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Covalent Bonds

Page 14

by Trysh Thompson


  “You can take my car; it’s a Prius, so you can stretch longer between gas stops. Leave it in Far Reach. I can get a transport company to retrieve it for a few hundred dollars, which is a cheap price to get out of this disaster.”

  “You want me to drive the truck back? I don’t have a commercial license.”

  “Then don’t get caught.” She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. “Twenty-two hours if you push hard; that means you have to leave in the next half hour. We need a second driver, stat.”

  Adam thought back. “I saw Frank Marzetti over at the authors’ section,” he said. “He might be able to go.”

  “No, he’s guest-DJing the dance tonight.”

  “What about Amy Lade? She’s just signing autographs.”

  “You pull Amy away from the fans who paid for pictures, I’m not responsible for the consequences,” Brenda warned.

  “Fair enough.” Adam frowned. “What about Michael Armstrong? I’m pretty sure he’d be free, he shouldn’t have that many panels.”

  Brenda shook her head. “Michael is narcoleptic. He’s the last person we want on this kind of stretch run.”

  Adam acknowledged this with a nod. “True. Okay, who else have we got here?”

  Brenda made a little O with her lips and started thumbing through her phone. “I was talking earlier with a GM who is really keen on getting a copy. I mean, everyone is, but not everyone offered to help if I needed someone. And I think this counts as needing someone.” She found the information she wanted and started a text. “Though it’s a pretty big help.”

  Lee was looking at Adam and reading uncomfortably into his mind. “It’s okay if you’re not here, rubbing shoulders and being seen,” Lee said. “Your name is on the manual. And we’ll tell everyone that you’re out saving the day.” He grinned. “When you bring back the only limited edition copies of Hellraisers Menace, just in time to save the debut, you’ll be a hero. You can’t write that kind of publicity.”

  Adam nodded. He had been thinking about losing face time at XP Expo, where he had been hoping to network and play off his new credit as a Playmor designer and one entrusted with the Hellraisers project. But while networking with industry pros was important, fan recognition was key, too, and if the—if a designer himself rescued the game with an epic nonstop cross-country drive, that would be newsworthy.

  Brenda looked up from her phone. “Okay! She’s on her way.”

  “She agreed?” Adam was surprised. “That fast?” A gamer would want the new Hellraisers Menace, sure, but enough to give up the rest of the con without hesitation?

  “Well, I didn’t exactly explain the whole thing,” Brenda admitted. “But she’s coming here, and we can pitch it then.”

  Adam was skeptical, but he said nothing. Any chance of help to save Hellraisers…

  “Hey!” A red-haired girl in a Firefly shirt jogged toward them, a backpack over one shoulder. Adam turned toward her and his stomach sank.

  “Cassandra!” Brenda beckoned her over. “You got here fast.”

  “I was just two aisles over, shopping for dice. What do you need?” She glanced briefly at Adam and then back at Brenda, studiously dismissing him.

  “The truck with the games is in Missouri, and the driver has a broken leg. It’s not going to get here unless someone goes and gets it.”

  Cassandra’s eyes widened. “You want me to drive to Missouri?”

  “Not alone. We’ll have two drivers, one driving and one napping. With gas and toilet stops, the games could even be here to start on time tomorrow.”

  She nodded and swallowed. “Okay, I’m in. I’ve got a toothbrush in my backpack, so I’m good to leave right away. Let’s go.”

  “Fantastic!” Brenda clapped her hands. “I’m so grateful. Relieved. Everything. You and Adam can take my car.”

  “Adam?” Cassandra turned her head and looked at him again, and her mouth actually dropped open a little. “You? You’re Adam?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  She turned back to Brenda. “I can’t do twenty hours in a car with this man. He thinks I’m an elitist feminist jerk, and two of those are bad things.”

  Brenda turned to Adam with a look which simultaneously managed to be both incredulous and accusing. “Adam? What on Earth?”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” he said. “I was frustrated and caught off guard and—”

  “And thus he spoke without a filter,” interrupted Cassandra, “letting his real opinions shine through. Look, I’m willing to help, but this is kind of unfair. It’s not even riding with a stranger with no history, it’s riding with someone who already dislikes me.”

  “I don’t dislike you!” Adam tried.

  “Well, I dislike you,” Cassandra retorted. “That’s enough. Brenda, I’m sorry, I really am.”

  Brenda panicked, Adam could see it, watching her single best chance of retrieving the games fading. “Wait!” she tried. “Look, Cassandra, I’m not gonna lie, I’m desperate. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise. I’ll comp your copy of the game, I’ll set you up with swag and merch, just please, help me.”

  Cassandra hesitated. “Swag?” she repeated, as if against her will.

  Brenda seized the opportunity mercilessly. “What do you want? Books? Mats?”

  Cassandra licked her lips. “I have twenty kids in my gaming groups. Can you cover all of them?”

  Brenda didn’t hesitate. “T-shirts, plushie figures, and special edition Hellraisers Menace dice in Hellraisers Menace tote bags. And if you give me two weeks’ shipping time, twenty special edition dice towers.”

  The pain in Cassandra’s eyes was evident. Adam watched her argue with herself, her eyes flicking from him to the plush figures hanging on the booth’s back wall and then to him again. Finally he saw her swallow. “Okay,” she relented. “I’m in. Where’s the car?”

  Denial

  The jerk took the first driving shift. Cassandra kicked off her shoes and pulled out her phone. “I’ve got navigation up,” she said. “Take a left out of the vendor lot and head south. We’ll pick up the interstate in about two miles.”

  “Right.” He checked the rear mirror and started to reverse.

  He should actually turn and look, Cassandra thought uncharitably.

  But they backed without incident, and he turned the car toward the lot exit. An awkward moment stretched long.

  “So,” he said finally. “I’d like to apologize.”

  Cassandra did not look at him. Did he think he could just sorry his way out of being a misogynist dude-bro? Because he couldn’t.

  He glanced at her, perhaps to see whether she was receptive, and seemed disconcerted by her lack of attention. “Um. I was upset, with all that was happening with the booth and the game, and I thought you meant you were—but anyway, the real point is, I did not mean that your gender had anything to do with it. I swear.” He glanced at her again and then back at the road. “I swear to Palingar.”

  She snorted despite herself. “Palingar would be the worst deity to swear by,” she said. “He’s the patron god of storytellers and thieves.” A suspicion occurred to her. “And was that supposed to be some sort of geek cred test, to see if I actually know the game system?”

  He shoved his head back so that it bounced against the headrest. “I do not think you are a fake geek girl!” he barked. “Those words never left my mouth. Never even crossed my mind.”

  She looked at him. “You’re the one who just said them aloud.”

  He braked at the stop sign and thumped his forehead against the steering wheel. “This is not happening.”

  “Quit wasting time,” she said. “We don’t have time to emote at stop signs. We’re on a countdown.”

  He sat up and hit the gas.

  Anger

  Cassandra stared out the windshield, letting her eyes blur as mileage posts flashed by. This was inconceivable. Of all the things she could have imagined at a gaming convention, all the ways XP Expo could have go
ne wrong, this was not something which would have occurred to her.

  This was Playmor’s fault, obviously. They were a great company, sure, lots of innovation and ideas, but they clearly didn’t have a handle on business or logistics. How else could they arrive at one of the biggest game conventions in the country without their new game? Seriously, it was just ridiculous. There was no excuse for this.

  It was a flat tire, they’d said at first. But that should have been an easy enough fix. Even a big truck can get a tire changed in less than a day. Then the story was that the driver had a broken leg. Like that even made sense. How would a truck driver break a leg, sitting in a truck cab, waiting for a tire to be repaired? No, something else was going on here.

  Okay, that didn’t exactly make sense, either. Why would Playmor lie about the game’s delay? Sure, it was generating a lot of talk around XPO, but not the kind of talk that sold games. More the kind of talk that made people go back to standards like Wizards of the Coast and Paizo, who right now looked a lot more reliable than Playmor.

  It was a stupid publicity stunt, if that’s was it was. Really stupid. Look how many people were upset right, angry about being burned on their event tickets—tickets they’d had to win in a lottery, a lottery to which they had to earn entrance. People put hard hours and real money into just earning a spot in the lottery. Even if Playmor hadn’t meant to hold back the game at the last minute, they owed those gamers. People had trusted them. Promises had to be kept.

  Cassandra’s promise had to be kept.

  She turned toward the window to hide her clenched jaw and waited for the hot salt in her eyes to fade. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

  No, no time for tears. Not in front of Andy or Adam or whatever his name was. He would just think she was a weepy female fake gamer who cried because she wasn’t getting the game she wanted. Jerk. And he worked for Playmor. No wonder the company was having problems.

  Jerks. All of them, jerks.

  Bargaining

  Adam pulled into a gas station and fished a credit card from his wallet. Brenda had told him to turn in his receipts for reimbursement.

  Neither Adam nor Cassandra had spoken for two hours. But he had to break the silence sometime, and the gas stop provided a modicum of excuse. “I’m good to keep driving,” he said, trying to sound casual. Had he pitched his voice too high? It made him sound nervous, or defensive. That wasn’t what he wanted. Too late now. “I mean, it’s only been a bit over two hours. I’m not tired yet. But if we’re going to switch later, you might want to grab a nap. So you’ll be fresh when we change. Anyway, do you need a restroom break? A snack? There’s a convenience store here.”

  He was rambling. His voice had come out too high and he was rambling. This was going to be the longest road trip in geek history.

  “Boring conversation anyway,” he mumbled to the gas pump.

  When he looked up, she was heading into the convenience store, backpack over her shoulder. He wondered if she carried it with her because of some esoteric girl reason, on her period or wanting to touch up makeup or needing to swap secret packages hidden in the restroom, or if she didn’t trust him enough to leave it in the car.

  He finished pumping gas and pocketed the receipt. She returned, bearing two candy bars. That made sense, he mused to himself. She’d be driving at night, and extra snacks would help her to stay awake. It made sense to stockpile when she had the chance.

  But as she slid into the front seat, she turned and faced him. “See this?” she said, holding up a king-sized bar. “This is yours—if you promise never to quote Han Solo again.”

  “What?”

  “Han Solo. I heard you. And Han is a totally different type than you, a badass rogue who is also lovable. You’re not a lovable rogue, you’re just an old-school bitter misogynist. So you don’t get to quote Han. And if I have to bribe you into it, I will.”

  He looked at her, and for a moment he couldn’t decide if she were serious about paying him to keep quiet, or if she was trying to make a joke to semi-apologize but hiding it behind more irritation just in case he was still angry with her.

  Because he was angry with her. She had no right to embarrass him in front of Brenda like that, and especially not when her accusations weren’t even true.

  He looked from her to the candy bar. “You know that I’m not a misogynist, right?”

  She pulled the candy bar a little closer to her.

  “No, really—what did I say to make you think that?”

  “You think I’m a fake geek girl! You think I don’t have any business gaming, much less as a GM!”

  “Really? Is that what I said?”

  “No, you said—” she hesitated. He watched her think, watched her eyes flick as she replayed the scene in her mind. “You said no one’s impressed by a girl GM and I shouldn’t get special treatment.”

  “Right. But not giving you special treatment is not misogynist. That’s being fair to everyone, to all the gamers who won play tickets. In fact, treating you as a GM equal to all the others is kind of the opposite of misogynist.”

  She digested this. “But I thought you meant —”

  “It’s obvious what you thought,” he said. “To be perfectly fair, you’ve probably heard it from some other guy before. But you didn’t hear it from me. And you’re not going to.”

  She looked at him, considering. Then she extended the candy bar. “I didn’t hear a single Han Solo quote in that entire defense.”

  “I don’t think I did, either.”

  She snapped the candy bar into his outstretched palm hard enough to sting. “Okay. Probation.”

  “Are we in negotiations?”

  She frowned in consideration. “Diplomatic talks.”

  “I’ll take it.” Okay, your worship. But he didn’t say it aloud.

  Depression

  Cassandra rolled her head from side to side, stretching her neck. The dotted lines flicked down the road, blurring into a stream of tiny progress markers.

  The marketing woman’s Prius did not appear to be equipped for streaming radio. Cassandra’s music was sadly lacking, as she had replaced her phone a week before without swapping the SD card and her data plan would not permit streaming for twenty hours. This meant they were limited to Adam’s playlist, which was mostly Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, and as far as Cassandra could tell, a smattering of lesser-known emo bands. She could handle these in small doses, but after seven hours, she was getting close to gnawing off her own arm, only it wouldn’t help her to escape.

  It figured. He was kind of cute, with his wavy black hair and dark eyebrows and those chocolate-bar eyes. That’s probably how he had gotten through life so far, depending on his looks to carry him despite his social ignorance. Even Cassandra had to admit that if she’d seen him across a game table, instead of hearing him rant at the booth, she would have tried to strike up a conversation.

  Well, see what conversation had brought. Not worth it.

  She was a little tired. Probably dehydrated, considering the snacks and caffeine she’d had. Gas station convenience stores weren’t a bounty of healthful foods. She should have that too-brown banana she’d found at the last stop to see if it improved her alertness and general outlook.

  Turning Point

  “What do you do?”

  Adam jerked his head up, startled at the first words in a couple of hours. “What?”

  “Sorry, were you sleeping?” Cassandra looked at him and then back over the steering wheel.

  “No, just zoning. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s the standard American greeting, right along with What’s your name, and we’ve been together nine hours or so and haven’t gotten that far.”

  Adam nodded. “Hi, I’m Adam Sullivan, and I’m an accountant.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “No jokes, please, if you’re not going to be original.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Econ in school, remember? At least you got a job out of it.”


  “What do you do, then, when you’re not freelancing in supply-side commentary?”

  “I get a paycheck for bussing tables,” she answered. “But that’s not what I do. I mean, I hope that’s not what they put in my obituary, that I cleaned up dishes. I spend more of my time with sick kids.”

  “Oh?”

  “I volunteer at the children’s hospital.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t quite sure how to follow that up. “So, have you always worked with kids?”

  “Only the last couple of years, really.”

  “How’d you get started?” That was good, showed interest and kept his own half of the conversation light.

  “Just signed up one day.”

  Well, so much for that.

  “How’d you get into games?” she asked, her eyes on the road. “Natural outgrowth of number crunching?”

  “Do you mean playing or writing?”

  She looked at him. “You’re a writer?”

  He realized she had no reason to know. “I’m a co-writer on Hellraisers Menace.”

  “No kidding?” She seemed to consider this. “How’d you swing that? What else have you done? Sorry, but most writers aren’t very face-famous.”

  “Oh, and I’m not that famous even by name,” he admitted. “Someday, I hope.”

  “So how’d you get into games?”

  “Games saved my life,” said Adam, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to answer quite so honestly, but as he heard his own words he realized, if he wanted her story, he would have to give her his. Honesty seemed the best way to draw out honesty.

  “It sounds like an exaggeration,” he continued, “but I think it actually might be true. I got into some rough stuff when I was in middle school, with bullying and such, and it didn’t do me any good. We didn’t have the zero-tolerance thing, and I can’t decide if that was a blessing or curse. I feel like at the time I would’ve given anything for somebody else to step in and take care of my problems for me, so I really see where that looks like the best option. But on the other hand, I had to learn to cope, which was a good thing, and I had to find a way to do it that was better than what my friends could offer—or my so-called friends.

 

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