Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

The masked wrestler came over when his stint in front of the camera was over. “You’re not too bad,” he said.

Wally shrugged.

“Have you ever thought about wrestling?”

“Um. No.”

“Give some thought to my Wild Card Wrestling Federation, okay? Because I tell you, once this thing takes off it’s gonna be huge. And you could get in on the ground floor. You’d be great. The Iron Giant!”

Wally hadn’t given much thought to what he’d do after American Hero. Probably go back and work in the strip mines with his dad and brothers. But professional wrestling? Gosh.

“Do I have to wear a mask?”

“If you want to. But I think people would dig your appearance. Oh! I know! Can you do different accents?”

“Accents?”

“Different than that Fargo one you’re always doing, I mean. Russian would be awesome. Imagine it: Iron Ivan, the Russian Robot.”

Wally wasn’t sure he wanted to be a wrestler, but the masked man seemed very excited, and this was the most anybody had spoken to him since the Stuntman thing. “Well, that’s different. I’ll sure think about it.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet.”

“Great.” King Cobalt slapped him on the back. It sounded like somebody hitting a gong with a steak. Then he went off to mingle with the growing crowd.

“Nice work, cracker.”

Brave Hawk sidled through the crowd, illusory wings and another cameraman in tow. Simoon tagged along behind the camera, looking uneasy.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, ‘Nice work.”’ His lips curled into a half-smile as he added, “You must be exhausted. It’s hard work.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Um, what is?”

The half-smile turned into a full-blown grin. “Trying to convince people you’re not such a bad guy. Pretending you’re something you’re not.”

“Pretending?”

“It won’t work, though. I won’t let the others forget that you’re a racist at heart.” Brave Hawk turned and went back to the crowd on the patio. As the cameraman followed him, he said, “Shameful. Just shameful.”

What’s worse than being hated for what people think you are?

“Just ignore him.” Simoon patted Wally’s arm. “You did a good job today. He’s just a jackass.”

Cruel, too. Thing is, I’m darker than Brave Hawk and Stuntman and Gardener and everybody else. Way darker.

He looked down at Simoon.

Darker than Simoon and even those poor folks in Egypt.

“Stuntman made it up, didn’t he?” she whispered.

Wally went back upstairs to his room. He didn’t come out the rest of the day.

The studio must have pulled some strings, because housing inspectors arrived bright and early the following morning. Wally thought they’d have to move out, but now that the deck wasn’t tearing the mansion apart, they were much better off than some of their neighbors.

Electricity was restored soon after that. So while workers from the studio poured over the Discard Pile, patching the cracks and holes, stringing new lights and replacing the cameras that had been damaged in the quake, Wally stayed in his room, rereading Bugsy’s blog.

Bugsy had updated his blog with more photos and video clips. The shaky video—as if Bugsy had been on the run while he captured it—showed desert-camouflaged tanks rumbling down dirt roads, tossing up plumes of dust, mowing down refugees.

Wally watched the steel-plated Egyptian tanks.

He glanced outside, to where the deck had been. He remembered how good it felt to help out, how satisfying it felt when the beams crumbled under his touch.

And then he looked at the tanks again.

Holy cow.

He was still rereading the blog, and studying the photos, when Ink, one of the production assistants, called everyone into the TV lounge for a “special meeting.” Maybe they’d decided to move everybody out of the damaged mansion after all. Without the gas hooked up, the hot water hadn’t lasted through one morning of showers.

Wally followed Jade Blossom and Simoon down the stairs. He tapped Simoon on the shoulder. She stopped at the bottom of the staircase; Jade Blossom went on ahead.

“Simoon?”

“What?”

“Do you, I mean, I was wondering—”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, no. Look, Rusty, I meant what I said yesterday about you doing a good job saving the house, but you’re not my type. You’re a nice guy and all, but you’re made of iron, and I’m not. I just don’t think we’re compatible.” She looked him up and down. “At all.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry, though. I’m sure you’ll meet a nice…metal…girl someday.”

“Oh, cripes, no, no no no. That’s not what I meant.”

Her gaze darted sideways, toward the TV lounge. A frown flickered across her face and creased her brow. She looked back at Wally. “Then what?”

“Did you live in Egypt a long time?”

“Egypt? No. I’ve never lived there. Not ever.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Do you know a lot about it, though? Egypt, I mean.”

It took her a few seconds to answer. She sighed, and lowered herself to sit on the bottom stair. “I guess. Why?”

“I was reading Bugsy’s blog, you know, the bug guy that was on the show with us?” She nodded. “Since he went over there with John Fortune and that German fella—”

“I never meant for that to happen, I swear.”

“… he’s been writing about the whole thing, and it’s a heckuva mess.”

“I know,” said Simoon, looking down. “Look, can we talk about something else, please?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew how a guy might—”

A cameraman sidled closer. Wally stopped in mid-sentence. He wasn’t too keen on the cameras.

“Hey!” Mr. Berman stood in the archway to the TV lounge. “Go flirt on your own time, you two. We’ve got an episode to film.” He tapped his watch. It probably cost more money than Wally had ever seen in one place in his life. He wondered why the executive was there at all.

Wally helped Simoon to her feet—she looked real unhappy all of a sudden—and followed her to the lounge, where the other discards were sitting in a large circle. He stopped dead in his tracks. Not only was Mr. Berman here, but so were Peregrine and the judges: Topper, the Harlem Hammer, and Digger Downs.

And Curveball.

And Rosa.

And Stuntman.

The lying showbiz ace gave Wally a little sneer while the clanking joker hurried to find a seat. All the comfortable spots had been taken. Wally chipped a few bricks as he plopped down on the edge of the fireplace.

If he thought a chill settled over the room when Stuntman watched him enter, the glare that Peregrine gave Simoon was worthy of the worst blizzards back home.

The cameraman that Wally had narrowly avoided crushing the previous day circled the room, panning across the faces of the assembled discards. The cameras swiveled in Peregrine’s direction as she stood.

Wally read the monitor along with her. “Hello, and welcome to all of our current and former contestants. The competition over these past ten weeks has been fierce. Alliances were forged … and broken. Challenges conquered, and failed. Today only three aces are left in the running for the one-million-dollar grand prize. The final three champions vying for the title American Hero.”