O-Man stood against the door leading out of the concession stand, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other spinning a socket wrench the wrong way by the socket end. Wenchy sat behind a laptop with a large screen with headphones tossed to one side and a microphone on the other. Her outfit — an elegant off-white dress — seemed strangely out of place amid all the communications equipment. In the back, HIM stretched out in a nice leather chair, looking distinctively bored.
Wenchy looked around the room. “Let’s go through our roles one more time, shall we?” Her voice struck a characteristic semi-serious tone.
“O-Man, you’ve got the ground attack and the sweep operations.” He saluted her.
“HIM, you’ve got driving duty, clean-up, and wardrobe detail.” HIM responded laconically, “Check.”
Wenchy narrowed her eyes at him. “Hey now. Someone has to do those things.”
HIM said, “No-one ever changes clothes during one of our missions. Wardrobe detail is boring.”
Wenchy replied, “You have to do Something. We just can’t risk you going outside. You’d cause a riot with all the teenage girls in attendance.”
“Ok, ok, I’ll handle it.”
O-Man kept the grin on his face from becoming a huge smile. It was humorous, somehow, to hear HIM complain.
“I’ll do communications, strategy, and of course, food acquisition. O-Man, front and center! Four hot dogs, chips, and drinks.” She waved a wad of dollar bills at him.
He grumbled. “What, you don’t like the color of money?” she asked him. Everyone rolled their eyes. “There’s enough there for you.”
O-Man took the money and said, “I’ll be back with the food.” He opened the door, closed his jacket, and promptly disappeared. The door swung shut by itself.
* * * * *
Every breath that Brandon took seemed to be charged with excitement. No one thing was responsible for how he felt, but rather a whole host of things. He was fifteen; he was with friends; his school’s football team was playing in the first game of the season, trying to beat their arch-rivals; his band was in the stands, playing rousing music and taunting the cheerleaders; it was early autumn; the oddly-invigorating aroma of hot dogs and cigarettes was in the air; and so many others were there, just like him, sharing in this night. He couldn’t describe it exactly, because the words were just out reach, but he knew it was memorable. Together with Brian and Lauren, he felt invincible.
They had good seats along the middle of the field in the seventh row. Lauren had made sure their seats were just above the walkway separating the lowest section from the middle, so it was easy for them to jump out of the seats and dance around when the situation called for it. They were also close enough (at least Lauren was, with her softball-toned arm) to pelt the opposing team with objects, if the situation called for it.
First quarter lurched from one unsteady moment to the next, with moments of dramatic tension and desperate plays counterbalanced with odd breaks in the action. The first oddity was when one of the Sharks kicked the ball after the Eagle’s quarterback had dropped it. The referee blew the whistle and the loudspeakers rumbled, “Aborted drop kick. Change of possession.” About half the people in the stands were asking each other what a drop kick even was. Five minutes raced by, with the Eagles threatening to score on the Shark’s ten yard line. Moments dripped by in slow-motion as they tried for three downs to make a touchdown. When they went for the final pass, it was blocked by Shark #37, but then the Eagle’s cornerback kicked the ball into the end zone. The referee blew the whistle and awarded two points to the Eagles. “Touchback. Two points!” The loudspeaker blared. Most people knew what a touchback was, but it wasn’t something that you saw every day, at least not that way. Then a spate of odd penalties hobbled the Sharks as they barely reached the fifty-yard line. Even the referees disagreed on what the calls should be.
“Man,” said Brian aloud. “I didn’t realize that football was so complicated. I’m glad that I play basketball!”
Lauren made a fist. “Freaking refs!”
Brandon had gone from excitement to confusion to a cold sweat. He’d already heard several people wondering aloud about how little they knew about football, while others had been bragging about their knowledge, and he suspected that they were just covering up their own ignorance. Ordinarily all that wouldn’t have bothered him, but their commentary paralleled what was happening on the field below. Strange situations followed one after another, and the incompetence of players, coaches, and referees became hard to ignore as the game dragged on. He knew that it was no run of bad luck, either. Their incompetence was being brought out by artificial means. What happened when the incompetence reached a critical state? He had no idea. Would the DMIC’s cure be worse than the problem? That worried him just as much.
“Brandon. Psst. Brandon.” He looked over at the people sitting next to him and in the nearby rows, but he didn’t see anyone. But that voice — it sounded familiar. It was a raspy, like a hard rock singer’s voice.
“Who’s that?” asked Lauren, looking around.
Then it hit him — it was O-Man. But why couldn’t he see him? Never mind; he remembered that Wenchy told him that he’d be hard to spot. “Just someone I know outside of school,” Brandon said quickly. “Give me a sec.”
He walked down to one of the main walkways that lead to an entrance. As he left the row, he looked beside him and O-Man was standing there, denim jacket spread apart with bright orange reflective tape peeking out from under his arms.
“Good move, kid,” he said, giving Brandon a thumbs-up. Brandon looked at him and asked, “Wenchy said that you’d be hard to spot, but you were totally invisible!”
O-Man rummaged through his pockets. “Pretty cool, isn’t it? Here.” He pushed several long strips of reflective white tape into Brandon’s hand. “Use these.”
“How?”
“That’s up to you. Just make sure other people can see it.”
“Uh, ok.” Brandon’s mind whirled. “Is this part of the mission?” He tried to choose his words carefully.
“Yes,” said O-Man. “HE is sensitive to light, remember? Enough light, especially distracting light like these produce, will send him running like the cockroach he is!”
“Is that all I have to do?” Brandon asked.
“Yup. And if you see some kind of disturbance later on, don’t worry. We have the situation under control.”
Brandon didn’t feel particularly reassured by that, but he nodded, and O-Man took three steps and then disappeared.
He made his way back to the stands and found Brian and Lauren doing one of their famous side-to-side dances. Brandon joined right in, dangling the reflective strips from his free hand.
“So what was all that about?” asked Brian when the dance was done.
“He had some reflective things,” said Brandon, “He said they’re good for football games.” He shrugged.
“Rock on!” said Lauren, excitedly taking a few. “We saw some flashes around the stadium when you were gone and was wondering what was up.”
Really? Brandon thought. Brian nodded. “Look at the band, man.” He pointed over to where the trombone section had hung reflective strips from their instruments so that they flashed whenever they were playing.
“Hoo-yeah!” yelled Lauren, taking two of the strips and twirling them around. Brandon and Brian joined in, and Brandon once again felt the excitement and that sense of timeless invincibility return.
* * * * *
The Complexitor stood halfway between one cluster of lights and another, at the juncture where their coverage was the weakest. After looking around carefully, he trudged up several rows, and located a seat perfectly hidden in the shadows: row thirty-one, seat thirty-six B.
He fiddled with his orange and white scarf nervously until the game began, and then he placed his fingers on his temples and stared in the direction of the home team. He could sense the innate complexity of what has happening down below — 55 players, five referees, four coaches — all he had to do was to introduce one anomaly, one unexpected variable. Just a little bit more complexity and incompetence would bloom like toadstools after rain.
The ball spun out of the quarterback’s hands and whether it was slippery grass or whether it just seemed like a good idea, number 45 from the Sharks decided to kick the ball. When it landed out of bounds, the referee made a call that sent shocks of confusion through both teams and half the stadium: “Aborted drop kick. Change of possession.”
Behind three different pairs of sunglasses, the Complexitor smiled.
* * * * *
“Status,” said Wenchy into the microphone.
“Fenris at quadrant one, check,” replied a whispered, distracted female voice.
“Jennifer at two. Ready,” replied another female voice, this one self-assured and just a bit haughty.
“Moe three! Ready to rev!” This voice was jubilant, male, and had a scratchy about-to-break kind of quality that placed its owner right in the throes of puberty.
“Edward ready at four.” The lower-pitched, somber voice brought to mind smoking jackets and tea time at distant gazeboes.
“Jack here. Waiting on you.” Brash and cocky, Jack’s voice oozed debonair refinement.
Wenchy paused a moment and then announced, “Operation White Light is a go!” The momentary static was broken by five nearly-simultaneous responses. Wenchy turned her eyes toward the incompetence and complexity meters, both of which were a series of amber peaks lurching dangerously towards red.
Reclining in a chair, HIM glanced over the latest issue of Hairstyles of the Stars at the meters and raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. “We waited too long,” he said.
“That’s exactly what we want him to think,” Wenchy replied. “We want him to get overconfident and then desperate. It’s his first mission and he won’t want to lose.”
“We’re sure that he’s operating alone?”
“Sure as sushi.”
HIM returned to reading his magazine and sighed deeply.
* * * * *
The Complexitor cursed under his breath. “No side effects? Right.” He noticed a lot more flashes than usual. He had become accustomed to a few streaks of light as a side-effect of the mental enhancers, but not to this extent. It couldn’t be a migraine, either, because his temples felt fine. Still, there they were — flashes of light spreading across the stadium in on-again-off-again patterns. Then the truth came to him like an unwelcome visitor. Could it really be them?
He hadn’t expected any response at all; this widely-dispersed attack brimming with competence floored him. Minutes ticked by and the flashes grew more numerous and arrhythmic, each spinning off into its own pulsing constellation of activity. Concentration was impossible.
In the meanwhile, the football game fell into a rhythm of hard-fought yard gains punctuated by dramatic passes. The crowds on both sides grew enthusiastic and the bands challenged one another across the stadium.
The Complexitor felt his stomach sour as he tottered down the steps. Desperately, he waved to the referee that he had bought off, but all he got was a disputed play. He forced his eyes into slits and stumble-ran his way towards the Eagles sideline, muttering statistical formulas aloud.
Jackie sat in the top row of the lowest section on the Eagles’ side, directly above the fifty yard line. Her straight black hair framed her face, sliding back and up slightly just below her ears. Her eyes were a mysterious dark blue, and her outfit was an upscale take on outfitting apparel — a purplish, nearly maroon top with cream-accented utility pockets, and a matching clingy skirt out of the same linen. A thin black belt with a single gold clasp matched her fashionable black boots. Finally, she wore a straw bonnet the same color as her clothes, slanted across her brow. All in all, she radiated elegant mystery.
Jackie’s gaze followed the Complexitor as he made his way towards the field. She whispered into a walkie-talkie, slipped it into a pocket, and casually met up with him. As if by accident, she stretched and sent one of his sunglasses careening. “Oh my,” she said, “I’m so sorry!” He paused in the middle of his statistical incantation, shocked. Jackie pressed a boot faux-delicately onto the sunglasses as she walked forward. “Oops! There I go again!” She turned and looked at him with a smile as cold as steel.
His eyes shot wide open as he fumbled for the handrail and hurried down the stairs. Could she be part of them too? His intelligence didn’t mention anyone that stylish. Stupid! He turned his thoughts back to that formula and let it spill from his lips as he took the stairs down to the field. He put all his energy into it, hoping to pull off one final, decisive maneuver. He’d have to be close to the coaches in order for it to work, but between those maddening sparkling lights, the stadium floodlights, and the roar of the crowd, he knew he didn’t have long to pull it off.
A gate barred the way to the field and just beyond it stood a security guard and Frank, the referee that he paid off. The security guard had his arms crossed and regarded him with a suspicious eye.
Frank said aloud, “That man is a troublemaker.” The Complexitor stared at him and started to shake in rage. “Oh really?” asked Jackie, who stood at the top of the stairs. He looked from Frank to Jackie, fidgeting and sweating. Weakly, he muttered, “There’s been some kind of mistake,” and then he bolted towards the nearest exit, surprisingly quickly.
Jackie trailed him down the walkway that separated seating areas, and then up the stairs towards the exit. She took the steps two at a time, almost catching up to him when he groaned, and lunged to the side like he had hit a refrigerator. “O-Man!” shouted Jackie, “Are you hurt?” A figure lying on the ground opened up his denim jacket and then she could see him give a weak thumbs-down. Jackie nodded and leaped over him to catch the lip on the wall of the exit tunnel, standing precariously on one foot.
The tunnel was clear except for a surly, grungy girl, her back up against the wall near the exit. She looked derisively at the hefty man running towards her and while continuing to sip from her Slurpee, inched her foot forward just enough to cause him to trip and land on his face.
With that done, she grinned imperiously and tossed her brownish ringlets. Jackie jumped down and O-Man quickly joined her, as they put a foot on each of the Complexitor’s arms. The surly girl took a sleek walkie-talkie out of her jeans and pressed the button. “Complexitor stopped. VK out.”
Jackie blinked. O-Man took in a sudden breath. “Velvet Katherine?” asked Jackie.
“Yes, ’tis I,” she replied. The contrast between her disguise and her cultured, aristocratic voice could not have been more striking.
“It’s been ages!”
“It hasn’t been That long,” replied Velvet Katherine with a smile.
The Complexitor groaned beneath their feet. They both looked down and stepped away from him, looking to O-Man to handle him.
“Yes, yes, I’ll take care of it,” he said. Jackie smiled and within a few moments, they were trading information on sales events, new store openings, and all the juicy tidbits of clothing acquisition.
Maybe it was because the distracting lights were far off, the parking lot lights were not near enough, or because O-Man was having trouble locating something to tie up the Complexitor, but when the question came, he was completely caught off guard.
“I’ve got a question for you,” wheezed the Complexitor.
“What is it?” asked O-Man, irritably.
“What do you think about putting a Wankel engine in a DeLorean?”
O-Man’s jaw almost hit the floor. Could such a thing even be done? It would be massively complicated. His mind spun. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I think that might be a bit out of my league.” The walkie-talkies buzzed like angry bees, but Jackie and Velvet Katherine were too caught up in their conversation, and O-Man was holding on to a fraying rope of competence.
The Complexitor pulled himself to his feet. “Don’t forget that it’ll have to use unleaded gas, too.”
O-Man nodded. “That’s right. It would have to. Wait a minute.” He spun around, but the Complexitor was already halfway down the tunnel. Before anyone could react, he reached the exit and vanished into the night.
* * * * *
Back inside the stadium, the football game rolled on through halftime and blessedly smooth halftime shows, a desperate third quarter, and a tight fourth quarter. At ten thirty PM, the final score was Sharks 31, Eagles 24.
Not much later, Lauren pulled up in her driveway, and brought her half-painted Camaro to a stop. When she opened the front door, she noted that the foyer lights were on, and her mom was cross-stitching in the family room.
“Hi mom,” she called out after shutting the door. “I made it.” Her mother looked up with a calm careworn expression.
“Twenty minutes to spare. How was the game?”
“Great! We stomped them!”
“How were Brian and Brandon?”
“Crazy like always,” she replied. “Brian dared me to do victory doughnuts in the parking lot after the game. I didn’t, though.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Good for you.” Then after a pause, she continued, “He’s the taller one, right?”
“Mom,” Lauren complained in a sing-songy version of the word, heading off into the kitchen.
“You still don’t have anyone to accompany you to the wedding,” she called.
“I know.” Lauren had a granola bar in her hand and peeked into the family room from the kitchen. Her mother caught her gaze with a familiar concerned expression. “I don’t want you to be looked down on.”
Lauren sighed. “I know mom.” She wandered into the kitchen and looked out through a small window into the deep night, thinking.
