Flex (14 page)

P
aul watched
as Gunza’s boys returned with sacks of hematite, crates of alembics. They emerged from the vans with childlike grins, eager to brag about their Flex-fueled conquests.

“So I’m killing time at Freddy’s place while he tracks me down some hematite…”

The other thugs elbowed each other to get closer to the thug telling the story, piglets fighting to suckle at a teat.

“I’m sittin’ there with this nut needing to be busted, and suddenly I feel like I’m in a movie.” The ones who’d been outside – Gunza had staggered their missions so they’d all get a turn – grunted in affirmation. “I step into the hallway – elevator’s waiting for me. I press a button at random. And when I step out, I hear moaning.”

The storyteller closed his eyes, reliving the moment. The thugs moaned in anticipation.

“I follow it to a door that’s wide open. Inside, on the bed, her head back, hips pumping, is this gorgeous girl fucking herself.”

“Fingers?”

“Dildo.” The storyteller exposed chipped teeth. “She’s lost her fucking mind, not paying attention to anything except the plastic pumping in her pussy. So I pad up next to her bed, whip it out, and stick it in her mouth.

“Her eyes go wide. I think, shit, Little Elvis is about to get bit off – but then she moans,
Oh, God, yes
, and drops the vibrator.”

“Like a fuckin’ porn video,” one of the thugs muttered. “Unreal.”

“Naw, that’s
Flex
,” a third thug spoke, with jaded experience. “You heard what happened to me, right?”

They had, of course. They’d been exchanging these stories like currency, repeating tales in lieu of repeat performances.

A van pulled up. They stopped talking to haul out a PlayStation 4 still in the box, a crate full of videogames, and a new story for the boys to devour.

“Videogames,” Paul muttered. “They don’t understand how we work, do they? I keep forgetting; I study ’mancers, but the average man is clueless…”

He turned to see Valentine cradling a white plastic gun in both hands. A space-age thing, like an iPod made deadly.

“They’re distracted now.”

Raphael groaned. “Valentine…”

“Gotta give it one more shot.” She fired the gun at the office wall, which she had spent an hour scrubbing to a dull gray, refusing to answer Paul’s questions. A shimmering blue portal irised open.

“Where should I place the orange portal, baby?” she asked Raphael.

Raphael blew his emover out of his eyes, the portrait of irritation. “I don’t even know that game.”

Valentine blinked twice, then closed her eyes to calm herself.

“Right. You haven’t played Portal, either. And that’s…
okay
.” She fired the gun away from the chattering thugs, angling it tight and low just so it appeared behind a row of plastic sorting bins. Paul whistled despite himself; it was an impressive shot.

An orange oval blossomed open. The blue portal now showed a view of the warehouse from the orange portal’s perspective. Valentine stuck her hand through; her hand emerged from the orange portal across the way and waved at them.

A thug grabbed her wrist.

“Where the fuck did you–”

“Had to piss,” he replied. Flex radiated off him. “Came back and caught you. Just like we accidentally kicked over the cardboard box you were sneaking under. Just like you tripped and showed off your gothy boots when you skinned yourself like one of us. Just like
all
’mancy fails when we’re Flexed.” He shoved her back through the portal. “Back in line.”

The portal closed. Valentine crossed her tattooed arms.

“It’s all right,” Paul assured her. “I didn’t think you could get out on your own. Wait for the distraction.”

She tapped her toe. “Why the hell did you come back, Paul?”

“I came back for you.” He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice.

“You have a
daughter
.”

“And you’re my friend.” Paul extended his index finger to point at her, then simply bounced it up and down, as if his hand stuttered. “I mean, you know, I – I got you into this. I made it worse. You had to protect your boyfriend…”

“I’m not her
boyfriend
.” Raphael leaned against the wall, picking dirt from underneath his long, perfect fingernails. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because she’s risking her
life
for you, you idiot. Most would find that a sign of commitment.”

“It’s
cool
,” Raphael said, giving Valentine’s sacrifice all the appreciation he’d show someone who bought him a milkshake. “But don’t make it big. Gunza wants some shit, she gives it, game over.”

“We never dated,” Valentine explained quickly. “We just hooked up. A lot. Pretty well, I think.”

Raphael’s face broke into a surprisingly expressive grin. “Good stuff.”

Valentine chuckled at Raphael’s praise, a relief Paul found disturbing. She began pacing in nervous circles.

“It’s not like either of us has time for commitment. Raph has his modeling career and I’m busy at the GameStop, so… we find time when we can. The trick is, we make that time as good as possible.”

“Does that good time include getting Refactored by a SMASH team?” Paul knew he should stay out of it – but he wanted to let this prancing prettyboy know just how much Valentine was doing for him. “Destroying three houses in botched attempts? Taking near-fatal loads of Flex?”

Raphael stopped picking his fingernails to give Paul a disdainful stare. “It’s not
dangerous
. It’s just
tricky
. It’s like she says – with videogame magic, you can always reload the level.”

Valentine pleaded silently with Paul:
Please don’t correct him
.

“Not every ‘mancy is the same,” Paul said through gritted teeth.

“Think I’m stupid?
Her
’mancy gives her, you know, infinite lives. That’s why I don’t have to worry.”

“That’s right.” Valentine wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her lipstick. “I’m totally not someone you have to worry about.”

“Well,
I
do,” Paul said.

“That’s sweet, Paul. But, again – what about Aliyah?”

“She told me to get you back.”

She shoved him in the chest. Paul fell ass over teakettle.

“What kind of selfish fuck
are
you?” she roared. The thugs looked up, distracted by the scuffle. “So, instead, it’s better to have her dad
disappear
? Do you know what it’s
like
to have that kind of hole in your life, Paul? To have your parents, just, just–” She slapped her palm to her forehead. “Jesus Christ, you have a daughter with willpower and grace and cleverness – and you’re abandoning her to protect – to protect…”

“–someone who deserves it.”

Though Valentine pounded Paul’s chest when he tried to hug her, she eventually sank into his arms, sobbing. Raphael looked on with a muzzy, wounded confusion, not sure what he might have done wrong. Still, he did not move, shifting from foot to foot as Valentine cried herself out.

“…He’s got a daughter?” Raphael asked.

“Yes, Raphael.” Valentine shoved Paul away. “A
wounded
daughter. Who he should protect, instead of treating grown women like they’re fucking Barbie dolls.”

“Well, Mister Say-Bo woulda come here anyway.” Raphael shrugged, as if the argument had been settled. “It’s not like Gunza wouldn’t have found out about his kid. If it wasn’t you he came to rescue, woulda been his daughter.”

Valentine and Paul both fishmouthed, stunned that Raphael had accurately summarized the situation.

“Not that we need a rescue.” Raphael flicked some fingernail dirt away, returning to his impromptu manicure. “Gunza told me he needs enough Flex to keep the cops off his back. Once he gets that, he’s cool.”

Paul looked over at the thugs, who had returned to their conversation. They were compiling lists of things they wanted to do on Flex – death-defying stunts, coincidental orgies, old scores settled painlessly. They spun fantasies, gesticulating wildly, eager to unleash this new power upon the world.

“Yeah,” Paul said, exchanging weary glances with Valentine. “It’ll be over after one batch.”

P
aul pushed
the La-Z-Boy through the skim of rust on the floor, shoving the wide-screen television they’d set up for videogames into the corner. He dragged a folding chair in front of the table instead.

Gunza grabbed Paul’s shoulder, his fingers tightening hard enough to leave bruises. “Don’t think you can stall for time.”

This was the confrontation Paul needed to win.

“You think I’m wasting time?” Paul asked.

Gunza was smart enough to hesitate.

“Because I thought you called me the Flex master,” Paul continued, stepping up to Gunza’s chest. His magic emanated from Gunza’s ridiculous pockmarked face, a sickening reflection. “Hey, if you want to instruct me in the ways of magic, I’ll listen. In fact, I’ll sit in that chair the way you
think
I should and play videogames. But all that’ll get you is a high score.”

“So, what do you want?”

“What I want,” Paul said carefully, “is for you to realize that just because you set up a lab – a
failed
lab – for a videogamemancer does not make you an expert in
my
style. That when I tend the lab, thunder comes. That you get clear Flex because I
am
the Flex master. And if you start micromanaging
my
magic, you get nothing.” He gave Gunza a thump. Then: “We clear?”

Gunza glanced over; his boys held their breath, waiting for Gunza’s next move.

He bitch-slapped Paul.

Not the crippling punch Flex could give him – just enough to remind Paul who was in charge. But more importantly, just enough to remind his boys who was in charge.

“Get it done,” Gunza ordered.

Paul gave them a bloodied smirk. “I’ll need the accordion folder in the white van.” He tossed Gunza the keys, took pleasure in noting the way Gunza’s aura dimmed as he burned Flex to catch the keys gracefully. “It’s underneath the driver’s seat.”

Gunza flung the keys at one of his henchmen, who scurried off.

Valentine rushed in, putting her hands on Paul’s shoulders to steady him. “Are you
insane
?”

“We’re all insane.” Paul could barely keep from laughing. “We’re ’mancers.”

Gunza had retreated to his leather reclining chair. He sat beneath a canopy of rusted lifting equipment, tapping his fingers on the armrest:
I’ll leave you to it… for now
.

Raphael had been whisked away behind the steel presses… theoretically for his safety, but mostly to remind Valentine not to try anything stupid.

“You gotta get it together, Paul,” Valentine whispered sotto voce as she rearranged the glass vials on the desk to make room for Paul’s paperwork. “Taunting him does us no good.”

“Let me ask you one question,” Paul murmured. “Are you any good?”

Her face scrunched up in confusion. “At dating?”

“At ’mancy. My whole plan relies on your talent.”

“Oh.” She frowned, then gave Paul a bitter smirk. “Okay, fair question. I couldn’t work magic for Gunza, right? But maybe that’s because I didn’t feel like running errands for a guy who’d threatened to smash my boyfriend’s fingers. And maybe I couldn’t make Flex, but maybe that’s because I love my magic too much to cage it.

“I’ve fucked up a lot of things in my life, Paul. Pretty much all of them, in fact. But ’mancy?” She flexed her fingers, unleashing a smile sharp enough to draw blood. “One skill can redeem a life splintered with flaws. But only if you’re very,
very
good at it.”

“Good. Because this next act’s going to bring down the house.”

A boy brought Paul his accordion folder. Paul thanked him politely, began plucking the correct paperwork out from the various compartments to lay them out like tarot cards.

“Why him?” Paul jerked his head towards Raphael. “He’s nothing, Valentine. There’s no
there
there.”

Valentine adjusted the throttles on the pipettes. “I know he’s an Atari CPU in a PlayStation 4 casing. But he’s pretty.” She glanced in his direction and shivered. “
So
fucking pretty. And… he does what I want.”

“He doesn’t. He uses you.”

“It’s not as easy for me to date as you’d think, Paul.” She squeezed a clamp with a tad more force than necessary. “Not everyone’s into my style of kink. And… he’s weirdly helpless. He doesn’t know a thing about money, because everyone buys him drinks. He thinks he’s a brilliant conversationalist because everyone laughs at his jokes. And he… stumbles. He stumbles
so often
, Paul. If someone didn’t always pick him up, he’d be homeless by now.”

“Letting someone fall isn’t a bad idea. Sometimes, they bounce back stronger.”

“Yeah, well… if he was stronger, he’d be out of my league.” She gave Paul an embarrassed grin. “And I’ve always been a sucker for clueless men needing help.”

“Ow.”

She patted him on the cheek. “Truth stings, sweetie.”

He felt a swell of affection for her, so intense it was almost painful. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“Thunder.
Big
thunder.”

She smacked her lips, and Paul realized she was looking forward to the challenge as much as he. He’d been a ’mancer for less than a month, but he knew the rules of survival: never show off your ’mancy. You spent your life hiding, masking magic under coincidence.

They might die tonight. But they’d go out unashamed, blazing fireworks.

“I’ll be your lightning, Paul,” she promised. “Proudly.”

“
I
need a pen
.”

Three of Gunza’s thugs rushed forward to thrust pens into Paul’s hand, as if hoping to get his autograph. Paul laid them neatly next to his forms. The boys craned their necks, fighting to get a glance.

Rare enough to see ’mancy, Paul knew. Rarer still to see a ’mancer make Flex. With one crystal-clear batch of B-1 Flex, Paul had already become legend.

Anticipation fogged the air. Though Gunza tried his best to glower, everyone’s attention settled onto Paul – night had fallen, and the warehouse was ablaze with spotlights aimed at him.

Paul devoured their adoration.

He scrutinized the three pens, dancing his fingertips over each before settling on one. He raised it in the air as though it were a magician’s wand; the thugs’ eyes followed it in the air, as if they expected the Bic to spray flame.

Paul began to fill out forms.

He envisioned the paperwork that had run this factory back in better days, generic things: maintenance logs for the machines, cap-and-trade pollution permits, certifications for the forklift drivers.

But then he fell into the Beast, that institutional memory that kept record when humanity forgot. It told him what this factory had once been – they’d made windows. The air sizzled, heating as the old machinery groaned to life.

The thugs’ cheers died in their throat, caught between exultation and terror. The iron turned dull red, gears began to clank. Paul barely noticed. He was filling out invoices, the forms spilling off the desk, slithering across the floor…

Gunza pressed a gun to Paul’s temple.

“You’re writing our address down.”

Paul blinked – and when he looked at Gunza, his eyes had gone legal pad-yellow, his irises replaced by columns of scrolling numbers. Gunza flinched.

“Of course I’m writing our address down.” Paul’s voice was as toneless as a banker condemning a house. “This is where we are.”

“Don’t think you can drop an earthquake on us. Oh, yeah. I read about that. First sign of this building going, I shoot.”

“The flux will land miles away. That’s a promise.”

Gunza inspected Paul; Paul felt the uneven pressure of his own transformed ’mancy washing over him. Gunza was burning Flex to check if Paul was telling the truth – so much so that Paul felt it flicker out. Gunza snorted the last of the baggie.

“I’m watching.” Gunza’s teeth blazed, as if to match Paul’s eyes.

Valentine shouted out the bingo results as the forms expanded to fill the factory, crumpling up against smoldering metal, flowing like an origami river.

“N-37! O-68! B-7! I-21! G-58! N-31! O-75! B-10! I-27! G-50! N-44! O – oh, shit.”

“Sounds ordinary,” Paul said, slipping in one or two bureaucratic entries he hoped to God Gunza would overlook.

“They’re not.” Valentine had gone pale. “The letters. They’re spelling the same words over and over again – BIG NO BIG NO BIG NO…”

Paul cackled. The thugs pulled out their guns, aiming them at the juddering smelters as though the machinery might rise up and attack them.

“Drain them.” Paul began folding the papers, squeezing the ’mancy into the alembics, and Valentine rushed in to help – the factory floor was a jungle of printed forms, so many Paul thought he might drown in them.

Of course bureaucromancy would be so much more powerful in a factory. This was its native environment. Paul and Valentine wrangled the paperwork as it swelled, trying to push back the tide…

Gunza reached forward to help. A 401k form lashed at him and he pulled back, his palm split open with a paper cut. The forms lapped up Gunza’s blood.

The ’mancy burbled through the alembics, cracking the glass. It poured out onto the hematite, roiling and rocking on the surface. He’d only intended to make a small batch, but the factory was eager to manufacture again. More ’mancy kept flowing through him until great heaps of Flex piled up beneath his fingers…

Paul shoved the ’mancy into the gritty crystal, trapping it, and he felt the flux boiling up inside – Gunza jammed the gun against Paul’s neck, ready to pull the trigger if Paul shaped the blowback–

Paul finalized the hazardous waste material transfer forms, activating them with his signature. The factory floor heaved up – only an inch, but enough to register the displeasure of something powerful that disliked being chained – and then the flux rolled off elsewhere, like a surly child.

The machinery clanked as it cooled down, returning to useless junk. The thugs crept closer, like kids approaching a Halloween house for the first time, unsure of tricks or treats.

Paul lifted the tray, heaped with more Flex than he’d thought he could ever make, and offered it to Gunza. Gunza plucked a crystal from the pile, probing it with his Flex senses – then gobbled it.

He raised his hands in the air, a referee announcing a goal. “This!” he roared. “B-1 Flex! And it’s
ours
!”

The boys tumbled forward like puppies, eager to feast. Paul drew back, escorting Valentine to the office as the gang gorged themselves on stolen magic.

“They’ll be a while,” Paul told her. “They have to feast. Already, they’re finding it hard to live without it.” Then: “I hope they use it all up in time.”

Valentine nibbled a fingernail. “You said there’d be thunder.”

“The distraction takes some time to engineer,” Paul promised. “Stay ready.”

They watched as the gang took superhuman risks, darting between the conveyor belts and steel rollers as they fired live guns at each other. They relied entirely on the Flex for survival; people slipped at the last moment to slide beneath a shot that would have gone through their eye, machinery tumbled from the ceiling just in time to deflect a deadly fusillade, panicked birds flew into bullets.

When they’d burned through the last of their magic, they returned to Gunza, who handed Flex out with the attitude of a lottery winner buying drinks for everyone in the bar.

Raphael giggled, cheering them on, oblivious that the Flex was not protecting him.

His admiration galled Paul. Paul’s bureaucromancy was slow, tedious, mundane. It created cargo manifests, not Matrix gunplay. Yet they’d stolen his magic to reshape it into this glorious physical display…and he couldn’t even use it. The Flex worked only for the unmagicked.

Valentine tapped his prosthetic foot affectionately. “The ankle’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“It’s a reminder,” Paul said, staring enviously at the young kids showing off.

“Of?”

“It used to tell me what happened to dumb cops who charged in to interfere with ’mancers,” Paul sighed. “These days? It reminds me I can do some amazing things, but I’m never gonna be Superman.”

“We all have different limits. I can be Superman, but–”

“That’s good. We’ll need Superman before the evening’s done.”

“Not a problem. Every person you control in a videogame is superhuman on some level. But I can’t–”

Muffled
whoomps
echoed across the warehouse. Then rattling clanks rained down as a hundred metallic objects bounced off machinery.

“
Get down!
” Paul shielded Valentine’s eyes as the flashbangs went off. Tear gas hissed into the makeshift corridors. Armored soldiers in black SMASH uniforms rappelled in through the broken windows on every side of the warehouse, so unified they could have been mirror images. They landed as one thanks to their army-inspired Unimancy.

But all of the flashbangs had misfired or bounced into bins where they’d gone off harmlessly. Gunza, recognizing the danger, ran for the Flex, dumping it into a Rubbermaid washtub. His thugs snorted the last of their crystal, eyes glowing as they realized how epic this fight would be.

Valentine had to scream to be heard over the gunfire, the helicopters, the announcements. “
Paul! Where the fuck did you dump the flux?
”

“
SMASH headquarters!
” he yelled. “
Now. Show me your lightning.
”