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My second panel of the day was very different from the first. I could have worn my superheroine costume and felt right at home with the other panelists. This time around they were all female game designers. The audience was mostly female, too. I was sensing a theme in my panel assignments.
The panel started off okay, with typical questions about what drew someone to gaming and what each panelist saw as gaming’s future. The questions came from both genders, but were answered from a female slant since the panel was all female. No one asked me anything, which was fine with me given that I’d only watched other people game and played some FreeCell occasionally. The second panel today for which I was unqualified.
Latecomers marched into the room, all guys, about a dozen, all dressed in paramilitary style in camo. They would have looked at home during deer hunting season anywhere.
“We’re closing this down, girls. You can all leave now,” said their leader in a loud voice that overrode the panelist speaking.
The audience members stared at them, looking confused. The panelists all looked at each other, clearly wondering who these men were.
“Do you know what this is about?” I whispered to the woman next to me.
“I think they’re members of an anti-women gamers group,” she replied.
The panel moderator leaned her head closer to the microphone and said, “Would all latecomers please be seated? Thank you.”
The guys didn’t sit. Instead they lined up against the wall, looking very bulky and threatening with their arms crossed over their chests. Their leader said, “We told you to leave. Girls don’t have any business gaming.”
“Knock it off,” someone in the audience yelled. “We have every right to game.”
“Gaming is a male-only sport,” the man shouted. “You should all go back to your kitchens.”
“Wow, a live troll,” a woman said in a loud voice, in a tone of pseudo wonder. The audience started to laugh.
“Don’t feed the trolls,” another person said. The cry was echoed around the room, until it became a chant. “Don’t feed the trolls. Don’t feed the trolls.”
The leader of the incursion’s face turned red. He looked as if he might have a high blood pressure stroke at any second. His companions eyed each other, visibly deflated and uneasy. Their leader was made of sterner stuff. He drew his weapon and pointed it at the audience. “If you don’t shut up right now, I’ll shoot. That’ll show you.”
I’d already texted Roland we had an emergency. Now I put my hand into my blouse and rubbed the Dimensional Diamond. My one coherent thought was to get this crazy guy out of the room. My fingers turned hot.
He vanished in a puff of air.
Dead silence reigned for two seconds. After that, it was pandemonium. Everyone burst into excited speech. “What happened?” “Where is he?” “Did he fall down?” The moderator called in vain for quiet, but it seemed as if every person in the room spoke at once. “Where did the troll go?”
The brave men who had accompanied their troll leader broke ranks and fled the room. Someone in the audience shouted, “Good riddance.” General laughter erupted.
I slumped over the speakers’ table on the dais, hoping I hadn’t killed a man.
Three staff members arrived, riding Segways. “What’s the problem here?” one asked.
“Go after those men in camo. They disrupted the panel and threatened violence,” the moderator cried.
The staff leader nodded to his companions. Two of the staff turned their machines around and took off. The leader dismounted and walked toward the dais to speak to the moderator privately.
My fingers were burning. I dropped the jewel.
The troll reappeared, pointing his gun, as he’d been doing before I messed with him. Someone screamed.
The staffer immediately tackled him and knocked him to the floor. The security man wasted no time getting the prone troll in handcuffs and calling for backup. In only a minute, five more staffers mounted on Segways arrived. They carried what looked like real weapons. The troll’s gun looked like the real deal, too, whether it was or not.
The police action from then on took a long time and consisted of much standing around and consulting with others via walkie-talkies. The panel never resumed. Most of the audience and even the women sitting next to me on the podium were busy phoning, texting, or tweeting photos. No one made an attempt to get back to the topic of female gamers.
On shaky legs, I walked away from the seminar room. I found a bottle of water in my messenger bag and drank it. Then I collapsed against a wall, sliding down it until I was sitting on the floor. Many others around me had done the same since there were no chairs in this minor corridor that held small seminar rooms. I rested my elbows on my knees, dangling my water bottle from one hand, and thought.
Of all the thousands of people at this comicon, why was I so lucky to be on the spot when trouble occurred? Had I held the man in a different dimension until my fingers got too hot? Where had he been during those seconds? A nothing zone, like limbo or purgatory? Another room? Another world? Back in time? Forward in time? To deflect his overt threat, I’d wielded a powerful weapon. Was I any better than the troll? What gave me the right to use such power?
Possibly I’d gone delusional, but given my history, nope. I’d been a powerful superheroine before, albeit in different circumstances.
Weapons at comicons were supposed to be “peace bonded,” but no one went through a metal detector the way they did at airports. Maybe they should. Was this incident a hoax? Why did their leader make an angry threat with a fake gun? Was it fake?
What next would happen to make this a sucky day?
Eric texted,
Where R U?
Even in a text, he came across demanding and cold. At one time I’d thought he was my kind of guy. I answered,
Can U talk? Call me?
Eric did. “Where are you? You’re supposed to be at a signing in the FC booth for the Swoonie creators right now.”
“I am? Be there as soon as I can.” I stood and headed for the nearest exit to the main concourse and the exhibition hall. “Listen, something crazy just happened.”
“Get to the booth.”
“Eric, it’s important.”
I was talking to air. He’d clicked off.
Typical Eric. Focused on his goals, not anyone else’s.
I pushed through the crowds in the concourse area as quickly as possible. The concourse was wide enough that they didn’t bunch up and block motion the way they did in the exhibition hall with all the dealers’ booths and people jammed around them. Once I arrived at the entrance, I’d have no trouble getting to the FC booth area. It was immediately opposite the doors, in a prime position.
I didn’t remember anyone telling me I was supposed to do autographs for FC. True, the company was picking up my tab to be here, but aside from the panels I’d been listed for, I’d thought my function was to be arm candy as usual.
Out of breath, I arrived at the booth, which of course was mobbed with fans. I waved at one of the people behind the barriers—tables set up to block easy access to the center of the large area. The guy didn’t know me, so I shouted, “I’m Chloe Cole. I’m supposed to autograph.”
He heard me, but he didn’t react. Odd.
“Where’s the autographing?” I asked, attempting to push closer to him. “Excuse me, I need to ask a question,” I said to the people around me. They growled, probably assuming I was about to pull some ploy to jump the line. Technically, that was true.
Booth guy pointed to my left. “That’s the line. Please join at the end.”
“I draw Swoonie,” I said. “Eric Wood told me to come here and autograph. Don’t you have a place set up for Swoonie signing?”
“Eric Wood? He runs FC. This is CP Comics.”
I was at the wrong booth. My face must be red. I apologized and retreated. How had I mistaken the CP booth for the FC area? Same kinds of comics, same approach to this comicon with enormous booths? Probably. Looking around, I saw that their booths were opposite each other. I threaded my way through the throngs and tried to enter the FC booth.
This time I was successful. I was quickly escorted to the autographing table, where Steve sat.
“Did you know about this before?” I asked.
Steve was checking his phone, but finally answered. “A big name canceled, so they threw us into the schedule. I got the word last night. Don’t know how they managed the posters so quickly.”
I shrugged. “Probably an instant print shop near the convention center for business meetings.” Nice posters. A splash page with the indicia removed, in full color. Swoonie in all her glory. Why hadn’t Eric told me last night? Why hadn’t anyone?
We got down to work, signing and briefly chatting with what seemed like an endless line of eager fans. Most were female, I noted, and in their teens. Many were in homemade Swoonie costumes. There even were a couple of boys dressed as Swoonie. Not surprising at a comicon where I’d seen girls dressed as Chris Pratt being Star-Lord in Guardians of the Galaxy.
We deflected questions about Swoonie’s next adventures, pretending the comic was a rip-roaring success and our heroine would go on forever.
“I’m so thrilled to meet you,” one teenage fan burbled. “I’m Sammy. I want to be an artist someday. Would you look at my samples? I brought my drawing pad.” She rummaged in the big tote bag she carried. All the comicon attendees carried one. They were handed large tote bags with their badges. This time around, CP Comics had picked up the tab for making them, and the sides of the bag were decorated with CP characters and a big number 75. “Here.” She pulled out a sketchbook.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Steve looking impatient, reminding me that we still had a line of people behind this enthusiastic girl. I remembered how desperately I’d craved even one bit of positive encouragement about my art at that age. Paging through the book quickly, I put my finger on a couple of nicely executed pieces. “This one’s pretty good. And this. Sorry I don’t have more time right now, though. There are others in line behind you,” I said.
Smiling from ear to ear, and thanking me profusely, Sammy allowed the line leader to escort her away.
The next person stepped up to the table and we got back to our stock questions and to signing. A while later, the booth runner came to us and said, “I’m closing the line. Five more minutes.”
When we were done, I turned to Steve. “That was unexpected, but fun. When did you say you got the word last night that we were the fill-ins?”
“Around nine o’clock.”
Before the big reception. Why hadn’t Eric said something?
Steve stood. “I’m tired of little girls gushing. Next year I’ll be autographing a comic for guys.”
He walked away before he could see my jaw drop. How had he hidden his distaste for females—and probably Swoonie, too—from me all these months? Why hadn’t I caught on that I was the only one at FC Comics who gave a damn about her?
Average Chloe takes a kick in the shins. I hadn’t seen that one coming. Probably this was the last time I’d see Steve. He’d scripted Swoonie as his stepping stone to what he wanted. Now he didn’t bother to fake enthusiasm anymore. Good riddance.
I walked out of the booth, remembering to thank the line leader as I did, but otherwise acting like a space cadet. On autopilot, I wandered the aisles, looking at action figures for sale, at sparkling crystals that could easily be dimensional diamonds, and t-shirts with comic book characters on them. I should be wearing a Swoonie t-shirt if one existed. I should at least advertise her while I could.
I found one at a booth selling many pink items, from jewelry to swords. Pink swords? Yep. Despite the continued heat of the exhibition hall, once I’d paid for my pink Swoonie shirt, I put it on over my blouse. When I found a ladies room I’d remove the blouse and stuff it in my bag.
Eric and Steve had used me. No, I had allowed myself to be used. I knew that in corporate comics an artist was seldom trusted to write dialogue, so a writer had to collaborate on most projects. I was hardly an auteur when I walked in the door, despite my couple of years of doing “Average Chloe” as a webcomic. A failing webcomic, because of my personal stubbornness and unwillingness to treat webcomics as a business rather than a hobby. So, sure, I’d needed a writer then. I’d thought Steve was fully on Team Swoonie. Apparently not.
As for Eric, I knew he was a corporate comic book guy. I’d never had any illusions that he was after more than the main chance, the biggest pop for his buck. To be fair, I had used him, too. We’d met at a low point in my life, and I’d clung to the security he represented. Because he knew what he wanted, I had the emotional space to figure out what I needed.
For sure I needed more than just a guy to have sex with. The vibe I got from Eric and Steve now was that girls didn’t belong in comic books, not as creators, not as main characters, and definitely not as girls. Swoonie was all girl, not a guy dressed up as a girl. She liked pretty things and sparkly things. She was silly and she gushed over super cute stuff, and she paid attention to details men ignored. Real girls did that. Women, too. Comic art was capable of conveying so much more than mere words. As with gaming, there was nothing specifically male about the medium itself.
I hadn’t voiced these arguments with Eric or Steve. I’d simply gone along with their vision most of the time. I’d thought that the storytelling in my art would be enough to soften the edges of their bias against a female perspective intruding into what they’d grown up thinking as a male domain. From the lineup of girls for the autographing, I’d done my job at least passably well. My message of inclusion to girls had been picked up. For girls searching for such messages, all they’d needed was an inkling of their world view to seize onto.
I found a restroom and stripped off the blouse. It hadn’t made me appear any more articulate during that early morning panel on syllables. Academia would never be my place. Community college had been plenty for me, along with art school. Given my mom’s strong opinion that art was not a suitable career choice, it was surprising she’d financed my two years. Unless my father secretly had kicked in with support. Water under the bridge. I’d probably never ask either of them.
Was I back at square one careerwise? No. True, Swoonie had no future, unless I could convince Eric to keep her alive for the licensing value of having a female character. That was a possibility his practical brain might take seriously, where no amount of pleading about the fairness of publishing girl-oriented comics would penetrate. Worth a try, if I ever got a chance to talk to him. I didn’t see myself bringing it up during a bed session. If we ever did another bed session. I had severe doubts after last night. We were either on the rocks, or headed for them.
I could continue "Average Chloe” no matter what, since she was all mine. I owned her. If I took the upcoming gig with Jason, it might open some doors, give me a sideways step into a different branch of the comics world where it intersected with movies. Could be scary, though. I’d heard tales of how Hollywood chewed people up and spat them out, especially young females. In addition, I’d have to find an apartment and get a car, and learn a brand new town. Best not to think about it anymore now, or I’d freak.
Hopefully today would not have any more bizarre incidents. Roland must have gotten the air conditioning system back online quickly, since the exhibition hall hadn’t been overly hot when I was autographing. He only had to keep the comicon running steady for three more days, but that might not be easy.
Strange that Mistress Miraculous didn’t call in bomb threats. If she’d called the police from an anonymous phone, they’d be forced to clear the entire building to search for the bomb. That would be a disaster for the comicon sponsor, but perhaps Mistress Miraculous wanted the pleasure of seeing people freak out and hearing them scream. Who was her co-conspirator in the pedal airplane? Were the paramilitary gamer guys part of her plan, or a mere pop-up problem? Were they for real, or people pretending to hold those opinions? From the anger on their faces, they’d seemed real enough, but perhaps they’d been acting all along. Cosplaying.
Roland texted me, asking me to meet him for lunch. Sounded like a plan. I’d been feeding him info for hours. Now I wanted him to give.
As I walked through the clots of people on the concourse, I spotted Ray Herriman talking to Damien Nast, the sword master from yesterday afternoon. They seemed to know each other. Ray gesticulated as if he was angry or upset. Damien’s arms were crossed, as if he rebuffed whatever Ray wanted of him. With a shake of his head, Damien turned and walked off. Ray stood for a moment and then rushed away in a different direction. It all happened fast, before I could get within hailing distance of them. The crowds of people hid both of them within seconds.
What was that about? Why would they know each other? Why would they argue?