by Rachel Ford
Chris Becket got to his feet, grinning and waving. The crowd ate it up. “Thank you Kate, thank you Rick.
“So you all know me. I’m more a pretty face than deep words kind of guy.” Nancy laughed out loud, and so, it seemed, did everyone else in the room – except Alfred, who just rolled his eyes.
“And I know you’re all really waiting for previews of the next movie. So I’ll make this brief. First, I want to say again: thank you Kate and Rick. You guys are amazing. Your vision, your compassion, it’s inspiring. You know, I play Swell Dude. It’s a costume, it’s a character. They really are superheroes though.”
Ashworth turned red as a cherry, and Dallas demurred the compliment. The taxman barely noticed the crowd’s enthusiasm this time. It seemed to him that Becket got applause just for opening his mouth.
“So when I say it is a huge honor to don the cape for ECF, believe me: it really is. Including our donations, last year ECF pulled in almost a billion dollars worldwide. What are we doing with that money? Well, here’s a breakdown.”
The screen behind the actor flashed to an image of a school. A bold set of numbers, beginning at ten, started incrementing. “We’re funding schools. One hundred and forty-two schools, across fifteen nations – including forty-five right here in the United States – either completely funded or partially funded last year by ECF.”
The image changed to a school lunch line while the crowd cheered. “We’re tackling child hunger. Last year ECF provided – are you ready for this, folks? One million meals to kids across the globe.
“And you know what else?”
Alfred sighed. “You cured cancer while you’re at it?” he wondered. Nancy nudged him, but the taxman couldn’t help his cynicism. It was, he told himself, a byproduct of his profession. He’d been in law enforcement for long enough to see the dark side of humanity. Nothing was ever free. People gave to charity because they got something out of it: tax breaks, usually. Sometimes, respect or public standing was incentive enough. But there was always an incentive.
And while he readily acknowledged that self-serving reasons for giving were better than not giving, the gratuitous self-congratulation was a little much. “All I’m saying, Nance,” he whispered, “is he’s going to pull a muscle if he keeps patting himself on the back so hard.”
Chapter Eighteen
Becket wrapped up the list of ECF’s good works shortly thereafter, and the rest of the session was devoted to reveals about new movies, a handful of exclusive preview clips, and some never-before-seen footage from the production of Fire Fell.
“Well,” Nancy grinned as they waited in line to exit the ballroom-turned-conference-room, “you have no excuse to skip Fire Rain. In fact, it’s practically a duty to see it with me now.”
Fire Rain was the follow up to Fire Fell, and the next movie in the MDC universe. He frowned at the prospect. “Why?”
“Well, ten percent of their profits are going to ECF. Skipping the movie is basically refusing to feed hungry kids. You wouldn’t starve kids, would you?”
He rolled his eyes. She was joking, of course, but she’d hit on exactly the incentive he imagined fueling Dallas and Ashworth’s sudden philanthropic bent. “See? That’s why they’re doing it. A little bit of generosity on their part means the fans will be even bigger suckers.”
She laughed. “That’s a pretty big gamble,” she said. “Especially when their films are already blockbusters. Maybe…” Here, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although, to be heard above the roar of the crowd, it was not much of a whisper. “And bear with me, because I know it sounds crazy…but maybe they actually want to make a difference.”
Alfred shook his head. “No one cares about making a difference, Nance. Not eighty million dollars’ worth of difference, anyway.”
She flashed him a bemused smile. “Oh Alfred.”
“What?”
She only shook her head though and hugged him.
“So we’re headed to the game thing now, right?”
“Yup.”
They’d only just exited the ballroom when a young man with a camera approached. “Hey,” he called, “I love the Spock and Jadzia thing.”
Nancy grinned. “Thanks.”
“Couples costume? Or just favorite show?”
“Oh, no, it’s a couples costume. Reference to Trials-”
“And Tribble-ations,” he put in, grinning ear-to-ear. “I figured. Brilliant. I always kind of shipped Jadzia with Spock myself.”
“Yeah, that’s totally my head canon.”
Alfred heard these words, but it seemed to him they were speaking a different language. Trials and Tribble-ations, he guessed, was an episode of Star Trek. But as for the maritime references – the head cannons and ships – he hadn’t the foggiest notion what any of it meant.
The stranger, meanwhile, grinned. “I’m Caleb, by the way, Caleb Lang.”
“From Caleb’s Coollery?” Nancy’s eyes widened as he nodded. “I knew I recognized you. Great to meet you. I’m a big fan. We’re Nancy Abbot, by the way, and Alfred Favero.”
“Nice to meet you too, Nancy and Alfred. Hey, you mind if I get a picture? I’d love to put you guys up on my site.”
“Of course. Wow.” Alfred shot her a grimace, but she ignored him.
“Great. You want to just step over here?” Caleb led them out of the main press of the crowd, to a little nook, and posed them in front of a wall. “Alright,” he said, “you ready?” Nancy nodded and Alfred tried not to grimace. “Hey, Spock, you want to give me a live-long-and-prosper salute?”
Again, this sounded like Greek to the taxman. Nancy intervened, flashing him a hand sign that he vaguely recognized. The fingers of her hand were grouped to form a kind of v-shape, with the thumb extended to the side. “Oh,” he said, attempting to recreate the sign. This was easier said than done, though, because his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own – as soon as one would cooperate, the others would either separate or close again.
In the end, it required the use of his other hand, to mold his fingers in place. “Perfect,” Caleb nodded. “Ok, Jadzia, give me a cheeky grin. Perfect.”
Alfred again had to fight not to roll his eyes. He heard the camera click a few times. Then the head of Caleb’s Coollery nodded. “Awesome. You guys look amazing. Thank you so much. These’ll go up later tonight.”
The young man moved on to find other victims, and Alfred frowned at her. “Who the hell was that?”
“Caleb Lang,” she said.
“Well I know that. I heard him say it. I mean, who is Caleb Lang?”
“He runs Caleb’s Coollery. He’s kind of famous in the fandoms. He makes videos – song parodies, game parodies, you name it – and comes to events like this and gets amazing pictures of the cosplayers.”
“So ending up on his website is a good thing?”
She grinned. “Yeah, babe.”
“Okay.”
The Station 49 session was every bit as boring as Alfred anticipated. But, also in keeping with his expectations, Nancy loved it. She loved the previews of cheesy cutscenes and laughed with delight at the over-the-top banter therein. She loved the new weapon previews, and ate up details about the expansive world of Station 49.
It was a mystery to him how someone as brilliant as Nance could be entertained and intrigued by such nonsense. Despite his mystification, though, he did find himself smiling at her unabashed joy. She was a giant nerd, he thought. But she’s my nerd.
As the session was nearing the end, the lead developer – a gangly man named Brett-something, who seemed only now to be relaxing in front of the crowd – said, “Okay, so now we’re at the part you’re all really waiting for: the giveaways.”
People cheered. Alfred was, he decided, thoroughly sick and tired of hearing cheering crowds.
“Okay, so I’m going to call off row and seat numbers. You all know where you’re sitting, right?” A murmur of confusion, as people scrambled to find their placemen
t, ran through the crowd. Brett waited until this quieted, then continued, “I’m going to call out a number, and ask you a question. You get the question right, you win the prize. You get it wrong, we play this.” A video clip played on the screen behind him, depicting a skull and crossbones.”
For reasons that Alfred couldn’t explain, people around him laughed. Nancy did too. He scrutinized her curiously, and she leaned over and whispered, “It’s the death cutscene. From the game.”
He was no more enlightened by this revelation than he had been before, but he just nodded. “Oh.”
Brett, meanwhile, started calling out letter-number combinations, and asking his questions. They were queries like, “Where was Captain Green born?” and “What was the name of the virus-bearing starship in the second installment of Station 45?” and “Who was the highest-ranking sharpshooter in Union history?”
Alfred listened only because there was no other choice. These were all questions for which he had no answers, and no interest. Even if he had been a fan of the game, he couldn’t imagine clogging his brain with trivia about made-up characters in a made-up world.
“D-13,” Brett was continuing, “who was the lead scientist on the failed Genesis project? Answer correctly and win a limited edition, collectable Station 49 replica.”
The taxman yawned.
“That’s you, Spock.”
The crowd laughed, and Nancy nudged him. “He means you, babe. We’re D-12 and 13.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s Dr. Cordon.” When he made no effort to do anything with this intel, she urged, “Well, tell him.”
“Uh…Dr. Cordon?” he said.
The crowd laughed again, and Brett nodded. “Right. Are we allowing phone-a-friend here?” He grinned, handing a box to one of his assistants. “You owe that one to the lady, I think. Alright, next up is K-16.”
Alfred felt his face flush, and he was glad that the attention of the crowd moved on to whoever was in K-16. Nancy, though, squeezed his arm excitedly. “You won.”
A few moments later, the assistant arrived at their seats, box in hand. “Congratulations,” he whispered.
Alfred took the box dubiously. “Thanks.”
Nancy was craning her neck to see it. “Oh my God, that’s awesome. You can’t even get one of these yet – they’re preorders.”
“You want it?”
“Want it?” Her eyes lit up, but she hesitated. “Of course, babe. But, don’t you?”
He scoffed, affecting an injured tone. “Do you know me at all, Nance?”
She grinned. “What I mean is, you could probably sell it for a few hundred. Especially now, when they’re not available yet.”
He rolled his eyes, moving to pass the box over. “I’d rather give it to you.” Then, though, he stopped, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, you make a good point. It is valuable. So how about an exchange?”
She laughed, and her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “What kind of exchange?”
“This incredible, limited edition collectible – only available for pre-order right now – in exchange for getting my birthday present early.”
She considered, then nodded. “That’s extremely unsporting of you, Mr. Favero. But, deal. Of course.”
He grinned and handed her the model. She kissed him in turn.
From the stage, Brett called, “There we go, Spock: now that’s how you do it.”
The crowd laughed again, but this time, Alfred didn’t mind.
Chapter Nineteen
They went back to their room to deposit Nancy’s dubious treasure – the model was far too large to lug around. “And we need to touch up our makeup before the contest.”
“And,” he reminded her, “I need my present.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she grinned. “I haven’t forgotten.”
She fished through her suitcase. They’d returned to their rooms before the MDC program to drop off their purchases. Nancy had been slowly accumulating things throughout the afternoon, and even Alfred had found a handful of items to buy.
“Alright,” she said, withdrawing the parcel. “Here you go.”
He took it, grinning, and one-by-one pulled off the extra plastic bags. He stared with mixed feelings at what was revealed. It was a chess set that seemed to be of excellent craftsmanship. That, of course, he appreciated. But the pieces were Star Trek figurines, with ships and characters representing the more traditional playing pieces.
“Well?” she said. “What do you think?”
“Thanks, babe. But…why Star Trek?”
She grinned. “Well, you say you have trouble finding chess partners. I figure, if we’re playing on a Trek board, you’ve always got one at least.”
He considered that for a moment. He had chess sets, but this was more than another nice, if quirky, set. It was a promise to play. And that was something he valued far more. He smiled, and then kissed her. “Thanks, babe.”
She smiled too. “You’re welcome, Alfred. Alright, let’s touch up those ears. There’s some splotchiness going on. And my neck spots are starting to smear.”
“You think it matters? You think we have a chance of winning?” he asked dubiously.
“Oh, no. Of course not. There’s way better cosplay than ours here.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because it will be fun.”
“Oh.”
Nancy’s idea of fun definitely differed from the taxman’s. They were in the pre-made portion of the costume contest, which was reserved for “highest quality replicas not produced by the wearer,” and precluded “tacky and Halloween costume quality items.”
They were a few costumes from the end. “We’re lucky we got a spot at all,” she said. “We were on the waiting list until Monday.”
Alfred resisted the urge to contradict her use of “lucky.” She was too excited for his ill humors. So he pulled out his phone. “What the…” He saw that he had dozens of new notifications waiting.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got a million notices.” Glancing through the list, he saw that most were due to Nance: she’d tagged him in a post, and her hordes of friends had descended to comment.
He brought up her post. It was a picture of the model space station. She’d written, “Check it out. A gift from Alfred Favero. Thank you, baby.” She added a hashtag that read “lucky girl”.
The taxman smiled and liked the post. Then he went to comment, but first got pulled into the responses others had left. There were dozens and dozens of them. Most were positive. He preened to read, “Wow. He’s a keeper,” from a Monica Abbot.
“Whose Monica again?”
“One of my cousins.”
“Ah.” He liked that cousin, he decided.
He kept reading. There were quite a few variations of compliments for the gift. It was the rolling eyes emoji from Dave Abbot that really caught his eye, though.
Dave Abbot was Nancy’s dad. They hadn’t met in person yet, but they’d communicated briefly over social media before. He’d never been struck by the other man’s friendliness, but this was something he hadn’t seen before either. “I, uh, guess your dad’s not a fan of video games?”
“Oh no. What’d he say?” Nancy pulled out her own phone, and in a minute laughed. “Oh dad…” She shook her head. “No, not much of a fan.”
“Oh.” Alfred kept scrolling through the comments.
“Hey,” Nance interjected in a minute, “did you see Justin’s last post?”
“No, what’d say?”
She grinned and showed the taxman her phone. Onscreen was a post from Justin Lyon, reading:
Real love doesn’t come with a price tag. It doesn’t need bribes. It doesn’t need to be showered in gifts; it grows in the fertile ground of real affection. #BackToBasics #BeRealOrBeGone
Alfred frowned. “What’s that about?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy grinned, “but he posted it about fifteen minutes after I put my post up.�
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“You think it’s a swipe at you?”
Nancy laughed now. “Oh yeah. Look: I checked his page. This is what he’s got up since I posted that.”
There was a post decrying that “this new generation of materialists is killing romance.” It was the final meme that made Alfred’s jaw really drop, though. It read, “A girlfriend who expects you to buy her affection isn’t a girlfriend. There’s another word for that.”
“That prick,” he said, too angry to pass the word through his usual filter.
“Turd sandwich,” Nancy reminded him with a grin.
“No,” he shook his head. “Prick. He’s definitely a prick.”
“Well, you won’t get argument from me on that.”
“That’s the last straw,” the taxman fumed. “He’s really gone too far now.”
“Don’t worry about it, babe. He’s just – well, a prick.”
“But you see what he called you, Nance. He can’t get away with that.”
“He’s hoping to piss us off, Alfred. Because – whatever he says – he knows we’re happy. And that bothers him more than anything we could say or do in response.”
“I don’t know,” the taxman mused, “I don’t think he’d be too happy with a broken nose.”
Nancy laughed and leaned over to kiss him. “No,” she agreed. “But he’s not worth it, babe.”
Alfred wasn’t convinced, but he let it drop. Out loud, anyway; internally, he vowed his revenge. No one got away with talking about his Nance like that.
Finally, it was their turn on the stage. They were announced by name and character name, and received with applause. They walked to the center of the stage, struck a pose, and, not a moment too soon, left.
Alfred was congratulating himself that he’d managed to get across the stage without tripping over his own feet – because, knowing what he knew of himself, it would be in front of an enormous crowd that he’d manage a feat like that. It had been exhilarating, in a terrifying fashion, but being safely out of the spotlight was a relief too.
As soon as they were ushered through, to a round of “good job, guys” from their fellow contestants and the stage staff, Nancy took him aside. “What’s up?” he started to ask. But she grabbed him and wrapped him in a kiss. “Wow. What was that for?”