Tiffani had betrayed me.

  Drummer Boy was shaking my hand. "No hard feelings, Bubbles. It's just a game."

  Tiff was standing behind him, but I couldn't look at her. I didn't want to talk to her, or hear her excuses. I just turned and went to my room.

  I was shoving the last of my clothes into my bag when I heard a knock on the door. "Michelle, it's me."

  It was Tiff. A wave of nausea swept over me.

  "I'm not in the mood," I said.

  "Look, I'm not going to apologize for voting you off," she said through the door.

  I jammed my last piece of clothing into my bag and yanked the zipper closed. "Well, thank goodness for that," I replied. I felt as though I might throw up.

  "It's just . . . I mean . . . I just got your presents."

  I'd forgotten the presents. I'd taken the money the show had given me and spent it on Tiff for the things she'd wanted but hadn't bought for herself. I'd had Bergdorf's send the packages with the perfume and cashmere shawl around to the house. I felt like an extra-special idiot.

  "You know, I never asked you to spend your money on me," Tiff said. "And I never promised you anything."

  I went to the door and yanked it open. "I know you didn't promise me anything. I gave you those things because I thought you would like them. Because you spent the money you could have spent on yourself on your family instead." I took a big breath. My entire body was shaking now. "Don't think that makes me less pissed at you. You did something rotten and underhanded." I wanted to slap her.

  "I know I let you down," she said, giving me a pleading look. "I just didn't have any other choice."

  I grabbed my bags off the bed. Then, as I brushed by her, I said tightly, "There are always choices, Tiff."

  She called after me, but I ignored her.

  The Discard Pile was stunning. At least, if I was going to hang with the losers, it would be in top-notch style.

  The living room was large—it had to be. Eleven of the discarded AH players were already living there. Twelve now, with me. And two more were on their way.

  I discovered that every time there were new Discards, the house members threw a party.

  A very loud, drunken party. It was just what I was in the mood for.

  After several glasses of champagne, I asked the Maharajah to show me to my room. I unpacked, then went back down. The party was in full swing. Joker Plague's new album was cranked to eleven, and everyone was dancing like it was the end of the world. I grabbed a bottle of champagne and got out in the middle of it all.

  Light streamed hot and heavy through the bedroom windows. I opened one eye. I wasn't dead, but felt as if I could do a remarkable facsimile of it. With a groan, I rolled over. Or I tried to. Ink was asleep next to me. Naked.

  I glanced down at her body. It wasn't covered in its usual tattoos. Her skin was the color of milky tea. There was a tangle of dark hair between her legs, and her breasts were small and tipped with delicate brownish-pink nipples. I tried to remember how we had ended up in bed together. But the throbbing in my head made it impossible.

  I sat up. The room tilted for a moment, then righted. Now I felt ravenously hungry, but I knew it wasn't just for food. I needed to be fat again. I needed to be able to bubble.

  "You're awake," Ink said, stretching.

  "Uh, yeah," I replied. I wondered if Ink would bail on me when I got back to my Bubbles size. Or if she would bail anyway. I couldn't remember if we had professed anything other than drunken lust.

  "You were pretty drunk last night," Ink said, making her the Queen of Understatement.

  "Yeah," I said rubbing my face. "I don't remember a lot after we all started dancing."

  Ink stretched again and I wanted to run my lips across her firm belly, then kiss and nibble in the dark thatch of hair between her legs. I had a brief memory flash of musky flesh and sweet, soft hair against my mouth.

  "Well, you'd already consumed an enormous amount of champagne before I got to the Discard Pile," Ink said. "The party was going full tilt, and you dragged me into the middle of the dancing. Then you told me I was your 'Asian Princess.' And after that, you carried me up here and we more or less canoodled until we both passed out."

  I moaned and hid my face in my hands. I was mortified. Why on earth had I called Ink my "Asian Princess?"

  "I am so embarrassed," I said.

  "Why? I thought it was hilarious."

  "When . . . how . . . did you end up here? In Discards, I mean."

  Ink rolled over onto her stomach. Her bottom was a perfect peach shape. I dimly remembered nibbling on it.

  "I've been lobbying to be the PA for the Discard Pile for a while. I knew you were going to be on the chopping block and I wanted to stay close to you."

  I felt a hot blush go up my face.

  "But, but, I didn't know you liked me . . . you know, like that."

  Ink laughed, and her bottom quivered. That's really distracting, I thought.

  "You can be kinda dim about some things, sweetie," Ink said, looking at me coyly over her shoulder.

  "Uhm." Then I blurted out, "You didn't sleep with me just because I'm skinny now, did you?"

  Ink giggled. "No, I wanted to sleep with you even when you had that horrible black hair and that big, delicious ass. In fact, I kinda like the idea of a girlfriend who can be any size. Variety is the spice of life and all that."

  "Oh." I hadn't thought of that. Come to think of it, a girlfriend whose skin had infinite moods might be pretty amazing, too.

  Ink rolled onto her side, then grabbed my arm and pulled me close. I hadn't expected her to be so strong.

  "Let me show you how much I like you." She slid her hand down my arm. Then she put her hand between my legs and began to stroke me. She leaned forward and rained nibbly kisses on my mouth. "Next time we do this, you're going to be bigger. I want your flesh—all of it."

  I tried to think of something to say, but I was at a loss. And everything Ink was doing felt so good that soon I gave up thinking at all.

  "I just don't know how she could do it," I said. Ink was pulling her pants on, and I stared at her perfect bottom for a moment.

  "Tiffani doesn't look at it the way you do." She grabbed her bra and slid it on. "Besides, you can't dwell on it. You've got to think about where you're going to go from here."

  I flopped back on the pillows. I was a failure. I would never be a hero. I'd wanted to do something good with my power. I'd wanted to make a difference. Now I was washed up.

  "Are you wallowing over there?" Ink pulled her tight T-shirt over her head.

  I put my hands over my face. "No . . . yes . . . maybe." I knew Tiffani had screwed me over, but part of me still couldn't believe what had happened. "Maybe DB got to her. Jetman said they had an alliance. Maybe DB lied to her."

  Ink came over and stood at the end of the bed. "Okay, enough of this," she said, looking extremely annoyed. "Stay here. I'll be right back"

  "I had a feeling you would be making excuses for Tiffani, so I had this copy made." Ink pulled a DVR out of her bag and slipped it into her laptop. The DVR clicked and whirled. Then a Quicktime window opened, and I saw Tiffani sitting in the Confessional room. A marker appeared in the lower corner: CONFESSIONAL #30—DIAMONDS—TIFFANI

  She was looking directly into the camera, her heart-shaped face framed with a corona of auburn hair. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't.

  "Of course I'm playing a game," she said with a slight smile. "Everyone here is playing a game. And if they're not, they're just not paying attention.

  "Look, this isn't about who would be the best hero. It's about being good TV. When Rupert won a million in an online poll on Survivor, no one complained. He couldn't cut it in the game, but the audience loved him. There's nothing wrong with that. This is America. We vote on things—that's the way we do it."

  She smiled at the camera again.

  "I know I'm not the most powerful ace here. My power is goofy. I can turn my skin into a diamond-hard substance. That and three bucks will get you a latte at Starbucks. And yes, I know what Starbucks is. I may be a hick from West Virginia, but those things are everywhere.

  "Anyway, I would be a great American Hero because I have 'The Package.' I'm pretty. I have the whole rags-to-riches angle. My power looks cool, but it's non-threatening."

  A voice came from offscreen. I recognized it. Ink's voice. "What about Bubbles?"

  Tiffani shrugged. "I know that Michelle likes me. And I like her, too, just not in 'that' way. And besides, Michelle takes this all way too seriously. She actually believes in the whole 'hero' thing. What a goober."

  "Anyone you would like to be involved with?"

  Tiffani blushed. "DB. I admit it. He's gorgeous. He's famous. He's rich. What's not to like?

  "Look, I'm playing the game. In the beginning, I allied myself with a strong player who I knew would be loyal to me. That was Bubbles. But she's too powerful, and I knew eventually I would have to get rid of her. So, when we had the chance to add DB to the Diamonds, well, I just combined the thing I wanted with the thing I needed."

  I hit the pause button. I didn't want to see any more. Had she been making a fool out of me the entire time?

  Ink took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. "Look, Tiff didn't care about being a hero. You did. But the show wouldn't have made you a hero. You're going to make yourself one."

  "How?" I felt stupid and used, and anything but heroic.

  She put her arms around me. "Well, we've gotten tons of e-mails from gay and lesbian teenagers sent care of AH to you. Most of them thanking you for being such a great role model—and some suggesting things that I'm pretty sure are illegal in all fifty states. They love the fact that you didn't hide the fact that you're gay. And that you didn't hide the fact that you were interested in Tiff. That's being a role model. That's pretty heroic.

  "And then there were the big girls, gay and straight, who wrote in saying that you made them realize any size could be beautiful as well as powerful."

  She let go of me and gave my hair a playful yank.

  "And there are also all kinds of offers to endorse products, and plenty of agencies that want to represent you, if you decide to get back on the modeling merry-go-round. But I know you, and that's not what you're about. Now sit here, read these e-mails, and stop feeling sorry for yourself." She marched out of the room.

  So I spent the next couple of hours doing what she said. And she was right. I could do something to make a difference.

  I opened my hand and concentrated on bubbling. A grape-size bubble appeared, and I let it float to the ceiling.

  I needed to get fat again. One of the Discards would no doubt be happy to pound the heck out of me until I plumped up. And after that, well . . .

  The future was bubbling up.

  11. All The Best Stories Start

  Jonathan Hive

  Daniel Abraham

  ALL THE BEST STORIES START “THIS ONE TIME WE WERE REALLY DRUNK, AND . . .”

  "SERIOUSLY," JONATHAN SAID, "IS there nothing going on in the whole fucking world besides this show?"

  "Probably," Gardener said as she leaned down to get another beer from the cooler on the coffee table, "but who really cares?"

  The Discard Pile was getting more and more crowded with each passing week. With every new addition, Jonathan was more and more grateful he'd lost early and gotten his pick of bedrooms. Earlier this week, Spades had won their challenge, foiling Detroit Steel and his gang of bogus bank robbers, but Golden Boy and henchmen had handled the Diamonds. The Hearts had yet to face their own rogue ace, but the evening's entertainment was watching the daily footage of Clubs getting their collective clock cleaned by the Aryan poster boy, Lohengrin. The studio was even providing the pizza.

  It wasn't a formal party, just a bunch of failures drinking cheap beer and talking smack about people who'd already done better than they had, and getting filmed so that every shitty thing they said could be used as a voiceover for the home audience.

  "Here it comes," King Cobalt said, pointing at the big plasma screen. "Watch this part."

  It was the same fake bank that Detroit Steel had failed to rob the day before, or one so much like it as to make no difference. Lohengrin stood in the entrance in glowing white armor. The sword in his hand looked cheesy by comparison. The studio had made him use some kind of special effects prop instead of the actual force sword he could conjure from nothing.

  "Hey," the Maharajah said, "Lohengrin. Can that really cut through anything?"

  "Ja," the blond, brawny ace said from the far end of the couch. "Steel, stone. Anything."

  "You want another beer?" Simoon asked him.

  Jonathan watched their guest of honor waver between his love of beer and his disgust at the American interpretation of the word. He held up a hand to decline.

  "Would you guys watch?" King Cobalt said, frowning under his mask.

  On the screen, the preacher, Holy Roller, had become a near-perfect sphere, barreling down toward the bank like a huge Baptist bowling ball. The Lohengrin on the screen struck a heroic pose and brought his sword to bear.

  The impact was intense. Lohengrin was blown back through the door into the bank—they'd already seen the footage from the interior cameras—and Holy Roller bore a stripe down his midsection that showed where the sword would have cleaved him nearly in half had it been real. With a visible sigh, the enormous ace played dead. And then a moment later, Lohengrin appeared again, unbloodied and unbowed. The Discard Pile cheered. Lohengrin grinned and ran a hand though his hair. "It was a very strong blow," he said, as if apologizing for his victory. "The priest is a formidable opponent."

  On the screen, Toad Man and Stuntman were circling around to attack Lohengrin from both sides. They'd all seen this from a different angle before, too.

  "Look!" King Cobalt said. "Here it comes!"

  The doorbell rang.

  "Pizza's here!" Diver shouted. "Who's got the money?"

  Jonathan caught a glimpse of Fortune trotting up from the back of the house, digging for his wallet.

  "Don't forget to tip him," Spasm yelled. Fortune nodded. Jonathan didn't think anyone else caught the little flash of anger in the kid's eyes. Jonathan rose and picked his way across the crowded floor and through the cameras trained on the Discards. He caught up with Fortune in the atrium, signing a voucher. A stack of pizza boxes sat on the side table.

  "Want a hand with that?" Jonathan asked.

  "Sure," Fortune said. "Thanks."

  The kitchen was as wide as a cafeteria. There was room to lay out all the boxes, lids open, and cheap paper plates besides. The fluorescent lights buzzed; Jonathan had heard two of the sound guys bitching about it.

  "How's he taking it?" Jonathan asked.

  "Who?" Fortune asked.

  "The new Ku Klux Klan spokesmodel," Jonathan said. "Rustbelt." Fortune hesitated. "Not so well," he said.

  "You think he really did it?"

  "Stuntman said he did," Fortune said. "So it doesn't really matter, does it?"

  "Reality television," Jonathan said, like he was saying "jumbo shrimp."

  A shriek and a peal of laughter came from the front room. Then King Cobalt's voice saying "Watch this part." Jonathan dropped a slice of pepperoni onto a plate and handed it to Fortune.

  "Thanks," Fortune said, "but I can't. It's for contestants."

  "Did you tip the delivery guy?"

  Fortune stared at him.

  "So, why can't I tip you?" Jonathan asked. "Come on, this is all bullshit anyway. Have some food."

  With a half smile and something between a cough and a laugh, Fortune accepted the plate.

  There had to be a way, Jonathan thought, to bring the subject up that was more graceful than So, did you track down that magic amulet yet?

  "So. Did you track down that magic amulet yet?" Jonathan said, wincing.

  Fortune looked uncomfortable. Before he could come up with a polite evasion, Lohengrin appeared in the doorway, a little shamefaced.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Is there any other beer?"

  "Sorry," Fortune said. "That's all the studio got."

  "We are the losers, after all," Jonathan said.

  The German ace's expression fell. Jonathan suddenly remembered Fortune and Curveball safely out of range of the cameras, and the plan, such as it was, sprang into Jonathan's head full-formed. Which was to say actually, about half-formed, but that was enough to start with.

  "I bet our man Fortune here knows some good bars, though. Right?" Jonathan said.

  "Um," Fortune replied.

  "Do you?" Lohengrin asked, his face a mask of longing.

  "Well . . ."

  "Come on," Jonathan said. "We'll sneak out the back."

  Lohengrin's smile was brilliant. Fortune hesitated for a long moment. He certainly wouldn't have done it for Jonathan, but Lohengrin was a guest of the show, the kind of guy that Berman and Peregrine wanted to keep happy.

  "I'll buy the first round," Jonathan said. Lohengrin's eyes seemed to shine.

  From the front room, Spasm yelled, "Hey! Where's Captain Cruller? Chop chop, man. We're hungry out here."

  "Okay," Fortune said. "Let's go."

  Here was the thing: writing a book meant finding something to write about. Sitting on the couch while Spasm talked about how he could have done better and King Cobalt shushed everyone was not the stuff if high drama. Jonathan Fortune—the guy who used to be an ace, whose father died, who wanted nothing more in the world than to regain his status and honor—was. But Fortune was also reticent and private and trying hard to make the best of his situation. And, in all fairness, if they'd been calling Jonathan by names like Captain Cruller and Fetchit the Wonder Gopher, he'd have been keeping a low profile, too.

  What Jonathan needed was friendship. Shared confidences. The details of Fortune's situation that would make the whole thing spring to life when he wrote it up. It was the perfect counterpoint to the aces on the show—if there was just a way to get the man to relax and open up.

  A way like, say, lots of alcohol. And a few other people to open up and tell stories on themselves first.

  What the hell? It worked for the guys who sold videos of girls exposing themselves.