Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

“Lucky you,” Jonathan said.

“It’s a job,” Fortune said, crushing the now-empty grocery bags into little wads and dropping them in the compactor. “Anyway. Sorry they voted you off. It’s got to suck.”

“I’ll survive,” Jonathan said. “Thanks, though.”

Fortune turned to leave and Jonathan popped a wasp free from his skin and sent it skidding out after him. Fortune was driving a Saturn sedan about three years out of date. Not a car that screamed status. Through the wasp’s eyes, Jonathan steered it into the pocket of a jacket hanging in the backseat, then waited.

If he wasn’t going to get to play the game as a contestant, he could at least play it his way. Through the wasp, he felt the car vibrate into life and pull away. He shifted his attention back to the laptop.

Fire. Why did it have to be fire?

[Backspace.]

You might think I’d be bitter. Here I am, embraced by a team of people—yes, the noun in question is team—and they drop me the first chance they get. But what you don’t see on your television is all the behind-the-scenes stuff. Why did they kick me off when Earth Witch and Wild Fox were just as powerless? Well, folks, it’s because

Jonathan stared at the screen for half a minute. [Backspace.] For half an hour, he kept at it and ended up where he’d started, with a blank page.

The car stopped, the suit jacket shifted. Jonathan turned his attention back to the wasp, crawling out of the pocket and taking wing.

Berman’s office was beautiful in a studied, artificial way. His secretary exuded both competence and pheromones, and (Jonathan assumed) was fucking Berman on the side in exchange for a future in the industry. Fortune nodded to the woman, who responded with familiarity and pity and waved him through the door. The wasp followed.

Berman sat at his desk. Two older men and a severe-looking woman with gray at the temples were sitting in chairs that made them look shorter.

“Just hang that stuff in the closet, okay, John?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Berman,” John Fortune said.

“Okay,” Berman said, “So the Turtle’s out for week six?”

“And Mistral refuses the new terms,” one of the men said. “It’s the adversarial thing.”

“Detroit Steel has signed, though,” the woman said. “And I have a call in to Noel Matthews.”

“Really?” Berman said. “The magician guy? Couldn’t we get a real ace? Thanks, John! I owe you for that. Really. Take care.”

The door closed behind Fortune. Berman clicked his tongue. “Poor fucker,” he said. “I wouldn’t have hired him, except as a favor to his mother. Kid’s a dumb fuck; but at least he’s a nice dumb fuck. Okay, so let’s get back to the kraut. His agent’s being a total … Jesus fucking Christ! Shit, that hurts! There’s a fucking bee in here!”

Wasp, motherfucker , Jonathan thought, as he steered the small body up to the air vent where he could still hear. Below him, the executive and his staff were running around waving papers and looking for a first aid kit. It made the day better.

“Hey,” King Cobalt said. “I have a new controller for the game console. You want to play?”

The Mexican wrestler ace was smiling so hard, Jonathan could see his cheeks pouching out under his mask. Jonathan felt the refusal welling up at the back of his mouth, but paused. At least the guy was having fun.

“Gimme a minute to finish this up,” he said. “Then, sure, I’ll kick your ass if you want.”

“You can try,” King Cobalt said and lumbered back toward the front room.

Posted Today 3:34 pm

AMERICAN HERO, DISCARDS | TRIUMPHANT | “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS” — QUEEN

Yes, I have been voted off the team, but I still kick ass at Gran Turismo. I would say more, but King Cobalt has insisted upon a rematch, and I must rest my gaming thumbs.

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The alarm rang at eleven A.M. A video conference call piped into the Hummer’s drop-down TV screen gave Team Hearts its second mission. It wasn’t a rescue this time, it wasn’t a disaster. It was a treasure hunt.

Peregrine’s image told them: “You must retrieve the contents of a locked safe. The safe is located at the end of an obstacle course. Your entire team must reach the end of the course before you may attempt to open the safe. Deliver the contents to me, tonight, at the American Hero headquarters, for your chance at immunity.”

The video display went black, and the members of Team Hearts stared at the screen.

“Cakewalk,” DB said. “No problem.”

“Famous last words,” Hardhat countered.

In fact, the obstacle course wasn’t difficult. They followed their GPS tracker instructions to an abandoned industrial lot. There they found a maze built with concrete walls winding through the yards and buildings. Wild Fox commented,“Sure be nice to have a bunch of flying bugs to give us a view of this.” Everyone shushed him. Drummer Boy hoisted himself to the top of the wall, which was only (from his perspective) about ten feet tall. He helped everyone else up, and by following the wall to the end, bypassed the maze entirely.

Next, they encountered about five acres of genuine military obstacle course: coils of barbed wire laid in the dirt, high walls to traverse—the works. After bypassing the maze, they decided that was the right strategy for the rest of it. Gardener’s vines tangled with the barbed wire, and as they grew they lifted, pulling it out of the way, creating a path. Hardhat built steps over the walls, Drummer Boy’s strength helped lift people over, and Curveball’s explosions broke through a couple of obstacles. They were on a roll. After the last challenge, this almost easy success felt wonderful. But Ana was still waiting for her chance to do something.

At the other end of the obstacle course, they found a concrete drainage tunnel, large enough that even DB could walk inside without ducking.

“This thing just keeps going, doesn’t it?” Curveball said. Like all of them, she was sweating under the summer sun, streaked with dirt, and visibly tired.

At the end of the short tunnel was a locked iron gate.

“I’ll blow the lock,” Curveball said, tossing a pebble in her hand. “No problem.”

DB glowered. “I think I’ve got this one.”

“But this’ll be easier—”

He’d already put his head down, hunched his shoulders, and charged. All six arms pushed against it. The bars buckled, but didn’t break. Grunting, his mouth twisting in a rictus of effort, he tried it again, digging his feet into the ground, slamming his bulk as a living battering ram against the barrier.

Ana expected the lock to pop, the bars to break, something. But the sound she heard was crunching, a ripping felt as a vibration under her feet—like rock breaking.

The gate’s hinges exploded free of the concrete in a shower of dust and debris. The rest of them ducked back, sheltering their faces with their arms. Somebody coughed.

DB dropped the gate in front of him. It landed with a thud. Chunks of concrete still adhered to the hinges.

“Like you said. No problem,” he said hoarsely, rolling his primary shoulders into place, brushing off the effort.

Curveball didn’t even look at him as she stalked past, stepping carefully in between the bars of the gate. The others filed after her. Ana waited until last, trying to think of something to say. Something that wouldn’t sound trite, or wouldn’t inspire him to take a swing at her. Not that she thought he’d really hit her, but right now he looked like nothing so much as a primordial creature from a forgotten jungle, hunched over, hands clenched into fists, hooded gaze staring after the blond princess he could never have. It might be best to simply creep away silently, and hope he didn’t notice.