by Lisa Mangum
“Ladies and gentlemen of Olympia Comic-Con, I require your immediate and undivided attention,” Guy Fawkes said in a calm voice. “I am the leader of this group. We are now in control. We call ourselves the Protagonists. We, unlike the masses of sheep, seek to maximize our own impact in the world and be the active force in our own lives.”
One of Stan Lee’s bodyguards broke free from the Umbrella Corp soldiers. He was gunned down well short of his charge, however. The screams of the crowd were short-lived as one of the goons let loose a spray of gunfire overhead.
George’s voice broke into my awareness. “Is this even real?”
“They’re kidnapping Stan Lee,” I said as I unlocked my phone. There was no reception in the convention center’s basement, but I did have a very faint connection to the Wi-Fi.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Guy Fawkes said over the hall’s loud speakers, “we find ourselves in need of some investors. In order to facilitate our growth, we have decided to crowdsource our efforts. As your first stretch goal, I present to you Mr. Stan Lee. Tweet, post, blog, or otherwise get the message out. Geekdom only has one chance to do this right.” He shook the terrified comics legend. “If donations exceed the amount specified on this website in the next eight hours, he will go free.” A URL appeared below his face on the screen. “If not,” he said as he nicked Stan Lee’s throat with his knife, “well, let’s not go there, shall we?”
Walter Sams puffed with excitement and bravado. “Well, Citizens, it appears to be time for my debut. If you’ll excuse me, my greatness awaits.”
“No! Walter, stop! It’s time for the police,” I said as I messaged my convention coordinator.
“You fail to understand, miss. I am a real hero,” Sams said as he reached up to untie the string that secured his horn to his head.
“Seriously, Walter,” George said. “Now isn’t the time.”
“Now is the ideal time,” Walter disagreed, a grin splitting his lips as he struck a dramatic pose. “The time for a few heroes.” With that, he brought the horn to his lips and blew.
I didn’t hear the sound the horn made, but I will never forget that moment. My vision went black, and my eyes expanded in their sockets, fit to burst from the pressure. I felt as if my brain had transformed into thousands of angry wasps, buzzing through my sinuses as they sought to burrow their way out of my skull. My skin crawled and stung, a white-hot acupuncture needle digging into each of my pores. I couldn’t say how long it lasted. I had no sense of time, but when the world did return, it was with a new reality.
Blinking, I waited until my eyes refocused, praying that the pain hadn’t left me blind. The first thing I noticed were the colors. Where before everything had been slightly washed-out under the halogen glow, now all the colors were vibrant, somehow idealized and perfect. The curtains separating the booths were black as night, but there was never a darkness so complete. The yellow walls, which had looked like anorexic daisies before, now provided physical comfort, calming my mind and sharpening my focus. I could sense the life held in the red of Stan Lee’s blood, and the menace in the gray of the knife. I itched to get to my watercolors and try to capture the hues. Although it might have been impossible, I yearned to immortalize the perfection of the moment.
I staggered to a nearby booth and picked up a comic book at random. The art spoke to me, enticing me to both read the story and understand the depth of the artist. How he struggled, poor and unappreciated, but proud of his work. How he believed he might make a difference with his art and his desire to entertain one boy in particular—his son. Dropping the comic, I reeled. How in the world could I possibly have known all that from a single look?
A strong hand on my shoulder turned me. “Chica. Catalina? Catalina!”
I blinked up at George. He was beautiful. The lankiness of his movements and the seeming incompleteness of his teenage body had evened and filled out. He didn’t have the pretty muscles like in the magazines, but rather the slabs that came from years of hard work. His goatee had filled out from the wisps he refused to shave, but his eyes were unchanged, still the pale amber I had known for years.
“Oh, wow,” I said as I stared.
A small wrinkle appeared between his eyes, another point of concrete memory in the sea of surreal flooding the Exhibitor’s Hall.
“Catalina, what happened to your eyes?”
My eyes? All the colors darkened. Something had happened to my eyes? I dropped my backpack to the floor, ripped it open, and dug through the assorted junk looking for my makeup kit. Pulling the small compact out of the bag, I flipped it open.
The white part of my eyes had deepened, looking like pools of milk; the pink tinge that too many double shifts and exhaustion had left behind was completely gone. Instead, the pale green irises had burst, and swirls of colors began to seep into the fresh medium. Not just green, but any color I could imagine, some of which I couldn’t even name. It was like looking at my watercolors as I cleaned my brushes, except they maintained their pure tones and clean lines instead of fading and mixing into the inevitable ruddy brown.
Pantone, eat your heart out.
Shaken, I glanced at George, but couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Seeking calm, I focused on the warm yellow walls for a moment and was finally able to gather my thoughts. “What happened?”
A booming, eminently heroic voice answered me. “The horn brings the ideal into the real. It makes what we imagine ourselves to be into who we are. You, for example. You see the world as an artist, so the horn has given you an artist’s eyes.” His voice drew my attention, and my jaw dropped at the sight.
It was as if the Purple Unicorn had stepped off the pages of a Golden Age comic.
Walter Sams had transformed into a man who was epic in proportions, built with muscles on his muscles. His boots had transformed into actual hooves, and the shag rug had smoothed into an elegant coat. His mane flowed faintly as if in a breeze. The strong curves of the horn parted the silken strands, jutting from his forehead like a banner proclaiming his allegiance to justice. The color scheme was still hideous, but I supposed that the magic of the horn could only go so far.
“Wait,” George said, “you have a magical horn of wish fulfillment?”
If my eyes have changed, what about the rest of me? I looked down, hoping to see my ideal figure, but groaned.
“What is it?” George asked me.
“This is not fair. You get to be hot. Unicorn guy attains the superpowers he’s always dreamed of. I gained weight.”
“What are you talking about, chica?” George asked.
“This is not the time for petty concerns, Citizen,” the Purple Unicorn said. “I must rescue Stan Lee and take my place amongst his chosen heroes.”
“Well, at least his priorities haven’t changed,” George muttered.
“Heroes!” the Purple Unicorn boomed. “A group of villains, posing as the protagonists in this story, have taken one of our greatest progenitors.
I scanned the faces of the crowd around me. Many of the exhibitors were largely unchanged, slight alterations of their actual selves. The cosplayers, however, had come to life, transforming into their costumed counterparts. I realized then that Walter Sams had made a horrible miscalculation.
“I call upon you to stand against these antagonists,” the Purple Unicorn said, pointing, “and free Stan Lee!”
People don’t just cosplay the heroes. Villains were just as popular.
The ringing silence of the seconds following the horn’s transformation and the address of the Purple Unicorn was shattered by the voice of a single undead: “BRRAAAAIIIINS!”
The hall seemed to pause for a deep breath and then all hell broke loose. Sith lightning flashed over the booths as the hum and crackle of lightsabers filled the air, the Hulk punched Superman through a section of booths, and the Joker began cackling. As the imaginings of thousands of fans came to life to do battle, those who hadn’t come in costume fled for their lives.
�
�Oooookay. This is bad. Really, really bad,” George said in what I thought was a profound understatement.
“Wait a moment, Citizens!” bellowed the Purple Unicorn as people bumped him in their single-minded focus to flee. “You are perfectly safe in my aegis.”
“No one is listening to him,” I shouted.
“How smart of them,” George replied.
“George, people are going to get killed if they keep stampeding,” I shouted over the growing cacophony. Ducking, I scurried out of the way as Iron Man and Boba Fett flew overhead, fighting several members of the Green Lantern Corps. I rushed into a break in the crowd and began dragging my weight against the Purple Unicorn’s huge biceps. “Hey! Unicorn guy!” When he looked at me, I continued. “This is the opposite of helpful. How do you make it stop?”
“Stop? But—”
“Yes, stop!” I yelled, pointing to the Exhibitor’s Hall. “Look at them! They’re killing each other. And innocents.” Appealing to his interests, I said, “What if Stan Lee gets caught in the cross fire?”
The Purple Unicorn looked pained, and a bit of Walter Sams shone through. “But I can’t,” he said. “The effects will last as long as the disk of the sun is in the sky.”
I slapped him, but nearly broke my hand on his jaw. “Six hours!”
“More or less.”
George had pushed his way through the stampede in time to hear the last bit. “Does the effect move with you?”
“With the horn, yes.”
“Allons-y!” I shouted in my best Doctor impersonation as I dragged George and the Purple Unicorn into the crowd.
“But Stan Lee! This is my chance!” shouted the Purple Unicorn.
“Look,” I yelled as George and I tried to tow his mass, “there is no way you’ll get through that melee in time. The Protagonists can’t get back this way, either. There is a service corridor with a staircase in the back. It’ll take them upstairs to the loading docks. If you want to catch them, we need get there before they do.”
My logic seemed to appease the Purple Unicorn because he took the lead and began to part the crowd. George and I grabbed onto his belt, to be towed in his wake and avoid being trampled. Even being knocked to the ground in a crowd like this could prove fatal.
With a bit of effort, and a few helpful pulls from George, I was able to ignore the colors that tried to draw me in. Blocking them out proved easy enough to master. At least something was working in my favor.
As we crested from the Exhibitioner’s Hall, I threw my weight against the Purple Unicorn. “Elevator!” I shouted. I doubted the maintenance guy, even if he was legit and not in league with the Protagonists, would have stood against the stampede. My shout seemed to make it through. As the Purple Unicorn veered, the few people crowded around the elevators saw him coming and fled.
Luckily, the doors slid open after short pause. We piled in, and a group of frightened exhibitors and fans surged toward us—until they saw the costumed mass of the Purple Unicorn.
The Purple Unicorn had to turn sideways to fit through the door, and he had to kneel to keep his horn from poking the ceiling tiles, but eventually the doors closed and the noise died off to a rumble.
George panted as the elevator slowly ascended. “What’s the plan?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. This situation isn’t exactly covered in the volunteer manual,” I snapped back.
“Well, no, but there’ll be cosplayers upstairs too.”
“Right.” I thought quickly. “Hey, unicorn guy. What’s the range on the horn?”
“A couple hundred yards, I think? I am its guardian, so I have never gone far enough from it to be sure.”
“Right,” I said, turning back to George. “Where did they set up the TARDIS?”
“Uh, the south hall?”
I cursed. “That would have been way too cool. Alas, plan B. Get him outside and away from the costumes. Head east for five or six blocks, someplace where his magic wish fulfillment horn won’t give someone superpowers.”
“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” George said.
“But what about Stan Lee?” the Purple Unicorn demanded.
“We’ll take care of that on the way. Save him, take him with us, and you two will have a little under six hours to talk. Sound good?”
When the Purple Unicorn nodded eagerly, I took a deep breath.
Focusing, I tried to remember the exact shade of the walls downstairs and found it wasn’t that difficult to recall the pigment and bathe myself in its calm.
“Alright,” I said as I glanced at my phone to check the time. My heart sank. Panels had just ended, so the halls would be crowded with people making their way to the next thing on their schedule. I was unsure as to what cosmic force wanted to make today as bad as humanly possible for me, but it must be cackling to itself by now.
“When the doors open, we run. Better that we give bumps and bruises than prolong the battles.” Looking to George, I asked, “Are you ready, Robin?”
He grinned at me. “I want to be Batman.”
I tilted my head at the Purple Unicorn. “Look at what wanting to be a superhero gets you. Plus, I called it first.”
He stuck his tongue out at me, and I retaliated in kind.
As the doors opened, I slipped through the crack and began sprinting. “This way to the service corridor and Stan Lee,” I called over my shoulder to the Purple Unicorn. I dodged and weaved, channeling years of rushing between back-to-back panels to help me navigate the crowds.
Chaos reigned around bubbles of intense violence as nonsuperpowered fans fled the superpowered showdowns. In one pocket, River Tam faced off with Neo. In another, four Harley Quinns were overwhelming Batman. Two groups of Spartans were facing off in a wide space they had cleared in the food court, a phalanx from 300, and a pair from the Halo games.
How are they not being slaughtered? No! Focus. To stop this, I need to run. I can’t stop to watch, no matter how awesome the show.
I dodged and ran, making my way back to the service corridor and the loading bays through which I had helped unload the vendors’ wares the day before. Reaching the swinging double doors, I pulled them open and ushered the Purple Unicorn and George through. Pushing the doors closed behind myself, I yelled to George, “Take your belt, and tie these doors shut!” I grabbed the Purple Unicorn’s elbow. “You! This way.” Leading him deeper into the complex, we were almost to the loading docks when he stopped me. When I started to protest, he clamped a hand over my mouth.
“What the hell, boss?” a man in hysterics yelled from ahead, voice muffled. “This was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be bloodless, for us at least.”
“Shut up,” the cultured voice of Guy Fawkes snapped. “Our way out is not far. Get Stan Lee into the trunk and get in the car. It’s only a setback. A regroup, not a retreat.”
“Stan Lee,” whispered the Purple Unicorn.
You have to be kidding me.
“But boss,” the first man started. The muffled sound of a blow silenced him.
“Do what I say.” The leader’s voice was cold. Lethally so.
“Stan Lee!” bellowed the Purple Unicorn as he released me to charge after his goal. “I’ll rescue you!”
I would have fallen if George hadn’t caught up to us then. “Come on, the belt won’t hold for long,” he barked as he pulled me into a run. “How did you know they’d come this way?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted. “I just told the unicorn guy what I thought he needed to hear. But, I mean, it makes sense. What else were they going to do?”
“Well, it worked. On both counts.”
Sounds fighting echoed around the upcoming corner. Gunshots, grunts, and the wet thump of skulls hitting concrete. I pushed myself harder, hoping I wasn’t too late.
We rounded the corner to find the Purple Unicorn kneeling on the chest of the Protagonists’ leader, his Guy Fawkes mask lost somewhere. A strangled wheeze escaped the superhero’s grip on his lower face. He
began to thrash and scream as the Purple Unicorn began to squeeze. Around them lay the crumpled bodies of three of the Protagonists, Stan Lee’s unconscious form against the wall.
“Hey, Purple Unicorn!” George shouted as we ran towards the scene. “Didn’t you learn anything from comics?”
I ran to check on Stan Lee.
Eyes still on Guy Fawkes, the Purple Unicorn growled, “What do you mean?”
“It is the choices that separate the heroes from the villains. You stand on the edge of a cliff. Leave these guys to the police. Please.”
Looking up from my limited first-aid, I shouted, hoping to tip the balance. “Purple Unicorn! Stan Lee will be okay. Whatever you do now, Walter will have to live with, just like all those poor people behind us will have to live with the destruction they caused while under the horn’s influence. What would Walter want?”
The Purple Unicorn looked at his captive with disgust, but released him, standing and backing away a few steps. Banging echoed down the hall, desperation clear in the rhythm. Screams of pain and terror were faint, but clearly audible. Grief and regret crossed the self-made superhero’s face.
“Enough,” he said. “What I have done is enough.” Turning to the lead Protagonist, he said, “Run. Try to survive the next six hours. I sincerely hope you live long enough for the police to catch you.”
As the man scrambled to his feet and ran, the Purple Unicorn approached. “Catalina,” he said, eyes downcast. “How do I make this right?”
Standing, I gestured to the unconscious form at my feet. “Pick him up and follow us. We need to get the horn away from here.” We jogged, backtracking to the loading bays. As we approached, I signaled for a stop. The bay doors vibrated as fists pounded on the other side. Cries of terror and pleas for help could be heard over bestial growls, groans, and the creak of chain link.
“Catalina,” George asked as he came up next to me, breathing hard, “What’s out there?”
“Uh … Fifth Street.” Wait. Wasn’t something supposed to be happening at two o’clock on Fifth Street? It took me a moment to remember, but when I did, I began cursing in a stream of steady Spanish. “It’s the Zombie 5K Run/Shamble. We’ve unleashed the zombie apocalypse on the convention center.”