Talker 25 (31 page)

Twenty-Six grins at me. “You probably think you’re helping this monster by doing this. An ax ain’t a sword. You know how many blows it will take someone of your stature to hit something vital?”

The words hurt, not so much because they might be true, but for the delighted malice with which he delivers them.

“You’re the monster,” I whisper as I raise the ax. I push
away my sorrow, gather my rage at Twenty-Six and the jeering soldiers, and throw it all into the swing.

The blade clanks off the dragon’s scales; shock waves reverberate up my arms and laughter plays loud in my head.

“She may have scratched it,” Twenty-Six says. “Perhaps we should have made the bet for a hundred. Come on, Glowheart, you can do better. Pretend it’s my neck on the block.”

I do. Every time. On the fifth blow, I break through the scales. On the eighth, the dragon stops glowing. On the tenth, I’m halfway through. My hands ache with the promise of future blisters, my arms burn, my scrubs are soaked through with sweat. Dragon gore covers my ankle-length coat from hem to neck.

“What are you waiting for, Glowheart? Back to work,” Twenty-six says.

I drop the ax. “Give me a chain saw.”

Lester shakes his head. “Actions have consequences, Twenty-Five.”

Twenty-Six hands me the ax. “Chop chop, Glowheart.”

Over the next ten attempts, the soldiers go from heckling me to encouraging me to offering help.

Twenty-Six puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch. “What do you say, Twenty-Five? Do you need someone to finish this monster for you?”

“Back off.” I squirm free of his touch and drag up the ax.

Six cuts later, my hands and shoulders aflame, my rage exhausted, I break through the other side. After an A-B uses a hoist to remove the head from the slab, the dismemberment crew swarms the carcass. As I totter from the carnage, Twenty-Six strides toward the wall of chain saws, eager to join in. A man in a hooded fur coat—not military issue—approaches him and strikes up a conversation.

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?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

As
Hector 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? Trish was the actress in Mason-Kline, not me.

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.”

“Of course. Without the memory of her to keep me strong, I would never have made it through the darkness,” he says, repeating the final line from this scene.

“Brilliant,” Hector says. “Let’s roll.”

I read the first narrator line: “When you think about everything that’s happened, what do you regret most?”

“There are lots of things. When you’re up there on a dragon, you can’t see the faces of the people you kill or know the grief of their family members,” James says with perfect solemnity. “You get all worked up for the cause and you’re going so fast . . . so damn fast. . . . You don’t really consider the consequences until it’s too late.”

His expression darkens, his voice softens. “But if I had to choose what I regret most, it would be Melissa.”

He pauses, smiles as if recalling a fond memory. “She came into my life like a tornado of energy . . . unexpected . . . powerful . . . with this raw fire inside her. It overwhelmed me. I should never have let her join the cause, but once she was in my life, she was the air to my lungs. . . .”

On we go, moving from our fabricated insurgency story to his confinement to his rebirth, everything centered around our romance. Hector wanted female heroin; James gives it to him pure. Every sappy line he delivers seems to come from the soul. And with his intense eyes locked on mine, I can almost forget Twenty-Six and convince myself the words are for me.

I come to the last question in the scene: “If Melissa were here right now, what would you tell her?”

“So many things. The first would be . . . thank you,” he says, followed by a dramatic pause. “Without the memory of her to keep me strong, I never would have made it through the darkness.”

He’s supposed to end there, but doesn’t. “She once told me this phrase, which I never forgot.
Baekjul boolgool.
It means indomitable spirit.” He looks at me. I see passion, warmth, truth. I tell myself it’s an act. “It means the world to me, who she’s become.”

“Brilliant,” Hector says.

Lester puts James’s CENSIR back on. “Had me believing.”

Twenty-Six grins. “Once we get rid of these monsters, maybe I’ll go to Hollywood.”

Hector has us swap places.

I can’t recall a single line. After I stumble over several attempts, Hector jams a transceiver into my ear and hisses my lines at me. My scene’s half the length of James’s, but with all the retakes and coaching from Hector, it takes three times as long.

Last, and by far the worst, the final scene for the day. In our script, it’s labeled Grand Canyon Red Execution, but in my mind, it’s The Kiss. Two lovers reunite, make out, then kill a dragon. On the list of terrible ideas, this has to be near the top.

An audience awaits us in the ER. Soldiers, scientists, talkers. Most everyone’s here for my embarrassment, even Colonel Hanks. I scan the talkers for Evelyn but can’t find her. Too bad. Her presence might make this experience a smidge tolerable.

We’re almost to the front of the murmuring crowd when somebody yanks my arm. I glance back. Twenty-One’s looking up at me.

“They’re always talking, always talking,” she says. She
flies the dragon brooch in front of her face, then smacks it into her palm. “Kill the dragons, yes, yes, or the dragons kill them.”

“Yes, yes,” Twenty-Six says, pushing past. “We’re going to kill them all soon enough.”

She sulks. “He doesn’t mean it, does he? Not everyone should die.”

“Of course not,” I say, for lack of a better lie.

Lights, cameras, green screens, and soldiers surround the bright Red pinned to the slaughter slab. Hector positions Lester and three other volunteers around the dragon’s snout as stand-ins for Frank, Kevin, Mac, and L.T.

After removing Twenty-Six’s CENSIR, Hector hands him a sword and orders him to a marker near the edge of the slab. He turns to me. “You’re beside the dragon, expecting Frank to bring you the sword. On my cue, you notice James. This is where you go all giddy. Woman giddy. Not teen giddy.”

I don’t know what he means by that, but he’ll be lucky if I can muster any giddy.

Once we’re all positioned to Hector’s satisfaction, he orders our jackets off and demands quiet from the crowd. He calls my name through the earpiece, and the butterflies in my stomach become wasps. “You see James now. You’re startled, overjoyed. Fly into his arms. Then kiss.”