Holly Black (2 page)
Comic: What Your Lunch Table Status Means
Comic: How to Hook Up at the Science Fair
Comic: The Best Ways to Stay Awake for Gaming
Comic: What Kind of Geek Are You?
All text for comic interstitials by Holly Black and Cecil Castellucci. Comics marked by
illustrated by Bryan Lee O’Malley, comics marked by
illustrated by Hope Larson.
It didn’t matter which one of us had married a rival Dungeon Master (that would be Holly) or lived for six weeks in the line for
Star Wars
(that would be Cecil), the moment that we met one another, we knew instantly that we were of the same tribe.
And so, while hanging out at Comic-Con in 2007, or as Cecil likes to call it, “the nerd prom,” waiting in line for what we were promised was “the best burrito in San Diego,” we spoke giddily of the amazing costumes we’d seen, books we’d read, comics we picked up.
Cecil told Holly about breakfast, where while eating eggs, she noticed that the table next to her was filled with a bunch of Jedi in full Jedi outfits. We remarked how we had noticed a lot of Jedi. And we had noticed a lot of Klingons. Personally, we’d been looking for Slave Leias, because we’d been told there would be a bunch, but actually there weren’t that many. There were just a lot of Jedi and Klingons.
Holly mentioned that she had noticed that there was a panel on how to live your day-to-day life as a Klingon. We kind of wanted to go to that. We thought it sounded kind of cool. We wondered what kind of domestic clues we could get from learning to live Klingon.
So there we were, in line for this burrito. The line was really long. We stood there swapping Comic-Con stories while we waited, because probably we’d been waiting for a table for about an hour already. And we both kind of said at the same time, “What would happen if you were a Jedi and you woke up with a Klingon in your bed?” “Would it be like Romeo and Juliet?” “Could you even tell your friends?”
We decided then and there that we needed to write that story. The story of a Jedi and a Klingon and true love. We thought we could write it and sell it and it would be awesome.
Only then we realized that no one would publish that story.
Later, while Cecil was walking the floor looking for Gama-go T-shirts, standing between Wonder Woman and Phoenix and getting a crush on Scott Pilgrim, Holly called and left this message:
“Cecil! No one will publish our story! That is why we need to create an anthology that is geektastic so that we can have a home for our story.”
“Oh! And we have the geekiest friends!” Cecil said.
“Yes! An anthology about the geek and the geek observed,” Holly said.
And thus an idea was born.
We hope that you enjoy the stories within.
They sing to our geek heart.
AMHERST, June 4, 2008
a cognizant original v5 release october 10 2010
by
holly black and cecil castellucci
I. Klingon
I awake tangled up in scratchy sheets with my head pounding and the taste of cheap alcohol and Tabasco still in my mouth. The spirit gum I used to attach my nose ridge and eyebrows sticks to the sheets as I roll over. Immediately, a wave of nausea makes me regret moving and I try to lie as still as I can until it passes.
The thing about advancing in the Klingon ranks is that you have to be badass. So when Kadi and D’ghor decided last night that we had to make blood wine with Everclear instead of tequila, and twice as much Tabasco as the recipe called for, I had to drink it or be a wimp.
I open my eyes and reason with myself that if I can crawl into the hotel bathroom, I can get some ibuprofen from my bag and stop my head from hurting quite so much. Also, water. Water would definitely help.
Pushing off the sheets, I realize that I’m still wearing my uniform and that my bra is still on. My pants and boots are missing.
“Arizhel?” someone says from the other side of the bed as I stagger toward a door I hope isn’t a closet. The voice has an accent that might be Irish. I don’t know anyone Irish.
I also don’t know this room. It must be in the same hotel, but none of my stuff is here and there is only one single big bed instead of the two doubles that Kadi, D’ghor, and Noggra were sharing with me. The only thing that’s familiar is my
bat’leH
leaning against the wall, the curved blade gleaming in the little bit of sun sneaking through the drawn shades. The glare hurts my eyes.
In the bathroom, I turn the lock and go over the night before. I think back on how we sang rousing battle songs in our hotel room, accompanied by swigs of that horrible blood wine. Then we rode the escalator, raising our weapons in the air with a single shout, to the party that was happening on the main floor. A party seething with costumed people for us to growl at: Peacekeepers, Cobra Command, Stormtroopers, Browncoats.
I splash water on my face and chew up a couple of aspirins. Whoever is in the bedroom is really tidy; his toiletries are still in a little bag. There’s even aftershave. I don’t see any pots of makeup or prosthetics, so I figure he’s not a Klingon.
Maybe he’s a member of Starfleet. There were a couple of cute guys with really proper costumes and phasers that glowed a little bit when they were fired. I remember arm-wrestling a cadet, but I can’t believe I would have gone back to his room. For one thing, I won way too easily. For another, he had a Vulcan girlfriend who was watching us both like she wanted to have some kind of pon-farr excuse to kick my ass.
I remember hoping she was going to try.
Maybe it was that guy. I groan and rub my face.
I pull off the braided wig that’s twisted around anyway, peel off my ridge and bald cap, and wash off as much of the makeup and adhesive as I can without cold cream or Bond-Off. Blinking at my own face in the mirror, I realize how different I look. Tame. Like I used to be.
“Are you okay?” comes a voice from beyond the door. He definitely has an accent.
“Yeah,” I yell.
“I ordered coffees and some food,” he says. “Grease will fix us right up.”
I’ve never ordered room service. Only rich people order room service.
“Uh, thanks.” I fill a water glass from the sink and guzzle it. I feel better, like the aspirin is kicking in, and I take a deep breath.
I wish I had my pants, but I pull down my pleather tunic as low as it can go and walk out of the bathroom.
There, sitting on the bed, is a thin guy with blond hair and a cute, lopsided smile. He’s still wearing his uniform, too. His
Jedi uniform
.
I know I look completely stupid, but I just stand there in the doorway. The buzzer on the door rings, but I’m still staring. Tall riding boots, outer tunic, tabard, obi.
Jedi
.
No. I couldn’t have. Not with an Ewok-cuddling, Force-feeling, Padawan-braid-wearing, lightsaber-rammed-up-his-ass Jedi.
He gets up and I fumble around in the covers until I discover my pants. Pulling them up and shoving my feet into my boots, I turn around as he opens the door. He signs something and comes back with the tray of dishes in metal domes.