Even then, Preston’s only real skills amounted to: building spreadsheets (though he could not make them do anything fancy); properly formatting footnotes in various word processor programs (though he almost inevitably endured trial and error as he used one program’s method where it didn’t belong); digging through various databases and digital card catalog for research (he strongly preferred the tactile sensation of using an actual card catalog, but Preston had to acknowledge that the digital ones turned up better results more quickly); participating in online class discussions via the message boards that got made for several courses, whether anyone used them or not; turning in assignments via the school’s system online (terrible, horrible, Preston hated it); making something more or less passable in Microsoft PowerPoint or the Keynote app when circumstances forced him to use one of the handful of Apple computers amidst the campus library’s predominantly non-Mac collection (nothing fancy, but it would do the job); and sending emails (annoying and tedious but sadly necessary).
Which always sounded like a decent amount of skills when Preston thought about it……until he remembered what some people could do with a computer, and felt appropriately humbled at the reminder that his basic skills weren’t worth very much.
His money was, though.
His money that humbled him in its own way because Preston wouldn’t have had any of it without the Negaverse.
Without the efforts of a General he’d never met—someone he might never meet; the Negaverse had plenty of operatives among its ranks, it was probably easy for someone to never recognize any given fellow Negaverse officer from a hole in the wall—Preston might have scrimped for years only to have all those savings blown apart by some unforeseen expense. Even with his paychecks from Lavender Haze supplementing his assorted grants and the stipends he got for working as Dr. Sturm’s assistant, Preston’s position remained precarious. A graduate student with no family to fall back on, not even a chosen one or some other loose support network like many of his fellows had. At the last minute, an overly costly semester’s worth of books could have entirely deleted any progress he’d made on saving up for a computer like he had.
But the Negaverse didn’t let that happen to him.
Thanks to the Negaverse, thanks to the pay that they gave him for his work as Cryptomelane, Preston had put away enough money that none of the price tags for new computers at the Best Buy particularly upset him. Some managed to shock him, purely on principle and a bone-deep resistance to the idea of spending six-thousand dollars on any single purchase. But per his discussion with the sales associate helping him navigate the vast array of possibilities, Preston didn’t need to worry about any of those. For one thing, all of them were desktop models and he needed the portability and flexibility of a laptop. Then, most of the more expensive models of laptop were Macs, which struggled to communicate properly with everything except for other Apple products. Serious point deduction for flexibility, in Preston’s mind.
He’d done some research before coming out here, but none of it had entirely prepared him for how involved the whole process of finding and purchasing his own computer turned out to be. Even with the notes he’d brought with him, Preston spent a solid hour working with the sales associate, going over what he needed most and what models could best serve him. By the time he left the store, carrying a plastic bag that contained the box with his new laptop as well as few useful peripheral devices—a new external hard drive, a new set of headphones, nothing terribly fancy—the afternoon had gone from “warming up but still overall tolerable” to “sweltering and humid and god, why, Preston missed the Best Buy’s air-conditioning as soon as his sneakers hit the pavement.”
Itching to get back to his apartment and set things up, Preston allowed himself to zone out. His mental soundtrack slipped easily into “Habanera”—hardly anything special, not even any particular rendition of it, but the familiarity of the tune provided a sense of comfort—and he paid less attention to his surroundings than he normally would have done. Preston managed to go ten minutes and several blocks before something pricked up his senses, the feeling like he was being watched. As if somebody was following him.
As he ducked down a one-way street that would ultimately move him further away from his apartment, Preston spotted it: a pristine white coupe, lurking among the cars lined up at the red light. His breath hitched at the sight of it. Even without stopping to investigate further—it might not have been the Bentley……it might not have been Brother Horace……it might not have been him, sitting there unbothered in his pristine, white Bentley R-type Continental, vintage but still in immaculate condition……maybe there wasn’t anything to worry about—Preston picked up the pace.
Going further from his apartment didn’t matter. The inherent inconvenience of it didn’t matter, anyway. The coupe may not have followed him—because maybe there was no reason for it to do so, because maybe it didn’t belong to his so-called brother or even if it did, maybe Brother Horace would choose to respect the restraining order—but Preston couldn’t allow himself to take that risk……the risk that he had seen the Bentley, and that he would somehow lead Brother Horace right to his apartment.
Logically, he knew that this didn’t matter: Brother Horace had gotten updates on Preston’s address multiple times before. Although Preston didn’t want to grant him such privileges, it was an unfortunate necessity imposed by his alleged brother’s civil liberties. After all, he couldn’t be expected to avoid certain locations without knowing where he needed not to go. Yet, as Preston stopped at some bodega he’d never visited before—as he spent some more of his saved up Negaverse paycheck money on some fresh, cold water and a sandwich—he couldn’t shake the irrational, stupid feeling that something would have been inherently different about Brother Horace knowing his address and thus having the potential to find him, versus Brother Horace getting the chance to see where Preston had been living or learning one of the pathways to get there.
Fortunately, Preston didn’t need to worry. When he skulked out of the bodega, none of the cars left on the street were white. Certainly none of them looked like the Bentley. As Preston and his shopping bags started heading back where he needed to go, he stayed on his guard. No cars he spotted between the bodega and his apartment looked anything like the Bentley.
The afternoon had proven kind to him. Good—setting up a new computer while feeling a total nervous wreck sounded like a disaster in the making.
wc: 1,122.
