Wonder Made

Nineteen, Part One

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When faced with a bad thing, like being plopped in a theater with doors barred, and forced to choose which Transformers movie to watch, people's reactions tend to vary.

Some pick chaos. Screaming, they flock for the exit, despite having witnessed the usher deadbolt the door and toss the key into Row F. No one, alive or dead, would brave the sticky, saturated floors of a movie theater, no matter how desperate.

Others recline in their seats, hoist their feet onto the empty row below them, dig into their popcorn and wait for the explosions promised from any film found under the Michael Bay banner. And then there are those who can't choose, who don't want to choose because they might as well be picking between having their fingernails ripped off one at a time or their feet submerged in scalding hot water - both are tortures, no matter how you dress them up.

These people, realizing the choice presented to them isn't much of a choice at all, relegate themselves to the sticky theater floor where they pull their knees into their chest and sob through the previews.

Eventually, the usher will be summoned over to quiet these movie-goers as some people enjoy Transformers movies, in spite of their silliness, because of it, or because they extract genuine pleasure from a shiny, new blockbuster. Just like the peanut butter and sardine sandwich, everything has its share of fans.

Captain Ire Stormholden has been faced with an insurmountable volume of bad things. Considering the above metaphor, the poor captain has been subjected to a Transformers movie marathon, including the Bumblebee spin-off, has been given popcorn without movie-theater butter, one small, watered-down coke which still cost him $12.50, and a pack of Snow Caps, arguably the worst movie theater candy of all time.

He's been sat in the front row, neck craned at a ninety-degree angle which meant he only clearly saw seventy-five percent of the screen, while behind him, a busload of children, all under five, all wanting to see the new Spiderman movie, kick the back of his seat. The children have been forced to see this movie triathlon, because the parent-in-charge refused to wait in the lobby another forty-five minutes for the next Spiderman showing to begin. This questionable person-in-charge has slipped some rum into their overpriced Coke and refuses to rein in the children's behavior. Oh, and Stormholden's stepped in gum, twice. And the theater's AC has broken, and there are issues with the sound system.

That's the amount of bad he's suffered and under all that extra weight, it's no surprise his resolve's buckled. He looks up at the only portions of the movie he can see, having forgotten the bigger picture.

Gideon Darquish, however, raises a can of Dr. Pepper into the air and toasts the bad as its opening credits scroll across the screen. From the back row, he relishes in all that it has wrought and all it will bring.

In reality, the captain and the kid stand outside of Potter Oaks, Gideon's darkness blanketing the sky over its quaint, pitch-roofed outline. Stormholden watches on, indifferent. He can't be bribed with enough gold to drag an ounce of compassion to his surface. In his mind, nothing matters. It never had, and never will. He'll gladly resign himself to whatever movie is played before him. And if the forces-that-be determine he must take part in the film? He'll oblige them, maybe don a bit role, perhaps a three second walk-on as Townsperson A. Nothing as prominent as a secondary character or leading man. He'll stick to being small and inconsequential, like Potter Oaks.

Only, Potter Oaks won't be small and inconsequential once Gideon's powers pervert its purpose. Yes, the town that had to throw a tantrum to remind the world of its presence, who had to insist, despite overwhelming search engine results arguing otherwise, that it was, in fact, a place, that promoted itself with a sign which read "Potter Oaks: For the love of God, we exist," will finally be seen thanks to Gideon and his off-screen brand of bad.