MJ was already reaching for the car door, but I didn't go to this damn college to leave with nothing.
"Mary Jane, please wait!" I called out to her, quickening my pace slightly and trying to make my voice sound as friendly and innocuous as possible.
She turned around, a look of polite confusion crossing her face. She clearly didn't remember me.
"Um... sorry, have we met?"
"Thompson. John Thompson, we're in the same Theater History class," I introduced myself. "Could you tell me where to find a good acting tutor? You're the best in the class, I'm sure you know someone good."
"Oh, right! Thompson! You were the one 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."
I don't need that damn tutor's number! My target stood a meter away from her, frowning.
"Yes, thank you, and please give me your number just in case," I added as casually as possible. "If I can't afford it, I'll at least consult with you as an expert. It's just that I won't be able to attend college for the next few days; I have work to do."
"Um, Mary Jane, it's time to go," — oh, finally! The ice was broken. Jealousy is a great catalyst.
The guy stepped closer, placing his hand authoritatively on her shoulder.
"Excuse me, but who are you?" I turned to him, feigning genuine ignorance. Since he'd entered our conversation, that gave me every right to start one with him.
"I'm her boyfriend," he muttered, frowning slightly. I saw his gaze slide appraisingly over my worn sweater and cheap jeans and immediately relax. He saw no threat in the skinny, nondescript student.
"The guy does have a name, right?" I extended my hand with my most disarming smile. "I'm John Thompson, a classmate. You've heard that before, though."
"Harry Osborn," he replied, reluctantly shaking my hand. His grip was weak, limp, like a fish's.
"Oh, Osborn? You're probably tired of hearing this, but... are you by any chance the son of that same Norman Osborn? The founder of Oscorp?"
"You have no idea how tired I am," his voice betrayed genuine weariness and bitterness. "I might complain, but MJ and I are really in a hurry. Let her give you the tutor's number, and then we'll go."
Mission accomplished. Confirmation received. This is indeed Harry Osborn. Mary Jane, 99% certain, is with him for his money and status. And Harry himself — a typical "golden boy" with a ton of insecurities, desperately trying to escape the shadow of his powerful father. This information would definitely come in handy.
As I walked toward my rundown apartment, the initial satisfaction of a successful "operation" gave way to a cold, clammy feeling of apprehension. It's one thing to know you're in the Marvel world. It's quite another to personally shake the hand of a man destined to become one of the city's most notorious supervillains. Harry Osborn. In some versions, the Green Goblin; in others, simply the Goblin...
Scraps of comics and movies floated through my head — the glider, pumpkin bombs, manic laughter, and superhuman strength. And Norman Osborn, his father. The first and most dangerous Goblin. A man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.
I had just intruded on their personal space. Even if only for a moment, even under the most innocent pretext. But what if this brief conversation had been observed? What if Norman, paranoid as ever, tracked all his son's contacts? Nonsense, of course — and here the paranoia lay more with me. To them, I was nothing, a speck on their windshield. But the fact remained... I wasn't just an observer anymore; I was now a participant in this global game.
And the players here were figures of an entirely different caliber.
Suddenly, my plan seemed the height of idiocy. Why had I done this? To find out what was already obvious? To make sure this was the 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 destinies. I needed to hide in my hole and quietly craft until I became strong enough not to fear every shadow.
But alas — it was too late. Contact had been made.
Returning to my tiny room, lost in these heavy thoughts, I assembled the nine remaining Kusudamas in an hour, like on a conveyor belt, bringing my balance to the coveted 50 OP. Exactly halfway there.
But what next? I had no desire to tackle more complex origami, which meant I needed to create something different. Something real. Something my hands would remember. But for that, I needed materials and tools. And for that — money.
I opened my laptop. My online banking greeted me with a harsh reality: $17.35. Seventeen dollars. Plus a tenner and a handful of change in my pocket. That was my entire savings.
The realization of my own poverty hit me in the gut. In my past life, I had been self-sufficient. I had never been rich, but I always had enough money to live on and do what I loved. And here... I was at rock bottom.
"The very thought makes me shudder, but it looks like I'm going to have to make a deal with the devil..." I muttered, pulling on the only decent sneakers I had.
The New York Central Bank sign on the façade of a luxurious Manhattan building shone with false gold, oppressive in its monumentality. Inside, things were even worse: cold, echoing marble, the quiet whisper of air conditioners, and clerks in expensive suits with the forced smiles of sharks.
In a past life, I had hated loans. And John, judging by his memories of his adoptive mother — perpetually 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 "opportunity."
Swallowing, I approached the counter. A young man in a perfectly pressed suit and perfectly groomed hair beamed at me as if I'd offered him eternal life. He rattled on about "incredible opportunities," "interest-free periods," and "flexible terms," barely noticing my status as an unemployed, orphaned student.
That last fact, however, made him tone it down a bit — but he still offered the maximum monthly limit of two thousand dollars. Two thousand. Just like that. To a broke student.
"What's the catch?" pounded in my head. Back home, such generosity would have concealed exorbitant interest rates and dozens of pages of fine print filled with traps.
But here... The interest rate was only 7% per annum. By American standards, extortionate. By mine... ridiculously low. I nodded silently, signing the papers.
This system, where money was handed out so easily, seemed vicious and dangerous to me. But now I had no choice.
Yes, I hated it. I was used to living within my means — earning, saving, investing in what I truly needed. Debt had always been synonymous with slavery. And now, I was willingly putting myself under those shackles.
The hand holding the pen trembled slightly. Everything inside me protested. This was wrong; it went against all my principles. But then I remembered the empty refrigerator, the lack of basic materials and tools, and my helplessness.
Principles are a luxury afforded only to those who have a choice.
I didn't have one.
In any case, this wasn't a loan for a new phone or fashionable clothes. It was an investment — an investment in my survival and future. I pressed hard on the pen, leaving my new, alien signature on the paper.
A deal with the devil made.
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 the hardware store. The plan was simple: buy a little bit of everything — wooden blocks, PVC pipes for a Bulbamyot, 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 part-time, and his next shift was supposed to start tomorrow.
"Billy, hi, it's John. Listen, I'm really sick. The doctor said I need a couple of weeks of bed rest. I have no idea when I'll be able to get out. Yeah, that's a shame. As soon as I can."
I ended the call and put the phone away. The low-paying job and the useless college... could wait. I intended to dedicate the next few days exclusively to myself — and my new, strange power.
My craft.