Page 13 of After the Fade, Vol. 1 (Asheverse: B-Side)

The Adventures of Holloway Holmes: Jack and Holmes go to the .

“Because it’s going to be fun,” I said as I pushed open the door to the .

The bell rang overhead, only barely audible as it competed with the electronic zaps, zips, bings, and synthesized screams of dozens of different video games. It was overwhelming, but in a good way, if that makes any sense. My dad had brought me here a few times as a kid, and little had changed. It still smelled like stale popcorn. It still had the same high-traffic carpeting soiled by decades of slush and salt. And it still was absolutely, unquestionably, indisputably fucking awesome.

“You keep saying that,” Holmes said.

He studied the aisles of arcade games. Most of the people here on a weeknight evening were either teenagers looking for a place to hang out or college kids—who were either also looking for a place to hang out, or, more frequently, on the world’s cringiest date. But who was I to judge?

“What, exactly, is the appeal?” he asked.

“The fun part. And the funness. And all the funnery.”

Holmes gave me a flat look.

“You’re going to love it,” I said as I steered him toward the prize counter. I fished out a twenty—ignoring Holmes’s reach for his wallet—and as I fed the bill into the change machine, I nodded at the shelves behind the counter. They were lined with toys, with each section designated by the number of tickets you needed to win each prize. The bottom rows were the dumb stuff—enormous lollipops, plastic eggs of goop, a deck of playing cards. Higher up were the real prizes, like plushies, a sword that lit up when you smacked somebody with it, an enormous slinky, and the jackpot: a miniature air hockey table. “Plus, I need you to win lots of tickets so I can get that air hockey table.”

“What in the world are you going to do with a miniature air hockey table?”

“Put it in your dorm room.”

“Absolutely not.”

“H, it would be so fire! You’d be the only person at school who had one.”

“Because it’s hideous. And it’s pointless. And it’s tiny.”

“It’s miniature. That’s why it’s dope. Besides, it would be so fun! We could play it whenever we wanted.”

“I don’t want to play it.”

“Fine. Then I’ll keep it in my room. And I won’t let you play it even if you ask.”

“I have no idea how you think that’s a threat.”

Quarters jangled as they spilled into a plastic bucket.

“Rowe would totally understand how awesome that thing is.”

“Is this the same Rowe who spent an unfortunate amount of time the other day delivering a prepared speech on why candy pumpkins taste better than candy corn because, quote, ‘they don’t have to glue the different colors together’?”

“I know you’re being snarky,” I said as I gave Holmes his half of the coins, “but Rowe’s on to something.”

“If it’s a , shouldn’t these be nickels instead of quarters?”

“It’s called inflation, my guy.”

Holmes huffed his little breath-laugh. He glanced around the arcade, and a familiar helplessness settled into his expression. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to have fun,” I said. “Wander around. Try a few games.” I kissed his cheek, and he immediately blushed. “Oh, and win me lots of tickets so I can get my air hockey table.”

This earned me another of those flat looks. I blew him a kiss as I left.

I’d done my research. I’d come prepared. The best way to win tickets at a place like the (according to my deep dive into the Redditverse) was the plinko game, then the fishing game, and then the basketball game.

I started with plinko, which turned out to be a bad name. It was actually one of those coin-pusher games—you load your quarters in, and there are already about a hundred other quarters in there, and you hope that your coins (and a lot of the other coins) get pushed off the ledge, and you win a bunch of tickets.

That, however, was not my experience.

After a couple of rounds, I gave up. I was heading for the fishing game when I spotted Holmes at the Skee-Ball machines. He wasn’t playing; he was just standing there, bucket dangling from one hand, watching a group of girls take turns.

“H, have you even tried any of the games?”

He glanced at me, as though he hadn’t noticed me until then, and then said, “I’m observing.”

“You’re not supposed to observe. You’re supposed to play. Oh, you know what you should try? There’s this game where you can rip out somebody’s guts and strangle them with their own intestines.”

He made a noise that meant he clearly hadn’t heard me.

“H!”

“Go away, Jack. I’m busy.”

From somebody else, that might have sounded harsh; fortunately, I knew how to read between the lines so I could hear the unspoken part of You’re such a good boyfriend, and I’m having the best time, and thank you for making my life richer in every way imaginable .

The fishing game ate ass, it turned out.

And the basketball game was totally rigged. I mean, I’m not the world’s best shot. It’s not like I play on a team. But I shoot hoops with Rowe sometimes. I’m athletic. I like sports. I’ve got good hand-eye coordination—proof: I always catch the stuff Holmes throws at me when I bother him while he’s studying. (Even the stapler.)

But by the time I’d emptied my bucket of quarters, I had one lousy handful of tickets, and I swear to God, the electronic scoreboard on the basketball game was gloating.

I made my way to the prize counter, weighed my tickets (yes, weighed ), and stared at the appallingly low number.

Nowhere close to the ten thousand tickets I needed for the air hockey table.

Not even a thousand tickets.

For three hundred tickets, according to the numbered sections on the prize wall, I could get a single, prepackaged Pokémon (but they only had Squirtle), or an off-brand SpongeBob SquarePants coloring book, or a fake mustache that looked like it would give me a rash.

Even my usual backup tactics didn’t work.

“Sixty bucks,” I said. “That’s my final offer.”

The guy behind the counter, in his early twenties and already resorting to a slicked-back look to conceal hair loss, said, “Sorry, man.” And then, as though taking pity on me, he added, “Maybe your friend will give you some of his tickets.”

When I found Holmes, he was playing Skee-Ball. And he was almost knee deep in tickets. They twisted and curled and snaked in a single, continuous strand that led back to the machine where, as I watched, it spat out more tickets as Holmes landed another ball in the center hole.

“H,” I said. And then, for want of anything better, “Holy shit.”

“Jack, this game is far more complicated than I realized.” The words spilled out of him so quickly I could barely follow. “I accounted for the angle of release, the initial velocity, and the spin.”

I opened my mouth.

But the words kept coming. “And, of course, there’s gravity to be considered, and air resistance, but Jack!” He was almost breathless with excitement. “I didn’t even think about friction or the irregularities in the lane’s surface.”

And then he giggled.

Hand to God.

Scout’s honor.

I was never a Scout, but you get the idea.

“Can you believe it?” he asked with that same unmistakable thrill. “And I’m beginning to suspect there’s a Gaussian distribution to the scores!”

“Uh, great?”

“And Jack!” Excitement warped into outrage. “A boy climbed right up and put the ball in the hole.”

“Oh, yeah, kids do that all the—”

“And a girl was throwing them! Which completely defeats the purpose of the game.”

“How did you pick what is literally the most boring game in the world and find a way to get excited about it? There’s no blood. There aren’t any cool graphics. You don’t even get to punch somebody in the face so hard that their eye pops out.”

Holmes shoved the bucket at me. “I need more quarters.” He kicked at the tickets tangled around his legs. “And remove these.”

I opened my mouth to object. And then I remembered not just the air hockey table, but that giant slinky. I kissed his cheek, and he waved me off with an annoyed hiss.

Grinning, I trotted toward the change machine.