Fear Itself

“Chandler, can’t I keep the coat on?” I begged quietly as we approached the entrance of Buckingham Palace, where the gala was being held tonight. Approached may have been stretch, since I was merely shuffling in my 12-inch heels while Dean and Chandler stood on either side of me, arm-in-arm, helping me keep my balance so I didn’t trip and die on the way in. God, part of me wished that would happen so that I could avoid all of this. A trench coat covered my spiked hot pink bra top and micro miniskirt. Honestly, I wasn’t wearing anything else, save for a blonde wig styled in a high, curly ponytail with a small bouffant in the front, sort of like something you would see on a 1950s pin-up girl. Black cat eye sunglasses covered my eyes: an extra layer to cover any bruising Chandler’s make up couldn’t.

“No, honey,” Chandler sighed. “I’ve told you a hundred times that slutty equals successful here. Say it with me darling: slutty equals successful.”

With a sigh, I droned, “Slutty equals successful.” Looking for help elsewhere, I turned my head to Dean. “Aren’t you uncomfortable with me being so exposed, Muscles?” I hoped his answer was yes because he could possibly save me. At least that was what I told myself.

“Hey, it’s all part of the mission,” Dean shrugged. “You’re not a real slut. You’re like… a hypothetical slut.” Chandler snorted. “Besides, everyone’s going to stare in awe of my fit wife.” While I groaned, the two reached above my head and exchanged a high-five.

The security guards gave us no problem, and Dean and Chandler managed to keep their cool as they led me and my entourage inside, even though I was practically sweating at the sight of their assault rifles. No doubt Kennedy had them ordered to shoot on sight. I just hoped I wouldn’t find myself staring down the barrel of a gun tonight.

The massive, spacious ballroom was just down the hall. When we stopped in front of the massive double doors, two suited men with graying hair took our coats, leaving my skin to the will of the cold air floating around us. Both men took a single door each and shoved the massive weight inward, unveiling a room lit by a chandelier almost half the size of the ballroom itself. It was filled with people, with tables, and to my left was a large stage with an attached catwalk. There was some space between the stage and the tables, where my back up dancers would later take position. In the midst of surveying the room, I barely noticed Commander Kennedy approaching.

“Good evening,” he greeted. “Mr. Jacques, Mr. Cassidy.” He nodded to both Dean and Chandler. “And Mrs. Cassidy, looking as lovely as ever, my dear.”

Chandler let out a tiny huff, and I caught him rolling his eyes between his sunglasses. “I believe in her contract, it asks that she is only referred to his Monodrama.” How brazen of him to correct the Commander of Earth himself.

Clinton didn’t seem offended, not with his three bodyguards standing behind him. Chandler had gall, everyone knew, even the other resistance members waiting behind me. Lola, Shane, and Alex moved backstage to start their own work. Garrett was hiding somewhere in the crowd. If I couldn’t see him, that meant he was doing his job. Everything was going according to plan.

“My apologies,” Clint said with another nod to me. A soft smile crossed his face, yet it still looked sinister somehow. Everything he did looked sinister, even the way he stood with his shoulders back, even the way he held his glass of wine. “You look lovely, Monodrama. I’m looking forward to watching you perform tonight.”

Turning on the charm, I flashed him the brightest smile I could and jested, “Well, I can only hope to live up to your standards, Commander.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be, um…” Clint paused and rubbed his chin. “What’s the word you Brits use for great? Ah,” he laughed when it came to him, and he donned an awful British accent when he exclaimed, “Smashing!” The whole group gave a hearty chuckle, sounding as posh and enthused as we could. A satisfied smirk rested on Clint’s lips. “I’ll leave you to get ready. Break a leg, dear.”

Relief was fleeting as Clint strode away, and my father’s gaze met mine across the now open space. His face fell in realization, and his face flushed white like he’d seen a ghost. Quickly, Chandler began pushing me toward the stage door. “Go,” he murmured. “Go, quick. Dean, move.”

I was rushed off, quick but careful, until we got to my dressing room, where Dean, Chandler and I disappeared the door Avery and Larson stood outside to guard. This was where they would keep me for the remainder of the evening, where Dean would leave me when he went to go join the rest of the Board at their long rectangular table at the back of the ballroom, what Chandler called “the best seats in the house.”

The vanity lights around the mirror were so bright they stung my eyes whenever I swapped out my pair of sunglasses (I had a different pair for every costume). I began to feel dizzy, and I found myself having to sit with my head between my knees multiple times before and after my songs, even though we were left very little time in between.

As if the vanity lights weren’t bad enough, the stage lights were nearly blinding. How I managed to stand out there, let alone dance, was beyond my comprehension. I did my best to avoid looking at my father, but eyes were drawn to his pursed lips, his narrowed eyes, and the fist he clenched around the stem of his wine glass: a grip so tight I feared it would shatter in his hand.

After my fourth song, I was stumbling back to my dressing room with a throbbing head and a stomach more than ready to reject all of it’s contents if I even shifted the wrong way. Thankfully, Chandler was running backstage just before the end of each song to come help me.

“Sh,” he hushed me as he held me over a waste basket in the dressing room. “There, there,” he said. “Just one more, Tali. That’s all, then you’re in the clear.” He was trying to be supportive, but I knew that there was a great possibility something could go wrong. Things could go terribly wrong, and just the prospect was gnawing away at my confidence.

I shook my head. “I wanna stop, Chandler,” I murmured. “I wanna go home.”

He sighed. “You’re doing good things here,” he insisted, his tone soft and gentle as he rubbed my shoulders and sat me up. He circled around until he was in front of him, wiping at the corners of my mouth with a tissue. “I know you can’t see that right now, but you just have to look at the big picture. This is all going to seem like a funny story someday, you know? We’ll all laugh about this one day.”

I hoped he was right. God, I hoped he was right.