“Ha ha. Come on.” He turns abruptly and marches out of the stairwell, and I feel a grin tugging at my lips before I can stop it.
“Whatever you say, old man.”
He tosses over his shoulder in a startingly awful Yoda impersonation, “Master Ethan it is to you, young Jedi.”
Five minutes later, he peels me up off the floor because I’ve died and become one with the Force.
And then it hits me—
If the script is real, then Amara is truly, truly dead. And that means I’ve failed. I failed, like I always fail, and our princess is never coming back—
No.
Just because there’s a script doesn’t mean the fate of the character can’t change. Like Agent Coulson in the MCU! Darth Maul in Star Wars! Spike in Buffy! Freaking angel Castiel in Supernatural! Axel in Kingdom Hearts! I can go on. It’s not unheard of, and I still have time.
I have to.
“HERE,” SAYS THE MUSCULAR GUY WITH the gray lock of hair, handing me a rag full of ice he got from a nearby vendor selling water bottles and shaved ice. I’m sitting against a wall, close to where I bit the ground. “You hit your head pretty hard.”
I take the ice pack gratefully and press it against the side of my face. I don’t think I have a concussion, but this is exactly why I don’t do my own stunts. I hiss as the cold cloth touches the growing bruise on my cheek.
How am I going to explain this to Ethan, or Diana, or at the pressers I have after this convention?
Thankfully, I have makeup. I guess.
My pursuers had quickly helped me up from my faceplant and are now squatting beside me. Well, the waifish guy in the witch’s hat is leaning on his umbrella, looking down at me as if he can’t quite figure out who I am. But I am most definitely not “Monster.”
I hate conventions.
“What happened to the Nox King?” asked the burly one to his friend.
Umbrella Guy shrugs. “He jetted as soon as she bit the floor.”
“Typical.”
I hate conventions.
At this rate, I’m more likely to blow Imogen’s cover than find the jerkoff who stole my script, and that has me very annoyed.
PS – Can you guess where I am? A surprise might be coming soon if you can find me!
It’s like this person wants to be found, and I’m afraid if someone does find them, they’ll reveal that the script was mine. Do they want to publicly humiliate me? Sic every living Starfield fan on me and drive me off the internet à la Star Wars? They’re already on the road to doing that if my Instagram comments are any indication. I can just imagine some greasy dirtbag riling the masses to get me annexed because how dare I even try to live up to their dear, beloved Natalia Ford?
Was that their plan all along?
My fingers curl tightly around the ice pack. I can’t let these strangers see me lose it. Breathe.
The broad guy with the curl of silver hair studies me. “So…it’s clear you’re not Mo…”
“But she looks familiar, doesn’t she, babe?” asks Umbrella Guy, giving me a long look. He has a jade earring in his right ear and strikingly dark eyes. He twirls his umbrella around his wrist. “You know, if I didn’t know better, you kinda look like—”
“I’m no one,” I interrupt.
“No one’s no one,” replies the muscular guy.
“Then it’s none of your business,” I snap and rise to my feet, gathering my strength even though my cheek is still throbbing and all I want to do is crawl back into my hotel room and watch reruns of Project Runway.
Maybe all of this is just one horrendous nightmare, and I’ll wake up soon and not have to worry about any of it. The stars will align and I’ll be Jessica Stone again, hating Starfield but solid in my career. Or maybe Starfield will be the nightmare, and I’ll wake up—
Someone touches my arm gently, and I whirl around.
It’s the burly dude, looking worriedly at me. “Do you need help?”
“Help?” I try not to laugh. “With what?”
The two guys exchange a hesitant look, and I play with the idea that they know what I’m looking for, can magically identify who’s leaking my script, but I quickly shove that thought away. As soon as they “help” me, they’ll want something in return, guaranteed. Everyone always does.
“Sorry,” I tell them, “but I don’t even know you. Thanks for the ice pack, I’m fine.”
“Wait!” The one in the witch’s hat calls after me, and as I turn around to give him a really good tongue-lashing, he holds out Ethan’s glasses. They’re a little bent, but not broken. “You might need these.”
I snatch them out of his hand, slide them on, and leave, the ice pack still pressed firmly against my face.
* * *
I FIND I’VE WANDERED TO THE other side of the showroom, where it’s a little quieter. I scroll through the Twitter timeline, trying to find a clue who the thief might be. But I’m at a loss. I’m just lucky they haven’t yet posted a page with my name on it.
I sink down beside the bathroom near the corner, where a guy with a pretzel stand is humming the Starfield theme song.
Of course.
I can’t seem to escape Starfield, and looking at the latest tweet gets me angrier and angrier the longer I sit here. The Starfield side of the internet is exploding with news of General Sond as the new villain.
Vance Reigns.
His agent had been trying to set us up on a date for a while, and I guess now I know why. It’d look like a trading of the mantle, of sorts, from one Starfield villain to another.
I’m being replaced—by a golden knight no less.
Why do I care? I shut off my phone and drop it between my folded legs. Why do I care so much that Starfield announced their sequel villain? It wasn’t like I was holding out hope it would be me.
That’s silly. I don’t want it to be me.
I’m Jessica Stone, an Oscar-nominated teenager. I am a serious actor. I am cool, I am coveted, I am professional.
I…
What else am I?
“You look like someone who could use a pretzel,” says a voice to my right. I glance up to see the pretzel vendor looming over me with an unsalted sample of his wares and a pack of cheesy goop. He motions to the ice pack still pressed against my cheek.
“Oh.” I pat down my jeans and realize with a sudden jolt that I don’t have any money. Or ID. Nothing. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have at least my AmEx on me. “I, ah, I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash…”
“It’s free.”
“But I’m not that hungry—” My stomach growls and my cheeks get hot. I accept the pretzel. I can’t remember the last time I had one. I can’t remember the last time I ate in public without a storm of paparazzi on me. It feels surreal, a warm pretzel in one hand and a container of delicious plastic cheese in the other. I ask the man, “Is there any way to repay you?”
“Nah. I don’t need the money.” He looks out across the showroom. His face seems familiar, but I can’t place from where. With that god-awful peppery beard, I can’t tell if he’s homeless or cosplaying as a lumberjack. “You know, it feels pretty peaceful on this side of the convention.”