Joshua McCune - Talker 25

Lester withdraws his pistol and hurries toward them. “Who gave you permission to be here?”

Twenty-Six and the stranger turn, enough for me to make out a middle-aged man with near-wrinkleless features.

Hector.

He speaks briefly with Lester, then waves me over, a curious smirk on his face. “Saw you working up there with that ax. Interesting technique, but I’d stick to the sword if—”

“Why are you here?”

“The colonel didn’t want you off base again.” Hector gestures at the crates on the slaughter slab. “We brought the mountain to you.”

I look at my bloodstained jacket and croak out a sardonic laugh. Thanks to my efforts to protect Baby, the cameras and lights have come to Georgetown. And because I lost Twenty-Six’s bet, I’ll not only have to execute dragons for TV, but also for the daily amusement of my captors.

“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” Hector says. He glances at his watch. “Sergeant, could you get Melissa a clean coat and meet us at the colonel’s office?”

“Us” turns out to include Twenty-Six.

I chew at my lip. “Why’s he coming?”

“The producers have wanted to reach out to the female demographic since season two. James here is pure double-X heroin, and because the audience is already familiar with him, he’s gonna be easy to inject.” Hector grins. “Plus, you’re cheap labor.”

“And what exactly is my role?” Twenty-Six asks before I can.

“You’re Melissa’s love interest.” Hector looks from Twenty-Six to me, his smile fading. “You guys still like each other, right?”

AsHector and Colonel Hanks discuss the logistics of our participation, I stare at the painting of Saint George on the wall behind them. The dragon slayer appears happy in his shiny armor and flowing cape, but maybe that’s Painting George and not Real George. Maybe the artist told Real George to suck it up and smile, otherwise Real George’s baby dragon friend would be next in line for the spear.

It’s all stupid ridiculous, but nobody cares what I think. Read my lines. Follow Hector’s direction. Execute dragons. Pretend to like Twenty-Six. A lot.

I peek over at him. He’s examining the script binder on his lap. Why does he have to look so much like James? He catches me watching, grins.

It’s a half hour later according to the clock on the wall, though it feels much longer, when the meeting ends. On our way out of the building, I squint against the brightness of the sun and scan the sky for the slightest hint of red or green glow.

Empty. The armies gather. We will come. Nothing but imaginary words by an imaginary dragon. Anyway, this is the frozen suck, far off any dragon map. I’m not sure even imaginary dragons could find—

“Waiting for a miracle, Glowheart?” Twenty-Six says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“In nae,” he says. I glance back. He’s got that evil smile on his face. “Any chance you could hurry it up, Glowheart? I’m getting cold.”

“You’re far past cold,” I mutter.

We head to the rec center for wardrobe and makeup. The clanging of weights and pounding of basketballs fade to near silence when we enter. Soldiers in drab workout clothes track us as we make our way to the parlor on the far side of the gym, which has been transformed into a temporary salon.

At the first station, a thick-necked barber sets up shop in front of a mirror and a faceless dummy mounted with a blond wig.

“Run out of hair dye?” I ask with a smile that comes out more a grimace.

Hector follows my gaze to the wig, explains that the writers decided James and I should lose our dragon crowns. Because I’m not a good little slave (my term, not his) like my better half (his term, not mine), I must still wear my crown. Just out of sight.

While Twenty-Six changes in the locker room, the barber goes to town on my head. I ignore the hum of clippers and the falling clumps of hair the best I can. He spins me around to face the mirror.

Nothing remains but a few sprouts poking out around the CENSIR. Gaunt and almost hairless, execution gore splattered on my neck and one cheek, I resemble a cross between a cancer patient and a mad scientist.

I’m searching for something I recognize in my reflection when a sour-faced production assistant hands me a garment bag at arm’s length and directs me to the showers.

I spend the first part probing my head, which is bumpier than I’d expected. I lather my hands up with shampoo, realize I’ve got far too much, squeeze back tears. Once I’ve come to terms with my new look, my thoughts turn to the show.

Three episodes over three days, culminating in the midseason finale. If the ratings track well, Hector assures us our contract will be renewed. If not, Baby’s back on the chopping block.

Just have to make the world believe Melissa loves James. Crazy I can do, but love? The concept seems as invisible and distant as the stars. How do I fake something so far from sight?

I take a deep breath, turn off the water. Three days. That’s it. I can make it through three days . . . one kiss at a time.

I towel off and change into my outfit, a monstrosity of red, blue, and green dragon scales that makes me sparkle like a disco ball.

When I return to the salon, Twenty-Six is reading his script, getting powder applied to his cheekbones. He’s dressed in a black jumpsuit, and they’ve styled his hair to make him seem rebellious and intense.

He looks up from the binder, and his piercing blue eyes ensnare me for a second. Then he winks. “Get a look at this, Lester. I barely recognized you, Glow—”

“For this show to work, James, you need to be nicer,” I say. His name seems foreign on my tongue.

He waves his binder at me. “Hello? That’s kind of the point of the script . . . Melissa.”

“All the time. Fake it if you have to.”

“Some things you can’t fake.”

I chew at my lip. “Pretend I’m somebody else if you have to.”

He considers. “That might work. What’s my CENSIR say, Sergeant?”

Lester examines his tablet. “Still annoyed . . . nope, now you’re okay.”

Twenty-Six nods, looks at me like I’m not a bug in need of crushing, then gives me a kind smile that calms my nerves. “How are you doing, Evely—Melissa?”

“Terrific.”

“Do what I have to,” he says. “Want to read lines with me, Melissa?”

I sit in the adjacent chair. “Everything but the execution scene.”

“Too bad. That’s the best part.”

I ignore his grin, open my script binder, and start reading.

Makeup done, hair in place, and lines half learned, we’re escorted by Lester to a building with biometric scanners protecting both the outer and inner doors. Given the extra layer of security, I expect to find something interesting inside.

But besides some scanner-protected wall cabinets that ring the square room, everything I see appears to be part of Hector’s traveling studio. Lights, chairs, green screen, a tripod-mounted camera. While a couple of production assistants adjust the lights, a stone-faced A-B guarding the door at the back pretends to ignore us.

“We’ll do James first,” Hector says, stepping behind the camera. “Take a seat. Lester, please remove his CENSIR . . . careful with the hair!” He places a chair next to the tripod. “Melissa, sit. Look at her, James. . . . Melissa, on my cue, read the narrator lines from James Scene One. Don’t worry about cadence or anything. We’ll blend in Simon’s voice later.”

He taps his tablet, and the lights in the room dim. “Okay, James, you’re in a bittersweet state with an undercurrent of anticipation. You were locked up in solitary, then you saw Melissa on the show and had a there-is-a-god epiphany that dragons are evil. You’ve volunteered to help the A-Bs hunt them down in hope of redemption. But of course, the best part about this opportunity is that you might get to see Melissa again.”