Chapter 6: The Industry Whispers Begin
Three weeks after Penny's visit to my shop—which had gone better than I'd dared hope—I was restocking the indie comics section when the door chimed and someone who definitely wasn't a regular customer walked in.
Wil Wheaton stood just inside the entrance, looking around my shop with the analytical gaze of someone accustomed to evaluating spaces for their authenticity. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but there was something unmistakably professional about his presence, the way he moved through the space like he was already cataloging details for future reference.
My brain went through a rapid-fire sequence of reactions. First, pure fanboy excitement—Holy shit, that's Wesley Crusher. Second, the memory of Wheaton's recurring role on the show as Sheldon's nemesis-turned-friend. Third, the sinking realization that his presence here wasn't coincidence—it was my Magnetism power attracting exactly the kind of industry attention I'd been both hoping for and dreading.
"You must be Stuart Bloom," he said, approaching the counter with an easy confidence that came from years in the public eye. "I'm Wil Wheaton. I've been hearing some interesting things about your shop."
"I know who you are," I replied, proud that my voice came out steady instead of squeaking with fanboy enthusiasm. "What kind of interesting things?"
"Word gets around in comic circles when someone consistently stocks issues that explode in value," Wil said, running his fingers along one of my displays. "The Walking Dead thing, some of your indie picks, that Batman run you promoted before anyone else caught on. People are starting to call you 'the guy who always knows what's coming next.'"
The phrasing sent a chill down my spine. Too close to the truth, even if he meant it metaphorically.
"I just try to stay on top of industry trends," I said carefully. "Read the trade publications, follow the creators on social media, pay attention to what actually resonates with readers versus what gets hyped by marketing departments."
Wil nodded, but his eyes had the sharp focus of someone evaluating a potential business partner. "That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm working on a project—can't give you all the details yet—but I could use a consultant who understands comic culture from both the fan and business perspectives. Someone who can spot authenticity and call out bullshit."
My Magnetism power hummed in my chest, that familiar warmth that told me this conversation was unfolding exactly as designed. Stage 1 had been attracting local creators and building customer loyalty. This was the transition to Stage 2—legitimate industry recognition, professional opportunities, the kind of networking that could reshape my entire trajectory.
"What kind of project?" I asked.
"Let's just say it involves helping Hollywood understand geek culture without pandering or completely screwing it up," Wil said with a wry smile. "Think you might be interested?"
Before I could answer, the familiar sound of the door chime announced the arrival of Sheldon and Leonard, engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate about quantum mechanics. They stopped mid-argument when they spotted Wil Wheaton standing in my shop.
"Wesley Crusher," Sheldon breathed, his voice carrying the kind of reverence usually reserved for Nobel Prize winners or rare comic book variants.
"Actually, it's Wil Wheaton," Leonard corrected, extending a hand. "I'm Leonard Hofstadter, Caltech experimental physicist. This is Sheldon Cooper, theoretical physicist. We're both big fans of your work."
"Both the acting and the writing," Sheldon added with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "Your blog posts about geek culture and media representation demonstrate a sophisticated understanding of the sociological implications of—"
"Sheldon," Leonard interrupted gently.
Wil handled the interaction with practiced grace, but I noticed him glancing between the three of us with obvious curiosity. "So Stuart here has managed to create a space that attracts both industry professionals and actual rocket scientists. That's... not typical for most comic shops."
"Stuart's shop is statistically anomalous," Sheldon agreed. "His success rate for inventory prediction exceeds normal probability distributions by significant margins. I've been developing an algorithm to analyze the variables contributing to his superior performance."
"Oh God, here we go," I thought, watching Wil's eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
"An algorithm?" Wil asked, clearly amused.
"Indeed. Stuart's business model appears to rely on pattern recognition and trend analysis that operates at a level suggesting either unprecedented market research capabilities or..." Sheldon paused dramatically, "access to information sources not available to typical retail establishments."
Leonard shot Sheldon a warning look, but the damage was done. Wil was now studying me with the intensity of someone who'd just heard an intriguing puzzle.
"Information sources?" Wil repeated.
I forced a laugh. "Sheldon thinks I'm either a business genius or some kind of comic book oracle. The truth is way more boring—I just read everything, talk to everyone, and occasionally get lucky with my guesses."
"Lucky," Sheldon muttered. "A forty-seven percent accuracy rate in predicting breakout titles constitutes 'lucky' in the same way that winning the lottery twice constitutes 'coincidence.'"
Wil's expression had shifted from casual interest to active investigation. "Forty-seven percent? That's... actually incredibly impressive. Most industry professionals are lucky to hit twenty percent on breakout predictions."
"Sheldon's being dramatic," I said, shooting my friend a look that hopefully conveyed 'please stop helping.' "Sample size is small, and—"
"Sample size of thirty-eight distinct predictions over four months," Sheldon corrected with scientific precision. "Eighteen complete successes, six partial successes, fourteen neutral outcomes, zero failures resulting in significant financial loss."
The silence that followed felt thick with unspoken questions. Wil was clearly recalculating his assessment of both me and my potential value as a consultant. Leonard looked like he was running probability calculations in his head. And Sheldon seemed pleased to have contributed data to what he obviously viewed as a fascinating puzzle.
"You know what?" Wil said finally. "I'm even more interested in that consulting position now. Someone with instincts this good could save a lot of people a lot of money. And more importantly, maybe help create some actually authentic geek culture content."
He handed me a business card—actual Hollywood business card, with agency logos and everything. "Think about it. I'll be in touch."
After he left, Sheldon immediately launched into what I could only describe as an interrogation disguised as academic curiosity.
"Stuart, I must insist on greater transparency regarding your methodology. The statistical impossibility of your continued success suggests variables I haven't accounted for. Are you utilizing predictive algorithms? Market analysis software? Industry insider information networks?"
"He's just good at his job, Sheldon," Leonard said, but his physicist's mind was clearly still processing Wil's reaction to Sheldon's statistics.
"'Just good' doesn't explain precision that exceeds professional analysts," Sheldon replied. "There's a quantifiable pattern here that demands explanation."
I managed to deflect the conversation toward Wil's visit and his potential project, but I could see both Leonard and Sheldon filing away more data points in their growing collection of Stuart Bloom anomalies.
That evening, after closing the shop and updating my inventory orders for the following week, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open to multiple browser tabs. Bitcoin was trading at $31—another 15% gain since my last check. My shop's monthly revenue had tripled compared to the same period last year. The business card from Wil Wheaton sat on my coffee table like a small passport to possibilities I'd only dreamed about.
By every objective measure, I was succeeding beyond Stuart Bloom's wildest original dreams. The powers were working exactly as designed—Memory providing accurate market predictions, Magnetism drawing industry connections, Attractiveness building genuine charisma through earned successes.
But success came with its own weight.
"I'm living the life of someone who doesn't exist anymore," I thought, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen. "Stuart's memories, Marcus's consciousness, and powers from somewhere else entirely. What does that make me? And how long can I maintain this performance before someone smart enough to see through it starts asking the right questions?"
The loneliness was the hardest part. I had friends now—real friends who cared about Stuart Bloom and enjoyed his company. But I could never share my real victories with them, never admit the source of my insights, never reveal the weight of future knowledge that made every day feel like walking through a world made of glass.
Leonard was getting suspicious. Sheldon was building algorithms to explain my impossibilities. Wil Wheaton was offering opportunities that could launch me into Hollywood circles where even more intelligent, analytical people would start paying attention to my patterns.
Each success made the next level of scrutiny more inevitable.
"But what's the alternative?" I asked myself, closing the laptop and preparing for another night of dual-memory dreams. "Go back to being the failing comic shop owner Stuart was before? Let the shop die, the friendships fade, the potential go unrealized? The void gave me these gifts for a reason—maybe to save Stuart's life, maybe to build something meaningful, maybe just because the universe thought it would be interesting to see what happened."
Tomorrow, I would continue the delicate balancing act of being authentically enthusiastic while carefully managing the supernatural advantages that made my enthusiasm effective. I would use borrowed knowledge to serve real people, deploy impossible powers to create genuine value, and carry the weight of secrets that grew heavier with each passing success.
But tonight, in the quiet of my apartment with the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the windows, I allowed myself a moment of honest appreciation for the life I was building. Whatever the ultimate cost of my deception, whatever complications lay ahead, I was creating something worthwhile with the tools I'd been given.
The void had touched my soul and sent me back changed. Now it was up to me to prove worthy of the gift—and strong enough to bear the burden that came with it.
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