I squeezed into the back row, in the farthest and darkest corner of the huge auditorium, turning my seat into a small island of alienation. Here, under the hum of the projector and the monotonous drone of the lecturer, I methodically folded paper modules. My hands, already accustomed to this strange craft, moved automatically while my consciousness desperately tried to build a wall between itself and the surrounding reality. A lecture on the history of theater… Lord, what useless, detached-from-life and common-sense, concentrated bullshit.
I, a thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands were used to the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood, and a computer mouse, was trapped in the puny body of a snotty student. In a world where an armada of Chitauri or a purple titan with a mania for total genocide could fall on the city at any moment, I was forced to listen to talk of catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy. The absurdity was so thick and viscous that it seemed you could cut it with a knife and spread it on bread.
Around me stretched the sleepy kingdom of student apathy. Everyone existed in their own little world, only physically present in this room. The guy to the left, a typical geek in glasses and a T-shirt with a faded logo, hid behind a laptop screen. Judging by the periodic quiet snorting and twitching shoulders, he was watching some sitcom, completely ignoring the lecture. The girl next to him, with acid-pink hair and a nose piercing, was engaged in a fierce text conversation on her phone. Her fingers fluttered over the screen at such a speed that it was as if she were tapping out a Morse telegram about the end of the world. And the brute in front, whose bull neck took up half my view, was unabashedly dozing, his face covered with a thick tome, emitting a barely audible snuffle. Against this background, my quiet hobby, which produced almost no sound or smell and disturbed no one, for some reason attracted unwanted attention.
"Mr. Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us the key difference between the Stanislavski acting method and the Strasberg method?" The professor's voice, dry and creaky like an ungreased door hinge, mercilessly yanked me out of my paper meditation.
He stood at the lectern, a gray-haired man of about fifty, fit, in a sharp tweed jacket. His piercing, intelligent gaze over spectacles in a thin metal frame boded no good. He wasn't an old man, no. You could feel the old school in him, breeding, and a total lack of tolerance for slackery. And he had obviously long noticed my quiet factory for producing paper modules.
"No idea, professor," I answered in a flat, indifferent tone, purely on autopilot, not looking up from another careful fold. Only when a barely noticeable chuckle rippled through the auditorium did it hit me how bold and provocative that sounded. I slowly raised my head, meeting his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided to backpedal immediately. "Forgive me. I've been sick for the last few days and haven't attended classes, so, unfortunately, I missed this topic."
Well, yeah… Sick. With alcoholism. And I didn't lie, essentially. The World Health Organization quite officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease. And the fact that for John Thompson it was the first and, alas, last drinking bout in his short, inglorious life… those were minor details the lecturer didn't need to know.
"I see," the professor didn't look impressed by my excuse. His gaze dropped to my hands, in which rested an almost finished module. "And right now, Mr. Thompson, you are folding origami in my lecture with such diligence in order to… what? Improve fine motor skills for therapeutic purposes after your illness?"
The interrogatively, ironically raised eyebrow boded no good. I definitely liked this guy—straight as a rail, no beating around the bush or underhanded games. He clearly identified the problem and was now waiting for an equally clear, sensible answer from me, not student babble. I had to improvise completely.
"I'm making a gift for a nurse who, you could say, pulled me back from the brink," I invented a pitiful but plausible story on the fly, putting notes of sincere, unfeigned gratitude into my voice. "We talked while I was recovering, and it turned out she's into origami. So I decided to make her a kusudama as a token of appreciation. They say it can be used as a vase for dried flowers. But I am listening to your lecture, professor, don't doubt it. The last thing you were talking about was innovations in stage lighting introduced in the avant-garde theaters of Europe at the end of the 20th century. Specifically, about the work of Josef Svoboda and his concept of 'living scenography.' I can list his main productions if necessary."
John's memory, it turned out, wasn't so useless after all. Well… my first full-fledged outing into society, and I'm already lying like a rug. But hey! I'm sitting quietly, not bothering anyone, and even managing to filter information with one ear! How am I worse than these slackers openly staring at their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekly seemed satisfied. He hummed, gave me a long, studying look, as if deciding whether to continue the execution, but in the end just nodded and returned to his lecture. During the next two classes, I prudently squeezed into an even farther corner, hiding behind the broad back of one of my classmates and keeping a low profile. By the end of the school day, my modest backpack was stuffed to capacity with neat stacks of paper modules—exactly two hundred and seventy pieces, for nine full kusudamas.
Leaving the stuffy walls of the college for the sun-drenched street, I processed the information I'd gathered during the day on the go. And I wasn't talking about study materials. Why do I need "Cinema Theory" when a Michael Bay blockbuster could unfold in real time outside the window? I was interested in people. Specifically, one red-haired girl who had, to some extent, been the cause of my predecessor's untimely demise. Mary Jane Watson.
She stood at the entrance, surrounded by a retinue of girlfriends, and laughed. The life of the party, an informal leader, an alpha female in her little pride. Moderately beautiful, though much of her radiance was the credit of skillfully applied makeup hiding pale skin and freckles. Moderately sociable, moderately curvy. Overall, objectively—a solid seven and a half out of ten. I truly didn't understand why John had been so broken up over her. Though… everything is known by comparison. Against the background of gray mice and frankly unkempt girls in our year, she really looked like a Hollywood star. Но once you step onto the streets of Manhattan, you can meet a dozen girls just as good, if not better, within half an hour. Alexander, the thirty-eight-year-old man inside me, looked at her and saw not a goddess, but just a girl who knows her value all too well and skillfully uses her attractiveness.
I didn't know how much this version of MJ matched her canonical images, but in most of them, she was… an ambiguous character. Flighty, oscillating between men, often creating problems out of thin air. And what about here? I squinted, watching as she said goodbye to her friends and headed toward a black Audi, polished to a mirror shine.
Waiting impatiently for her by the car was a black-haired youth in an expensive suit. Their embrace was somehow… performative, rehearsed for an invisible audience. Her smile was dazzling, like a camera flash, but completely devoid of warmth. His hand on her waist lay possessively rather than tenderly. The kiss was quick, almost formal—a peck on the cheek. And for a split second, when Mary Jane pulled away before pulling the mask of adoration back over her face, I saw in her eyes what you can't mistake for anything else. Boredom. Plain, all-consuming, dreary female boredom. Interesting. The guy, on the other hand, looked tense, as if he were afraid she would dissolve into thin air right now. An expensive car, clothes fresh from a famous brand designer, and in his eyes—a yawning insecurity and fear of losing this bright trophy.
MJ was already reaching for the car door, but I hadn't dragged myself to this damn college for nothing.
"Mary Jane, wait a moment, please!" I called out to her, picking up my pace slightly and trying to keep my voice sounding as friendly and harmless as possible.
She turned, and a look of polite confusion flashed across her face. She clearly didn't remember me.
"Um… Sorry, do we know each other?"
"Thompson. John Thompson, we're in the same theater history group," I introduced myself. "Could you tell me where to find a good acting tutor? You're the best in the year; you surely know someone capable."
"Ah, right! Thompson! You're the one who was folding origami for the nurse today!" she exclaimed with a sudden, somewhat forced enthusiasm. "As for a tutor, I can recommend one, but he charges a lot. Take down the number."
To hell with the number of some damn tutor! Моя goal was standing a meter away from her, scowling.
"Yeah, thanks, and let me have your number too, just in case," I added as casually as possible. "In case I can't afford him, at least I can consult you as an expert. It's just that I won't be able to attend college for the next few days; I've got things to do."
"Ahem, Mary Jane, we have to go," oh, finally! The ice had broken. Jealousy is an excellent catalyst. The guy stepped closer, authoritatively placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, and you are?" I turned to him, feigning genuine ignorance. Since he had intruded on our dialogue, that gave me every right to start a dialogue with him.
"I'm her boyfriend," he muttered, frowning slightly. I saw his gaze slide evaluatively over my worn-out sweatshirt and cheap jeans, and he relaxed immediately. He saw no threat in the thin, unremarkable student.
"Doesn't the boyfriend have a name?" I extended my hand with the most disarming smile possible. "I'm John Thompson, classmate. Though you already heard that."
"Harry Osborn," he replied, reluctantly shaking my hand. His grip was weak, limp, like a fish.
"Oh, Osborn? You're probably tired of hearing this, but… you wouldn't happen to be the son of that Norman Osborn? The founder of Oscorp?"
"You have no idea how tired," a note of genuine, unfeigned weariness and bitterness slipped into his voice. "I might complain about life, but MJ and I are really in a hurry. Let her just give you the tutor's number, and we'll be off."
The mission was successfully completed. I had received confirmation. It really was Harry Osborn. Mary Jane was, with 99% probability, with him because of money and status. And Harry himself was a typical "golden boy" with a bunch of complexes, desperately trying to escape the shadow of his powerful father. This information would definitely not be redundant.
As I walked toward my hovel, the initial satisfaction of the successfully conducted "operation" was replaced by a cold, sticky feeling of anxiety. It's one thing to know you're in the Marvel world. It's another to personally shake the hand of a man whose fate is to become one of the most famous supervillains in this city. Harry Osborn. In some versions, the Green Goblin, in others, just the Goblin...
Fragments of comics and movies surfaced in my head. A glider, pumpkin bombs, insane laughter, and superhuman physical parameters. And Norman Osborn—his father. The first and most dangerous Goblin. A man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals. I had just stepped into their private space. Even for a moment, even under the most innocent pretext. But what if this short conversation was noticed? What if Norman is paranoid and tracks all his son's contacts? Nonsense, of course, and here the paranoia is likely mine. To them, I am a nobody, a fly on the windshield. But the fact remains… I am no longer just an observer; I am now partially a participant in this global game. And the players here are figures of a completely different caliber.
Suddenly, my plan seemed like the height of idiocy. Why did I get involved? To find out what was already obvious? To make sure it was that specific Harry? I needed to stay as far away from these people as possible. Forget about Mary Jane, about the Osborns, about all these characters with tragic and dangerous fates. I needed to crawl into my hole and quietly craft until I became strong enough not to fear every rustle. But alas, it was too late. Contact had been made. And deep in my soul, a vile worm of fear stirred: what if this contact has consequences?
Returning to my cubicle under these heavy thoughts, I assembled the nine remaining kusudamas like on a conveyor belt in an hour, bringing my balance to the coveted 50 OP. Exactly halfway there. But what next? I had no desire to deal with higher-complexity origami, which meant I had to create something else. Something real. Something my hands remember. Но for that, I needed materials and tools. And for those—money.
I opened the laptop. Online banking met me with a harsh reality: $17.35. Seventeen dollars. Plus a ten-dollar bill and a handful of change in my pocket. That was my entire capital. You couldn't even buy food for a couple of days with that, let alone crafting materials. The realization of my own poverty hit me hard. In my past life, I was self-sufficient. I was never rich, but I always had money for living and for my favorite work. And here… I was at rock bottom.
"It revolts me just thinking about it, but it looks like I'll have to make a deal with the devil…" I muttered, pulling on my only decent pair of sneakers.
The New York Central Bank sign on the facade of the luxurious building in Manhattan shone with fake gold and pressed down with its monumentality. Inside, it was even worse: cold, echoing marble, the quiet whisper of air conditioners, and clerks in expensive suits with the forced smiles of sharks. In my past life, I hated loans. And John, judging by his memories of his foster mother who was forever in debt, shared this dislike. For both of us, a bank was a temple of usury, a place where people's dreams are taken away, wrapped in pretty words about "opportunities."
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I approached the counter. A young guy in an ivory-perfect suit, with every hair in place, lit up as if I'd offered him eternal life upon hearing my request for a credit card. He rattled on about "incredible opportunities," "interest-free periods," and "flexible terms," barely paying attention to my status as an unemployed orphan student. However, the latter circumstance made him temper his enthusiasm a bit, but he still offered a maximum monthly limit on the card of two thousand dollars. Two thousand. Just like that. To a penniless student.
"What's the catch?" drummed in my head. Back home, such generosity would hide draconian interest rates and ten pages of fine print with traps. Но here… the interest was only 7% APR. By American standards—predatory. By mine… laughably low. I nodded silently, signing the papers. This system, where money was handed out so easily, seemed corrupt and dangerous to me. But right now, I had no choice.
Yes, I hated it. I was used to living within my means. Earning, saving, investing in what was truly necessary. Debt for me had always been synonymous with slavery. And now I was voluntarily putting these shackles on myself. The hand holding the pen trembled slightly. Everything inside me protested. It was wrong; it was against all my principles. But then I remembered the empty fridge, the lack of basic materials and tools, and my helplessness. Principles are a luxury allowed to those who have a choice. I don't have one now. In any case, this isn't a loan for a new iPhone or trendy clothes. It's an investment. An investment in my survival and my future. I pressed down hard on the pen, leaving my new, alien signature on the paper. The deal with the devil was struck.
Leaving the cold marble hell with a piece of plastic in my pocket, I felt a mixture of disgust and relief. I headed straight for a hardware superstore. The plan was simple: buy a little of everything. Wooden blocks, PVC pipes for an eventual Potato Cannon, a basic set of hand tools. I needed to determine the value of different types of crafts for the system.
On the way, I took out my phone and dialed the number of Billy, the owner of the hot dog stand where John worked two-on, two-off, and the next shift was supposed to start tomorrow.
"Billy, hi, it's John. Listen, I've fallen seriously ill. The doctor said I need a couple of weeks of bed rest. I have no idea when I'll be able to come in. Yeah, it's a real shame. As soon as I can."
I ended the call and put the phone away. The low-paying job and the useless college… could wait. The next few days I intended to devote exclusively to myself and my new, strange power. My craft.