What would their idea of paradise be?"
"Getting away from the grind?" I smirked. " Not making movies?"
"The opposite." Lillian stopped and adjusted her grip on me, then started forward again. "Wait till you see some of the incredible work they've done."
"And now I get a shot at the big time?" I ducked my head as we walked under a tree dripping with low-hanging white blossoms. "They do know I just got tortured, right? And abducted by rebel fighters before that? And nearly killed in the theater bombing before that ?"
"Byzantine wants you there," said Lillian. "He's the director. And producer, actually."
"So what if Curie had killed me on the table?" I stopped walking and pulled away from her, able to stand on my own again. "And by the way, where's my contract? I don't work without a contract."
Lillian sighed. "Consider yourself lucky. More movie shoot, less torture, capiche ?"
I couldn't argue with that. Anything that kept me away from Curie and got me closer to Byzantine sounded like a good deal. "So what's this movie about? Is there a script waiting for me at my apartment?"
"It's all improv," said Lillian. "I'll take you to the set, and then you just follow what the director says and go from there."
She reached for me, but I put up my hand and shook my head. I was still hurting and exhausted, but at least I'd gotten some strength back and could walk unsupported. "I'm guessing he's very open to input from his actors?" I said it with tongue firmly in cheek.
Lillian shrugged. "You can give it a try." Then she looked away and brushed her long black hair behind her ears. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of weariness on her face, a bone-deep exhaustion as great as my own. Weariness and something else, something dark--disappointment, maybe? Despair?
Then, it was gone. She licked her lips, running her tongue along the diagonal stripes of alternating black and white. By the time she turned to me, she was smiling.
"Let's get you home," she said brightly. "You can nap for a few hours before I swing by to get you for the shoot."
"All right." As we continued along the golden path, I wondered what was behind that glimpse of emotion I'd caught. I wondered why she kept it hidden.
And I wondered how I might reach it for my own purposes.
*****
Never in my life (or death) has a bed felt so good.
When I got inside my quarters and threw myself face-down on the enormous bed, I never wanted to get back up again. It was all the paradise I needed.
I hadn't had a good night's sleep since I'd died. If I could just get some solid rest, maybe I could think clearly and handle my crazy situation better. Maybe I could figure it all out and take control instead of running blindly from one drama to the next.
So I just totally went for it. The second my head hit the luxurious pillows, I closed my eyes and let myself drift. I pushed out all my worries about Byzantine and the rebels and the movie shoot, forcibly shoved them out of my mind and floated toward blissful oblivion. It didn't take long for me to fall asleep.
Which, of course, was when I felt the hand shaking my shoulder.
At first, I thought it was part of a dream, and I ignored it. But the shaking continued and got more persistent.
Then, I heard a voice, a very familiar voice, calling my name. "Willy! Wake up, Willy!" My real name, my birth name. "Willy!"
The name my mother gave me, spoken by one of the few people who knew it.
Pitching myself over on my back, I flung out a fist and took a swing at him. I missed, and my arm landed hard on the bed. "Damnit!"
"Nice welcome, Willy," said the guy, who looked and sounded like me-- exactly like me. "Talk about self-hatred !"
" You again." I groaned and winced. Another meeting with my future self was the last thing I wanted to deal with at that moment. "Can't you come back later ?"
"I already did, I think," he said. "I mean I will . Or is that...ah, screw it." He waved it off. "I can't keep this crap straight."
"I know the feeling."
"Getting away from the grind?" I smirked. " Not making movies?"
"The opposite." Lillian stopped and adjusted her grip on me, then started forward again. "Wait till you see some of the incredible work they've done."
"And now I get a shot at the big time?" I ducked my head as we walked under a tree dripping with low-hanging white blossoms. "They do know I just got tortured, right? And abducted by rebel fighters before that? And nearly killed in the theater bombing before that ?"
"Byzantine wants you there," said Lillian. "He's the director. And producer, actually."
"So what if Curie had killed me on the table?" I stopped walking and pulled away from her, able to stand on my own again. "And by the way, where's my contract? I don't work without a contract."
Lillian sighed. "Consider yourself lucky. More movie shoot, less torture, capiche ?"
I couldn't argue with that. Anything that kept me away from Curie and got me closer to Byzantine sounded like a good deal. "So what's this movie about? Is there a script waiting for me at my apartment?"
"It's all improv," said Lillian. "I'll take you to the set, and then you just follow what the director says and go from there."
She reached for me, but I put up my hand and shook my head. I was still hurting and exhausted, but at least I'd gotten some strength back and could walk unsupported. "I'm guessing he's very open to input from his actors?" I said it with tongue firmly in cheek.
Lillian shrugged. "You can give it a try." Then she looked away and brushed her long black hair behind her ears. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of weariness on her face, a bone-deep exhaustion as great as my own. Weariness and something else, something dark--disappointment, maybe? Despair?
Then, it was gone. She licked her lips, running her tongue along the diagonal stripes of alternating black and white. By the time she turned to me, she was smiling.
"Let's get you home," she said brightly. "You can nap for a few hours before I swing by to get you for the shoot."
"All right." As we continued along the golden path, I wondered what was behind that glimpse of emotion I'd caught. I wondered why she kept it hidden.
And I wondered how I might reach it for my own purposes.
*****
Never in my life (or death) has a bed felt so good.
When I got inside my quarters and threw myself face-down on the enormous bed, I never wanted to get back up again. It was all the paradise I needed.
I hadn't had a good night's sleep since I'd died. If I could just get some solid rest, maybe I could think clearly and handle my crazy situation better. Maybe I could figure it all out and take control instead of running blindly from one drama to the next.
So I just totally went for it. The second my head hit the luxurious pillows, I closed my eyes and let myself drift. I pushed out all my worries about Byzantine and the rebels and the movie shoot, forcibly shoved them out of my mind and floated toward blissful oblivion. It didn't take long for me to fall asleep.
Which, of course, was when I felt the hand shaking my shoulder.
At first, I thought it was part of a dream, and I ignored it. But the shaking continued and got more persistent.
Then, I heard a voice, a very familiar voice, calling my name. "Willy! Wake up, Willy!" My real name, my birth name. "Willy!"
The name my mother gave me, spoken by one of the few people who knew it.
Pitching myself over on my back, I flung out a fist and took a swing at him. I missed, and my arm landed hard on the bed. "Damnit!"
"Nice welcome, Willy," said the guy, who looked and sounded like me-- exactly like me. "Talk about self-hatred !"
" You again." I groaned and winced. Another meeting with my future self was the last thing I wanted to deal with at that moment. "Can't you come back later ?"
"I already did, I think," he said. "I mean I will . Or is that...ah, screw it." He waved it off. "I can't keep this crap straight."
"I know the feeling."
Similar Books
