Don't Read the Comments

by Eric Smith

  He squints at the phone and at me, looking skeptical.

  “Yeah, I don’t—”

  “Wait, wait.” I rustle in my bag and pull out my wallet, showing him my license. “See? The names match.”

  He takes his time studying my ID while I tap my foot impatiently. Finally, I say, “Look, you gotta cut me a break here. I have a panel and I won’t get to it on time to—”

  “Alright, go ahead,” he grumbles, gesturing at the entrance, clearly annoyed.

  “Thank you, thank you!” I exclaim, hustling by. “Frog is the best character, by the way!” I shout, turning around. He glances back over his shoulder, and a sliver of a smile pulls along the edges of his mouth.

  I shuffle my way into the convention building. The Javits Center in New York City is a sprawling mass of glass and marble and steel beams, and the morning sun pierces the long, open hallways that lead to the different floors and massive halls containing these events. It’s still early, so the fans aren’t yet swarming about the inside, and there are hardly any lines at the registration tables. But once everything officially opens, those lines are going to be a monster, and I would be stuck at the back, waiting with everyone else.

  The lines outside were enormous, making a slow crawl around what looked like the whole city block. I felt my heart beat wildly as I passed by some of the guys standing in that line, wondering if anyone was here for me. And not in the good way.

  I hurry up a set of stairs that has a massive sticker coating the surface, so it looks like a set of bricks from any number of Super Mario Bros. video games, and head toward the exhibition hall, where yet another security guard waves me by and into the actual convention.

  As angry as I am at this scene that I’ve tried so hard to be a part of, I can’t help but feel elated about being here. A rush of joy courses through me as I make my way down the grid-like walkways between vendor and exhibitor booths. A massive exhibit that’s practically the size of a house boasts the Sega logo, with some new games being tested out on gorgeous gigantic HD screens. There are a bundle of booths selling things along the aisle, stuffed plush recreations of various Pokémon and other bits of recognizable video game pop culture, like Pikmin and weapons from the Final Fantasy games.

  I keep an eye out for the number and letter combination that Rebekah gave me for where our booth is sitting. Well, more like a table. We’re situated somewhere near the Artist Alley, with a bundle of other speakers and indie artists exhibiting prints, dishing out autographs, and selling books and other swag.

  I edge my way past the Archaia and Boom! Studios comic booth, a large black square of an exhibit with tables surrounding it, selling a number of comic books, both video game tie-in related and not, from Adventure Time to Ladycastle. I finally spot Rebekah’s bright hair at a table situated beyond the giant cube, next to someone who looks like an illustrator and a table with what appears to be a bunch of podcasting equipment. With a flourish, Rebekah unravels something that looks like a giant blanket and starts to arrange it on the table.

  I hurry over just as she finishes smoothing it out.

  “Oh wow,” I drawl, taking a step back.

  Rebekah looks up and smiles, then moves to join me, her hands on her hips, clearly admiring her handiwork. “Not bad, right?”

  “Who designed it?” I ask. The black sheet draping over the front of the table is decorated with an Angst Armada logo, a little spaceship from Reclaim the Sun crossed with a balled-up fist, the name of our clan emblazoned over it. It’s orange and gold and furious looking, and I love everything about it.

  “Remember that player, Maggs?” Rebekah asks, grinning. “She made it. Sent it on over. Said good luck today. And that’s not all we’ve got.”

  Rebekah walks back over to the table and pulls out a box from underneath, setting it on top of the kinda-shaky table. For a place that charges so much money to exhibit, you’d think the rental furniture wouldn’t feel fit to fall apart. She opens the box and dumps the contents out onto the table.

  Pins. Hundreds and hundreds of pins.

  The beautiful enamel looks spectacular. “Angst Armada” is written in stunning golden script against a black star-filled sky on one pin. Another has an illustration of one of the Reclaim the Sun ships, blasting off, flames erupting from the thrusters on the wing and tail. There are even some patches thrown into the mix, which read an array of things, from “Space Trash” to “Blast Like a Girl.” A pin that says “Log On, Fight Back” immediately catches my eye, reminding me of that email from the Oculus publicity director. I scoop one up and pin it to my shirt.

  Then I quickly pocket one of everything else. I can’t help it—I just love all the designs Rebekah’s put together.

  “These are free for me, right?” I ask with a wink.

  Rebekah offers me a weak smile and sits down behind our little table. Compared to the podcaster and this illustrator, and with all the other exhibitors around us, our offerings look pretty sparse, but it’s still something I’m feeling way too damn proud of.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, pulling up a chair next to her. “This all looks so good. Did you get the autographs you wanted?”

  “Oh, you better believe I did.” She pulls two comics out of her bag, both shielded in plastic. There’s an old issue of Ladycastle signed by Delilah S. Dawson and the first issue of Hellcat signed by Kate Leth, which also has a few little doodles on it.

  “I got a few Adventure Times signed, too,” she says as she stows the comics again, shaking her head, her eyes set on the pins and patches on the table.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “This looks great. Why do you look like you’re beating yourself up?”

  “It’s just...” She waves her hand at the other booths, who all have huge signs and elaborate displays. “This is probably the only time we’ll ever get to do this, right?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe. You could start a channel, you know. You’ve got a lot of followers, too.”

  Rebekah gives me a look. “After everything we went through? You went through?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But we’ll see. Whatever. I’m allowed to be bummed and have conflicting feelings about this.”

  “I know.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders for a moment, then lean back, just taking everything in. The sounds of the convention floor. The people running up and down the aisles in a hurry, but everyone’s eyes alight with something. There’s a joy here, and it just vibrates in the air everywhere you look, from the vendors to the people who somehow snuck in early, to the folks working the floor on behalf of the convention center.

  It’s a building full of my people.

  And at the same time, it’s not.

  Somewhere in the mix are those who think I don’t deserve to be here. Who have made it a point to try to keep me away. To scare me away. To push me out of my favorite places, in video games, on social media, in real life.

  And to those people, I’ve got a message.

  I’m here.

  And I’m not afraid.

  24

  AARON

  “We would be able to sneak around this place a lot easier if you didn’t have that,” Ryan grumbles as I struggle to catch up with him, weaving in and out of the crowd on the convention floor. I’d been to a few conventions like this before—New York Comic Con, some smaller ones in Jersey City and Hoboken. So this isn’t my first one by any means, but it is my first time carrying a giant poster tube that’s making it hard not to crash into people.

  “I need this!” I exclaim, hurrying behind Ryan and bumping into a few cosplayers wearing outfits I don’t recognize, one with a bright white fake wingspan that would be the envy of any real-life angel. “You’ll see.”

  “It has a strap!” he shouts. “Just sling it over your back!”

  “I don’t trust it.” I hold the tube closer as I move around a group of people.
“Someone could smash against it.”

  “Fine. Do you remember where the booth is for ManaPunk?” Ryan asks, looking around. “There’s no way Jason sprung for a big display this year, that’s for damn sure. And when is D1V’s panel, again?”

  “Not sure, and the panel starts at 11:00,” I say, craning my neck to try to see anything in the swelling mobs of people. “I really can’t make out a single booth name. He’s probably with all the indie game developers.”

  “Let’s check the map on the website. Ugh, never mind,” Ryan complains, putting his phone back in his pocket. “There’s no service in here. Of course there isn’t. Look at all these people. Come on, let’s go bug one of the information people—”

  And then I see it.

  “There!” I point toward another row, almost dropping the tube. “See?”

  A few rows away, the ManaPunk logo pops up above a bunch of other little booths, a few indie developers’ logos surrounding it. I can see Jason there with Laura, excitedly talking to people walking by, extending eager handshakes and doling out postcards. All around the booth is Ryan’s artwork. His fantasy world. All the characters he helped draw and bring to life.

  And behind Jason and Laura—the demo. An enormous flat screen is playing the opening chapter of Thundertail, the definition so clear you can see even the tiniest of details on the characters. The cinematic plays through, and I can almost hear the voice of the narrator, but it’s as clear as anything in my head regardless. I wrote those words. I know them.

  And they belong to me.

  I move to make my way over when something familiar catches my attention. On one of the gigantic circular columns that jut up throughout the convention floor is a large sticker, sporting the silhouette of some kind of spaceship. It looks a lot like the kind of vessels you can get in Reclaim the Sun, and overlaid it...

  “Vox Populi.”

  “Oh no,” I moan, hurrying toward the pillar.

  “Aaron? Hey!” Ryan hustles after me. “What is it?”

  “Look.” I jerk my chin at the sticker as we approach, and now that I’m in front of it, a wave of anger surges through me. I look down the aisle to the right and off to the left, and I can see more of them, in between the throngs of people weaving about, stuck on the pillars, mixed in with flyers and other stickers.

  “You know what’s interesting?” Ryan says, distracting me from glaring down the aisle.

  “Hmm?”

  “Look.” He points at the Vox Populi sticker and the other stickers and posters next to it. “It’s under all this. Already.”

  “So?” I shrug. “What’s—”

  “That means it was here earlier. First.” He reaches out and starts to pick at the edges of the sticker, finally getting an edge up. A bit peels off and rips, barely making a dent in getting the thing off.

  “Guess they got here to paper the place early.” I shake my head and lean in to give peeling the sticker a try. A little more comes off, but it still rips, leaving a trail of white against the gray paint—

  “Hey!”

  I turn around, and two guys are standing right behind me and Ryan, arms crossed, dressed in jeans and plain T-shirts. One of the guys has a chain necklace on, like something out of the early 2000s.

  “Hi?” Ryan ventures first, then turns away and starts picking at the sticker again.

  “Uh, Ryan...” I say hesitantly.

  “You’re going to want to stop doing that,” one of the guys says, taking a step forward, narrowing the already small space between them and us. Ryan whips back around, his eyes narrowed.

  “Listen, you sentient can of Axe body spray—”

  “No, you listen.” He reaches out and shoves Ryan away from the pillar.

  “Hey!” I move in between the two of them as Ryan recovers and presses up against me, absolutely ready to push by and get himself beaten up. “Everyone just calm down.”

  “We’re fine,” the other guy speaks up, the one with the chain necklace. “But you two better mind your own business.”

  He reaches for something in his back pocket and pulls it out quick, making me and Ryan flinch. It’s another sticker, and he laughs with the other guy before leaning over and slapping it on top of the one we were trying to peel away.

  “Everything okay?” A third guy walks over, dressed a bit more typically conventionesque in a Final Fantasy T-shirt, the hint of some kind of tattoo peeking out near his neck. He exchanges a look with the two trolls and then eyes us, a flash of recognition washing over his face.

  “You.” He points at me with a sly smile.

  “What?” I ask, glancing quickly at Ryan.

  “You’re the boyfriend,” the guy continues, giving his friends a playful slap on the back. “You don’t recognize this guy? From the videos? The texts and pictures?”

  He looks back at me, grinning.

  “Nice of you to show up.” He digs for something in his pocket, and I wince again as he pulls out another one of those stickers.

  And then he slaps it across my face.

  “Enjoy the show,” he sneers at me, then all three of them dart off.

  I peel the sticker from my face, the glue ripping at my stubble and skin. These are seriously heavy-duty stickers—that must be why they aren’t coming off the columns.

  “Ugh.” I crumple the sticker up and whip my hand around to get it off, shaking it into the trash next to the pillar. “That was...so not great.”

  “Are you sure we should be here?” Ryan asks. There’s a slight tremor in his voice.

  “Not really,” I stammer out. Then thoughts of D1V float through my head, and I exhale. “But we have to be here. Not just for her, but for us.”

  I nod in the direction of ManaPunk.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “Okay.”

  I start walking over, when Ryan grabs my shoulder, pulling me back.

  “What now?” I groan.

  “I’m sorry, have you even thought this through at all?” he asks. “What are you going to do? Ask Jason nicely to turn it off? Run over there and just steal the prototype? Rip the computer out, knock over the television? How are you going to get it all away from him? From Laura?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “No. You won’t,” Ryan says firmly. “You’ll run over there with this crap on you, this tube that looks like an oversize quiver of arrows, and fuck it all up. Or those Vox Populi bros will catch wind of us walking that way and interfere somehow.”

  He leans against the pillar and exhales.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  I nudge my way through the crowds over to the ManaPunk booth, where several people are milling about, talking to Jason and Laura, or maybe just trying to get a look at the demo. I get it. ManaPunk is a popular indie. People know the name, know Jason. It’s enough to break my heart, seeing that booth without me in there. I wanted people to know me the way they know him, I guess. This was supposed to be a huge moment for me and for Ryan, and instead, it’s all about him.

  I squint, looking around the booth and the area surrounding them, for anyone else who might be one of the Populi. But how would I tell, anyway? Dressed kinda plain, looking like a bro...that describes a lot of the people meandering about.

  They could be anywhere.

  I steel myself, taking a deep breath, and inch closer, just as Laura locks eyes with me. She smiles, and suddenly, it’s like I’m looking at someone I don’t even know anymore, a stranger. I’d had this strange drive to try to...what, protect her from Jason? When all the while, I’m pretty sure I needed protection from her. I’d thought we were friends.

  She nudges Jason and says something, and he looks at me, his face aghast, like he’s seeing a ghost.

  A small sense of victory courses through me. At least he knows h
e did something wrong. That’s what his expression is telling me.

  “Aaron!” Jason exclaims, his tone nervous. He inches a little in front of the television playing the demo, as if that’s going to hide it from me. “Good to see you. Come on over!”

  “I saw the video, Jason,” I say, taking a step toward the booth. “The trailer. Online.”

  “Ah, yes, that.” His eyes dart over to what I’m carrying. “What is that? Part of a costume or something?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” I say, fidgeting with all the stuff bundled under my arm. “The video. The demo. That’s my story. My words. Ryan’s artwork. You tried to set us against each other. You tried to trick me into signing that contract and just giving you my work, and then you used it anyway.”

  A few people appear to be listening to what I’m saying, and Jason starts to look extra nervous. I spot someone take out their phone, maybe shooting a video.

  “Jason, we were friends,” I press, and for a second, I feel my lip start to quiver. There’s no way in hell I’m going to cry here, right now, in front of him. “How could you do this?”

  “Hey, Aaron, come on. Take it easy.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “Look, I was desperate. I needed something ready to showcase. I was still going to like, work on getting contracts and all with you two. Let’s talk about this somewhere else.”

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, taking another step toward him. I’m right up against the booth’s table now, and I grab one of the postcards with Ryan’s art on it. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. In fact, I’m ready to sign the paperwork you sent over. I printed it out and brought it with me.”

  “Wait, really?” he asks, his whole posture shifting immediately. “That’s great! I never wanted any of this to get complicated. You know? And I heard that your streamer girlfriend, or whatever she is, I heard she’s not doing it anymore? Got rid of her videos or something?”

  “Yeah, it didn’t quite go down like that, but she’s speaking today about it. And she’s not my girlfriend,” I add. I glance around for any of the Populi, as the last thing I need is to be recognized again.