In light of the teasing, fond look Dmytro shot him, all the reasons he should not be there were gone, and in their place were Dmytro’s words:I will be sad should anything happen to you… I will protect you… Trust me.
He would trust Dmytro. Dmytro had his best interest at heart.
Hours later,they got him set up to stream. They gave him a brand-new computer and headset. Just like old times.
He’d grown up on the internet. Started as a lonely adolescent creating podcasts, telling jokes and stories. He’d had an enormous amount of money to pursue his projects and produce his internet radio shows. Through hard work and sheer audacity, he’d achieved whatever audience and merchandising goals he set for himself year after year, becoming a big celebrity in a short amount of time.
Sponsorships and fundraising opportunities made it very rewarding. Cash poured in. But as high as he flew, it only took one scathing, drunken rant, livestreamed on YouTube, to bring him to earth with a thud. His sponsors fled. Charities distanced themselves. It had been his choice, but it still hurt.
When he’d started, he’d seen the Ajax Freedom persona as entertainment. As satire. He was a modern-day Jonathan Swift, and Ajax Freedom was his “A Modest Proposal.” It wasn’t untilhe realized his fictional character gave others license to say things—to do thevery thingshe wanted to shine a spotlight on—that he shut it all down.
Now he never wanted to see a microphone or video camera again.
“Hello once again from America,” he began as he often did: stiffly. “The land of the greedy and the home of the craven. This is Ajax Freedom, and just when you thought it was safe”—he smiled at the camera—“he’s baaaaaaack.”
He’d left his hair curly and wild. Donned the black cashmere v-neck over a white T-shirt he’d chosen for Ajax Freedom’s persona. He looked like a super-rich geek-slash-gamer, the kind of computer guy who sells his first app for a billion dollars and settles down to a life of playing air guitar and dating supermodels.
The direction he’d decided to take with his rant felt easy as soon as he got started. He heaped abuse on people who once believed in him. He accused them of spending all their time listening to him rather than getting actual jobs or dating real live people. He told them to grow a pair and make something happen in their own lives instead of listening to assholes like him.
As the boat rocked, the alcohol he’d had earlier and the motion sickness patch made him drowsy and relieved him of inhibitions. He gained traction, disappearing into the vitriolic headspace that was Ajax Freedom’s alone.
He could no longer pretend he was into women, so he told his old crowd he planned to head up a left leaning progressive gay army. He blasted trend followers, social media mavens, and Digital media “it kids” like him. He blasted designers—even those who’d endorsed him—and told people to read a goddamn book for a change. He challenged them to light up their lives, not just reflect light like so many empty moons.
That fired up the comments like nothing ever had. Lots of anger, but a lot were positive. Some of the comments he got were honestly… supportive. Maybe Ajax—even if he was acting more Fairchild than Freedom—had more traction than he thought?
When he’d finally piled enough garbage onto his big shit sundae, he flung the cherry on top: “Aaaaaand guess what. Seems like somebody out there wants to kill me. They don’tlikeme. Can you believe this shit?
“I got twelve million YouTube subscribers for being a privileged, entitled white dickwad, and someone wants to kill me because I lied. And maybe I suck, but what is the world coming to if people think they can weigh in with threats and violence if they don’t like how someone looks or what they have to say? Get online and tell meyourtruth, assholes. Give me what you’ve got.” He glanced at Dmytro, who nodded. “I’m Ajax Freedom, and with great power comes endless opportunity to shit on the little guy. So why not shit right back? But use yourwords, kiddies. Leave your dumbassery in the comments. Tell me what youreallythink because I’ve got the best security in the world and the cash to fund it forever. Catch me if you can, motherfuckers.”
He pulled off his headset, turned off the cameras, and let Bartosz do the rest. When he allowed himself to look up, the first pair of eyes he saw was glacial.
He ached at the disappointment he saw there.
“Tell me you don’t believe that’s me, Dmytro.”
“It’s not entirely you,” Dmytro acknowledged. “But you can’t simply shed him like a skin.”
Ajax placed his headset on the desk. “It wasn’t hard to go back and find that voice, but he was never as angry before. Ajax Freedom fiddled while Rome burned. Now he makes me sick.”
“Because Ajax Freedom didn’t have to watch anyone get hurt.” Dmytro was far too observant for anyone’s good.
Ajax glanced at his feet. “Is there anything to drink on this boat? I’ve earned it.”
Dmytro gave a jerk of his head, and he followed, as he’d done for most of the day.
He blamed their behavior on shock. Everyone must have noticed, but no one commented, even when Dmytro led him to his cabin and closed the door behind them.
“I like that you use third person when you talk about him.” Dmytro dug a bottle of vodka out of his suitcase and unceremoniously handed it over.
“He’s not me.” After uncorking it, Ajax swallowed a mouthful and handed it back. “He’s never been me.”
“I know.” Dmytro took a swig before brushing a stray curl behind Ajax’s ear. Ajax leaned into the gentle touch. “I see you.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ajax finally admitted. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t know why you’re touching me. Is this how you intend to make me do what you want without arguing? Because I know all you want is to get home to Sasha and Pen. You don’t have to pretend—”
