MJ was already reaching for the car door, but I didn't trek to this damn college to leave with nothing.
"Mary Jane, wait, please!" I called out to her, slightly quickening my pace and trying to make my voice sound as friendly and harmless as possible.
She turned around, and polite bewilderment flashed across her face. She clearly didn't remember me.
"Um... Sorry, do we know each other?"
"Thompson. John Thompson, we're in the same theater history group," I introduced myself. "Could you tell me where to find a good acting tutor? You're the best in our year, you probably know someone competent."
"Oh, yes, exactly! Thompson! You're the one who was making origami for a nurse today!" she exclaimed with sudden, slightly exaggerated enthusiasm. "As for a tutor, I can recommend one, but he charges a lot. Write down the number."
To hell with the number of some damn tutor! My goal stood a meter away from her and was furrowing his brows.
"Yes, thank you, and please give me your number just in case," I added as casually as possible. "In case I can't afford it, at least I can consult with you as an expert. It's just that in the coming days I won't be able to attend college, matters can't wait."
"Ahem, Mary Jane, we need to go," oh, finally! The ice has broken. Jealousy is an excellent catalyst. The guy stepped closer, authoritatively placing his hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, and who are you?" I turned to him, feigning sincere ignorance. Since he intruded on our dialogue, this gives me full right to start a dialogue with him already.
"I'm her boyfriend," he said through slightly clenched teeth, frowning a bit. I saw how his gaze appraisingly slid over my worn hoodie and cheap jeans, and immediately relaxed. He saw no threat in the skinny, nondescript student.
"The boyfriend has a name, doesn't he?" I extended my hand with the most disarming smile. "I'm John Thompson, classmate. Though you already heard that."
"Harry Osborn," he answered, reluctantly shaking my hand. His grip was weak, limp, like a fish.
"Oh, Osborn? You're probably tired of hearing this already, but... you wouldn't happen to be the son of that Norman Osborn? Founder of Oscorp?"
"You have no idea how tired," genuine, unfeigned weariness and bitterness slipped into his voice. "I might complain about life, but MJ and I are really in a hurry. Let her dictate the tutor's number already, and we'll go."
Mission successfully accomplished. I got confirmation. This is really Harry Osborn. Mary Jane, with 99% probability, is with him for money and status. And Harry himself is a typical "golden boy" with a bunch of complexes, desperately trying to escape from the shadow of his powerful father. This information definitely won't be superfluous.
As I walked toward my hovel, the initial satisfaction from the successfully conducted "operation" was replaced by a cold, clammy feeling of anxiety. One thing, to know you're in the Marvel world. Another, to personally shake hands with a person whose fate is to become one of this city's most famous supervillains. Harry Osborn. In several versions, the Green Goblin, in others simply Goblin...
Fragments of comics and movies surfaced in my head. Glider, pumpkin bombs, insane laughter and superhuman physical parameters. And Norman Osborn, his father. The first and most dangerous Goblin. A man who will stop at nothing to achieve his goals. I just invaded their personal space. Even if for a moment, even under the most innocent pretext. But what if this brief conversation was noticed? What if Norman has paranoia and tracks all his son's contacts? Nonsense, of course, and the paranoia is more likely mine. I'm nothing to them, an empty space, a gnat on the windshield. But the very fact... I'm not just an observer, I'm now partially a participant in this global game. And the players here are figures of a completely different caliber.
Suddenly my venture seemed the height of idiocy. Why did I get involved? To learn what was already obvious? To make sure this is that same Harry? I needed to stay as far away from these people as possible. Forget about Mary Jane, about the Osborns, about all these characters with tragic and dangerous fates. I needed to hole up and quietly craft until I became strong enough not to fear every rustle. But alas, too late. Contact has been made. And somewhere deep inside a nasty worm of fear stirred: what if this contact will have consequences?
Returning under these heavy thoughts to my closet, I, as if on a conveyor belt, assembled nine remaining kusudamas in an hour and brought my balance to the coveted 50 OP. Exactly half the journey. But what next? I had no desire to mess with higher complexity origami, which meant I needed to create something else. Something real. Something my hands remember. But for that I needed materials and tools. And for them, money.
I opened the laptop. Online banking met me with cruel reality: $17.35. Seventeen dollars. Plus a ten and a handful of change in my pocket. That's my entire capital. This isn't enough even for craft materials, you can't buy food for a couple days. The realization of my own poverty hit below the belt. In my past life I was self-sufficient. I was never rich, but I always had money for life and my favorite work. And here... I was at rock bottom.
"The very thought makes me cringe, but looks like I'll have to make a deal with the devil..." I muttered, pulling on my only decent sneakers.
The sign "New York Central Bank" on the facade of the luxurious Manhattan building shone with false gold and oppressed with its monumentality. Inside was even worse: cold, echoing marble, quiet whisper of air conditioners and clerks in expensive suits with stretched shark smiles. In my past life I hated loans. And John, judging by his memories of his foster mother who was eternally in debt, shared this dislike. For both of us, the bank was a temple of usury, a place where people's dreams are taken away, wrapped in beautiful words about "opportunities."
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I approached the counter. A young guy in a perfectly ironed suit, with hair styled strand by strand, after hearing my request for a credit card, beamed as if I'd offered him eternal life. He rattled on about "incredible opportunities," "interest-free period" and "flexible terms," almost not paying attention to my status as an unemployed orphan student. However, the latter circumstance made him slightly moderate his ardor, but he still offered a maximum monthly card limit of two thousand dollars. Two thousand. Just like that. To a penniless student.
"What's the catch?" pounded in my head. Back home, behind such generosity would hide draconian interest rates and a dozen pages of fine print with traps. But here... The interest rate was only 7% annually. By American standards, highway robbery. By mine though... ridiculously low. I silently nodded, signing the papers. This system, where money was handed out so easily, seemed vicious and dangerous to me. But right now I had no choice.
Yes, I hated this. I was used to living within my means. Earning, saving, investing in what's really needed. Debt for me was always synonymous with slavery. And now I was voluntarily putting these shackles on myself. The hand holding the pen trembled slightly. Everything inside protested. This was wrong, this was against all my principles. But then I remembered the empty refrigerator, lack of basic materials and tools and my helplessness. Principles are a luxury that can be afforded by those who have a choice. I don't have one now. In any case, this isn't a loan for a new iPhone or fashionable clothes. This is an investment. An investment in my survival and future. I pressed hard on the pen, leaving on the paper my new, alien signature. Deal with the devil concluded.
Leaving the cold marble hell with a piece of plastic in my pocket, I felt a mixture of disgust and relief. I headed straight to a hardware superstore. The plan was simple: buy a little of everything. Wooden bars, PVC pipes for a conditional potato gun, basic set of hand tools. I needed to determine the value of different types of craft for the system.
On the way I took out my phone and dialed the number of Billy, owner of the hot dog stand where John worked part-time every other two days, and the next shift was supposed to start tomorrow.
"Billy, hi, it's John. Listen, I got seriously sick here. Doctor said I need a couple weeks of bed rest. No idea when I can come in. Yeah, really sorry. As soon as possible."
I ended the call and put away the phone. Low-paying work and useless college... can wait. The next few days I was going to dedicate exclusively to myself and my new, strange power. My craft.