Chapter 8: The Writers' Strike Prediction
Saturday game nights at my shop had evolved into something I simultaneously loved and dreaded. I loved the genuine camaraderie, the passionate debates about character builds and plot development, the way the space filled with laughter and friendly argument. I dreaded the increasing scrutiny, the way Sheldon's analytical mind picked apart every casual comment I made for hidden patterns and impossible accuracies.
Tonight was particularly dangerous territory because the conversation had drifted toward television, and my Memory power was practically vibrating with knowledge I absolutely could not share directly.
"I still can't believe they canceled Firefly," Howard said, rolling dice for his rogue's sneak attack. "Fourteen episodes of pure genius, and Fox throws it away for reality TV garbage."
"Television executives lack the intellectual capacity to recognize quality programming," Sheldon replied primly. "They optimize for lowest-common-denominator appeal rather than artistic merit or cultural significance."
Leonard nodded, moving his character's miniature across the battle map. "It's all about advertising revenue and demographic targeting. The actual quality of the content is secondary to whether it can deliver the right eyeballs to sponsors."
"Oh God," I thought as my Memory power stirred, sending familiar warning tingles through my skull. "They're talking about the industry right when I know exactly what's about to happen to it."
The images flashed behind my eyes with painful clarity: the Writers Guild of America strike that would begin in exactly three weeks and four days, grinding Hollywood production to a halt for over three months. TV shows would be forced into early hiatuses, movie productions would be delayed, and the entire entertainment landscape would shift in ways that would take years to fully resolve.
I tried to stay focused on the game, but the knowledge was burning in my brain like acid. The strike would start November 5th, 2007. I knew the date with the same certainty I knew my own name, and that certainty was becoming physically painful to contain.
"You know," I said carefully, hoping my voice sounded casual despite the migraine building behind my temples, "you guys might want to stock up on DVD box sets of your favorite shows."
The table went quiet. Four pairs of eyes focused on me with expressions ranging from curious to concerned.
"What do you mean?" Penny asked. She'd started joining our game nights after her shop visit, bringing a welcome outsider perspective to our increasingly insular discussions.
"Just... there might be some disruption in TV production coming up. Industry rumors I've been hearing. Nothing definite, but..." I paused, fighting through the temporal headache that was threatening to split my skull open. "Writers have been getting screwed by digital distribution deals. DVDs, streaming, online content—they're not seeing fair compensation for any of it."
Sheldon's posture shifted to what I'd learned to recognize as his "interesting data detected" stance. "Elaborate."
"Well," I said, immediately regretting that I'd opened this particular can of worms, "the Writers Guild contract is up for renegotiation soon. And with all the changes in how people consume media—iTunes downloads, streaming video, webisodes—there's a lot of money being made that writers aren't seeing a cut of."
"So you think they might strike?" Leonard asked, his physicist brain clearly calculating probabilities.
The Memory power surged harder, and I felt my certainty crystallizing into specifics that were far too precise for comfort. "I'd say it's likely. Maybe starting in early November. Could last through the holidays, maybe into February or March."
Howard laughed. "Come on, Stuart. Writers strike during pilot season? During the holiday advertising blitz? They'd be committing career suicide."
"That's exactly when a strike would be most effective," Raj pointed out quietly. "Maximum leverage comes from maximum disruption."
"Which is why they'll do it," I said, then immediately wished I could take back the certainty in my voice. "I mean, it's what I would do. Hit them where it hurts most."
Sheldon had pulled out his phone and was typing notes with the intensity of a scientist recording experimental observations. "Fascinating hypothesis. Your confidence level appears unusually high for speculation based on 'industry rumors.' What specific indicators support this timeline?"
"Shit. Too specific. Way too specific."
"Look, I'm probably wrong," I backpedaled. "I just read a lot of trade publications, follow some industry blogs. Variety, Hollywood Reporter, some insider newsletters. When you spend as much time as I do reading about pop culture economics, you start to notice patterns."
Leonard exchanged a meaningful glance with Sheldon—the kind of look that said "add this to the growing list of Stuart's impossibly accurate predictions."
"Industry blogs," Sheldon repeated skeptically. "Which specific publications have provided indicators suggesting November timing and February resolution?"
The interrogation was getting dangerous, and my temporal headache was building toward migraine territory. I needed to deflect without arousing more suspicion, but every answer I gave just dug me deeper into the hole.
"You know what?" I said, pressing my palms against my temples, "let's get back to the game. My character's about to get eaten by that dragon you guys keep ignoring."
Penny was watching me with the same curiosity she'd shown during her shop visit—those perceptive eyes that seemed to see more than they should. "Are you okay? You look like you're in pain."
"Just a headache," I lied. "Too much screen time today."
The conversation moved back to the game, but I could feel the weight of unspoken questions hanging over the table. Sheldon continued taking notes. Leonard kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Even Howard seemed thoughtful, like he was reassessing his understanding of my business instincts.
Three weeks and four days later, I was restocking the graphic novel section when my phone started buzzing with text messages. The first was from Leonard: "Holy shit, Stuart. They called the strike. November 5th, exactly like you said."
The second was from Howard: "Dude, are you psychic or something? Writers just walked out."
The third was from Raj: "The universe speaks through you, my friend. Lakshmi has blessed you with prophetic sight."
My hands shook as I set down the books I'd been shelving. The Memory power had been accurate to the day, which was both vindicating and terrifying. I'd known it would happen, but seeing the knowledge manifest in reality still felt like watching magic work.
Twenty minutes later, the entire gang had assembled in my shop, their faces wearing expressions that ranged from amazement to suspicion to something approaching awe.
"Okay," Leonard said without preamble, "I need you to explain how you knew that was going to happen."
"Lucky guess?" I offered weakly.
"A lucky guess doesn't include specific timing," Sheldon replied, consulting his phone notes. "You stated 'early November' with confidence that suggested certainty rather than speculation. You predicted duration extending through February or March. You identified digital residuals as the primary conflict point. All of these predictions have proven accurate within the first six hours of the strike announcement."
Howard was pacing the narrow space between my comic racks like a caged animal. "This is insane. First the Walking Dead thing, then Bitcoin, now this. Stuart, what the hell is going on with you?"
Raj stepped forward with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. "You are touched by divine wisdom, my friend. In Hindu tradition, we speak of those who can see the threads of karma that connect all events. You have been blessed with sight beyond the veil of linear time."
"Raj," I said desperately, "I'm not psychic. I just pay attention to industry trends and—"
"Industry trends don't explain precision," Sheldon interrupted. "The probability of accurately predicting strike timing, duration, and central issues through casual observation approaches zero."
Penny had been unusually quiet during the interrogation, but now she spoke up with the directness that I was learning to both appreciate and fear. "Stuart, there's something different about you. I noticed it the first time we met—your eyes look like they've seen things. More things than someone your age should have seen. And these predictions... it's like you know what's coming."
"Too close. Way too close to the truth."
"I don't know what's coming," I said, which was technically true since my Memory power only covered specific events, not everything. "I just... I read everything, I connect dots, sometimes I get lucky with my guesses."
"Forty-seven predictions," Sheldon said quietly. "Forty-seven separate instances over five months where your 'guesses' proved accurate. The statistical impossibility of that success rate suggests—"
"Suggests I'm good at pattern recognition," I finished firmly. "Look, I understand why this seems weird. But sometimes people just have instincts about their field of expertise. I've been obsessed with pop culture my entire life. I notice things other people miss. That's not supernatural—that's just focused attention."
The explanation felt thin even to me, but it was the best I could offer without revealing truths that would destroy everything I'd built.
Leonard studied my face with the analytical intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen. "The thing is, Stuart, even experts in a field rarely achieve prediction accuracy rates above thirty percent. What you're doing isn't just good instincts—it's operating at a level that suggests access to information sources the rest of us don't have."
"Information sources. If only you knew."
"Maybe I just read better sources," I said with a shrug that I hoped looked casual rather than desperate.
That night, after everyone had left and I'd locked up the shop, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open to a Google search for "Stuart Bloom comic shop predictions." What I found made my blood run cold.
Someone had created a blog called "The Bloom Prophet," and it was dedicated entirely to documenting my impossible accuracy rate. The anonymous blogger had compiled a comprehensive list of my predictions, complete with dates, sources, and probability analyses. Bitcoin timing, Walking Dead speculation, various comic investment recommendations, industry trend forecasts—all of it was there, laid out with the methodical precision of someone building a case.
The most recent post, published just hours after the strike announcement, was titled "The Impossible Accuracy of Stuart Bloom." The analysis was thorough and terrifying:
"Subject continues to demonstrate prediction accuracy that exceeds professional analysts by significant margins. Strike timing prediction accurate to the day. Previous Bitcoin and comic speculation has resulted in documented profits exceeding 400% over six months. Probability of achieving this success rate through legitimate market research: less than 0.001%.
"Conclusion: Subject either possesses access to insider information networks not available to general public, or is utilizing predictive methodology that represents significant advancement over current analytical techniques. Recommend continued observation and documentation.
"Statistical impossibility suggests either unprecedented genius or access to information sources that require investigation."
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, feeling the walls of my carefully constructed life closing in around me. Someone was watching me, documenting my successes, building a case for impossibilities I couldn't explain without revealing truths that would destroy everything.
The void had given me incredible gifts, but those gifts came with a price I was only beginning to understand. Every success made me more visible. Every accurate prediction raised more questions. Every use of my powers brought me closer to exposure that could unravel not just my life, but the lives of everyone I'd grown to care about.
"I can't stop now," I realized, closing the laptop and preparing for another night of dual-memory dreams. "Stopping would be just as suspicious as continuing. I'm trapped in forward momentum, carried by powers I can't fully control toward consequences I can't entirely predict."
Tomorrow, I would continue the delicate balancing act of being helpful without being impossible, accurate without being supernatural, successful without being exposed. But tonight, alone with the weight of accumulating secrets, I wondered how long I could maintain the performance before someone smart enough to see through it finally asked the right questions in the right order.
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