Chapter 8: The Rare Figure Hunt
"Stuart, I require your assistance with an urgent matter of extreme personal importance."
It's Tuesday afternoon and Raj is standing in my shop looking genuinely distressed. Which is unusual because Raj's default setting is "pleasantly anxious," not "actively panicking."
"What's wrong?"
"My parents are visiting next week and I promised my father I'd complete my Justice League action figure collection before they arrived and I found everything except Aquaman and the auction I was watching online was outbid in the final seconds and now I have six days to find a 2006 Aquaman figure in mint condition or admit failure to a man who still brings up the time I quit violin lessons in third grade."
He says all of this in one breath.
"Okay." I set down the inventory clipboard. "So you need an Aquaman figure."
"Not just any Aquaman figure. The 2006 San Diego Comic-Con exclusive. Gold trident variant. Mint in box." His voice cracks slightly. "I've been searching for three months."
The tingle hits immediately. Sharp and specific. Images flash: a pawn shop in Glendale. Dusty shelves. A familiar orange and green package tucked between Star Wars figures and a broken Xbox controller.
I know where it is.
"I might know a place," I hear myself say.
"You do?" Hope floods Raj's face. "Where?"
"There's a pawn shop in Glendale. They sometimes get estate sale stuff, comics and collectibles. It's a long shot, but worth checking."
"Can we go now?"
I glance at the clock. 2:47 PM. Slow day. "Yeah, sure. Let me flip the sign."
Raj's car is immaculate. Not just clean—immaculate. The kind of clean that suggests regular detailing and genuine care. It smells faintly of sandalwood.
"Thank you for helping with this." He's driving exactly the speed limit, hands at ten and two. "The others would have mocked me. Howard especially. He doesn't understand the significance of completing a collection."
"It matters to you. That's significant enough."
He glances over, surprised. "Yes. Exactly. My father taught me to finish what I start. Every collection, every project. Follow through is important."
We hit traffic on the 134. Raj doesn't seem bothered, just settles into the rhythm of stop-and-go. And starts talking.
Really talking.
"I have trouble with women," he says suddenly. "Not trouble like Howard—he talks too much to the wrong women. I can't talk to them at all. Unless I've been drinking, which my parents would disapprove of, which adds another layer of anxiety to the entire situation."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. Do you have trouble talking to women?"
I think about it. Stuart's memories include plenty of failed interactions. My old life wasn't much better. But since waking up here? "It's gotten easier recently. I think it's just about being comfortable with yourself first."
"How does one become comfortable with oneself?"
Good question.
"Small wins, I guess. Succeeding at things. Building confidence through actual achievements instead of just pretending."
Raj considers this while merging onto the 2. "Your shop is doing well. That must help."
"Yeah. Knowing I can actually run a business without completely failing? That helps."
"See, I'm successful academically. I have published papers. A position at Caltech. But socially..." He trails off. "Sometimes I think the universe arranged the rules specifically to maximize my discomfort."
"The universe is kind of an asshole like that."
He laughs—genuine and surprised. "Yes. Yes it is."
We try two other shops first, both dead ends. Raj gets increasingly agitated at each failure. By the time we pull up to the Glendale pawn shop—a dingy storefront between a check cashing place and a vacant lot—he's practically vibrating with anxiety.
"This is the last one," he says. "If they don't have it—"
"They'll have it." The certainty in my voice surprises both of us.
The shop is exactly like the flash showed me. Dusty. Cluttered. Smells like old electronics and desperation. A bored teenager behind bulletproof glass doesn't look up from his phone as we enter.
I head straight to the toy section. It's a mess—no organization, just boxes and figures thrown together. Star Wars. G.I. Joe. Random Happy Meal toys from the 90s.
And there, wedged between Clone Troopers and a broken gaming controller, is an orange and green box.
Aquaman. Gold trident variant. Mint condition.
I pull it out and turn to Raj. "This it?"
His eyes go wide. He takes the box with trembling hands, examining it from every angle. "This is... this is exactly... how did you know?"
"Lucky guess."
"Stuart." He's staring at me now, figure clutched to his chest. "You drove us to three specific locations. You walked directly to this shelf. That's not luck."
Shit.
"I shop here sometimes. Remembered seeing action figures."
"You remembered seeing this specific figure? From a shop you 'sometimes' visit?"
The teenager at the counter calls out, bored: "You buying that or what?"
"How much?" I ask, buying time.
"Box says forty bucks."
It's worth at least two hundred. Raj is already pulling out his wallet, hands shaking.
We purchase it and leave quickly. In the car, Raj sits with the figure in his lap, just staring at it.
"Thank you," he says finally. "Seriously. This is... my father will finally see that I can complete things. That I'm not the chronic quitter he thinks I am."
"You're not a quitter. You're at Caltech. That's not quitter behavior."
"Try telling my father that." But he's smiling now. "Stuart, you're like... I don't know the English phrase. In Hindi we say 'sache bhai'—true brother. Someone who helps without expectation."
The title settles warm in my chest. "Spirit brother?"
"Yes! Exactly that."
We drive back through Pasadena as the sun starts setting. Raj talks the entire way—about his childhood in India, his complicated relationship with his parents, his loneliness in America, the strange comfort he finds in Howard and Leonard and Sheldon's chaos.
And he's talking to me. No alcohol. No anxiety. Just... talking.
The Attractiveness power, I realize. It makes people comfortable.
Not just physically attractive. Socially comfortable. Emotionally safe. Like something about my presence lowers people's guards.
Which is useful. And kind of terrifying.
Because if people feel too comfortable around me, they might notice other things. The lucky guesses. The impossible knowledge. The fact that I'm not quite right.
"You're very easy to talk to," Raj says as we pull up to the shop. "I don't usually... I mean, with the others, I have to maintain certain... but with you it's different."
"Different how?"
"Like you've seen things. Been through things. You don't judge."
I've died and come back. Does that count as seeing things?
"Everyone's got their stuff," I say instead. "No judgment."
He clasps my shoulder—brief but genuine. "Thank you, sache bhai. For the figure and for listening."
After he drives away, I stand in the parking lot watching taillights disappear. The November air is crisp. Smells like car exhaust and someone's dinner cooking nearby.
I helped Raj because the tingles told me where to look. But I also helped him because he asked. Because he needed someone to listen. Because that's what friends do.
The power made it possible. But the choice was mine.
And somehow, that distinction matters.
I unlock the shop and step inside, flipping on lights that buzz to life overhead. Wednesday tomorrow. The gang will show up at their usual time. We'll have our new tradition—comics and pizza and ridiculous debates.
And I'll keep pretending I'm normal. Keep hiding the impossible knowledge and the supernatural advantages.
Because these friendships—messy and weird as they are—they're real.
Even if I'm not.
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