DON'T HATE THE PLAYER
This story takes place in Season 3, between 'Gus Walks Into a Bank' and 'Christmas Joy'.
-x0x-
Chapter One
"Since when did winning become so important?"
(From: 'Speed Racer')
It was the name of the place that first caught Shawn's attention, since he was a fan of both Tom Hanks and movies from the eighties.
He was also a student of irony, though he generally liked to check with Gus that he understood the application. This time, even without his friend to back him up, he knew he had it right. The name was a joke. It had to be.
The Money Pit was miles away from State Street and the brighter, cleaner, public face of Santa Barbara. Compared to the popular arcades (Jackpot Jimmy's and the Wonderdome), it was dark and shabby, like a seedy bar or a disreputable pawn shop. For once, that suited Shawn. In his current state – exhaustion – he was looking for a place to pass the time; a low-key distraction. A hole. Counting sheep while tangled up in sweaty bedsheets was a bore and Shawn objected to boredom more than tassels, pointy things, raccoons… and cocky SWAT guys. Santa Barbara was no Las Vegas, where staying up all night was something people paid good money for (and generally regretted). Here, life was casual, easy; a beach, not a party. Yet there was still fun to be had in the wee small hours if you knew where to look – or wandered there by accident.
In Shawn's case, it was the latter.
He had drifted up and down so many streets, lost in thought, that he wasn't entirely sure he could find the way home to his latest rental (formerly Build-a-Bear). This was an unfamiliar part of town and that surprised him. Random, quirky storefronts huddled together, seeking comfort in close proximity; a Cosmic Tattoo Parlour; Sal-O-Pets (which seemed to be some kind of costume shop for animals); the Shoes Brothers ('groanworthy puns are our speciality', Shawn thought); and last, but not least, ¡Hola Wontons! – which sounded both confusing and delicious. Pulling out his phone, he took a snapshot of the menu on the wall for future reference.
This side of midnight, everything was closed except for the Money Pit, which probably should have told Shawn all he needed to know. But Crockett's Theme from Miami Vice was spilling out through the cracks in the windowpanes and so he elected not to judge the ugly dive by its flickering neon sign and stale aroma. Instead, he pressed his nose against the dirty glass (with some misgivings) and suddenly his eyes grew wide.
Impossible. No way! It couldn't be…
"Grid Lord," he breathed with reverence. His heart was thumping. Gold. He had struck retro gold, right here on the not-so-mean back streets of Santa Barbara. This was a grade 'A' bucket list moment and Shawn didn't waste any time. He burst through the door like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Hi there," he said to the startled patrons scattered around the room. "Shawn Spencer, psychic gamer. Don't mind me – I'm on a date with destiny."
"Liar," said a slurred voice. "Sat'day's her day off. Common knowl'dge."
Shawn pulled a face at the grizzled old man, who was standing in front of a vintage game (if 'vintage' meant crappy) called Shoot-em-up Cowpoke, plastic rifle at the ready.
"Common. Lovely. Thanks for that. But what I really meant was…"
"Zip it, sonny. I don't care," said the wannabe gunslinger, as his money kicked in and the tasteless fun began.
Unwilling to trade his buzz of excitement for a pointless argument with a random, toothless stranger, Shawn took a deep breath and chose the high road, leaving the cowpoke to his pixilated prey. Instead, he stepped up to the game that had summoned him here with full-on, Zoltar-level eighties magic. "We meet again," he whispered, stroking it lovingly…
When Shawn was seven and the Wonderdome was shiny and new, he went there on a weekly basis, pockets jingling with every dime he could 'borrow' from Gus or earn by half-assing chores for his gullible neighbours. The arcade was a magical place for a sharp kid like Shawn, full of junk food, highly addictive games and all manner of interesting things to observe. Sometimes Gus went with him and sometimes he went on his own, though he never admitted as much to his father, who would have forbidden it faster than Shawn could say Galaga.
Grid Lord was the game that kept on calling him back. Over the months, he must have fed an absolute fortune into its hungry maw, determined to chase that elusive dream – the top of the leader board. Shawn couldn't explain, then or now, why it mattered so much. The premise was basic; a rip-off of Space Invaders, which meant that it had to be winnable – right? Gus said 'no', fairly shocked at the money his friend was wasting, but Shawn refused to quit. Even at seven years old, when he set his heart on something far beyond his reach, he was relentless.
The king of the board was an unknown player named Kud0s, whose stratospheric score of 110, 510 beat Shawn's best attempt by a cool 500 points – until that fateful day (December 12th, 1984) when the screen went dark and the game broke down and that was the end of everything. Grid Lord was banished from the arcade floor, to be replaced by a boring old Pac Man game that Shawn had already conquered months ago. "Ooh, I'm a stupid ball with a stupid mouth and I like to eat things," the boy grumbled, kicking the heavy machine and stubbing his toes in the process. That move got him banished too, by a lanky attendant with uncommon strength for a beanpole. Somehow, it seemed fitting, like a show of solidarity.
For years, he tried and failed to find another version of the game, while Kud0s' score became a symbol in his mind for the truly unattainable…
"…until to-night." 'Grown-up' Shawn spat on his hands and rubbed them together with glee. "Our time has come at last, old friend."
He rooted around in his pockets – but all he could find was a crumpled twenty. With a 'tsk' of impatience, he left the game (glancing over his shoulder several times as though to reassure himself that it hadn't slipped back into the space-time continuum) and sidled over to the cashier's booth, where a middle-aged woman was flipping through the pages of a magazine with the longest fingernails that Shawn had ever seen outside of an X-Men movie. The name tag on her blouse said 'Mandy'. Shawn waited a moment and then cleared his throat. This situation called for a dash of Spencer charm.
"Oh Mandy," he crooned. "Well, you came and you gave without taking…"
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"Not a Manilow fan?" Shawn gave a shrug of apology and raised a finger to his temple. "Wait – I'm sensing you've heard that song many times before…"
The second eyebrow lifted. Now her lips were pursed as well.
"…and you really don't like it," Shawn surmised. This was going to be harder than he thought.
Mandy flipped the page with a violent gesture, exchanging a ridiculously blue ocean for a snowy mountain scene, complete with goats and little wooden huts.
"Okay, I get it. You'd rather be anywhere else but here."
She fixed him with her dark gaze and he pulled a wry face. At the same time, Crockett's Theme morphed into Paranoimia by the Art of Noise – which felt oddly appropriate.
"Sure. Who wouldn't, right? This place is a dive." Shawn glanced over his shoulder again, just in time to see a young man hovering in the vicinity of 'his' game. "Got change for a twenty, Mandilicious?" he said hastily.
Mandy pointed to her left with one long fingernail. You want change, you buy a ticket, said a sloppily written sign, perched on a table next to a jumble of items that appeared to be on their way out to the trash.
"A ticket for what?" Shawn wondered out loud. This was beginning to feel distinctly creepy. Was he about to trade away his soul for a handful of coins and the lure of a childhood dream? Wait – how did Jeff Bridges get sucked into the game in Tron…?
Shawn swallowed nervously. Then he took a closer look at the random collection of items. Some bath salts. Three boxes of chocolates. A bottle of cheap champagne. A squishable pug toy that Jules would adore…
"Oh," he exclaimed, feeling foolish. "A raffle. Of course."
Mandy reached out and snatched the twenty from his fingers with such pick-pockety flair that he never even felt it leave. One minute it was there, safe and sound, and the next she was stuffing it into an old pickle jar full of money. Sliding a piece of paper under Shawn's nose, she jabbed it with her nails. The little clicking sound they made was ominous.
"Pen?" he said meekly.
She rolled it over to him and went back to her magazine. Shawn wasn't fooled, though. He could see her scrutinising his every move through her fake lashes.
"You know, Mandy," he mused as he filled in his best friend's name and contact details, "I think you're wasted in this line of work. Ever consider… oh, I don't know. Prison guard? Manicured ninja? The new Lady Deathstrike?" Handing back the form, he flashed her a winning smile. "There you go. Can I have my change now, please? Minus the cost of a ticket, of course."
He held out an upturned palm and she filled it with coins. He wasn't brave enough to count them – but he did hum a few more bars of her theme song under his breath as he turned away, feeling far more solvent than he had a few moments ago. Illogical but true. Coins always seemed more real than notes. Shawn curled his fingers around them happily, liking their shininess and their weight.
His good mood soon faded, however. The kid who was lurking had come to a decision. His hand was at the slot. The money was about to drop.
"That's my game," Shawn protested.
"Oh, really?" The skinny young man was dressed in a stereotypical black hoodie and didn't even bother to look round at Shawn as he fed his coin into the game. "I don't see your name on it."
"Not yet. But you will. That's the plan, Jack."
"Get a new plan. Or a life."
The kid's tone was careless and his manner was lazy but his hands were already moving on the buttons with such accuracy and speed that Shawn was astonished.
"Damn," he breathed. "You're good."
"Guess so," the boy said nonchalantly, blasting his way through a regiment of tiny robots armed with lasers.
"It's addictive, right? How many times?" Shawn grinned the grin of a man who already knew the answer.
"I dunno."
"Mm hm. I've been there, buddy." He hesitated for a moment. "What… um, what's your high score?"
"I dunno," the boy repeated. Shawn could tell that he was lying. "Look, I'm busy, okay? Go bother Cactus Jack over there if you feel you gotta talk to someone."
Shawn clutched at his chest, in the general vicinity of his heart (he hoped). "Ouch. That hurts. Do I really seem that desperate?"
"Yep," said the boy as the game moved up a level.
"Mean. But fair." Shawn leaned in. "You are crushing those death baubles."
"Battle spheres," the boy corrected. A note of pride was creeping into his voice.
"I've heard it both ways."
"Where?" said the boy. "In your ancient past?"
"Ha ha. But… actually, yes. Hey, look out for…! Okay, no, you got it." Shawn could feel his own adrenaline rising as he watched the stranger power through the game. "You do know the Doomwalkers are up next, right? What's your strategy?"
"Focus," the boy said pointedly.
"Sure. I get that."
"Which is kind of hard to manage with you breathing down my neck."
"Then I won't breathe. I promise." Shawn's hands were clenched together. Not even Mandy and her adamantium nails could have torn him away right now. Past and present were merging. The hands on the console could have been – should have been – his. His heart was beating so quickly, it threatened to burst right through his rib cage…
Bzzzt, went the phone in his pocket. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
I put it on 'silent'? That was a first. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen reluctantly.
Dammit.
"Lassie. You do know what time it is, right?" he grumbled, stepping backwards after all (though not too far). "And don't you dare say 'Justice never sleeps'. You're better than that, detective, and you know it… Case? What case?" He paused, and a hopeful smile danced on his lips. "Hang on. Did Jules tell you to call me?"
"Of course not," said Lassiter dryly. Shawn could picture his expression. "That would be the Chief. Our boss. Remember her? This isn't a dating service, Spencer. This is…"
"…a call to arms," Shawn agreed swiftly. "I'll be there with bells on, Lassie Face. And a liberal dash of Axe for men. Just one more question…"
"Make it quick. I'm hanging up in ten… nine…"
"Wait – no! Just tell me; where are you? And… this'll sound crazy, I know, but… where am I?"
"You're the psychic, Spencer. Isn't that what you're always telling us?" Lassiter's glee was unmistakeable. "Figure it out. Ask the spirits to turn on their GPS. And don't be late. Detective O'Hara and I would be lost without your invaluable services."
"You do know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, right?" Shawn grumbled.
"Two… one. Sorry, Spencer. Gotta go."
Shawn glared at his phone as the call ended. "Oh, it is on," he told the absent detective. "On like Donkey Kong…"
"Bad luck, man," said the kid, who had clearly been listening. "Losing the chance to relive your past and suck at the game all over again."
"Wrong. So wrong, you couldn't be wronger. I'll be back." Shawn's Arnie impression was spot on, and so was his promise. "Tomorrow night. Then we'll see who sucks, and who's the ultimate Grid Lord. Unless, you know, you're grounded by your mommy for staying out way past your bedtime, little boy."
"Says the dumbass who hasn't a clue where he is right now. Good luck finding this place again."
"I'm a psychic, Jack. I don't need luck," was Shawn's truculent parting shot as he left the arcade - and his deep disappointment - and stepped out into the darkness again.
I just need Google Maps – and Buzz McNab.