by J Bennett
I wonder if the photo comes from some Sector 3 show he worked on. The Sector 3 Media Region is dedicated to children’s programming. Parents from all over the country pack their bags and drag their offspring to Sec 3, despo to turn their kids into stars.
“Why don’t you have a couch?” I ask. “Everyone needs a couch.”
“Haven’t gotten around to printing the parts,” he says. He’s lived here for over a month.
“People have nowhere to sit,” I say.
“And?” He raises an eyebrow. None of this—me barging in and carving circles into the floor with my pacing—seems to faze him. I wonder what it would take to make him mad.
Leo glances at his Band and frowns. “You made an unauthorized visit to our prisoner.” He looks at me, those amber eyes probing. “Though, I suppose if you were the mole you wouldn’t have come to me. And I hope you’d cover your tracks better.”
“They’re setting us up,” I blurt out.
“Who?”
And then, right at this moment, I realize Leo isn’t wearing a shirt. His body is well-defined but not bulging with fake muscles that only come from synthesized protein packs. My eyes travel down his chest, and I spot two more moles, one under his collarbone and the other sitting just above the seam of his gray pajama bottoms on his left side.
“Who?” Leo asks again.
I drag my eyes up to his face as shame blossoms hot across my chest. “PAGS,” I sputter. “PAGS is setting us up.”
Leo crosses his arms over his chest. “PAGS is a multi-national conglomeration with media markets all over the world and over 16,000 unique media properties. I doubt they care what we do.”
“Tatianna Wentworth cares what we do,” I say.
That, at least, gives him pause. “Tatianna Wentworth is the president of the City Council,” he says after a moment. “She cares about all the sponsored shows that run in Big Little City.”
“I spoke to Shine.”
“I gathered.”
“And…” I stop, not sure how much to tell him. Does he need to know that Beacon has been self-funding her show for the last two years? That she doesn’t get any help from the City Council anymore and has to create all her own missions? For some drooling reason, I feel protective of this secret, of Beacon’s reputation.
“You have a special relationship with Shine,” Leo says. It’s not really a question. I doubt Leo has ever asked a question he doesn’t already know most of the answer to. I wonder what his cams caught on the day I captured Shine; what his eyes saw in our interaction.
“I hardly know him,” I murmur.
“But you got him to talk?”
“I can be persuasive.”
Leo knows I’m holding back but he just nods, letting my lie stand on its whisper-thin legs.
“It’s Tatianna Wentworth,” I say, moving our convo back on track. “She told Shine where to find The Professor’s lair. She was helping him to spin off.”
The ten members of the City Council report directly to PAGS and serve as the primary sponsors of all the vil, cape, and Persona shows in Biggie LC. They greenlight new shows and swipe the ones going gutter, as well as allocate funds that pay for costumes, weaps, and production crews.
“She set us up,” I emphasize.
Leo turns and gazes out the window at the graying sky. Dawn approaches. “She sponsors The Dragon Riders,” he says. “I suppose that’s the reason she directed us to kidnap the mayor.”
“What?” I snap. “That was her idea?”
Leo nods. Rumors have always circulated that sponsors take a hand in guiding plotlines and coordinating between shows, but I never thought they issued direct instructions. “But you’re the head producer!” I say. “You and The Professor choose our missions.”
Leo turns back to me and the expression on his face says I should know better by now. “Sponsors control the purse strings. That means they have a long reach. When they tell you to kidnap the mayor, you kidnap the mayor.”
My mind whirls with the implications of what he’s saying. My feet keep moving. I guess it’s a good thing Leo doesn’t have a cute little rug on the floor. I’d be wearing holes in it.
“But why?” I stammer. “We’ve only put out three eps. Why would Tatianna Wentworth try to ruin us before we’ve even had a chance to find our feet?”
Leo pulls a hand through his hair, trying to smooth the cowlicks that make him look a little young, a little vulnerable. “Sometimes they create shows with the intention of destroying them. They use a new Persona to rile up the storylines for their bigger Personas.”
I feel myself nodding. Just last year, a cape named Rip Cord parachuted right into a love triangle between Seed of the Elementals and Gorgon of the Dark League. Those two ended up in an iconic fight and Rip Cord was “killed” trying to stop them. It gushed the ratings for the Elementals and the Dark League for months.
“But this is The Professor,” I manage.
“He’s got a lot of nostalgic value but his brand of villainy is…” Leo pauses, trying to summon the right word, “faded.” He tilts his head slightly as if he’s thinking out loud. “Tatianna Wentworth brought him out of retirement, hired me to do a nice reintroduction, but they only wanted to use him to get a big win for one of her more established Personas.”
“Shine,” I say.
“And when that failed, she tipped off the Dragon Riders. That team’s trending up right now. Defeating The Professor would be a good boost to get them into the top viewership leagues,” Leo says.
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” I demand.
Leo must hear the growing desperation in my voice, but it only makes his lips quirk in a small smile. “What is there to do, Alice? This happens all the time. When a sponsor wants you to go, you’re out.”
Not Beacon, I think to myself.
“We’re going to get another gutter mission,” I hear myself say as the full implication of our situation downloads. “And Tatianna will probs tip off another of her up-and-coming capes.”
“Sometimes that’s how the game works,” Leo says.
I realize something. Leo isn’t mad. Leo isn’t even surprised. He looks… resigned.
“You don’t give one damn about any of this, do you?” I say. My shock is shifting inside of me, turning dark and molten. “You’re just giving up on the show, on The Professor!” My voice is rising. I’m losing it. Because Leo is giving up on me, too and I practically sold my soul to get this far.
“Alice…” his voice is soft.
I wave my hands around the room, ignoring the swell of pain in my shoulder. “Where’s your couch, Leo? Where’s your kitchen table and your chairs? Where’s your service robo and your fake plants and a little robo dog sleeping in the corner? Where are the holo-vids on the walls or the holo-windows showing some stupid landscape, like the rainforest or the surface of the moon?” The words pour out of me, hot and wounded. “You never meant to stay here. As soon as you get the notice that our show is swiped, all you’ll have to do is throw your 3D printer and that stupid pic into your old suitcase and leave town.”
I walk up to the picture hanging on the wall and squint at it. The children have such large eyes in their small, thin faces.
“Is this from Sec 3?” I ask him, accusations and acid in my words. “You throwing despo kids into competition shows, watching them struggle to win, to survive?”
I made the long trip to Sector 3 once to participate in a semi-reality show. I smiled for the cams. My brother, Alby and I set out on a grand adventure, and I was certain we’d win the comp and fix all our problems with the prize money.
Instead, I ruined his life.
“That picture was taken in Tanzania,” Leo says softly.
“What?” I croak. Tanzania is a hell hole, filled with parched villages, starving kids, and cruel warlords, each more violent than the next. Much of the African continent has been in a constant cycle of chaos and war for decades, battered by crumbling infrastructure and unend
ing corruption. They say you can’t grow a weed for a thousand miles thanks to the nearly permanent droughts.
I look at the picture again. The children seem even skinnier. Now their eyes seem afraid.
“Why were you in Tanzania?” I finally ask.
“It was clever, poaching the mayor’s robo on the mission,” Leo says. “It’ll add humor to the next ep.”
I sigh. Leo has his own secrets, and something tells me those secrets are wounds that still bleed inside of him. If he weren’t a producer, I might feel sorry for him. Instead, I feel sorry for myself and for our show.
“I saw an opportunity,” I say and turn toward the door. It swishes open as I approach.
“You have a talent for seeing opportunities and taking them,” Leo says behind me. I glance over my shoulder. The rising sun sprinkles golden highlights into his messy brown hair.
“What were you doing in Tanzania?” I ask.
“Go to bed, Alice,” he says as the door closes behind me.
Chapter 6
I trust that the Supreme Court will make the right decision in the Castillo v PAGS case. While life is sacrosanct, we cannot smoother a business in red tape. If the viewers don't like what they see, they'll vote with their eyes. ~ President Sage Anders, Press Conference
~
“Wakey wakey, self-esteem is shaky!” Bob sings in a voice as pleasant as a saw trying to cut through metal. My entire body resists regaining consciousness. My slumber had been deep and empty, just the way I like it.
“Go away,” I groan to my sallow-skinned Totem.
“You’ve got class in an hour and, seeing as you have negative $26 in your account, my guess is you’re walking,” Bob answers. His shimmering butterfly wings flutter on his back.
“Uhhhhh.” With a strength and courage that rivals anything Beacon has ever managed in her career, I drag myself out of bed and throw mildly acceptable clothing onto my body. I’ve worn this t-shirt and burgundy skirt combo before–practically a felony in Lysee’s mind–but I’ve never been able to hang onto the whiplash fad cycle. Anyway, I don’t have enough dollars for material cartridges to print myself new clothes even if I wanted to.
I drag a brush through my long, straight brown hair and then pile it into a sloppy bun on my head. A glance in the mirror shows me tired brown eyes, a neck mottled in bruises, and boobs that are still too small. I consider switching to a turtleneck, but it would be too much work, so I just walk out of my room and head toward the bathroom.
A figure sits primly on the edge of my couch. His black hair hangs in intricate ringlets along his forehead and he wears an expensive, emerald green coat patterned with black lightning bolts down the back. The black fingernail polish is newly lacquered, and he’s chosen to double up on the black eyeliner and black lipstick today.
“Morning,” I mutter to Matthew.
“Afternoon,” my best friend replies. His blue eyes gaze at me with the ever-present disappointment I’ve come to expect. “You look like someone mistook you for a punching bag.”
“Wasn’t a mistake,” I admit. “We had a little run-in with the Dragon Riders last night. My lasso skills are still wanting.”
“Oh my. Oh my!” a stilted voice chirps from across the room. “Do you need medical aid?”
“No, Betts, I’m fine,” I reassure Matthew’s service robo as I make it to the bathroom. I glance at Betty and see that Matthew has added bright, luminescent tattoos to her silicon skin. She now sports a variety of equations down her arms and a splendid dragon across her upper chest. The unicorn horn is still firmly affixed to her forehead.
“Forty-one people have died as a direct result of participation in semi-reality shows over the past ten years,” Matthew says.
I try not to roll my eyes as I splash cold water on my face. Matthew’s current dream is to win one of the numerous trivia shows they produce over in Media Sector Two. He’s been training for months and now seems to delight in weaponizing his trivia knowledge.
I scrub my face with a pump of Lysee’s super expensive facewash made from synthesized botanicals that used to grow in the rainforest. My own generic facewash has been empty for over a week.
“Add fancy facewash to the roommate reimbursement list,” I tell Bob.
“That list is getting pretty long,” my Totem informs me.
I know. I don’t even want to look at it, but I’ll square everything with Lysee as soon as I get my first paycheck.
“Eighteen percent of all medical center visits in the United States are directly related to participation in a semi-reality show,” Matthew continues.
After washing my face, I lean against the bathroom door and perform the elaborate routine of squeezing out a tiny bit of toothpaste from my nearly empty tube. “There won’t be nearly as many semi-reality deaths soon,” I assure Matthew. “Castillo v PAGS is going to change that.”
“Assuming Castillo wins,” Matthew says delicately.
“Of course Castillo will win.” My voice is sharp even to my own ears. Castillo has to win. The Supreme Court has been deliberating on the case for weeks, trying to decide if PAGS can be held liable for creating dangerous conditions that led to the death of Yolina Castillo in season nine of Z Town. The answer is obvi. The show’s producers hid a rusty chainsaw in some far-flung corner of the town. They claim it was meant to be used by survivors to build shelters or kill the robo zombies, but Ashlan Cooper decided it was a whole lot easier to just behead Yolina Castillo instead and win the game.
The case isn’t just about Yolina Castillo though. It’s about whether PAGS can be held legally responsible for any of the deaths and injuries its shows promote. When Castillo wins, producers won’t be able to put chainsaws into the hands of desperate, half-mad contestants or give children incorrect maps and let them wander through the desert until they both collapse.
A memory flashes in my mind. The hot, grilling sun. Alby’s flushed face begging me to keep going.
I realize my toothbrush is sticking out of the side of my mouth, dribbling foamy toothpaste down my chin. I shove away the memories of that punishing sun and change the subject. “How’s the brain training going?”
Matthew’s been a trivia sponge for months, and I’ve watched his progress with a mixture of pride and concern. His mind is an endless pit of knowledge, but there’s almost something manic about this quest. We’ve gone on this dizzying ride before. Matthew has a tendency to grab a goal and squeeze until it dies in his arms.
“I’ve had some trouble concentrating lately,” he says, and when I turn toward him I see that he’s staring at me.
My toothbrush pauses in the air. “Wait, you blaming that on me?”
“Course not.” He gives me a big, fake smile.
I groan and turn to spit into the sink. This is how things have been between me and Matthew for the past few weeks, ever since I begged him to get me into his dad’s henchmen tryouts. Matthew is one of the warmest, kindest, and most generous people I know, but there’s also something fragile about him, like he carries around a permanent crack in his soul. Even a small push or fall and his whole being is at risk of shattering. I was able to drag him out of that tailspin into darkness once but I’m not sure I could do it again.
“This is just a gig,” I tell Matthew for the billionth time. “I still hate semi-reality.”
Matthew looks away but I know he feels betrayed. He and I initially bonded over how much we both despised the Fame Game and all the strivers who vamp around town. Matthew has good reason to resent the system. When his father, Gerald, signed on to become The Professor for the show’s first run 16 years ago, Matthew was his first hire.
The Professor was famous for building doom machines and planning heists with his adorable son, Energy at his side. But the show warped Matthew, twisted truth and lies and hammered that crack inside of him. He’s never forgiven his father, and I’m starting to wonder if he’ll forgive me for putting on my scarlet lab coat each night.
When I finish up in th
e bathroom and emerge into the living room, I notice Matthew rocking slightly on the couch. My stomach twists. It’s something he does when he’s stressed. Doesn’t even notice it.
I make a mental note to check his apartment for drugs tonight before my henchman shift starts. I need to spend more time with Matthew. I need to make him understand that I’m still the same person I was before I joined The Professor’s show.
“Uh, you are planning to go to class, right?” Bob asks. I glance at the time. Buddha’s banana nut bread! I rush to the kitchen, grab a nutra-pack, and race for the door.
“It might just start out as a gig,” Matthew says, “but soon you’ll forget who’s the character and who’s the reality. Trust me.”
“I do,” I say softly, “but I’m not going to change. I’m still me.”
“You’re already changing,” my friend says sadly, as if to himself.
I grit my teeth. I want to stay and argue, to make him understand but I don’t have time.
“I gotta go,” I mutter.
“Ta,” Matthew says sarcastically.
“Have a very wonderful day,” Betty adds sweetly behind him.
As soon as the door to my apartment slides closed behind me, my eyes leap to Leo’s gray door across the hall. All my anger from yesterday crashes onto my psyche.
Oh right, our show is being shipwrecked by Tatianna Wentworth, the most powerful sponsor on the City Council, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
I rush down the hallway toward the stairs, and my brain churns with the vast problem in front of me. As soon as things settle down, I’ll focus on helping Matthew. For now, though, I need to figure out a way to save The Professor’s show and my paycheck!
***
The first class of the day is chemistry. I honestly don’t know why I waited until my junior year to take this general-ed class. But here I am.
I head into the small room, always expecting to smell the faint scent of chemicals. That’s lobotomy, of course. We’ve never touched real chems in this class. Instead, we pour holographic carbonic acid into holographic beakers and heat it over holographic Bunsen burners.
