January 9, 1997.
Billy kept a close eye on Marvel Films. The Americans were working at a pace that was far from normal; the construction of the entire roundabout had taken five months, though each restaurant needed its own preferred finishing touch—and to Billy, that sort of thing came with time, once everything began producing. A different Marvel, one brimming with life; even a few legends had begun their publishing run.
—I've got the whole idea of Spider-Man and the multiverse in my hands.—Billy remarked as he set about crafting one of those fantastical series that could pull in anyone, whether or not they were part of the industry. And because of that, people had grown bold—procedurally bold—about what was or wasn't good. The expectation of success hung over them like weather, just as Carson's threat loomed—churning out four to five major series a month that passed through the hands of every creator who now watched Billy's fierce competition rise, the new king of stories that captured the hearts of children, teens, and adults alike.
Billy poured everything he had into creating one of the greatest Spider-Man stories ever told, sketching out countless ideas and ways to spark rivalries between characters.
—I can tell you no one's ever seen a concept like this.—Stan Lee whispered.
—I'm not talking about the multiverse—I'm talking about creating a panorama where thousands of people connect with your story and turn it into a writing network that can open countless new avenues.—
—Then I hope we can build a timeline, and that everyone contributes to what we already have,—Billy replied.
The old man's glasses slipped, and he shot a disastrous look—one of those glances that always made Billy uncomfortable because of the sharp, penetrating eyes that studied him in that distinguished way. The old man sighed inside his cubicle, which was practically a comic-book library, lined with valuable posters from bygone eras.
—Everyone wants to work here. I choose young blood, but we've got 300 people now—almost 50 more than we had in 1992, when we worked from sunrise to sunset and were hungry to make great things.—Stan Lee answered.
—I expect you to hire five every six months. And I hope you understand it'll be intimidating when Anne shows up with Rachel—each one is complicated in her own way. But they'll run a fiscal and administrative review as specialists,—Billy said, locking eyes with the old man.
—I know them—they're the iron women of Lux Animation. They've got a reputation,—Stan replied.
Joe Quesada walked in with that calm, ambivalent expression.
—Wanna grab a pizza over on 41st?—Joe suggested, pausing to take in what remained of the room, not too far away, slightly trapped in what they call the writer's dizziness—24 full hours of work on a series meant to compete head-on with Billy's comic.
—Billy Carson,—he sighed, snapping into a cheerful mode—buzzing with an almost fervent, borderline insane energy, practically prescribed by the fantasy of surpassing or collaborating with the prodigy kid.
—Joe, I didn't expect you to be drawing.—
—How'd you know?—the man asked.
—Your hands—they're covered in ink.—
—Well, yeah.—
—Joe's been worried because you're what they call a major player—someone who can actually fill Billy's shoes. Everyone's got some distant idea in their head of making something comparable to what you're thinking,—Stanley added with a smile.
—I only have a script,—Billy replied.
—I think he wants a slice of pizza. I've been feeling what people call hunger for some time now,—Stanley said, knowing full well the pride and the sharp fear that fed the people in the company—fear that someone might rival the comic, fear that even sales themselves were under scrutiny. Most salaries were based on commissions from comic sales; base pay ranged from sixty to ninety thousand, with royalties that dwarfed any bonus or gift anyone could hope for. And on top of that—food vouchers, transport vouchers, medical care—everything anyone could ask for.
—Sure, let's go. I think I should try some of that pizza,—Billy answered, pulling a cap down over his forehead and swapping his suit and overcoat for a hoodie and a thick red jacket he barely fit into. At least the cold would help keep people from recognizing the man in such a slouched, worn-out state.
They grabbed a large pizza and washed it down with Coca-Cola. He was exhausted, and the pizza—well, his own was better, especially when it came to clean ingredients, which amused him in some strange way.
—I think I'd like to relax forever,—Billy said, drinking what he wanted, feeling a bit sad realizing it was only the second time that year he'd eaten something like this without someone showing up to completely interrupt his meal. That's why fine restaurants and luxury dining were his usual spaces—or maybe renting a private room.
—We're famous too,—Joe Quesada said through his third slice of pepperoni—extra sauce, extra cheese, pepperoni, and enough BBQ to give it that sweet kick.
—The first time you came here, you were a tiny kid,—Stan Lee laughed, watching Billy get a bit of sauce on himself.
—I was fourteen. And, well… this pizza is really saucy,—Billy replied.
***
Raimon was exhausted—so drained he could hardly argue that his mind was completely burned out. His head throbbed, and the place felt anchored around him. His thick feet were sweaty as he tried to go for another round; his soul burned entirely.
—All for Star Wars,—Raimon said, finishing the set as he gulped down water desperately.
—You've got half the routine left,—the trainer replied, causing Raimon to scream in frustration. He'd been working out nonstop for a month, walking as much as he could. His phone wouldn't stop buzzing, but even that didn't distract him from his goal—to lose weight, to become a proper man. How annoying, how ungrateful life felt without sweets. But he just couldn't give up the fat; every tiny movement burned and hurt, the vivid sting familiar to anyone desperate to change while others tried to get in the way.
—No one's dragging me back there,—Raimon muttered, head pounding.
—You talk too much and you're running out of air,—the trainer said, helping him finish.
—I hate working out.—
...