"I am not wearing the stupid shirt. Nor the shoes. And nor the jacket. I'm not a billboard." Belinda was trying to stay calm and reminding herself that her 18th birthday wasn't far away. She promised herself things were going to change then.

John was holding up the bright red jacket with the M-1000 logo. In front of him was a pile of similar shirts, shoes, and caps on the conference table. Along with buttons saying 'Because we care.' Belinda was sitting at the opposite end of the table with Eric Kresthammer and several people on John's ever-changing staff that she barely knew. Her stepfather had interrupted the planning meeting to show off the promotional clothing that Ubergear had sent. It wasn't free. Their lawyers had pointed out a small line in their contract that allowed them to pay part of their sponsorship fees with promotional products for the fans. Someone who hadn't been involved in that contract had gotten fired over the mistake, and now John was trying to put his spin on it.

The meeting went from boring to horrifying when he announced to the group of yes-people that Ubergear had sent a special set of clothing for Belinda. As John had pulled out the bright red shirt, pants, high-top tennis shoes, baseball cap, and satiny jacket, she had cringed and backed her chair away from the table, preparing to leave. Her way was blocked by two people rolling in a bright red wheelchair with huge, thick rubber wheels, racing stripes, and the M-1000 logo on the sides. There were gasps, the clearing of throats from the people in the room, and then silence. Belinda stared at her stepfather, who had that stupid, hopeful look on his face.

"What the hell is this thing?"

John's face fell. "It's a new wheel-chair they sent over for you to use. Pretty cool, isn't it?"

Myra Cordwain, from marketing, chimed in. "I helped them design it, especially for you. It looks like a race car."

"It's a travesty. I feel like I went to hell, and the Devil is showing me how I'll be tortured, having to wheel myself around in this embarrassing, ugly piece of crap."

John looked at her, pleading silently. "I thought you'd like it. They wanted you to run up on stage with the M-1000 team, but I told them you don't run. So they came up with this idea."

Blinking in disbelief, Belinda moved her chair back to the table, her face like stone. All thoughts of the planning meeting were gone. "And why would you think I'd like it? Do you think I'm emotionally crippled as well as physically disabled? That I need to be part of a team of people dressed in red that bought me? That I'm so starved for attention that being wheeled onto a stage in a goddamned race car has been my life-long dream? These people are sponsoring the event, not renting me out. And they probably charged you a shit-load of money for that clunky monstrosity of a chair. It's not powered, and there is no way I can move it on my own. And it's ugly."

Myra looked at John and then at her. "But it all goes well with that M-1000 gloves they sent you."

Belinda rolled her eyes in disbelief. She hoped that Myra was sleeping with her stepfather. At least that would be an excuse for why she had been hired. "Yes, the wonderful gloves. That my father had me try them on and then activate them without telling me or letting me test them out first. The lovely gloves that worked so well with the damaged nerves in my left arm that I'm still having cramps and tremors two days after wearing the gloves for a minute. Those gloves, Myra?"

She glared at the two flunkies with the chair. "Take that chair and the clothes they sent me and take them to Miss Cordwain's quarters. I'm making it all a personal gift to her. If someone has to wear all that crap and sit in the chair, she can make Ubergear happy."

Myra looked horrified. John relaxed; he was off the hook. "Awesome idea. That's why we need you in these meetings. You have a great personal view of how to do things and can delegate. I like the idea. How about it, Myra? You can be part of team M-1000 and relax during that part of the presentation. We'll get you a wig to match Belinda and some M-1000 sunglasses to wear."

Pale and looking like she was going to be ill, Myra nodded. "Of course, John. You know I'm a team player."

"Great. What's next on the list, Eric?" John scraped the shirts to the floor, and the flunkies picked them up.

"We were discussing handling the flow of people. The VIPs are arriving by helicopter or hovercraft and coming down the new elevator. We have a separate entrance for the press, caterers, and staff working the event. A third entrance for the gaming teams, influences, and audience members. We located the entrance for the Habitat residence closer to the gaming area and 'gamer food.' As you instructed, all influencers and gaming teams get a package with M-1000 giveaways, a "Because we care." commemorative pin, and a discount coupon for purchasing a set of M-1000 gloves. Hopefully, some of the T-shirts will even get worn."

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"They will if those people want to be able to interview any of the VIPs we have coming. I'm worried about the Hab people, though. How are we handling them?" John was still looking for a better name for the people living in the Habitat. He had suggested Hab-rats and been soundly rejected.

Eric put down the paperwork he was making notes on and leaned back. He knew that tone and hated it. "Handle them, how, John? We invited them, they come, and we let the first 1000 kids under the age of 18 in the door to play games, have fun, and chow down. That's straight from Miss Belinda and her planning group. He smiled at Belinda, a real smile, and she smiled back. Eric greatly appreciated her handling most of the details of that part of the event. She had even pulled a new sponsor out of nowhere at the last minute to pay for her part of the show.

John looked around the table. "Well, you know. We don't want any violent gangs or people who will represent us poorly. You hear so many stories about what goes on in the back alleys of the hab. I really want to avoid having the cameras catching views of a bunch of Hab-rats misbehaving."

Belinda tuned him out. She was beyond pissed. The event she had naively hoped would help her meet people was turning into a nightmare. John's phone buzzed. He ignored it, and it buzzed again. He was speaking to her, and she was ignoring him. The phone buzzed a third time, and he answered it rudely and then went white. Curious, she stopped leaving the room to find out what was happening. John put down the phone and looked at her, trying to find a smile and past it on her face. "Belinda, your great-uncle is here to see you. Can you greet him? I'll be along for dinner in an hour or two." He sat back in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut.

Belinda happily left the room, heading to the reception area. She didn't have many relatives, and Uncle Victor was her favorite.

Behind her, the door slammed, and Eric heard John whisper to himself. "I'd hoped he was dead. Why now?"

----------------------------------------

In the lobby of John's office was an old man in an old coat. He had a thick, grey mustache and a few strands of hair left on his head. In his youth, he had been tall, but time had stolen 4" from his height, and he'd lost weight lately. He looked smaller to Belinda, but his smile was the same. He started toward her, and she stopped him. "Wait, I want to show you how hard I've worked." He patiently waited as she stood on shaking legs, using the arm braces kept on the back of her chair. She managed the six steps to him, and he caught her. "I can walk some now, Uncle Vic."

The old man hugged her tight, a tear rolling down his cheek. "I see. That's amazing. But you are an amazing girl and just getting started. I always hoped doctors could fix you with their fancy medicines. But, hey? Maybe you will fix yourself with hard work?" He helped her back to her chair. She saw that behind them were a dozen large men, some holding luggage.

"You brought so many people and lots of bags? Are you staying this time? You always leave too soon."

Victor Seimovich smiled down at his great-niece. "Yes. Yes, I am. I was traveling for some time, finishing up some business. It gets tiring, moving around so much. Then I remembered you and your step-father were living here in this huge city-in-a-building. I thought it might be a nice place to visit for a few months and help John with the family business."

Now that made Belinda happy. Uncle Vic knew a lot about business. He and her grandfather had made a lot of money and owned things everywhere. "Great, John really needs some help. I've been trying, but it's hard."

Uncle Vic patted her head. "That's good that you help. John, for all we love him, isn't family. Our family should handle our money. I'll talk to John, and you and I will have more talks. But right now, my old bones need a nap before dinner. Why don't we go kick some people out of their nice rooms and find someplace for Uncle Victor to live?"