I slunk to the back row, the farthest and darkest corner of the huge auditorium, turning my seat into a tiny island of isolation. 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 on autopilot while my consciousness desperately tried to build a wall between itself and the surrounding reality. Lecture on theater history… Lord, what useless, life-detached, concentrated bullshit.
Me, a thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands were used to the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood, and a computer mouse, trapped in the puny body of a snot-nosed student. In a world where at any moment an armada of Chitauri or a purple titan with a total genocide mania could descend on the city, I'm forced to listen about catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy. The absurdity was so thick and viscous it could be cut with a knife and spread on bread.
Around me stretched the sleepy kingdom of student apathy. Everyone existed in their own little world, only physically present in the room. The guy to my left, typical geek in glasses and a faded-logo T-shirt, hid behind his laptop screen. Judging by the occasional quiet snorts and trembling shoulders, he was watching some sitcom, completely ignoring the lecture. The girl next to him, with acid-pink hair and a nose piercing, waged furious correspondence on her phone. Her fingers fluttered over the screen like she was tapping out a Morse code telegram about the end of the world. And the hulk in front, whose bull neck blocked half my view, shamelessly dozed, covering his face with a thick tome and emitting barely audible snores. Against this backdrop my quiet, harmless hobby, producing neither sound nor smell somehow attracted unwanted attention.
"Mr. Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us the key difference between Stanislavsky's acting method and Strasberg's method?" The lecturer's voice, dry and creaky like an unoiled door hinge, mercilessly tore me from paper meditation.
He stood at the lectern, gray-haired man about fifty, trim, in a strict tweed jacket. His piercing, intelligent gaze over thin metal-rimmed glasses promised nothing good. He wasn't old, no. There was an old-school pedigree in him, and zero tolerance for slacking. And he'd clearly long ago clocked my quiet paper module factory.
"No idea, professor," I answered evenly, indifferently, on autopilot, without looking up from the next neat fold. And only when a barely noticeable chuckle rippled through the auditorium did I realize how cocky and challenging it sounded. I slowly raised my head, meeting his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided to urgently backpedal. "Sorry. I've been sick the last few days and missed classes, so unfortunately I missed that topic."
Yeah… Sick. With alcoholism. And I wasn't even lying, technically. The World Health Organization officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease. And the fact that for John Thompson it was his first and, alas, last bender in his short, inglorious life… that was an insignificant detail the lecturer didn't need to know.
"Clear," the professor didn't look impressed with my excuse. His gaze dropped to my hands cradling an almost-finished module. "And right now, Mr. Thompson, you're so diligently folding origami in my lecture to… what? Improve fine motor skills for therapeutic purposes after illness?"
The quizzically ironic raised eyebrow promised nothing good. This guy I definitely liked—straight as a rail, no detours or underhanded games. He'd clearly marked the problem and now awaited an equally clear, sensible answer from me, not student babble. Had to improvise full throttle.
"Making a gift for the nurse who practically pulled me back from the other side," I invented on the fly a pitiful but plausible story, lacing my voice with notes of sincere, genuine gratitude. "We got talking while I was bedridden, and turns out she's into origami. So decided to make her a kusudama as thanks. They say it can be used as a vase for dried flowers. But I'm listening to your lecture, professor, no doubt. The last thing you mentioned was innovations in stage lighting introduced in avant-garde European theaters at the end of the 20th century. Specifically, the work of Josef Svoboda and his concept of 'living scenography.' I can list his major productions if needed."
John's memory, it turned out, wasn't so useless after all. Huh… First full-fledged social outing, and I'm already lying like a rug. But hey! I'm sitting quietly, not bothering anyone, and even managing to filter information with half an ear! How am I worse than these morons openly staring at their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekley seemed satisfied. He grunted, gave me a long, studying look as if deciding whether to continue the execution, but eventually just nodded and returned to his lecture. On the next two classes I prudently hunkered even farther back, hiding behind the broad back of a classmate and not drawing attention. By the end of the school day my modest backpack was stuffed to bursting with neat stacks of paper modules—exactly two hundred seventy, for nine full kusudamas.
Stepping out of the stuffy college walls onto the sun-flooded street, I on the go processed the information gained that day. And we're not talking about class material. What do I care about "cinematography theory" when outside the window a Michael Bay blockbuster could unfold in real time? I was interested in people. Specifically, one redheaded girl who in a way caused the untimely demise of my predecessor. Mary Jane Watson.
She stood at the entrance, surrounded by a retinue of girlfriends, laughing. Soul of the party, informal leader, alpha female in her little pride. Moderately beautiful, though her brightness was largely thanks to skillfully applied makeup concealing pale skin and freckles. Moderately sociable, moderately curvaceous. In general, objectively—solid seven point five out of ten. I sincerely didn't understand why John pined for her so. Though… everything is known in comparison. Against the backdrop of gray mice and frankly unkempt girls from our course she really looked like a Hollywood star. But step onto Manhattan streets and in half an hour you can meet a dozen girls no worse, or even better. Alexander, the thirty-eight-year-old man inside me, looked at her and saw not a goddess, but just a girl who knew her worth too well and skillfully used 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, bouncing between men, often creating problems out of nowhere. And here? I narrowed my eyes, watching as she said goodbye to her friends and headed to a black, mirror-polished Audi.
Waiting impatiently by the car was a black-haired young man in an expensive suit. Their embrace was somehow… staged, rehearsed for an invisible audience. Her smile was dazzling like a camera flash, but didn't warm at all. His hand on her waist lay more possessively than tenderly. The kiss was quick, almost formal, a peck on the cheek. And for a fraction of a second, when Mary Jane pulled away before plastering the mask of adoration back on, I saw in her eyes what you can't mistake for anything. Boredom. Ordinary, all-consuming, dreary female boredom. Interesting. The guy, on the contrary, looked tense, as if afraid she'd dissolve into thin air any second. Expensive car, clothes off the rack from a famous brand, and in his gaze—a gaping uncertainty and fear of losing this bright trophy.
MJ was already reaching for the door handle, but I hadn't dragged myself to this damn college to leave empty-handed.
"Mary Jane, wait, please!" I called, quickening my pace and trying to make my voice sound as friendly and harmless as possible.
She turned, polite puzzlement flashing across her face. She clearly didn't remember me.
"Uh… 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 coach? You're the best in the year, you must know someone decent."
"Ah, yeah, sure! Thompson! You're the one folding origami for the nurse today!" she exclaimed with sudden, slightly overplayed enthusiasm. "As for a coach, I can recommend one, but he charges a lot. Write down the number."
To hell with the damn coach's number! My target stood a meter away and was frowning.
"Yeah, thanks, and could I get your number just in case," I added as casually as possible. "If I can't afford it, at least I can consult you as an expert. I won't be able to attend college the next few days, urgent business."
"Ahem, Mary Jane, we have to go," oh, finally! The ice broke. Jealousy—an excellent catalyst. The guy stepped closer, possessively placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, and you are?" I turned to him, feigning sincere ignorance. Since he'd butted into our dialogue, I had every right to start one with him.
"Her boyfriend," he muttered, frowning slightly. I saw his gaze slide appraisingly over my threadbare sweater and cheap jeans, and he relaxed instantly. He saw no threat in the scrawny, unremarkable student.
"Boyfriend's got a name, right?" I extended my hand with the most disarming smile. "I'm John Thompson, classmate. Though you heard that already."
"Harry Osborn," he answered reluctantly, shaking my hand. His grip was weak, limp, like a fish.
"Oh, Osborn? You're probably sick of hearing this, but… you're not by any chance the son of that very Norman Osborn? Founder of Oscorp?"
"You have no idea how sick," genuine, unfeigned weariness and bitterness slipped into his voice. "I'd vent about life, but MJ and I really have to run. Let her give you the coach's number and we'll go."
Mission accomplished. I got confirmation. This really was Harry Osborn. Mary Jane, with 99% probability, was with him for the money and status. And Harry himself—typical "golden boy" with a pile of complexes, desperately trying to escape his powerful father's shadow. This information would definitely come in handy.
While walking toward my dump, the initial satisfaction from the successful "operation" gave way to a cold, sticky feeling of anxiety. One thing was knowing you're in the Marvel world. Another—personally shaking hands with a man whose fate is to become one of the city's most famous supervillains. Harry Osborn. In some versions—Green Goblin, in others just Goblin…
In my head flashed scraps of comics and movies. Glider, pumpkin bombs, maniacal laughter, and superhuman physical stats. And Norman Osborn—his father. The first and most dangerous Goblin. A man who'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. I'd just intruded into their personal space. Even if only for a moment, even under the most innocent pretext. But what if that short conversation was noticed? What if Norman's paranoid and tracks all his son's contacts? Nonsense, of course, and the paranoia's more mine. To them I'm a nobody, a gnat on the windshield. But the very fact… I'm no longer just an observer, I'm partially a participant in this global game. And the players here are figures of a completely different caliber.
Suddenly my whole venture seemed the height of idiocy. Why did I even get involved? To learn what was already obvious? To confirm it was that Harry? I should've stayed as far away from these people as possible. Forget Mary Jane, the Osborns, all these characters with tragic and dangerous fates. I should've hunkered in my hole and quietly crafted until I became strong enough not to fear every rustle. But alas, too late. Contact had occurred. And somewhere deep in my soul squirmed a vile worm of fear: what if that contact has consequences?
Returning under these heavy thoughts to my tiny apartment, I, like on an assembly line, in an hour assembled the remaining nine kusudamas and brought my balance to the coveted 50 OP. Exactly halfway. But what next? I had no burning desire to mess with higher-complexity origami, which meant I had to create something else. Something real. Something my hands remember. But for that I needed materials and tools. And for them—money.
I opened the laptop. Online banking greeted me with cruel reality: $17.35. Seventeen dollars. Plus a ten and some change in my pocket. That was my entire capital. You couldn't buy materials for crafting with that, let alone food for a couple days. Realizing my own poverty hit like a gut punch. In my past life I was self-sufficient. I was never rich, but always had money for life and my favorite hobby. And here… I was at rock bottom.
"It disgusts me even to think about it, but looks like I'll have to make a deal with the devil…" I muttered, pulling on my only decent sneakers.
The sign "New York Central Bank" on the facade of the luxurious building in Manhattan shone with fake gold and crushed with its monumentality. Inside it was even worse: cold echoing marble, quiet hum of air conditioners, and clerks in expensive suits with shark smiles. In my past life I hated loans. And John, judging by memories of his foster mother who was always in debt, shared that hatred. For both of us the bank was a temple of usury, where people's dreams were taken away, wrapped in pretty words about "opportunities."
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I approached the counter. A young guy in a perfectly pressed suit, hair perfect, listened to my request for a credit card and beamed as if I'd offered him eternal life. He babbled about "incredible opportunities," "grace period," and "flexible terms," barely paying attention to my status as an unemployed orphan student. Though the latter made him temper his zeal a bit, he still offered the maximum monthly limit of two thousand dollars. Two thousand. Just like that. To a broke student.
"What's the catch?" pounded in my head. Back home such generosity would hide draconian interest and ten pages of fine print with traps. But here… The rate was only 7% per annum. By American standards—robbery. By mine… laughably low. I silently nodded, signing the papers. This system where money was handed out so easily seemed perverse and dangerous. But right now I had no choice.
Yes, I hated it. I was used to living within my means. Earning, saving, investing in what I really needed. Debt for me was synonymous with slavery. And here I was voluntarily putting on these shackles. The hand holding the pen trembled slightly. Inside everything protested. This was wrong, 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 for those with a choice. I don't have one right now. In any case this isn't a loan for a new iPhone or trendy clothes. This is an investment. An investment in my survival and future. I pressed hard on the pen, leaving my new, alien signature on the paper. Deal with the devil concluded.
Leaving the cold marble hell with a piece of plastic in my pocket, I felt a mix of disgust and relief. I headed straight to the hardware megastore. The plan was simple: buy a little of everything. Wooden bars, PVC pipes for a conditional Potato Cannon, basic set of hand tools. Needed to determine the value of different kinds of craft for the system.
On the way I pulled out my phone and dialed Billy, owner of the hot-dog stand where John worked two days on, two off, and the next shift was supposed to start tomorrow.
"Billy, hey, it's John. Listen, I got seriously sick. Doc said I need a couple weeks bed rest. No idea when I'll be back. Yeah, real shame. Soon as I can."
I ended the call and pocketed the phone. Low-paying job and useless college… can wait. The next few days I planned to devote exclusively to myself and my new, strange power. My craft.