“ ‘Recast the foul, restore his ending,’ ” I recited. “This whole time, we thought the clue meant we were supposed to restore Duckie’s ending. But what if ‘restore his ending’ means we need to restore John Hughes’s ending? The ending of Pretty in Pink he originally wrote in his screenplay?” I nodded at the RDJ NPC. “What if we need to find a copy of the original script and give it to him?”
Art3mis threw up her hands. “And how are we supposed to do that?”
I smiled at her. “We go to the writer’s house,” I replied.
She gave me a puzzled look for a few seconds, then her eyes lit up with understanding.
“Holy shit!” she cried. “That might be it! Z, you’re a genius!”
Before I knew what the hell was happening, she grabbed my face and planted a kiss on me. She wasn’t wearing an ONI headset, so I knew she didn’t feel that kiss. But I did. Then she turned to RDJ.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she told him. “We’ll be right back.”
Then she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back in the direction of the car.
Art3mis knew a shortcut through the rich side of town, and was somehow able to navigate from memory, racing through the dark, undifferentiated maze of identical streets, each lined with identical houses. She managed to get us there in just a few minutes, but her erratic driving triggered another needle drop—“March of the Swivel Heads” by the English Beat. I don’t think she touched the brake pedal once, until we finally screeched to a halt in the Johnson family’s driveway.
As soon as our feet touched the driveway, another needle drop went off: “Modigliani (Lost in Your Eyes)” by Book of Love. Hearing it, Art3mis glanced over at me, and we shared a brief smile of recognition. Then we both turned and ran to the front door. She rang the doorbell, and a second later, Mrs. Johnson opened it, wearing an annoyed scowl. Her young daughter was standing in the doorway behind her, and she was scowling at us too. I recognized both of them from their brief scene in The Breakfast Club when they drop Anthony Michael Hall’s character, Brian, off at detention, and his mom says, “Well, mister, you better figure out a way to study!” and then his little sister says, “Yeah!” (Another piece of trivia I’d learned from Artie’s blog, years ago, was that they were played by Anthony Michael Hall’s real-life mother and sister.)
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Johnson said, after she spent a few more seconds scowling at us. “We don’t allow solicitors.” She pointed to a small No Solicitors sign with gold lettering nailed to their front door.
“Oh, we’re not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson,” Art3mis said. “My name is Art3mis, and this is my friend Parzival. We’re here to speak with your husband—about our mutual friend, Duckie? Philip F. Dale?”
Mrs. Johnson’s scowl vanished, and she gave Art3mis a huge smile. In the next moment, her face melted and morphed, and she transformed into a completely different woman. Now the NPC in front of us was a slender woman with long blond hair and a warm, friendly smile. I didn’t recognize her at all—but Art3mis did. Instantly.
“Mrs. Hughes!” she said, lowering her eyes and bowing her head, as if she’d just encountered royalty. Then she glanced sideways at me and whispered, “Nancy Hughes! I’ve never seen her here before! I didn’t even know you could!”
“John is upstairs working,” Nancy said, stepping back to open the door the rest of the way for us. “But I believe he’s expecting you. Please, come on in….”
She ushered us into the foyer and closed the front door. I looked around for Brian Johnson’s little sister, but she’d vanished along with her mother. However, I did catch a glimpse of two young boys chasing each other around the dining-room table with Nerf guns. I realized they must be NPC re-creations of the Hugheses’ two sons, James and John. Seeing them reminded me of an interview John Hughes gave, where he mentioned that his screenplay for Mr. Mom was based on his experience caring for his two boys on his own for a year, when his wife, Nancy, spent a lot of time traveling for work.
Hughes’s children and marriage had directly inspired so much of his work—it seemed fitting that this interactive tribute to his family was hidden here on Shermer, among all of his fictional creations.
Art3mis and I continued to gaze around us in wonder, like museum patrons on their first visit, until Nancy politely cleared her throat to get our attention. Then she pointed to the long, curved wooden staircase behind her.
“He’s upstairs in his office, at the end of the hall,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But make sure to knock before you go in. He’s writing.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I whispered back. I motioned for Art3mis to lead the way and followed her up the stairs. When we reached the top, we could hear a typewriter clacking down the hall. Treading as softly as we could on the wooden floorboards, we followed the sound to a closed door at the end of the hall. The thick aroma of tobacco wafted in the air, rising from the crack at the bottom of the door, along with the sound of music—Dream Academy’s instrumental version of the Smiths’ “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.”
I gave Art3mis a nod, then I took a deep breath and rapped three times on the door.
The clacking of typewriter keys ceased, and we heard someone get up, followed by approaching footsteps. Then the door opened, and there he was, standing right in front of us, in the simulated flesh: John Wilden Hughes Jr.
He looked different from how he’d looked when I’d caught a glimpse of him a few hours earlier, as he was collecting his morning paper with the other middle-aged men of Shermer. His hair was longer and spikier. His glasses were bigger and rounder and had different frames. He had the same rounded features and the same sad, wise eyes. But he no longer wore the stern, impassive expression he’d had back when he was Mr. Johnson. Now that he was Mr. Hughes, he was full of energy and emotion—along with epic amounts of nicotine and caffeine, judging by all of the empty coffee cups on his desk, and the overflowing ashtray beside his enormous green IBM Selectric typewriter.
Behind his desk, carefully displayed on some shelves, were dozens of pairs of shoes—his famous sneaker collection, which continued to grow throughout his life.
“Art3mis!” he bellowed in an extremely deep voice, smiling wide in recognition as soon as he saw her. “I’ve been expecting you!”
Then, to our shock, he went in for a hug. Art3mis laughed and hugged John Hughes back, while giving me a can-you-believe-this-is-happening look over his shoulder. Then he let go of her and turned to me.
“And you brought a friend along,” he said, offering me his hand. “Hi there. I’m John.”
“Parzival,” I replied, shaking it. The guy had a firm grip! “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Really?” he said, placing his right hand over his heart. “That’s so wonderful to hear. And kind of you to say. Please, won’t you both come on in?”
After we stepped into his office, he closed the door, then hurried over to a row of filing cabinets in the corner and began to dig through its drawers.
“You’re here for a copy of my Pretty in Pink script, right?” he asked. “Which draft did you want?”
“Your favorite draft,” Art3mis said. “The one with your original ending, where Duckie and Andie dance together?”
He gave her a big smile, then resumed digging through his filing-cabinet drawers.
“That was my favorite ending,” he said. “But it didn’t work for the test audience, so the studio made me change it.”
He finally found the script he was looking for and shouted, “Victory!” as he held it over his head. A golden shaft of light descended from the ceiling for a few seconds, bathing him and the script in its glow, as we heard the sound of angelic chimes. Then he held the script out and presented it to Art3mis. She took it from him with both hands, and as she did, the light vanished and the chimes ceased.
“My pleasure!” he said. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
He gave us both another handshake, then he sat back down at his desk, and immediately began typing again—faster than I’d ever seen anyone type in my life. The clack of his keys sounded like machine-gun fire, and the carriage return moved rapidly from left to right in just a few seconds, like an ammo belt feeding it a steady supply of bullets.
Art3mis turned toward me, wearing a big, goofy grin, and held up the script so that I could see what was typed on its cover page: “PRETTY IN PINK by John Hughes. FIFTH DRAFT: 5/9/85.”
“We got it!” she said.
I nodded and offered her a high five. She laughed and slapped my hand.
“Let’s go get that shard!” I said.
She nodded and we turned around to leave. But when I reached for the doorknob, I discovered something odd—a black computer keyboard was hanging on the back of Hughes’s office door, dangling from the coat hook by its cord.
“Weird,” I said, grabbing the keyboard to examine it more closely. That was when we both saw the brand name and model number. It wasn’t just a keyboard. It was a Memotech MTX512—the vintage computer that Gary and Wyatt used to create Lisa in Weird Science, which had (in revolutionary-at-the-time fashion) hidden its 8-bit CPU in the chassis of the keyboard itself. It looked pretty beat-up. A few of the keys on the keyboard were missing.
I turned to address the John Hughes NPC.
“What’s this doing here?” I asked. But Hughes didn’t even seem to hear me. He just kept on writing. I turned back to Art3mis and handed the computer to her.
“When I ran into Wyatt’s house earlier, I noticed that his computer was missing from his bedroom,” she said. “The FDX hard-drive add-on was still there, but this keyboard was gone. Which would appear to indicate that someone took it from Wyatt’s and brought it here….”
I leaned forward to study the keyboard more closely. There were four missing letters—the R, A, I, and K keys were gone.
Then it hit me.
“Og!” I said. “He was here earlier today, when he collected the Third Shard. And he put the computer here, where he knew we would see it.”
I pointed at the Memotech MTX512. “In Weird Science, a nerd used this computer to create a simulation of his dream girl,” I said. “Maybe Og is trying to tell us that Halliday did the same thing. That’s why he knocked out these four keys…K, I, R, and A.”
“Holy shit!” Art3mis said. “Kira!”
I nodded. Then another lightbulb went on over my head.
“If Og was able to leave behind a hidden message for us here, maybe he did the same thing when he was collecting the first two shards!” I said. “I should have realized it on Kodama.”
I explained to Art3mis how Og’s strange high score on the Ninja Princess videogame had puzzled me.
“Did you spot anything else on Kodama?” Art3mis asked. “Anything else out of place?”
I thought it over for a moment, then shook my head.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that on Middletown either. But there are 256 different instances of Middletown spread across the planet, and Og could have obtained his shard from any one of them.”
“That’s hopeless,” Art3mis said, shaking her head. “We don’t have time to search all those instances. We still have four more shards to collect, and only about five hours to do it.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t have time. But I bet I know someone who does. Hold on. Give me a minute….”
I pulled up my HUD and selected L0hengrin’s name from my contact list, then I tapped the icon to send her a text. Then, on the off chance that Anorak was monitoring my video feeds, I closed my eyes and typed out my entire message to Lo without looking at it:
Dear Lo,
I could use some more of your help after all.
I need you to go back and locate the instance of Middletown where Og obtained the First Shard. It should be the only other instance on the planet that is currently set to the year 1989. You’ll have to teleport around and check them all one at a time until you find it. Once you do, I need you to look for anything unusual or out of place. Something around Og’s home, or in Kira’s bedroom. If you find something, message me immediately and I’ll send you my coordinates so we can meet in a secure location.
Thanks, Lo. I can’t tell you anything more right now, but I promise, it’s important.
I owe you a Wookiee Life Debt for this.
Sincerely,
Z
I used a keyboard shortcut to send the message without looking at it. Then I opened my eyes, closed my HUD, and turned back to face Art3mis.
“I emailed a friend who might be able to help,” I said. “Fingers crossed.”
Art3mis gave me a dubious look and folded her arms.
“A friend?” she repeated. “What friend?”
Was that a hint of jealousy in her voice?
“I’ll tell you later,” I said as I threw open the door of Hughes’s office and sprinted off down the hall. “Come on!”
As we headed down the stairs, I cast a glance back down the hall. Through his open office door, I caught one last, brief glimpse of John Hughes sitting at his desk, hunched over his typewriter in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, clacking away furiously on his typewriter keys, writing as if his life depended on it.
* * *
Art3mis drove us back to the Shermer Hotel, where the NPC of Robert Duckie Jr. was standing frozen out front. She handed him the script we’d retrieved from John Hughes. RDJ opened it to the last few pages and scanned them in a matter of seconds. Then, as soon as he finished reading them, the script suddenly vanished in a shower of glittering gold dust.
“Got it!” Duckie said as he put on his sunglasses. “Let’s plow.”
Then he ran inside the hotel. We followed him through the hotel lobby and down a long marble-floored mezzanine, which led into the main ballroom where the senior prom was being held. Andie Walsh was waiting there, standing all alone in her homemade pink dress, biting her lower lip and looking around nervously. When she spotted Robert Downey Jr. walking toward her, decked out in his Duckie threads, her eyes widened in surprise, just as some piano music from Michael Gore’s Pretty in Pink score swelled on the soundtrack. Then, without hesitation, Andie ran toward Duckie. He started running, too, and when they reached each other, she leaped into his open arms. Then he twirled her around a few times before setting her back down. They both took a step back to admire each other’s outfits, exchanging a few words that we were too far away to make out. Then Andie took Duckie’s arm, and together, they walked through the ballroom entrance. Art3mis and I followed them inside.
It looked identical to the ballroom where the original ending of Pretty in Pink was filmed. There was a large dance floor in the center of the room, where a few hundred well-to-do Shermer teenagers dressed in retro tuxedos and pastel-colored prom dresses were grooving to the song “If You Leave” by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. Two DJs in matching bellhop outfits stood on the stage, surrounded by synthesizers and mixing boards. A giant black-and-white photograph of a conductor and his orchestra covered the wall behind them. Circular dining tables were arranged on either side of the dance floor, and I spotted Steph McKee again, sitting at one of them in a tuxedo, looking bored. Then he saw who had just walked into the room and sat bolt-upright.
As Andie and Duckie slowly made their way to the dance floor, every pair of eyes in the room turned to look at them. When the couples out on the floor spotted them, they too stopped dancing to stare. A few seconds after that, the DJs stopped the music too. Now everyone in the room was motionless, staring at Andie and Duckie, with bourgeois contempt burning in their eyes.
We watched from a distance as Blane McDonough emerged from the silent crowd and walked over to Andie and Duckie. He said something to Andie, but she only responded by shaking her head. Blane offered his hand to Duckie, and after considering it for a few seconds, Duckie shook it. Blane turned and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.
“Boom!” Art3mis shouted. “Andie’s first fate no longer needs mending!”
We continued to watch as Andie took Duckie’s hand and the two of them walked through the sea of silent, staring faces, wearing proud and defiant looks of their own. When they reached the center of the dance floor, the DJs turned the sound system back on and cued up a new song: “Heroes” by David Bowie.
Duckie took Andie in his arms and the two of them began to dance, spinning around and around together, until they merged into a single whirling blur of pink. Then that pink blur vanished in a brilliant flash of neon-pink light.
When my eyes recovered, I saw the Third Shard floating in the air above the center of the dance floor, where the two star-crossed lovers had stood a second earlier.
Art3mis ran over and tried to grab the shard, but her hands passed right through. She laughed and turned back to look at me, then made a come-hither motion with her index finger. I joined her on the dance floor.
“ ‘For each fragment my heir must pay a toll,’ ” I recited as I reached out and wrapped my fingers around the shard.
As before, taking the shard triggered another flashback….
* * *
I was Kira again, this time standing in her childhood bedroom in her mother’s tiny cottage on the outskirts of London. I’d seen photographs Kira had taken of herself in this room, to mail to Og back in the States during his senior year of high school, which they spent apart.
Two open suitcases lay on the bed in front of me, filled with a jumble of clothing, sketchbooks, and boxes of floppy disks. Kira glanced up from her packing to look at eighteen-year-old Ogden Morrow, who was standing in the doorway, blocking it with his large frame. Beyond it I could just make out a short bald man in a ragged shirt, in the midst of yelling something in a thick Cockney accent. This had to be Kira’s drunken stepfather, Graham—who was clearly enraged, and only keeping his distance thanks to the cricket bat that Og was clutching with both hands and brandishing threateningly, like Shaun of the Dead.
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