The shorter kid removed his gold-rimmed sunglasses and carefully folded them into his pocket. “So this is the genius?” He sneered in a clipped English accent. He looked me up and down as he spoke, arching his eyebrows.
“He’s more than just a genius,” Gavin replied. “This guy is a super-genius. He’s like Lex Luthor, Tony Stark and Brainiac all rolled into one.”
“Way to not oversell it,” I grumbled.
“Seriously, this will blow your freakin’ minds. Go ahead Mox, do your thing.” He nudged my shoulder with the point of his elbow and his grin widened.
I loved Gavin like a brother, but when he pulled this crap to impress the customers, it made me feel like a carnie. “All right,” I said with a heavy sigh, digging my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “Pick a book.”
The kids glanced at each other and then back at me. “Any book?” The taller one asked.
“Yes,” I said abruptly, and with a little too much impatience. I shouldn’t have been taking it out on these kids – they didn’t ask for a sideshow – but it was still annoying, and I was criminally under-caffeinated. “Pick any book. Go through the back issues and pull out whatever you want.”
They each pulled open a drawer and proceed to flip through the Mylar slips. The taller one yanked a book from the middle of the row with a little too much reckless abandon, causing Gavin to wince. He peeled open the bag’s enclosure flap and slid the book out with care.
Gavin started breathing again.
“Okay,” the kid said, examining the cover. “This one is called ‘Alpha Flight’ ... and there’s a leaf on the front for some reason?” He squinted at the logo as if it were the most perplexing thing he’d ever seen.
I tried not to sound condescending. “It’s the leaf from the flag. Canada’s flag. Alpha Flight is a group of superheroes from Canada, so ...”
“Ah, I get it!” the kid shouted. I could almost see the light bulb illuminating over his head. “That’s pretty clever.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not so much. Go ahead and tell me the issue number.”
“Number seven.”
“Alpha Flight number seven, written by Scott Lobdell, with pencils by Dave Ross and inks by Mark McKenna. The cover price is two dollars and ninety-nine cents, but that was back in November of 2004 when it was originally published. The one you’re holding in your hand is a first-printing, worth six hundred and twenty since it’s in near-mint condition. I’ve seen one go for over a thousand that was signed by McKenna.”
“Holy shit,” the shorter one exclaimed, sticking his thumb in my direction. “This guy is the real deal.”
“No doubt,” Gavin said with a satisfied nod.
Gavin’s obsession with comic books was rivalled only by my own, but even though we shared that common interest, I don’t think it’s what made him value me as a friend. An independently wealthy kid nearly a decade my junior, he was the most ambitious person I’d ever met; I had no idea how he managed to build and maintain a profitable business by the age of twenty – especially having been born and raised in The Dark Zone. Surely there were more successful, interesting, and better-dressed people he could have been spending his free time with. I could only imagine that he thought of me as some sort of a low-level superhuman because of my photographic memory. Aside from performing parlor tricks and counting cards I’d yet to find an actual use for my ‘grand IQ’, but Gavin seemed to find me endlessly entertaining.
As he ushered the tourists to the more expensive books towards the back of the stacks, it occurred to me that his sole employee was behind the cash register, quietly engrossed in a comic. Normally it would be almost impossible to miss a beautiful, porcelain-skinned girl with a sweep of pink tresses, but there she was: sitting perfectly still, absently twirling a loop of hair with her finger as her eyes scanned the pages.
“Peyton,” I shouted, “is that my book you’re devaluing with the acidity of your finger prints? I think it just went from ‘very fine’ condition down to ‘fine’.”
“No way!” she replied with a tiny giggle, holding the comic up for my inspection. “This is totally mint.”
I shook my head and tried to suppress a smile as I approached. “No, it was close to mint before you started rubbing your greasy little paws all over it. Then it dropped from ‘very fine’ to ‘fine’ condition when you dented the cover three seconds ago.”
“Whatever, Matty,” she said with a huff. “It’s not like you’re gonna read this before you bag it and box it anyway. Someone might as well get some use out of it.”
In all the years I’d know her, I’d never seen Peyton crack open the cover of anything aside from a veterinary textbook. “I didn’t even know you read comics?”
“I usually don’t,” she said brightly, “but it was so weird ... I had this dream about spiders last night, and as soon as I sat down behind the counter it was just lying here – Spider-Man. Totally fate, right?”
“That is totally fate,” I smirked, “because today my horoscope said that a crazy girl with pink hair would ruin one of my books, so it looks like we both had a date with kismet.”
Peyton just smiled back. “You were always up my ass about getting into comics, and now that I finally read one you’re gonna be this much of a douche? You should be happy! Why don’t you read it after me and we can talk about it over coffee?”
“Save your time,” I said. “I’ve already read The Amazing Spider-Man number seven hundred, and it’s complete bullshit.”
“Then why do you want to buy it?”
“Because I have the six hundred and ninety-nine issues that came before it.”
“And also because you have a crippling case of OCD?” she replied, now wearing a smirk of her own.
“No, it’s because I’m a collector.”
“A compulsive collector,” she snapped back without missing a beat.
I shrugged. “It’s redundant to say ‘compulsive collector’.”
Peyton folded her arms loosely across her chest. “All right, I’ll bite. Why is this book ‘bullshit’?”
“Well first of all, it’s unrealistic.”
“A story about a guy who gets bitten by a radioactive spider and sticks to walls isn’t living up to your expectations for realism?” She let out a short laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s why it’s a comic book and not a documentary.”
“It’s because of the ending.” Peyton had a way of agitating me. “At the time it was advertised as ‘The Death of Spider-Man’, but it’s not really a death at all. Peter Parker and Doctor Octopus just swapped brains like they were in some stupid Disney movie. And then a month later an all new Spider-Man title goes on sale, and Parker is back as a goddamned ghost.”
Peyton crinkled her nose. “Hey, spoiler alert.”
“That’s the thing: it’s not a spoiler because the heroes never die. They just come back to life in another comic with some ridiculous explanation about how they survived, and go about their business like nothing happened.”
“So the hero is just supposed to die at the end? That’s pretty bleak.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said, waving the comic in front of me without even realizing it. “What if the protagonist accomplished everything they’ve set out to do? Maybe they reach their ultimate goal, or sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Wouldn’t it be better to go out in a blaze of glory than to linger on for decades, rehashing the same tired storylines month after month? To have their legacy diluted by cookie-cutter plots chosen by creatively-devoid editors, who wouldn’t know a good story if it shot them in the ass with a plasma bolt?”
Peyton leaned forward on her elbows and gazed blankly across the counter. “Not to be rude, but I checked out of this conversation, like, five minutes ago.”
I pulled the four hundred dollars from my back pocket and slid it across the counter. “This belongs to your brother. Tell Gavin to put the twenty-five cents for the bag on my tab.” I slipped my
comic back into the Mylar and carefully sealed it shut.
Peyton reached across the counter and wrapped her fingers gently around the back of my arm.
“I’m sorry, I was just teasing,” she whispered with a hint of regret in her voice. “I know this means a lot to you.”
“It’s not your thing,” I said. “It’s cool.”
“No, it’s not,” she replied emphatically. She straightened her back eagerly, as if she were a student about to address a professor. “You were sharing something important to you and I was rude. Let me make it up to you: I’ll take you to dinner, and you can teach me everything you know. We’ll talk about Han Solo blowing up the Death Star thingy ...” She paused for a moment and bit her lip, and then snapped her fingers as her eyes brightened. “Oh! And you can explain that big purple space guy who looks like an angry raisin. I think he’s an Avenger?”
“Luke Skywalker destroyed the Death Star, not Han ... and the raisin guy is ...” I trailed off, fidgeting with the comic in my hands. “Look, it’s not gonna work.”
“It could work!” she said earnestly. “I promise, right after my finals next week I’ll watch all the Star Wars movies again. Even those crappy ones with the Jamaican fish guy.”
I smiled weakly, glancing down at my untied shoes. “You’re Gavin’s sister.”
She reached across the desk and ran her fingers across the back of my hand. “And you’re my brother’s hot older friend. What’s your point?”
I rubbed the back of my neck and cleared my throat. “What if we do go for dinner and things don’t work out? You’d end up hating me, and then things would fall apart with Gavin. And, I’d lose you as a friend too, which would suck because you’re the only girl friend I have. Well, not a ‘girlfriend’, but ... a friend who happens to be a girl. And what if ...”
“Whoa,” she interrupted, holding up her hands. “You’re glitching out on me, Matty. Relax. I’m taking about dinner, not eloping. You know, dinner? Food, drinks, a waiter ...” Peyton paused and trailed her eyes down, crinkling her nose at my Dorito-stained hoodie. “Clothing that’s been through the wash in the last decade. We’re not exactly on the fast-track here – we’ve known each other for years. I know you like me, at least enough to go out for dinner ... and I’ve been pretty clear about how I feel.”
“You’re right,” I said, nodding quickly. “It’s been years, so a couple more weeks can’t hurt, right?”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Let’s just ...”
“Hey,” Gavin shouted, jogging from the stacks with a wine glass in each hand. His customers were following close behind. “Anyone interested in a mimosa before The Reveal? It’s starting in two minutes.”
“I’ll take one!” I snatched a glass from his hand as he passed, retreating to the front of the store. The thought of consuming champagne and orange juice was making my stomach turn, but if it was going to get me out of that conversation with Peyton, I would have chugged battery acid.
Smooth move, Matt. The girl you’ve been awkwardly hitting on for years actually asks you out on a date – the first time this has happened in the history of ever – and you shoot her down, turn and literally scurry away.
Either I had a new disorder to add to my already impressive list, or I had recently developed some serious brain damage.
It wasn’t even noon and I’d already blown an opportunity. Classic Moxon.
Everyone gathered close around the Trinitron like campers warming in front of a fire. With the click of a bulky plastic controller, the television hummed to life, and the picture flickered into focus. Gavin already had it set to pull a stream of the announcement from the web. A full-screen countdown slowly ticked away, and the room watched it in silence.
Before his accident, Frost would hold live press conferences, often using sports arenas to accommodate the enormous crowds and the mob of eager reporters. The announcements that preceded the tournaments were nearly as entertaining as the events themselves; watching Frost on stage, microphone in-hand, was a captivating experience.
A tall, muscular figure with a square jaw and piercing, dark eyes, his physical presence alone was more than enough to hold the audience’s attention – but it was his words that mesmerized. He spoke of victory, of conquest and the indescribable rush of adrenaline when you achieve greatness and live up to your full potential. His love for competition was infectious.
If there was anyone on earth who could have talked me into participating in a swordfight, it was Cameron Frost.
A three-time tournament champion himself, Frost had the experience to back up his rhetoric, and an endless supply of confidence – but that version of him ceased to exist several years ago. When a mysterious accident confined him to a wheelchair, Frost became a shell of his former self. Bitter and reclusive, he rarely appeared in public anymore; his big announcements were reduced to pre-recorded messages that he sent to the networks, with instructions to be simulcast at a designated time. It didn’t diminish the excitement of the actual news, but there was always something that struck me when I watched his videos. It was his eyes. They used to radiate, reflecting a fiery passion for whatever new event he was promoting. Now they were hollow – almost vacant.
When the countdown rolled to zero it faded and disappeared, replaced by an image of Cameron Frost, sitting behind an oversized work station. With his disheveled hair, unkempt beard and tired eyes, he looked more like a derelict from the Dark Zone than the wealthiest man in the hemisphere. If it wasn’t for Frost’s suit and tie he’d be nearly unrecognizable from his former self.
“Greetings, my fellow Americans and sports fans around the world.” He folded his hands loosely on the surface of his desk. Frost appeared even more out of sorts, but his enunciation was as crisp and practiced as ever. “Although superhumans are now a part of our everyday lives, few of us have any real understanding of their abilities. We’ve all seen the footage of the man from Montreal, running so fast that he’s able to pass cars on the highway, and video of the construction worker from Phoenix, lifting two-ton beams above his head. The next step in human evolution is upon us, and as we’ve slowly been learning, the human body is capable of amazing feats. This, however, is just the tip of the iceberg. Since I’ve announced my upcoming Arena Mode tournament, I’ve been flooded with messages from around the world – with more stories of people possessing incredible powers that I never dreamed possible.”
“You know the rules, the location, and the date. Now it’s time to meet the first competitor. Here is The Reveal that I’ve been promising.” Frost paused for a moment, building the anticipation – as if that was even possible at that point. “This video came to me from a small town in Southwestern Russia and features the first entrant and the number one seed in the event: Sergei Taktarov.”
The video cut to a young man standing in an open field. Dressed in blue jeans, runners and a simple white t-shirt, he seemed more or less unremarkable – like any scruffy-haired blond kid you’d pass in the street if you were to wander around Moscow.
The videographer took several steps back and shouted something in Russian, and Sergei began to sprint. After a few long strides he leaped in the air and took flight, soaring high above the ground with his arms extended. Several people were audible in the background, shouting and gasping in amazement. The Russian flipped and rolled, performing some aerial acrobatics before hovering to a stop several feet off the ground.
He pointed and nodded, as if to relay instructions to someone off-camera. A moment later someone tossed a tin can into view. The Russian’s eyes began to glow a menacing shade of crimson before emitting two thin beams of light. The lasers sliced through the spiraling can in mid-air.
Camera shaking, the videographer searched the grass and located a piece of seared metal. He scooped it up, slowly rotating it to examine the scorched edges.
The screen faded to black and Frost reappeared, smiling brightly. He was beaming with an enthusiasm t
hat I hadn’t seen since before his accident. “And that,” he said with pride, “is the first competitor in Arena Mode. If you are a superhuman, send me your footage. Impress me, and you’ll have an opportunity to compete for the largest prize ever awarded in an athletic competition: ten billion dollars.”
The room burst with excitement. Gavin stood and shouted, shaking my shoulders. I could tell that he was as shocked and elated by the announcement as I was, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. His mouth moved, but my ears filled with a loud ringing, like a high-pitched bell that was continuously getting louder.
The room spun and I collapsed.
The last thing I remember was the sickening crack of my skull bouncing off the edge of the coffee table.
The most idiotic phrase in the English language, without a doubt, is “Just my luck.” People utter this nonsense when they get caught in traffic or stuck in the rain without an umbrella, as if some unseen mystical force is guiding their every action. A force that decides what will and won’t happen to them based on whatever criteria they feel applies to their given situation.
It’s infuriating.
All things, good and bad, happen because of math. If you drive on a freeway during rush hour, you’ll get stuck in traffic more often than not. It has nothing to do with fate – it’s statistical probability. If you go surfing off the North Shore of Hawaii during the month of January, there’s roughly a one in six million chance that you’ll have a limb chomped off by a great white shark. If you’re that one guy it definitely sucks, but it was going to happen whether you went to church that morning or kicked a puppy on the way to the beach.
There’s no karma, no destiny and no divine intervention. Everything in life is simply a calculated risk with a number of contributing factors. Some factors are well within your control, and unfortunately, most aren’t. But if you play the odds and lose, nothing is happening to ‘you’ specifically – it would have happened to anyone under the same circumstances.
Arena Mode Page 2
