CHAPTER 72: THE AWKWARD AFTERMATH
Two weeks later, and I still couldn't go to 7-Eleven without being recognized.
"PROPHET! Can I get a selfie?"
"My kid wants to be you when he grows up!"
"Sign my forehead! No, seriously, I brought a marker!"
Zuma Beach was supposed to be an escape. A normal beach day with normal friends doing normal teenage things like swimming and building sandcastles and pretending we hadn't recently destroyed a billion-dollar corporation and put its CEO in federal custody.
Instead, we had paparazzi.
"PROPHET TEACHES BEACH KARATE!" one of them shouted, zooming a telephoto lens at me while I did basic stretches.
"I'm literally just stretching," I called back.
"PROPHET DENIES KARATE! REVOLUTION LEADER TOO HUMBLE!"
I gave up. Stretched anyway. Let them photograph whatever narrative they wanted to construct.
The rest of the group was handling fame with varying degrees of grace.
Tory was signing autographs with aggressive enthusiasm, charging five dollars per signature and donating proceeds to "the revolution fund" (which was actually her mom's medical bills, but I wasn't going to expose that). Hawk preened for every camera, flexing muscles and posing like he was auditioning for a superhero movie. Demetri had set up a laptop on his beach towel and was calculating social media monetization strategies.
"We could make millions," he insisted. "Merchandise. Sponsorships. A documentary deal. Netflix already reached out!"
"Demetri, I don't want to be a brand."
"Too late. You're already a brand. Might as well profit from it."
Miguel, bless him, just wanted to swim. He'd escaped into the water fifteen minutes ago and was doing laps like his life depended on it. I envied his simple desires.
Sam emerged from the ocean looking like a movie poster, which of course the paparazzi captured immediately.
"PROPHET'S GIRLFRIEND IN BIKINI—EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS!"
She looked ready to commit murder.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself. "I can't even swim without becoming a headline."
"Welcome to fame. It's terrible."
"How are you so calm about this?"
"I'm not calm. I'm dissociating. Very different."
Moon and Hawk were reconnecting in the way that only shared fame could enable—taking couple selfies with the ocean backdrop, building a brand together. Yasmine had started livestreaming fifteen minutes ago and had already gained ten thousand followers.
"Day in the life of revolutionary heroes!" she announced to her phone. "Currently at Zuma Beach where the Prophet is building... is that a sandcastle?"
"It's a fortress," I corrected, adding another tower. "Tactical advantages."
"PROPHET PRACTICES ARCHITECTURE!"
I threw seaweed at the nearest camera.
"PROPHET DECLARES WAR ON MEDIA!"
Couldn't win.
---
The ice cream incident became a minor internet sensation.
Seven people. Seven different orders. One poor vendor who'd definitely never expected to serve this particular customer base.
"Who's paying?" Tory demanded.
"I started a revolution!" Hawk argued.
"I hacked DynaTox!" Demetri countered.
"I fought actual mercenaries!" Miguel added.
"I got arrested!" Sam contributed.
"I got arrested twice!" I pointed out.
The vendor—an older man with tired eyes—held up his hand.
"Heroes don't pay here." He smiled slightly. "My granddaughter has your poster on her wall. You're the Prophet, right?"
"Allegedly."
"You gave my family hope. Free ice cream is the least I can do."
We tipped him a hundred dollars collectively. Fame had weird perks.
Eating ice cream on a beach should have been peaceful. Instead, every bite was photographed. Every laugh became a headline. Every moment of joy got commodified and distributed across social media platforms I didn't understand.
"This is exhausting," Miguel admitted.
"Welcome to my life," I agreed.
Then Hawk stiffened. "Two o'clock. The pier."
I looked. Snake—Dennis—leaning against a railing three hundred yards away. Watching. Not approaching. Just... present.
The group shifted without discussion. Defensive positions formed. Casual to anyone watching, lethal to anyone who knew what to look for.
I waved. "Hi, Dennis! Want a hot dog?"
Snake retreated into the crowd. Message delivered.
"Think Silver sent him?" Sam asked quietly.
"Probably. Surveillance. Letting us know we're still being watched."
"Even from federal custody?"
"Silver has resources we can't imagine. This isn't over. It's just... paused."
The beach day continued. Volleyball. Swimming. Pretending we weren't constantly scanning for threats. Paradise with an asterisk.
---
Driving home, Sam stared out the window at the sunset.
"Think we'll ever be normal again?"
I considered the question seriously. Thought about the months of training, the fights, the revolution. Thought about Silver in custody and Snake on the pier and the paparazzi who would follow us probably forever.
"We were never normal," I said finally. "Now we're legendary abnormal. It's an upgrade."
"Is it though?"
"Ask me when the documentary deal comes through."
She laughed, which was the goal. The radio switched to a news segment about us—something about congressional hearings and youth activism—and we both groaned.
"I miss being anonymous," Sam admitted.
"I miss 7-Eleven runs without autograph requests."
"I miss homework being my biggest problem."
"Now we have lawyers and media consultants and something called a 'brand manager' that Amanda hired."
"At least we have each other?"
I took her hand. "At least we have each other."
The sunset painted the highway in shades of gold and orange. Somewhere behind us, paparazzi were probably following. Somewhere ahead, senior year waited with all its complications.
But right now, in this car, with this person, everything felt almost okay.
Almost.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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