"Hey," Jonathan said. "How's it going?"
"Pretty good," Fortune said, hauling the sacks up to the countertop." Just got a little snack food for you guys. And a new controller for the video game console. King Cobalt broke the last one."
"He gets excited, "Jonathan agreed."
"At least he's having fun, right?"
Fortune started unloading the food, stocking up the refrigerator and pantry.
"How's it going?" Jonathan asked.
"What?"
"The show. You know, the next challenge. The teams."
Curveball, he didn't say.
"I think things are going pretty well," Fortune said." They don't really let me in on much. Just do this, get that. But Peregrine seems happy with things. And Berman's as happy as he ever gets."
"Berman?"
"Network guy," Fortune said." He was at the Chateau Marmont. Armani suit."
"Twentysomething, visibly without conscience, hitting on all the women in descending order by cup size?"
"That's the guy," Fortune said. "I have the honor of delivering his dry cleaning to the office next."
"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 Fortune was driving a Saturn sedan about three years out of date.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 peopleyes, the noun in question is teamand 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 I TRIUMPHANT I "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS"QUEEN
Yes, I have been voted off the team, but I still kick ass at Grand Turismo. I would say more, but King Cobalt has insisted upon a rematch, and I must rest my gaming thumbs.
92 COMMENTS | LEAVE COMMENT
Jonathan Hive
Daniel Abraham
BETTER THAN TELEVISION
"STHICOP THAT!" Joe Twitch yelled.
"It's not me," Spasm said with his shit-eating frat boy grin. "Seriously, just because I can do that doesn't mean every time you get the hiccups, it's because of me."
"Buhicllshit," Twitch said, pointing an accusing finger at the newcomer. The camera crew was eating the whole thing up with a spoon. "Just behiccause you think I moved yourhicjunk out of that room hic . . ."
The new round of losers had arrived that afternoonBlrr, who was probably as fast or faster than Twitch, but only when she was wearing her rollerblades; Spasm, who had taken the bedroom across from Joe, only to find his things transported to a smaller, more distant room (to leave the first room available for one of the women, it was assumed); and Simoon, the girl who could become a dust storm. It was just an hour past dinner, and things had already devolved into a shouting match.
Jonathan was secretly pleased. Another few days with just King Cobalt and Joe Twitch, and he would have lost his mind.
Plus which, Simoon had taken the bedroom across from his.
Jonathan sat on a couch in his bedroom, trying to avoid his fellow inmates. He could hear the argument between Twitch and Spasm coming in from the hall. In the front room, the television was yammering on about events in Egypt; antijoker rioting was causing problems, the Egyptian army was threatening to impose a curfew, and the new UN Secretary-General was using the whole thing as an opportunity to show he could handle the job. There was a special report coming up on how the new Caliph, Abdul, had ordered all his brothers strangled, and whether that was going to be a stabilizing move politically, just in time for a switch to Entertainment Tonight. King Cobalt was obsessive about watching the entertainment news on the show. Blrr was probably going around the block for the three thousandth time that hour. And Jonathan just sat there, staring off into space. He had his arms folded so that no one was likely to notice that his right thumb was missing, small green wasps crawling over his skin where it used to be.
His attention, you could say, was elsewhere.
The beach wasn't empty, even at night, but it was close. There were only a few college-age kids down by the pier, an old lady walking a dachshund with a frilly pink leash, and Drummer Boy sitting near the water with his middle pair of arms propping him up and his upper and lower pairs wrapped gently around someone. The wasp, bright green in daylight, was hard to see by the moon; the sound of its wings muffled by the surf. So it could get in pretty close.
"We probably shouldn't be here. You know. Like this," she said. "We're enemies, after all."
Jonathan recognized the voice: the woman from Team Spades who pulled cards from a Mexican tarot deck and got a different power with each draw. Rosa Loteria. That was her name.
"Whatever," Drummer Boy said. "It's just a game."
"I guess," Rosa said. "They're going to get rid of me. So then it won't matter, right?"
"Why you think they'd lose you?"
"They don't like me," she said. "Especially Cleopatra. She finds out I'm out with you . . ."