  You can’t think that! Aliyah chastised herself. Latisha’s your friend!

  They chased the ball, Mr Sheltowee barking out suggestions. Aliyah panted – in videogames, the hardest physical labor was replenishing her stamina bar, so being soaked in sweat felt grittily wonderful.

  Though Aliyah drove the ball down the center, Savannah and Bennie missed her cues. She kept getting swarmed with nowhere to pass to. Despite Latisha’s lackluster play on the opposition, soon they were down 1-2.

  Savannah gave an ill-at-ease whatcha gonna do? hands-in-the-air gesture after her failure to intercept put them down 1-3. Then Bennie yelled, “I’m ready for pizza!”

  And.

  Savannah.

  Cheered.

  For pizza.

  The next play, Aliyah snagged the ball and charged down the field like a winner damned well should. She noticed the opposition cringing back as she corkscrewed a path towards the end goal.

  The crowd called her name, a thunderous roar rumbling over the lake: Aliy-ah! Aliy-ah! Aliy-ah! The goalie froze in terror, begging her to stop–

  Aliyah backflipped, kicking the ball straight at the goal. The ball boomed as it broke the sound barrier, going so fast it caught flame from the wind resistance, a supersonic comet hitting the net and bursting into purple fireworks that spelled out GOAL.

  Then Aliyah remembered: They don’t know my real name.

  Then, in slow horror: I did ’mancy.

  The net was on fire, the plastic burning. The goalie shrieked “’Mancer!” and fled, the other kids running with her.

  The flux squeezed in around Aliyah, the low pressure of an incoming stormfront. Even if you didn’t mean to do ’mancy, the universe hated it when you broke its rules. It inflicted surges of bad luck upon you to even out the odds.

  Aliyah dimly heard parents calling 911, grabbing their children, flinging open the trunk to get their shotguns. But all Aliyah could think about was K-Dash and Quaysean – her friends who’d burned to death because she’d loved them when the flux hit. The flux hit you in all the places you feared most, and it would chew your friends to pieces to make you miserable.

  She’d fallen in love with Morehead.

  Her love endangered them.

  But it was OK. She reached into her pocket for the Contract – one of the unique magics Daddy had mastered to disperse bad luck safely. Once she called upon the Contract’s power, she’d–

  “What… What did you do?” Savannah stared at Aliyah as if she couldn’t quite process this. “Did you just try to–”

  Aliyah backed away as Savannah stepped towards her, hands held out, begging Aliyah to tell her the truth:

  “–did you just try to kill that girl?” Savannah finished.

  Aliyah hadn’t. The ball would have bounced off; the goalie had been sheathed in a protective aura of videogame physics. Yet she realized that soccer ball had looked like cannon fire to everyone else…

  As Aliyah flinched from Savannah’s fear, her flux squirmed away before she signed the Contract, bad luck seeking the worst possible consequence–

  “Savannah!” someone bellowed – Savannah’s dad, who’d looked over his shoulder fondly at her in the back seat as he’d sung God Is In The House loud enough for Aliyah to read the lyrics off his lips.

  Except now Savannah’s dad grabbed Savannah by her shoulder, yelling “Get behind me!” as he aimed a revolver at Aliyah.

  Aliyah prepped a videogame shield, knowing this wasn’t even the bad luck. Savannah’s dad wanting to murder her was just what she got for losing control.

  The flux would, somehow, make this worse.

  Three

  3-2-1 Contract

  Paul had planned for Imani to push him around so he could chat with the other parents – but he’d picked up a small flux-load from magically altering Mrs McBrayer’s paperwork. Rather than risk having it squirm off higgledy-piggledy, he’d had his wheelchair jam. So Imani had played socialite while Paul sat sidelined.

  He dug through the cooler they’d brought: she got headaches in bright sun, so he’d packed Advil and suntan lotion, and he’d tucked away a special supply of donuts so they could play the Donut Game with Uncle Kit on the way home…

  The only thing he couldn’t get her was
friends. But she seemed to be making those on the field.

  He smiled, proud.

  Valentine sat next to him, clutching a concealed margarita one of the mothers had snuck her. “Whoo!” She flopped down. “I am so not used to getting drinks from people who aren’t trying to get in my pants.”

  Paul arched his eyebrows. “Making friends with the locals?”

  “Wasted effort, Paul. I’m a kinky bitch, and I’d lay dollars to delicious donuts there’s not a kink club within a hundred miles. I could never connect with these adorable vanilla confections.”

  Yet Paul noticed Valentine had discreetly swapped her Confederate flag tattoos out for some less confrontational Garth Brooks ink.

  Then Valentine’s head snapped up as she felt the surge of videogamemancy.

  “Oh God,” Paul muttered. “Is she…?”

  “She’s shit the bed,” Valentine pointed at Aliyah; her fellow players backed away as a black arrow shimmered into existence above her head, pointing down at her. “She’s selected herself. As the active player.”

  The parents elbowed each other, looking for confirmation they weren’t hallucinating.

  “Aliyah!” he yelled, trying to get her attention before she went too far – better to have them know her real name than for people to see ’mancy. But Aliyah’s magic twisted his cry, turned it into a thunderous roar of approval, a thousand people chanting Aliy-ah! Aliy-ah! Aliy-ah!

  It could have been a beautiful moment of approval, except for the furious parents charging out onto the field to tackle Aliyah. Some – too many – reached underneath their shirts for concealed carry holsters–

  “Get me targets, Paul,” Valentine said, leaping to her feet.

  Paul sucked in a deep breath and dove into the records. He focused on the man sharing an ice-cold lemonade with Imani, the glass dropping from his hand as he squinted at Aliyah:

  Braxton Tolliver: his Google history indicates many posts on anti-’mancer blogs, as well as repeated visits to the Magiquell website, a corporation that manufactures injectable nerve-gas cocktails designed to impede a ’mancer’s concentration. Failed the certification exam to purchase Magiquell last October.