Chapter 12: Summer Glau's Arrival - Part 1
POV: Stuart
I was explaining the difference between manga and American comic storytelling to a teenage customer when she walked in, and my brain immediately short-circuited like an overloaded electrical system.
Summer Glau stood just inside the door of my shop, scanning the space with the analytical gaze of someone accustomed to evaluating environments for authenticity. She wore simple jeans and a fitted black sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a casual ponytail that somehow made her look both approachable and impossibly elegant.
"Holy shit," my internal fanboy screamed. "That's River Tam. That's Summer Glau. In my shop. Looking around like a normal person who might actually want to buy something."
I finished helping my customer with hands that trembled slightly, trying to maintain professional composure while my Memory power helpfully reminded me of every episode of Firefly and The Sarah Connor Chronicles that featured her stunning, otherworldly performances.
She approached the counter with the kind of purposeful movement that suggested this wasn't a casual browsing visit.
"Are you Stuart Bloom?" she asked, her voice carrying the slight rasp that had made her memorable in everything from sci-fi television to indie films.
"That's me," I managed, proud that my voice didn't crack like a thirteen-year-old meeting his celebrity crush.
"I'm Summer Glau. I'm working on a project—Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles—and I was hoping to get some insight from someone who really understands fan culture and sci-fi storytelling."
My Magnetism power was practically vibrating in my chest, that familiar warmth that told me this encounter wasn't coincidence. My growing reputation for authentic expertise and industry connections had reached the point where actual celebrities were seeking me out for consultation.
"Play it cool," I told myself. "She's here for professional reasons. Don't be weird about it."
"I'd be happy to help," I said, coming around the counter to meet her in the main shopping area. "What specific kind of insight are you looking for?"
"I'm trying to understand how to play a character who exists in an established universe with passionate fans, without either betraying their expectations or being trapped by them," she said, wandering toward my science fiction section. "Cameron is supposed to be a Terminator, but one who's developing something like emotions and individual identity. How do you honor the mythology while creating something new?"
For the next two hours, we discussed the evolution of artificial intelligence in science fiction, the way iconic characters could be reimagined without losing their essential nature, and the delicate balance between fan service and genuine artistic innovation. Summer proved to be incredibly thoughtful about her craft, asking questions that demonstrated deep understanding of both the source material and the broader cultural implications of the stories she was telling.
"You know," she said, settling into one of my reading chairs with a copy of I, Robot in her hands, "most people I talk to about this stuff either geek out so hard they can't hold a real conversation, or they pretend to understand while obviously just humoring me. You're actually engaging with the ideas."
"It's fascinating stuff," I replied honestly. "The question of what makes consciousness 'real,' how emotion and logic interact, whether artificial beings can develop genuine individuality—these are some of the biggest philosophical questions we have, wrapped up in entertaining stories."
"Exactly!" Her eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of someone who'd found a kindred spirit. "That's what I love about science fiction. It uses impossible scenarios to explore very real human questions."
We were deep in discussion about the portrayal of female characters in sci-fi when Sheldon and Leonard walked in, took one look at our conversation, and stopped dead in their tracks like they'd encountered a temporal anomaly.
"Summer Glau," Sheldon whispered, his voice carrying the reverence usually reserved for Nobel Prize winners.
"In Stuart's shop," Leonard added, looking like his understanding of reality had just been fundamentally challenged.
Summer glanced up at them with polite curiosity, then back at me with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Friends of yours?"
"Sheldon Cooper, theoretical physicist," I said, introducing them. "Leonard Hofstadter, experimental physicist. Guys, Summer Glau."
"We know who she is," Sheldon said, approaching with the careful movements of someone trying not to startle a rare butterfly. "Ms. Glau, your portrayal of River Tam represents one of the most nuanced depictions of post-traumatic psychological modification in science fiction television."
"Thank you," Summer said with genuine warmth. "That means a lot, especially coming from someone who understands the science behind the fiction."
Leonard had gone slightly pale. "I just want to say, Firefly was... I mean, your performance was..."
"Transcendent," Sheldon supplied helpfully.
Summer smiled—not the professional expression she probably used at conventions, but something more natural and pleased. "You guys really understand what we were trying to do with that show."
For ten minutes, I watched three of my favorite people in the world discuss the intersection of neuroscience and science fiction storytelling with the kind of passionate enthusiasm that made my shop feel like exactly what I'd hoped it could become—a place where genuine appreciation for great stories brought intelligent people together.
But I also noticed that while Summer engaged politely with Sheldon and Leonard, she kept glancing back at me, like our interrupted conversation was what she'd really come here for.
"You know what," she said eventually, "Stuart, would you mind continuing this discussion over coffee? I feel like we've barely scratched the surface, and I don't want to monopolize your shop during business hours."
"She's asking me to coffee. Summer Glau is asking me to coffee. This is either the best day of my life or I'm having a very elaborate dream."
"That sounds great," I said, trying to project calm while my pulse hammered in my throat.
Twenty minutes later, we were seated across from each other in a coffee shop two blocks from my store, and the conversation had shifted from professional consultation to something that felt dangerously close to personal connection.
"Can I ask you something?" Summer said, stirring her latte absently. "And I want you to be honest."
"Sure."
"How do you do it? The authenticity thing, I mean. You seem completely comfortable in your own skin, confident without being arrogant, passionate about things without being obsessive. It's like you've figured out how to be genuinely yourself in a world that rewards performance."
The question hit closer to home than she could possibly know. How could I explain that my "authenticity" was built on the foundation of impossible secrets? That my confidence came from supernatural advantages I could never reveal?
"I think," I said carefully, "it comes from accepting that you can't control how other people perceive you, so you might as well focus on being someone you can respect."
"That's easier said than done when your career depends on public perception."
"Is that what it's like? Being famous?"
Summer laughed, but there was something tired in the sound. "It's complicated. People have expectations based on characters I've played, or they assume things about my personality based on interviews where I'm trying to be professional and likeable. Sometimes I feel like I'm performing even when I'm not working."
"I know exactly what that feels like," I thought. "Except my performance is about hiding impossible knowledge instead of managing public image."
"The thing is," she continued, "talking to you feels different. Like you're actually seeing me rather than some version of me you want me to be."
Her hand was resting on the table between us, and without really thinking about it, I reached over and briefly touched her fingers. The contact sent a jolt through my nervous system—not just attraction, though that was certainly part of it, but something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Two people who understood what it was like to carry the weight of others' expectations.
"Your eyes," she said quietly, not pulling her hand away, "they look older than your face. Like you've seen things that changed you in ways you can't really explain to other people."
"Jesus. She really does see everything."
My Attractiveness power had been growing steadily for months, building confidence and charisma through genuine successes. But Summer's observation went deeper than that—she was recognizing something fundamental about my nature, the weight of knowledge and experience that didn't quite fit the persona I was projecting.
"Sometimes I feel like I lived through more than I should have by this age," I said, which was as close to the truth as I could safely get.
"I know that feeling," she replied. "Child actors grow up fast. You learn to navigate adult situations before you really understand what they mean. It changes your perspective on everything."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I felt something I hadn't experienced since awakening in Stuart's life—the possibility of being truly seen by someone, even if I couldn't share the complete truth.
"Stuart," she said eventually, "would you like to have dinner sometime? Not for the project—I think we covered everything I needed for that. Just... because I'd like to spend more time talking with someone who doesn't seem to need me to be anyone other than who I am."
"She's asking me on a date. Summer Glau is asking me on a date."
The rational part of my brain immediately began cataloging all the reasons this was a terrible idea. I was carrying secrets that would poison any intimate relationship. My life was built on a foundation of impossible advantages that I could never fully explain. Getting emotionally involved with someone as perceptive as Summer would inevitably lead to questions I couldn't answer and trust I couldn't fully reciprocate.
But the lonely part of my brain—the part that had been isolated by cosmic secrets for months—desperately wanted to say yes. Here was someone who'd noticed the "old eyes," who seemed to understand that there were depths to people that couldn't be easily explained. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to be authentic with her without revealing the impossible truth.
"I'd like that very much," I heard myself saying.
Summer smiled, and the expression transformed her entire face from beautiful to radiant. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."
She pulled out her phone and we exchanged numbers, the simple act feeling weighted with possibilities I couldn't quite define. As we walked back toward my shop, her shoulder occasionally brushing against mine, I tried to process what was happening.
My void-touched transformation had attracted the attention of someone whose career was built on being perceptive about human nature. She'd seen something in my eyes that resonated with her own experience of carrying unusual burdens. And instead of being frightened by the mystery, she seemed intrigued by it.
"Maybe," I thought as we reached her car, "the 'old eyes' aren't a liability. Maybe finding someone who notices them isn't dangerous—maybe it's exactly what I've been missing."
"I'll call you soon," she said, climbing into her car with a grace that made even mundane actions look like choreography.
"I'll be looking forward to it."
As she drove away, I stood on the sidewalk outside my shop, watching her taillights disappear into traffic and trying to understand what had just happened to my carefully controlled existence.
Summer Glau had noticed something in me that others had missed, and instead of being suspicious or concerned, she'd been drawn to it. The weight of cosmic secrets that had isolated me from genuine connection might actually be what made that connection possible with the right person.
"This could change everything," I realized, walking back into my shop where the lingering scent of her perfume still hung in the air like a promise of complications I wasn't sure I was ready for.
"Or it could destroy everything. But maybe, just maybe, it's worth the risk to find out."
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