all:
Attendees ranging from nine-year-old geeks to ninety-year-old scenesters in costumes featuring tentacles that moved, wings that moved (but were too small to actually support anyone’s weight), and antennae that moved, and even a pair of blinking eyes in the back of one guy’s head
Short, short skirts on hundreds of girls dressed as anime characters, Haruhi, and Lara Croft, with complimentary, as Ratchet put it, “boob salad”
Lots and lots of Trekkies
People dressed up like him and Max and the rest of the flock
People who wanted his autograph
And, worst of all, birdkid manga based on the flock that, unfortunately, featured him and Max in several torrid embraces
“Hot,” said Maya from behind him. Fang coughed and abruptly closed the Max manga.
But Maya just laughed. “Lead on,” she said, taking his arm.
The main room was the size of several football fields, with a thirty-foot ceiling and high windows. Blue carpeting defined aisles that were lined on either side by booths. On the perimeter were huge, ornate displays for Lucasfilm and Marvel Comics, among others.
Fang felt trapped, claustrophobic, like he was on a wild goose chase before the chase had even started. But, oddly, having Maya on his arm sort of helped. It wasn’t the kind of thing Max would have done. Maya wasn’t quite as hard as Max, not quite as tough. She was different, and Fang kind of… liked it.
Fang’s gang clustered near him as streams of people flowed through the big revolving doors at the front of the building.
“This is going to be awesome,” Holden raved as a pair of girls dressed in skimpy anime costumes pushed past them.
There was barely room to move. A big lizard’s long tail whacked Fang’s ankle, making him wince. Ratchet’s green eyes almost popped out of his head as a buxom model dressed as Wonder Woman strode past, bracelets sparkling.
“How could the Doomsday Group hold a rally inside a huge, crowded building like this?” Fang asked. Even he could hear the lack of confidence in his voice. He’d read online that this year’s convention expected more than one hundred thousand visitors over four days. All inside. Surrounding him. It was pretty much one of his top-five worst nightmares. What had he been thinking?
“Maybe they’ll have a special table or a booth,” Holden Squibb suggested.
More people swarmed past, most of them in costume. They saw sci-fi and fantasy characters, hundreds of comic book characters, old and new—people dressed up as virtually every kind of character, movie star, and species imaginable. But what hadn’t they seen? You got it. Anything remotely related to the Doomsday Group.
Kate and Star looked at each other nervously as four Stormtroopers thundered down the hall, brandishing weapons.
Every hair on the back of Fang’s neck stood up when he realized that those weapons could be real. These people could all be spies. This whole thing could be a setup, a huge trap that he had walked right into. But this was the only lead he had.
“Oh, man…” Fang rubbed his chin. He looked at his gang—each member special, with amazing powers. But how were they at fighting? At escaping? Would it be the stupidest thing in the world to send them on their way, possibly putting them in danger?
“Okay, everyone, stay together,” he instructed in a low voice. “Keep your eyes open for anything having to do with the DG. A T-shirt, a bumper sticker, anyone mentioning it, anything at all, you tell me. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Star, as she saluted crisply.
Fang was starting to understand why he felt so freaked out. Here, among all these costumed people, he and Maya and the others were normal. They were average because everyone else was so extreme. Was that what the DG wanted? To enhance everyone, so everyone would be “special”?
But… if everyone was special, wouldn’t that really mean that no one was special at all?
46
“MAYBE THE PEOPLE who said there’d be a rally here didn’t know what they were talking about,” Ratchet suggested when the gang got outside the convention center. “I was listening to everyone, everywhere, and I didn’t—”
