I crammed myself into the back row, the farthest, darkest corner of the huge lecture hall, turning my seat into a little island of isolation.
Here, under the hum of the projector and the monotonous drone of the lecturer, I methodically folded paper modules.
My hands, already used to this strange craft, moved on autopilot, while my mind desperately tried to build a wall between itself and the surrounding reality.
A lecture on the history of theater…
God, what useless, disconnected from life and common sense, concentrated bullshit.
Me, a thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands were used to the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood, and a computer mouse, trapped in the scrawny body of a sniveling student.
In a world where at any moment an armada of Chitauri or a purple titan with a mania for total genocide could drop on the city, I was forced to listen about catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy.
The absurdity was so thick and viscous, you could cut it with a knife and spread it on bread.
Around me stretched the sleepy kingdom of student apathy.
Everyone existed in their own little world, only physically present in this room.
The guy to my left, a typical geek in glasses and a faded logo t-shirt, was hiding behind his laptop screen.
Judging by the occasional quiet snort and trembling shoulders, he was watching some sitcom, completely ignoring the lecture.
The girl next to him, with acid-pink hair and a nose piercing, was engaged in a furious text conversation on her phone.
Her fingers flew over the screen so fast, it was like she was tapping out a Morse code message about the end of the world.
And the big guy in front, whose bull neck took up half my view, was brazenly dozing, his face hidden behind a thick tome, emitting a barely audible snore.
Against this backdrop, my quiet, unobtrusive hobby, which produced almost no sound or smell, somehow attracted unwanted attention.
“Mr.
Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us the key difference between Stanislavski’s acting method and Strasberg’s?” The lecturer’s voice, dry and creaky like an unoiled door hinge, mercilessly tore me from my paper meditation.
He stood at the podium, a gray-haired man in his fifties, fit, in a strict tweed jacket.
His piercing, intelligent gaze over the rims of his thin metal glasses promised nothing good.
He wasn’t an old man, no.
You could feel the old school, the breeding, and a complete lack of tolerance for slacking off.
And he had obviously noticed my quiet paper module factory a while ago.
“No idea, Professor,” I answered in a flat, indifferent tone, purely on autopilot, without stopping my next neat fold.
It was only when a barely perceptible snicker rippled through the audience that I realized how insolent and provocative that had sounded.
I slowly raised my head, meeting his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided to backpedal quickly.
“Sorry.
I’ve been sick for the last few days and haven’t attended classes, so unfortunately, I missed that topic.”
Right…
Sick.
With alcoholism.
And I wasn’t lying, essentially.
The World Health Organization officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease.
And the fact that for John Thompson this was his first and, alas, last binge in his short, inglorious life…
that was just an insignificant detail the lecturer didn’t need to know.
“I see,” the professor didn’t look impressed by my excuse.
His gaze dropped to my hands, where an almost-finished module rested.
“And now, Mr.
Thompson, you are so diligently folding origami in my lecture to…
what?
Improve fine motor skills for therapeutic reasons after your illness?”
The ironically raised eyebrow promised nothing good.
I definitely liked this guy — straightforward as a rail, no roundabout games.
He’d clearly stated the problem, and now he expected an equally clear, intelligible answer from me, not student babble.
I had to improvise fully.
“I’m making a gift for the nurse who, you could say, pulled me back from the other side,” I improvised a pitiful but plausible story on the spot, putting notes of sincere, genuine gratitude into my voice.
“We got to talking while I was recovering, and it turned out she’s into origami.
So I decided to make her a kusudama as a token of my appreciation.
They say you can use it as a vase for dried flowers.
But I am listening to your lecture, Professor, don’t doubt it.
The last thing you talked about was innovations in stage lighting implemented in avant-garde theaters in Europe at the end of the 20th century.
Specifically, the works of Josef Svoboda and his concept of ‘living scenography.’ I can list his major productions if necessary.”
John’s memory, it turned out, wasn’t so useless after all.
Huh…
My first real foray into society, and I’m already lying like a cheap rug.
But hey!
I’m sitting quietly, not bothering anyone, and I’m even managing to filter information with one ear!
How am I worse than those slackers openly staring at their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekly seemed satisfied.
He grunted, gave me a long, appraising look, as if deciding whether to continue the interrogation, but in the end just nodded and returned to his lecture.
During the next two classes, I wisely crammed myself into an even farther corner, hiding behind the broad back of one of my classmates and keeping a low profile.
By the end of the school day, my modest backpack was stuffed to the brim with neat stacks of paper modules — exactly two hundred and seventy pieces, enough for nine full kusudamas.
Leaving the stuffy walls of the college onto the sunlit street, I processed the information I’d gathered during the day.
And I wasn’t talking about the educational materials.
What did I need “Film Theory” for when a Michael Bay blockbuster could unfold in real time outside my window?
I was interested in people.
Specifically, one red-haired girl who had, to some extent, caused the untimely demise of my predecessor.
Mary Jane Watson.
She stood at the entrance, surrounded by a retinue of girlfriends, and laughed.
The life of the party, the informal leader, the alpha female in her little pride.
Moderately pretty, though her brightness was largely due to skillfully applied makeup covering pale skin and freckles.
Moderately sociable, moderately curvy.
In short, objectively — a solid seven and a half out of ten.
I honestly didn’t understand why John had pined for her so much.
Though…
everything is relative.
Against the background of the gray mice and outright unkempt girls in our class, she really did look like a Hollywood star.
But step out onto the streets of Manhattan, and in half an hour you could meet a dozen girls no worse, if not better.
Alexander, the thirty-eight-year-old man inside me, looked at her and saw not a goddess, but just a girl who knew her own worth too well and knew how to use her attractiveness skillfully.
I didn’t know how close this version of MJ was to her canonical portrayals, but in most of them, she was…
a complicated character.
Flighty, someone who got tired of relationships quickly and moved on.
A girl who wanted a prince on a white horse, a luxurious life, and no problems.
Was this the same kind?
Judging by the way she stood with her back to her luxurious car, demonstratively ignoring the young man next to her, quite possibly.
Her smile was dazzling, like a camera flash, but completely without warmth.
His hand on her waist lay more possessively than tenderly.
The kiss was quick, almost formal, a peck on the cheek.
And for a split second, when Mary Jane pulled back, before putting her mask of adoration back on, I saw something in her eyes that was unmistakable.
Boredom.
The ordinary, all-consuming, dreary female boredom.
Interesting.
The guy, on the other hand, looked tense, as if afraid she would dissolve into thin air.
An expensive car, immaculate clothes from a famous brand, and in his eyes — a gaping insecurity and fear of losing this bright trophy.
MJ was already reaching for the car door, but I hadn’t dragged myself to this damn college to leave empty-handed.
“Mary Jane, wait, please!” I called out to her, quickening my pace slightly and trying to make my voice sound as friendly and harmless as possible.
She turned around, and a polite bewilderment flickered across her face.
She clearly didn’t remember me.
“Um…
Sorry, do I know you?”
“Thompson.
John Thompson, we’re in the same history of theater group,” I introduced myself.
“Can you recommend a good acting tutor?
You’re the best in the class, you must know someone decent.”
“Oh, right, yeah!
Thompson!
You’re the one who was making origami for the nurse today!” she exclaimed with sudden, slightly feigned enthusiasm.
“As for a tutor, I can recommend one, but he’s expensive.
Write down the number.”
To hell with the number of some damn tutor!
My target was standing a meter away from her, frowning.
“Yeah, thanks, and give me your number just in case,” I added as casually as possible.
“If I can’t afford him, I can at least consult with you as an expert.
I won’t be able to attend college for the next few days, I have things to take care of.”
“Hmm, Mary Jane, we need to go,” oh, finally!
The ice had broken.
Jealousy is an excellent catalyst.
The guy stepped closer, imperiously placing his hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry, and who are you?” I turned to him, feigning genuine ignorance.
Since he’d butted into our conversation, it gave me the full right to start a conversation with him.
“I’m her boyfriend,” he said through clenched teeth, frowning slightly.
I saw his gaze appraisingly slide over my worn-out sweater and cheap jeans, and then he relaxed.
He saw no threat in the thin, unremarkable student.
“Does the boyfriend have a name?” I extended my hand with the most disarming smile possible.
“I’m John Thompson, classmate.
Though you already heard that.”
“Harry Osborn,” he replied, reluctantly shaking my hand.
His grip was weak, limp, like a fish.
“Oh, Osborn?
I’m sure you’re sick of hearing this, but…
are you by any chance the son of the famous Norman Osborn?
The founder of Oscorp?”
“You have no idea how sick of it I am,” a genuine, unmistakable weariness and bitterness crept into his voice.
“I might even complain about my life, but MJ and I are really in a hurry.
Let her just give you the tutor’s number, and we’ll be on our way.”
Mission accomplished.
I had confirmation.
This was indeed Harry Osborn.
Mary Jane, with 99% probability, was with him for the money and status.
And Harry himself was a typical “golden boy” with a ton of complexes, desperately trying to escape the shadow of his powerful father.
This information definitely wouldn’t go to waste.
As I walked towards my hovel, the initial satisfaction from a successful “operation” gave way to a cold, sticky feeling of anxiety.
It’s one thing to know you’re in the Marvel universe.
It’s another to personally shake hands with a man whose destiny is to become one of the most famous supervillains in this city.
Harry Osborn.
In some versions, the Green Goblin, in others, just the Goblin…
Fragments of comics and movies surfaced in my mind.
Glider, pumpkin bombs, maniacal 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 had just intruded into their personal space.
If only for a moment, if only under the most innocent pretext.
But what if this short conversation was noticed?
What if Norman was paranoid and tracked all his son’s contacts?
Crazy, of course, and the paranoia was probably on my side.
I was a blank space to them, a gnat on a windshield.
But the very fact…
I wasn’t just an observer anymore; I was now partially a participant in this global game.
And the players here were figures of a completely different caliber.
Suddenly, my scheme seemed like the height of idiocy.
Why did I meddle?
To find out what was already obvious?
To confirm that this was the real Harry?
I needed to stay as far away from these people as possible.
Forget Mary Jane, the Osborns, all these characters with tragic and dangerous fates.
I needed to hole up in my corner and quietly craft until I was strong enough to not be afraid of every rustle.
But alas, it was too late.
Contact had been made.
And somewhere deep in my soul, a nasty little worm of fear stirred: what if this contact had consequences?
Returning to my cubbyhole under these heavy thoughts, I assembled the remaining nine kusudamas in an hour, like on an assembly line, and brought my balance up to the coveted 50 CP.
Exactly halfway.
But what next?
I had no desire to mess with higher-difficulty origami, which meant I needed to create something else.
Something real.
Something my hands remembered.
But for that, I needed materials and tools.
And for those, I needed money.
I opened my laptop.
The online banking greeted me with harsh reality: $17.35.
Seventeen dollars.
Plus a ten and a handful of change in my pocket.
That was my entire capital.
I couldn’t even buy materials for crafting with that, let alone food for a couple of days.
The realization of my own poverty hit me hard.
In my past life, I was self-sufficient.
I was never rich, but I always had money for living and for my beloved craft.
But here…
I was at rock bottom.
“It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it, but it looks like I’ll have to make a deal with the devil…” I muttered, pulling on my only decent pair of sneakers.
The sign “New York Central Bank” on the facade of a luxurious building in Manhattan shone with fake gold and pressed down with its monumentality.
Inside was even worse: cold, echoing marble, the quiet whisper of air conditioners, and clerks in expensive suits with the forced smiles of sharks.
In my past life, I hated loans.
And John, judging by his memories of his foster mother, who was always in debt, shared that dislike.
For both of us, the bank was a temple of usury, a place where people’s dreams were taken away, wrapped in beautiful words about “opportunities.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I approached the counter.
A young guy in a perfectly pressed suit, with hair slicked down to perfection, after listening to my request for a credit card, beamed as if I’d offered him eternal life.
He rattled on about “incredible opportunities,” “interest-free periods,” and “flexible terms,” barely paying attention to my status as an unemployed orphan student.
Though, the last circumstance made him dampen his enthusiasm a little, but he still offered a maximum monthly limit on the card of two thousand dollars.
Two thousand.
Just like that.
To a penniless student.
“What’s the catch?” pounded in my head.
Back home, such generosity would hide predatory interest rates and ten pages of fine print with traps.
But here…
The interest was only 7% per annum.
By American standards, that’s predatory.
By mine…
laughably low.
I silently nodded, signing the papers.
This system, where money was handed out so easily, seemed corrupt and dangerous to me.
But right now, I had no choice.
Yes, I hated it.
I was used to living within my means.
Earning, saving, investing in what was truly necessary.
Debt had always been synonymous with slavery to me.
And now I was voluntarily putting on these shackles.
The hand holding the pen trembled slightly.
Everything inside me protested.
It was wrong, it went against all my principles.
But then I remembered the empty fridge, the lack of basic materials and tools, and my helplessness.
Principles are a luxury that those who have a choice can afford.
I didn’t have one right now.
In any case, this wasn’t a loan for a new iPhone or fashionable clothes.
This was an investment.
An investment in my survival and my future.
I pressed down hard on the pen, leaving my new, someone else’s signature on the paper.
The deal with the devil was done.
Leaving the cold marble hell with a piece of plastic in my pocket, I felt a mixture of disgust and relief.
I headed straight for the hardware superstore.
The plan was simple: buy a little bit of everything.
Wooden blocks, PVC pipes for a makeshift Spudgun-3000, a basic set of hand tools.
I needed to determine the value of different types of crafts for the system.
On the way, I took out my phone and dialed Billy, the owner of the hot dog stand where John worked shifts, and the next shift was supposed to start tomorrow.
“Billy, hey, it’s John.
Listen, I got really sick.
The doctor said I need a couple of weeks of bed rest.
No idea when I can come back.
Yeah, too bad.
As soon as I can, I’ll let you know.”
I finished the call and put the phone away.
The low-paying job and the useless college…
could wait.
I planned to dedicate the next few days entirely to myself and my new, strange power.
My craft.