Issue #1
New World Man
I looked down at the cards on the table, then at the ones in my hand. Then I looked over at Maya. "Really?"
Maya Duvall, my foster sister and more or less only friend in the world, grinned, leaning casually in her chair as she shuffled the cards in her hand. "Maaaaaaybe."
I huffed and looked down at my hand again. I squinted down at the table. "Really?"
"Uh huh," said Maya with a brilliant smile.
"Did you seriously just put a Time Warp on a Panoptic Mirror?" I asked incredulously.
"I sure did!" Maya gloated, pointing down at the table. "See? It's right there."
"I don't think I want to play anymore," I sighed, dropping my cards on the table.
"Good. Because you don't get to!" Maya went through all her gloating motions. "Untap...take an extra turn...pass the turn! Untap...take an extra turn...pass the turn!"
"And to think I was the one who taught you how to play Magic," I muttered as I swept all my cards together and set about shuffling my deck.
"You were the one who wanted to spend more time together!" Maya teased. Then she glanced at her phone. "Oh, crap. Come on, we can't miss the bus again."
The two of us swiftly gathered up our backpacks and made our way out, past our foster father, who was doing what he always did at this early hour: snoring in his recliner in front of the TV.
We made our way down the apartment building's stairs and out into the sweltering Hell's Kitchen springtime. Perhaps New York City wasn't the best place to live for a guy uncomfortable in crowds; I seemed to be jostled and run into twice as much as the average person. Eventually I'd learned to ignore it, just like everybody else ignored me.
"Hey, did you know that Thomas Jefferson invented the swivel chair?" Maya said, poking at her phone as we walked up to the bus stop.
"Got that AP US History test today?" I asked with a smile. The bus settled into the stop with a belch of diesel.
Maya clambered on, and I followed close behind. "Oh yeah. And I am woefully unprepared."
I chuckled as I unspooled my headphones and put them in my ears. "You always say that, then you always get an A."
Living in the foster system wasn't exactly the most comfortable existence. I'd never felt like I'd belonged anywhere. Drifting from this orphanage to that foster home, never living in the same place for longer than a couple of years. The only consistent things in my world were Maya, who I'd met when Jack, our current foster father, took us in when I was ten and she was eight; and a small shoebox full of keepsakes inherited from my real father.
The contents of that shoebox more or less defined my existence. It had a set of Avengers trading cards from the 70s (almost complete; it was just missing Ant-Man), a couple of weird-looking black business cards with an embossed profile of a wolf on them, a few comic books that I read until they fell apart, and most importantly (to me, anyway) a set of four all-Rush mixtapes.
Rush's music spoke to me on a level that no other music seemed to manage. Whether it was the lyrics with enough depth to apply to my own problems as well as those described in the song or some imagined connection to my father, I wasn't sure. But those tapes got me through a lot of rough nights and long bus rides.
I'd worn out the tapes a long time ago, but I'd replicated them as playlists on every music device I'd ever owned. I watched the streets of Hell's Kitchen slide past the window as the driving bassline of one of my favorite songs thumped in my ears:
He's a rebel and a runner
He's a signal turning green
He's a restless young romantic
Wants to run the big machine…
I know I should count myself lucky that I get to go to school. Lots of kids in positions similar to mine don't have that luxury. Just getting a high school diploma will improve my life immensely, and I don't intend to stop there if I can manage it.
Doesn't make it any less fucking insufferable.
Maya and I split up, promising to meet back up for lunch. Despite her being a sophomore, most of Maya's advanced classes were utterly beyond me. She showed me one of her calc finals once and I had a headache for days. So when she scampered off to her AP US History class, I trudged to my garden-variety flavor.
"Gooooooooood morning, you reasons why I drink," said Mr. Hartnell as he walked into the class, dumping his bag and tweed jacket on the desk. He turned to the chalkboard and scrawled THE DO-NOTHING CONGRESS OF THE TRUMAN ADMINISTRATION across the top. "And before you ask, I did finally get your papers graded."
Like most lazy teachers, Hartnell just regurgitated whatever was in the previous night's assigned reading. Having already done it, I knew I wouldn't learn anything new. I started doodling randomly in my notebook as he started droning.
The most excruciating thirty-five minutes of my life (until next period, anyway) finally concluded, and we all got up to leave. As I made my way toward the door, Hartnell called after me. "Mr. Halliday? Can I see you for a second?"
Oh, hell. The only time I ever got noticed was by screwing up. Somehow. I turned back to Hartnell, trying to keep my expression neutral.
Hartnell leaned back in his chair and tapped his red pen on the stack of graded essays. "I didn't get your paper. It's twenty percent of your final grade, you know. I can give you an extension if you're willing to take a hit on the-"
"I gave you the paper, Mr. Hartnell," I snapped, unable to be polite any longer. "Maybe you should check again? This isn't the first time you've lost it."
Hartnell rolled his eyes. "I think you could give me a little more credit than that, Logan." But he leaned forward and started leafing through the stack of papers. Sure enough, there was mine, right in the middle of the stack, completely ungraded.
"Huh." Hartnell settled back in his chair, frowning at the paper in his hand. "I gotta say, I don't recall getting this from you…"
"Fancy that," I said wearily. "Can I go? I'm gonna be late."
"Yeah. Fine." Hartnell didn't look up.
I set my tray down across the table from Maya. "How was the test?"
Maya shrugged and poked at her mashed potatoes with a plastic spork. "About as well as could be expected. Teacher keeps bugging me about getting my IQ tested."
I nodded vigorously as I pried open my carton of milk. "I really think you should."
"But whyyyyyyy?" whined Maya, in a parody of a childish tantrum that made me snort into my milk. "You know how much I hate standardized tests! Besides, it's just a number. We already know how smart I am."
I shrugged one shoulder. "True, but I bet you'll get all sorts of scholarships and whatnot if you're a certified smarty-pants."
Maya rolled her eyes. "I should get some business cards. 'Maya Duvall: Certified Smarty-Pants.'"
"MAYA!" called a male voice from across the cafeteria.
Maya hung her head, black curls shrouding her face. "Oh, hell…"
A tall, blonde, Aryan specimen in a letterman jacket trotted over to our table. "There you are, baby! I thought I told you to come sit with me for lunch? I want you to meet the boys!"
"Bobby, for the last time, I'm not interested," Maya spat, without looking the kid in the eye.
"C'mon, what do I gotta do? I'm being a perfect gentleman here!" Bobby leaned closer over Maya, while she tried to make herself as small as possible.
"Hey, buddy," I said lowly. The anger in my voice startled even me, but I was too in the moment to care. "The lady said back off."
Bobby glanced over at me and blinked several times, as if only just now realizing I was there. "And who the hell are you, pal? I'm trying to have a conversation."
"Bobby! You gotta come see what Chuck's doing!" called a voice from across the room.
Bobby hung his head and sighed. "You know what? Forget it. Catch you later, Maya." He winked at her and mercifully left.
As soon as he was gone, I leaned forward and whispered to Maya. "Who the hemorrhaging fuck is that?"
Maya shrugged a shoulder, brushing her hair back out of her face before she spoke. "Just...some twerp on the basketball team. We have to share the gym with them during volleyball practice, but all they do is whistle at us and make terrible innuendo."
"How long has he been harassing you?" I asked. My focus shifted to Bobby's retreating back as a weird sort of tunnel vision settled over me.
"A few weeks. Almost a month."
"You should talk to someone about it. The principal. Your coach. Somebody."
Maya's voice sounded like it came from some distance away. "And they'll do what, exactly?" she spluttered, face red and contorted in frustration. "He hasn't actually done anything except talk. They'll tell him to stop, he won't, nothing happens!" Then she paused. "Logan...what are you doing with that?" She pointed at my hand.
One quick throw to the back of the neck. Enough force goes neatly through the brainstem. Plop. Dead. said a voice in my head, not entirely my own, but not entirely distinct.
I blinked and looked down at my hand. Somehow I'd started twirling my spork in my hand like a dart. "I...sorry. Guess I'm just a little jittery today."
"Uh huh…" said Maya slowly. She shoved her empty tray to the side and fished in her backpack for her Magic cards. "You brought your deck, right?"
For the rest of the day, I found it difficult to focus. Whenever my mind wandered, I found myself drifting into that weird tunnel vision again, with the not-quite-my-voice speaking in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.
I bent to tie my shoe in front of my locker. Makes a serviceable garrote. Lace it with piano wire before tomorrow morning.
A burly football player shouldered his way past me, in a hurry to get down the stairs. Bears all his weight on the back foot. Quick jab to the side of the knee, he goes down the stairs head first. For all anybody knows, an accident.
I put a dollar in the vending machine, but my bag of Skittles got caught on the loop. Plastic pane like this breaks most easily on the edge, between corners. Breaks into shards, makes good throwing knives.
2:45 couldn't come fast enough. I hurriedly piled my books into my backpack and went to find Maya for the quick jog to make the 3:00 bus back to Hell's Kitchen.
I found her huddled against her locker with that Bobby kid looming over her. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he kept stepping closer to her as she shrunk away. She tried to walk past him, but he grabbed her wrist and forcefully pushed her back against the locker.
For a split second, Maya was no longer the pretty, bright-eyed genius she'd grown into. She was a little girl again, flinching anytime someone tried to touch her. It took her years to open up after what she'd experienced. This greedy, entitled jock was closing her off again.
The tunnel vision settled over me again, centered around Bobby's smug prick face. Typical swaggering alpha type. Lethal force unnecessary. One good punch…
I dropped my backpack on the floor and set off down the hallway towards them. I could faintly hear Bobby over the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Don't you walk away when we're fucking talking, you little -" I tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and opened his mouth to crack wise. Before he got the chance, I punched him in the nose as hard as I possibly could.
I said a good punch, dammit.
Bobby recoiled away from me, hands on his face as blood spurted from his nostrils. The tunnel vision abruptly faded as pain radiated through my hand. It took me by such surprise that I stumbled, briefly slumping against the locker next to Maya.
Maya stared at me like a deer in headlights. "What are you-"
"You son of a bitch!" roared Bobby around his broken nose. "I am gonna fucking kill you!"
I swore and shook out my throbbing hand. "I should go," I told Maya, then took off running down the hallway. The foreign sense of purpose and instinct that came with the tunnel vision was gone, replaced by sweat and panic.
I skidded around the corner, running for dear life down the empty hallways. Even as I wheezed and kept running, I knew it was futile. Even if Bobby didn't make good on his promise to kill me, I was sure his teammates would. Without thinking I made a hard right into the men's' bathroom, moments before Bobby came around the corner just down the hallway. I was faster than I thought.
Of course none of the stalls had doors. Nowhere to hide. I was in for it now. I braced myself against the wall, suddenly wishing to be ignored like I always was.
"I'm not here," I whispered hoarsely. I screwed my eyes shut, as if wishing might make it so. "You can't see me. You can't see me. I'm not here."
I watched the door to the bathroom open. Bobby ran in, all but frothing at the mouth. His blonde hair was disheveled, his letterman jacket askew. Blood still trickled from his nose. But he didn't immediately run over to beat the tar out of me.
He paused in the middle of the room, frowning. He glanced into each stall, then spun around back to the door. He slowly turned, taking in the entire room. I watched his eyes rake directly over me, without any sign of recognition.
"Shit!" he spluttered under his breath, and left the bathroom.
He won't be back. We've cowed him. But his type doesn't handle fear well. He's going to lash out. Watch him.
I slid down the wall to a sitting position, absentmindedly cradling my throbbing hand. So that was it. There really was something going on. I wasn't just unlucky, I was…
Shit. For all I knew, Bobby was going right back to harassing Maya. I hurriedly got back up and jogged down the hallway towards her locker.
But she was long gone. So, it seemed, was Bobby. I looked around for a minute. "Maya?" I called out. Nothing but the echo of the empty hallway replied.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a text from Maya: Hurry up. You're gonna miss the bus.
"Fuck," I spat, and ran to get my backpack and head out the door.
I don't know how I found the energy to keep running, but I did. I ran through the crowd, continuously jostled and bumped. I made it to the bus stop just in time to watch it drive away. I could faintly see the back of Maya's head sitting in the rearmost seat.
I collapsed onto the bench at the stop, panting. The next bus wasn't arriving for another three hours, but it would take me even longer to walk home from here. I could only hope that Bobby and his cronies didn't show up and jump me while I waited.
I'd only been waiting for about twenty minutes when a glossy black SUV rolled up to the stop. The passenger side window buzzed down, and a gruff male voice wafted out. "You Logan Halliday?"
I probably shouldn't have said anything. After the day I'd had, the last thing I needed was more harassment. But I was too startled and exhausted to come up with a lie. "Uh...yeah?"
"Get in the car."
Puzzled, I got up to take a closer look at the driver. He was a tall, well-built man in his late thirties or early forties. Everything from his hair to his boots screamed military high-and-tight. He wore all black: black shirt, black windbreaker, black fatigues, black combat boots. He observed me coolly, with no expression on his face.
"Get in the car," he repeated, a little urgency creeping into his tone.
"Do I know you?" I asked stupidly.
"No." His eyes flashed with annoyance. Something told me bad things happened when this man got annoyed. "Now get. In the car."
I started slowly backing away, hands in the air. "Look, if you think I'm gonna drive off with some stranger just because he asks me to…"
"Don't make this more of a pain in the ass than it already is, kid," said the man with a heavy sigh. He lifted his coat away from his chest, revealing the well-polished butt of a pistol nestled in a shoulder holster. "Get in the fucking car. Now."
Maybe I could still get away. Who knows how long it would take him to draw and fire -
That's a Spetznaz-issue breakaway holster. He'll have that gun out and in your face in less than two seconds.
The man dropped his coat and settled his hands back on the wheel. "Come on, kid. It's about your dad."
Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for several long, silent seconds.
I got in the car.
