Tune in Tomorrow, page 4
Phil narrowed his golden eyes, which were split down the center by lightning-bolt shaped pupils. “Excuse me,” he huffed, lumbering down one of the anonymous hallways that branched out of the atrium, ridged tail slithering behind. The costume radiated power and muscle.
“We get two to three portal openings per day,” Jason was saying. “That’s ‘day’ as defined in here, by the way, and time has a way of shifting so—be prepared. The first opening comes at 5:03 a.m. on your side of the Veil; that’ll be normal call time so don’t miss it. Fifteen seconds for the opening. There’s a final one late in the day so everyone who wants to can return to the other side of the Veil. Most of the time, you end up where you started, so it’s a pretty good system. Though sometimes…” he shrugged.
“Sometimes you land somewhere totally unexpected,” interrupted Nico, who was examining Starr closely. “And sometimes the afternoon one doesn’t come at all. Not guaranteed.”
Starr grinned, nodding as if she understood. “Well, it was a little windy on the way in.”
“The Gates do love fanfare.” Nico’s eyes were bright and amused. “Sometimes it’s weather. Sometimes trombones. They show off for newcomers.”
“Of course they do,” said Starr, wondering how he fit in here. There wasn’t anything unusual about Nico, if you ignored his appearance. But people who were that level of good-looking—and there were plenty in the business—were to be steered clear of, she’d learned. They were their own biggest fans, and rarely made moves on someone of Starr’s… shape. She’d taught herself to steel herself against their charms.
“Here y’go, miss.” Phil returned, pinching a mug that seemed tiny between his talons but required both of Starr’s hands to hold. He turned to Jason. “Looks like Ms. Ballantine got her way about that water cooler, Mr. V.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “If Fiona had the final say it would have been stationed in the deep recesses of the prop and weaponry department.”
Fiona. The name made Starr stand taller. She’d been the one ticked off by the watercooler placement.
“Nobody got the scales to stand up to that human,” the guard muttered, picking up an oversized magazine called WaterWorlds. “Nobody.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Right,” he told Starr. “Shall we?”
Starr slid the still-full mug on to Phil’s countertop.
“Do not put that thing here!” Phil recoiled. Starr couldn’t wait to meet the guys tasked with manipulating him; they were completely in the moment, totally in character. “I am not a fan of H₂O!” He cracked open his jaw to reveal enough razor-sharp rows of teeth to give a great white shark an inferiority complex, and the low-banked furnace she’d been feeling ramped up to full power. Starr felt her eyebrows singeing. “I gotta keep that lit!”
“Sorry!” Starr held up her hands in surrender. “I didn’t realize dragons were sensitive.”
Jason picked up the mug and tossed the contents into a nearby plant, which straightened.
“Aaah,” sighed the plant, transforming into an olive-green colored woman with weeping willow-branch hair and clothes made of finely woven climbing vines. She unfurled her branches and leaves popped from her arms. “That’s one way to wake the roots. Is it time?”
Animatronics, too! Starr clapped her hands together, dollar signs popping in her head. This was a well-funded outfit, even if nobody had heard of them before. They could probably afford higher-than-basic union rates here, if she could land the job.
“Not yet, Celtis.” Jason caressed one of the plant’s outer leaves. “Cris is blocking in an hour or so.”
The robot lifted a long branch and a stream of water rolled down its arm. It dangled fingers over its mouth, sipping at the drops. Jason tilted toward the bot and it—she; Starr was having a hard time not thinking of it as female—ran damp fingers through his hair. “You are a love—oh!” she stopped when she saw Starr. “Well, you’re fresh growth.”
Starr raised an eyebrow. How did they get a device to recognize new people? “I’m Starr Weatherby,” she said, touching her fingers to an outstretched branch. “And you are quite impressive tech.”
Nico made that sound again and covered his mouth.
“No, no,” said the plant woman—bot—thing. “I’m a cameradryad. I record what’s on the set along with my grove-mates. You’ll see me on the stage floor later, if Fiona—” she cut herself off.
If Fiona what? Starr wondered.
Jason curled an arm around Starr and led her down one of the halls. “What Celtis means is that you’re not hired… yet. We have one more, um, stage.”
“Oh, of course.” Starr suspected as much. There would be a casting director and maybe Jason in the room, with a small camera capturing her audition. She’d be given a small portion of script called ‘sides’, and she’d play whatever character they wanted her to try out for in front of that camera. They’d stare at her, bored or rapt or distracted, and then swear to call her in a few days. Or sometimes they told her right out in the room: they wanted someone less ‘athletic.’ Less ‘full-figured.’ Just… less. “Who am I reading for?”
Jason chuckled. It was the friendliest, warmest sound she could think of. “Oh, you’re not reading. Your audition was in the diner yesterday. You passed with the grace of a unicorn cantering across a rainbow.”
Nico, following them, stifled a snicker.
Starr glared over her shoulder, wishing he’d go away. “What’s the snag?” Then it landed. “Is this about Fiona… Ballantine?”
“Indeed,” said Jason. “Well spotted. We are unable to hire as frequently as we might like. In fact, the last mortal we brought on full-time was—some years ago.”
Years ago. This was a tight cast. Then something he’d said in the diner returned to Starr. “Not… thirty years ago?” Jason and Nico shared a glance, and Starr filed it away for another time. “OK, fine. I’ve got to impress Fiona. Who is she, anyway?”
“Only the greatest actor that ever lived,” Nico pronounced grandly, sailing ahead of them in the hallway, arm outstretched. Starr couldn’t tell if he was serious. “The heart and soul of this show.”
“Also, the biggest pain in my hindquarters,” Jason said behind his hand.
“I heard that,” Nico shot back.
“And I have to get her approval before I’m hired?”
“Precisely.” Nico dropped back to walk with them.
Starr halted. “Fiona, who stands you up for auditions, who bosses everyone around about where a watercooler goes—she’s the final decision maker? Does she run the show or something?”
The points on Jason’s head grew a half-inch, shoving his hair to the side, and his eyes darkened. “No, Ms. Weatherby. Fiona Ballantine does not run this show.” Jason’s tail slapped the wall, the report like a whip, and Starr flinched. “I do. We are stuck with letting her make some of the decisions. But know this: the only authority you heed around here is mine.”
“Or Cris, when he’s directing,” offered Nico.
“Yes, Cris sometimes—”
“And Emma,” Nico continued. “She’ll write you out of the script if you don’t interest her.”
“Fine, yes, and—” Jason whirled. “Don’t you have lines to learn?”
“All the best drama is here,” said Nico. “We deal in—” he gave a soft cough, “reality here, do we not? This is pretty real to me.” He winked at Starr. “You could consider asking me a few questions, Ms. Weatherby.”
Smooth, smooth. Starr gave him a cool look, ignoring the way his attentions made her heart thud. She forced herself to appear unimpressed. “Well, I guess I’m caught up. He’s Jason, and he’s the boss. I’m Starr, and I’m trying to get a job. You’re Nico, and you’re kind of a busybody. What do you actually do around here?”
Nico dropped his sunglasses. A lens cracked in half.
Jason nibbled his lip in delight, then lifted Starr as if she weighed nothing, spinning her around. “I knew you would be a fast learner, my little mango.”
This group really likes mangoes, Starr thought.
Jason linked his arm with hers. “Now, let us see if Ms. Ballantine is receiving.”
Chapter 5
Starr System
Nico made a hasty exit, claiming he had to get his sunglasses repaired. That left Starr and Jason alone, wandering through anonymous Hallways of No Personality—blank spaces free of wall hangings, doorplates, electric sockets or even light switches. “This is a dressing room,” he said, holding open one doorway. “Winston’s rehearsing right now, so he’s not in.”
Starr barely got a peek before he shut it again.
“And this is a—” Jason opened another door to reveal a tiny room that smelled like fresh paint. A small, wizened person in overalls was applying a hot pink shade over a light blue one, and tipped his hat at Starr. “Coat closet.”
“I see it’s getting a new coat,” Starr quipped.
Jason grinned. “Precisely! We add a new one each week.” He paused in front of another door, opened it and slammed it shut instantly. “Moving on.”
The muffled sound of lightning crackling filtered through the door.
“You all use foley?” Starr wanted to show off her grasp of industry lingo: the sound effects folks tickled her with their creativity.
“Uh, sure.” Jason’s anxious face was back. “Well. Not exactly. Just a misplaced thunderstorm. Happens sometimes. This way.”
They twisted and turned so much Starr lost track of where she was, and Jason’s strange mixture of delight and nervousness was starting to make her feel anxious. At last, she came to a hard halt in the middle of a hallway.
Jason tilted his head.
“Look, I get it. You’re like a big VFX warehouse or something. I’m guessing Tune in Tomorrow is some kind of space opera on the web. But you showing me every nook and cranny and door hinge doesn’t give me a clue about what’s going on. What is this place?”
Jason took a dramatic pause and his green eyes shone. “Tune in Tomorrow is many things to so many mythics. We are the longest-running, most-viewed reality TV show ever made in any dimension. We are made by mythics, for mythics—but starring humans.”
“Reality?” Starr twitched. “With dragon puppets and robots?”
Jason started to speak, took a breath and paced up and down. Raised a finger, lowered it, then stopped in front of her. Cleared his throat. “It’s been some time since I had to explain this to a human. Bear with me.” He pushed open another door and gestured inside.
Starr planted her feet in the doorway. “Jason, this is a toilet.”
“Yes, well, needs must. I don’t have any other handy water.”
He was speaking in riddles—and disappearing into a bathroom with a near-stranger was awkward at best, creepy at worst. Still, she didn’t sense Jason was up to no good. He practically vibrated with excitement, or nerves, or both. Swallowing, Starr took the risk and stepped inside. The bathroom door swung closed behind them.
Jason turned on all four sinks in the room. Water cascaded from three; butterflies burst from the fourth. Starr gaped. Jason quickly shut that one off with a sheepish grin and turned his back on the sink. The butterflies disintegrated.
Starr blinked.
“You see,” he raised his sing-song voice over the noise of the remaining water, “we adore human to’ings and fro’ings. We are the original fans of stories-without-end. Some hundreds of years ago when the Seelie came up with the idea of telling stories to mythics, they were known as Stories of All Purpose, or for short –”
“SOAP,” Starr realized. The room was starting to heat up and the mirrors fogged; Jason had apparently turned on only the hot water. She wondered where he was going with all this; the fantastical elements of his story were fanciful and charming, but silly. Maybe he was just being very method about the show. “You’re making a soap opera?”
“Shh!” he quietened her, glancing around. “Yes—and no. That’s how we started. But most mythics are self-cleaning. Bathing is a hobby, not a practice. SOAPs fell a bit out of fashion. Mythics wanted real human stories. Finally, once humans on your side of the Veil began writing their own TV shows, one of us—me, in fact—infiltrated a few writing rooms and discovered that you were doing what we’d been doing for years and calling it ‘reality TV.’ That fit us perfectly. Our viewers tune in because they believe we are telling real stories, and that’s what keeps us going.”
“But reality shows—” Starr caught herself. It was no secret in the business that many so-called reality shows were scripted. That they were the soap operas of the modern age—even if few would admit to it publicly. Reality shows that weren’t about some weird competition were packed with melodrama, family feuds, bed-hopping antics, people being underhanded or bitchy, sometimes all of those things combined. They weren’t much different from Days of Our Lives, which Starr had often watched while being babysat by her grandmother.
None of which answered her real questions, like why was she here? And why was Jason letting all that water go to waste? And if he was the producer, why was he acting like he was in character? “Remind me how long the show has been airing again?”
“In various incarnations, four hundred and thirty-nine years and six months and three days and—”
“Got it.” He was funny, this Jason. Adorkable and funny, even in a steamed-up bathroom. She could play along. “Last I checked, TV didn’t even exist before the twentieth century.”
“Human TV didn’t. We have many ways to tell story on this side of the Veil that you do not. You’ve heard of Philo Farnsworth, yes? The so-called television inventor? Well, you don’t imagine that’s a mortal name, do you? The old rascal is one of ours, exiled on your side of the Veil for several dozen rotations. Always was a Promethean fanboy. Thought he’d gift mortals with a new kind of campfire, and so now you share your own tales in a more… mundane fashion.”
Starr wondered if Jason ever knew how to be serious. Did they have to stand here in a humid room, her curls wilting, discussing a made-up history? Wasn’t she supposed to be vetted by the troublesome Fiona? And then—she got it. Jason was warming her up for that meeting. He wasn’t being method; this was a classic improvisational exercise, like her singing mango.
“Yes, and—” she tossed out the cue for the improv game, which was to support whatever outlandish idea your partner offered, then add on to it. “So let me guess: Tune in Tomorrow comes through an antenna. Or a cable box?”
Jason grinned. “Now you’re getting it! We have in the past transmitted to mythics living among you through rabbits—their ears are useful for capturing signal—and on your mechanical boxes, our programming can be found on channel *W90&∞.3.”
“Right.” She nodded broadly. “I never subscribed to that one.”
“These days,” he continued, “we prefer to send and receive story via water sources.” Jason waved at the steam now fogging the bathroom and the water in the sinks shot straight up into the air, folding back down over itself and into the sink again, creating not a waterfall, but a water wall. “Heated, actively moving water is best for story reception. There is a clarity and quality to the image that rabbits and boxes can’t convey. Observe.”
Starr’s jaw dropped as the constantly rotating water calmed, then smoothed over until all three sinks joined into a near-glass panel. She inched closer: it was an effect she’d never seen done before. Practically a magic trick. Her nose nearly touched the water flow, and Jason eased her back. “Not good for your eyes to be quite so close,” he said.
His warm hand on her shoulder made her straighten and lean into the touch. Then the water flickered, and an image appeared. Figures in a kitchen. One was throwing a dish, the other ducking. “Ah, yes,” nodded Jason. “This is on right now. We created it yesterday. You see Nora—she plays Beatrice—” he gestured at the dish-thrower, a thin blonde woman with a severe face, “and you may recognize—”
A handsome man with curly black hair ducked a platter. “Nico!”
“In this case he is Roland, but you are correct.”
“But if it’s about reality, how come they use different names? Aren’t they playing themselves?”
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “Well. They didn’t start off playing themselves, you see. But after so many years there is a bit of a tangle between where the show begins… and they leave off.” His gaze drifted into the distance, then he snapped to. “Ah, well. Questions best posed to your fellow humans.”
“Gotcha.”
“So now you see how mythics watch a show—on whatever available water source they have. We call it—”
The penny dropped. “Streaming.”
Jason beamed at her. “So you do understand!”
Starr understood nothing. Maybe half of a percent of something. And what she did understand was unnerving. This was beyond improv. Beyond visual effects. Her words emerged like treacle. “So, every ‘mythic,’ as you call them, watches your show.”
“Not precisely. If everyone did our ratings would be much higher. You are here because we need new blood. Not literally—at least, not this week. But we have had difficulties obtaining and retaining anyone who was suitable. The rigors of the production are truly not for everyone, and Fiona is uniquely… qualified to weed out the undesirables.”
He waved his hand and the image disappeared. The water collapsed into the sinks with a splash, and he turned the faucets off. “All clear?”
No. But she worried about asking too many questions. She could figure things out as she went. “Sure. I’ll do whatever’s needed. I’m a hard worker.”
“You are!” he grinned, as they stepped back into the hallway. Starr shivered in the relatively cool air. “I’ve been observing that for many years.”
The improv shattered. “You have?”
“Indeed, ever since I caught you at a comedy club years ago, singing about being a fruit.”
Starr covered her mouth for a second. “A mango! You’ve been watching me since I was in college?”
He sighed. “Cherished memories. But we, and you, have had to wait. Much as a mango must ripen, you were not ready to be here back then. Now I believe you are. And we are in real need. This last bit will be up to you.”
“We get two to three portal openings per day,” Jason was saying. “That’s ‘day’ as defined in here, by the way, and time has a way of shifting so—be prepared. The first opening comes at 5:03 a.m. on your side of the Veil; that’ll be normal call time so don’t miss it. Fifteen seconds for the opening. There’s a final one late in the day so everyone who wants to can return to the other side of the Veil. Most of the time, you end up where you started, so it’s a pretty good system. Though sometimes…” he shrugged.
“Sometimes you land somewhere totally unexpected,” interrupted Nico, who was examining Starr closely. “And sometimes the afternoon one doesn’t come at all. Not guaranteed.”
Starr grinned, nodding as if she understood. “Well, it was a little windy on the way in.”
“The Gates do love fanfare.” Nico’s eyes were bright and amused. “Sometimes it’s weather. Sometimes trombones. They show off for newcomers.”
“Of course they do,” said Starr, wondering how he fit in here. There wasn’t anything unusual about Nico, if you ignored his appearance. But people who were that level of good-looking—and there were plenty in the business—were to be steered clear of, she’d learned. They were their own biggest fans, and rarely made moves on someone of Starr’s… shape. She’d taught herself to steel herself against their charms.
“Here y’go, miss.” Phil returned, pinching a mug that seemed tiny between his talons but required both of Starr’s hands to hold. He turned to Jason. “Looks like Ms. Ballantine got her way about that water cooler, Mr. V.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “If Fiona had the final say it would have been stationed in the deep recesses of the prop and weaponry department.”
Fiona. The name made Starr stand taller. She’d been the one ticked off by the watercooler placement.
“Nobody got the scales to stand up to that human,” the guard muttered, picking up an oversized magazine called WaterWorlds. “Nobody.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Right,” he told Starr. “Shall we?”
Starr slid the still-full mug on to Phil’s countertop.
“Do not put that thing here!” Phil recoiled. Starr couldn’t wait to meet the guys tasked with manipulating him; they were completely in the moment, totally in character. “I am not a fan of H₂O!” He cracked open his jaw to reveal enough razor-sharp rows of teeth to give a great white shark an inferiority complex, and the low-banked furnace she’d been feeling ramped up to full power. Starr felt her eyebrows singeing. “I gotta keep that lit!”
“Sorry!” Starr held up her hands in surrender. “I didn’t realize dragons were sensitive.”
Jason picked up the mug and tossed the contents into a nearby plant, which straightened.
“Aaah,” sighed the plant, transforming into an olive-green colored woman with weeping willow-branch hair and clothes made of finely woven climbing vines. She unfurled her branches and leaves popped from her arms. “That’s one way to wake the roots. Is it time?”
Animatronics, too! Starr clapped her hands together, dollar signs popping in her head. This was a well-funded outfit, even if nobody had heard of them before. They could probably afford higher-than-basic union rates here, if she could land the job.
“Not yet, Celtis.” Jason caressed one of the plant’s outer leaves. “Cris is blocking in an hour or so.”
The robot lifted a long branch and a stream of water rolled down its arm. It dangled fingers over its mouth, sipping at the drops. Jason tilted toward the bot and it—she; Starr was having a hard time not thinking of it as female—ran damp fingers through his hair. “You are a love—oh!” she stopped when she saw Starr. “Well, you’re fresh growth.”
Starr raised an eyebrow. How did they get a device to recognize new people? “I’m Starr Weatherby,” she said, touching her fingers to an outstretched branch. “And you are quite impressive tech.”
Nico made that sound again and covered his mouth.
“No, no,” said the plant woman—bot—thing. “I’m a cameradryad. I record what’s on the set along with my grove-mates. You’ll see me on the stage floor later, if Fiona—” she cut herself off.
If Fiona what? Starr wondered.
Jason curled an arm around Starr and led her down one of the halls. “What Celtis means is that you’re not hired… yet. We have one more, um, stage.”
“Oh, of course.” Starr suspected as much. There would be a casting director and maybe Jason in the room, with a small camera capturing her audition. She’d be given a small portion of script called ‘sides’, and she’d play whatever character they wanted her to try out for in front of that camera. They’d stare at her, bored or rapt or distracted, and then swear to call her in a few days. Or sometimes they told her right out in the room: they wanted someone less ‘athletic.’ Less ‘full-figured.’ Just… less. “Who am I reading for?”
Jason chuckled. It was the friendliest, warmest sound she could think of. “Oh, you’re not reading. Your audition was in the diner yesterday. You passed with the grace of a unicorn cantering across a rainbow.”
Nico, following them, stifled a snicker.
Starr glared over her shoulder, wishing he’d go away. “What’s the snag?” Then it landed. “Is this about Fiona… Ballantine?”
“Indeed,” said Jason. “Well spotted. We are unable to hire as frequently as we might like. In fact, the last mortal we brought on full-time was—some years ago.”
Years ago. This was a tight cast. Then something he’d said in the diner returned to Starr. “Not… thirty years ago?” Jason and Nico shared a glance, and Starr filed it away for another time. “OK, fine. I’ve got to impress Fiona. Who is she, anyway?”
“Only the greatest actor that ever lived,” Nico pronounced grandly, sailing ahead of them in the hallway, arm outstretched. Starr couldn’t tell if he was serious. “The heart and soul of this show.”
“Also, the biggest pain in my hindquarters,” Jason said behind his hand.
“I heard that,” Nico shot back.
“And I have to get her approval before I’m hired?”
“Precisely.” Nico dropped back to walk with them.
Starr halted. “Fiona, who stands you up for auditions, who bosses everyone around about where a watercooler goes—she’s the final decision maker? Does she run the show or something?”
The points on Jason’s head grew a half-inch, shoving his hair to the side, and his eyes darkened. “No, Ms. Weatherby. Fiona Ballantine does not run this show.” Jason’s tail slapped the wall, the report like a whip, and Starr flinched. “I do. We are stuck with letting her make some of the decisions. But know this: the only authority you heed around here is mine.”
“Or Cris, when he’s directing,” offered Nico.
“Yes, Cris sometimes—”
“And Emma,” Nico continued. “She’ll write you out of the script if you don’t interest her.”
“Fine, yes, and—” Jason whirled. “Don’t you have lines to learn?”
“All the best drama is here,” said Nico. “We deal in—” he gave a soft cough, “reality here, do we not? This is pretty real to me.” He winked at Starr. “You could consider asking me a few questions, Ms. Weatherby.”
Smooth, smooth. Starr gave him a cool look, ignoring the way his attentions made her heart thud. She forced herself to appear unimpressed. “Well, I guess I’m caught up. He’s Jason, and he’s the boss. I’m Starr, and I’m trying to get a job. You’re Nico, and you’re kind of a busybody. What do you actually do around here?”
Nico dropped his sunglasses. A lens cracked in half.
Jason nibbled his lip in delight, then lifted Starr as if she weighed nothing, spinning her around. “I knew you would be a fast learner, my little mango.”
This group really likes mangoes, Starr thought.
Jason linked his arm with hers. “Now, let us see if Ms. Ballantine is receiving.”
Chapter 5
Starr System
Nico made a hasty exit, claiming he had to get his sunglasses repaired. That left Starr and Jason alone, wandering through anonymous Hallways of No Personality—blank spaces free of wall hangings, doorplates, electric sockets or even light switches. “This is a dressing room,” he said, holding open one doorway. “Winston’s rehearsing right now, so he’s not in.”
Starr barely got a peek before he shut it again.
“And this is a—” Jason opened another door to reveal a tiny room that smelled like fresh paint. A small, wizened person in overalls was applying a hot pink shade over a light blue one, and tipped his hat at Starr. “Coat closet.”
“I see it’s getting a new coat,” Starr quipped.
Jason grinned. “Precisely! We add a new one each week.” He paused in front of another door, opened it and slammed it shut instantly. “Moving on.”
The muffled sound of lightning crackling filtered through the door.
“You all use foley?” Starr wanted to show off her grasp of industry lingo: the sound effects folks tickled her with their creativity.
“Uh, sure.” Jason’s anxious face was back. “Well. Not exactly. Just a misplaced thunderstorm. Happens sometimes. This way.”
They twisted and turned so much Starr lost track of where she was, and Jason’s strange mixture of delight and nervousness was starting to make her feel anxious. At last, she came to a hard halt in the middle of a hallway.
Jason tilted his head.
“Look, I get it. You’re like a big VFX warehouse or something. I’m guessing Tune in Tomorrow is some kind of space opera on the web. But you showing me every nook and cranny and door hinge doesn’t give me a clue about what’s going on. What is this place?”
Jason took a dramatic pause and his green eyes shone. “Tune in Tomorrow is many things to so many mythics. We are the longest-running, most-viewed reality TV show ever made in any dimension. We are made by mythics, for mythics—but starring humans.”
“Reality?” Starr twitched. “With dragon puppets and robots?”
Jason started to speak, took a breath and paced up and down. Raised a finger, lowered it, then stopped in front of her. Cleared his throat. “It’s been some time since I had to explain this to a human. Bear with me.” He pushed open another door and gestured inside.
Starr planted her feet in the doorway. “Jason, this is a toilet.”
“Yes, well, needs must. I don’t have any other handy water.”
He was speaking in riddles—and disappearing into a bathroom with a near-stranger was awkward at best, creepy at worst. Still, she didn’t sense Jason was up to no good. He practically vibrated with excitement, or nerves, or both. Swallowing, Starr took the risk and stepped inside. The bathroom door swung closed behind them.
Jason turned on all four sinks in the room. Water cascaded from three; butterflies burst from the fourth. Starr gaped. Jason quickly shut that one off with a sheepish grin and turned his back on the sink. The butterflies disintegrated.
Starr blinked.
“You see,” he raised his sing-song voice over the noise of the remaining water, “we adore human to’ings and fro’ings. We are the original fans of stories-without-end. Some hundreds of years ago when the Seelie came up with the idea of telling stories to mythics, they were known as Stories of All Purpose, or for short –”
“SOAP,” Starr realized. The room was starting to heat up and the mirrors fogged; Jason had apparently turned on only the hot water. She wondered where he was going with all this; the fantastical elements of his story were fanciful and charming, but silly. Maybe he was just being very method about the show. “You’re making a soap opera?”
“Shh!” he quietened her, glancing around. “Yes—and no. That’s how we started. But most mythics are self-cleaning. Bathing is a hobby, not a practice. SOAPs fell a bit out of fashion. Mythics wanted real human stories. Finally, once humans on your side of the Veil began writing their own TV shows, one of us—me, in fact—infiltrated a few writing rooms and discovered that you were doing what we’d been doing for years and calling it ‘reality TV.’ That fit us perfectly. Our viewers tune in because they believe we are telling real stories, and that’s what keeps us going.”
“But reality shows—” Starr caught herself. It was no secret in the business that many so-called reality shows were scripted. That they were the soap operas of the modern age—even if few would admit to it publicly. Reality shows that weren’t about some weird competition were packed with melodrama, family feuds, bed-hopping antics, people being underhanded or bitchy, sometimes all of those things combined. They weren’t much different from Days of Our Lives, which Starr had often watched while being babysat by her grandmother.
None of which answered her real questions, like why was she here? And why was Jason letting all that water go to waste? And if he was the producer, why was he acting like he was in character? “Remind me how long the show has been airing again?”
“In various incarnations, four hundred and thirty-nine years and six months and three days and—”
“Got it.” He was funny, this Jason. Adorkable and funny, even in a steamed-up bathroom. She could play along. “Last I checked, TV didn’t even exist before the twentieth century.”
“Human TV didn’t. We have many ways to tell story on this side of the Veil that you do not. You’ve heard of Philo Farnsworth, yes? The so-called television inventor? Well, you don’t imagine that’s a mortal name, do you? The old rascal is one of ours, exiled on your side of the Veil for several dozen rotations. Always was a Promethean fanboy. Thought he’d gift mortals with a new kind of campfire, and so now you share your own tales in a more… mundane fashion.”
Starr wondered if Jason ever knew how to be serious. Did they have to stand here in a humid room, her curls wilting, discussing a made-up history? Wasn’t she supposed to be vetted by the troublesome Fiona? And then—she got it. Jason was warming her up for that meeting. He wasn’t being method; this was a classic improvisational exercise, like her singing mango.
“Yes, and—” she tossed out the cue for the improv game, which was to support whatever outlandish idea your partner offered, then add on to it. “So let me guess: Tune in Tomorrow comes through an antenna. Or a cable box?”
Jason grinned. “Now you’re getting it! We have in the past transmitted to mythics living among you through rabbits—their ears are useful for capturing signal—and on your mechanical boxes, our programming can be found on channel *W90&∞.3.”
“Right.” She nodded broadly. “I never subscribed to that one.”
“These days,” he continued, “we prefer to send and receive story via water sources.” Jason waved at the steam now fogging the bathroom and the water in the sinks shot straight up into the air, folding back down over itself and into the sink again, creating not a waterfall, but a water wall. “Heated, actively moving water is best for story reception. There is a clarity and quality to the image that rabbits and boxes can’t convey. Observe.”
Starr’s jaw dropped as the constantly rotating water calmed, then smoothed over until all three sinks joined into a near-glass panel. She inched closer: it was an effect she’d never seen done before. Practically a magic trick. Her nose nearly touched the water flow, and Jason eased her back. “Not good for your eyes to be quite so close,” he said.
His warm hand on her shoulder made her straighten and lean into the touch. Then the water flickered, and an image appeared. Figures in a kitchen. One was throwing a dish, the other ducking. “Ah, yes,” nodded Jason. “This is on right now. We created it yesterday. You see Nora—she plays Beatrice—” he gestured at the dish-thrower, a thin blonde woman with a severe face, “and you may recognize—”
A handsome man with curly black hair ducked a platter. “Nico!”
“In this case he is Roland, but you are correct.”
“But if it’s about reality, how come they use different names? Aren’t they playing themselves?”
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “Well. They didn’t start off playing themselves, you see. But after so many years there is a bit of a tangle between where the show begins… and they leave off.” His gaze drifted into the distance, then he snapped to. “Ah, well. Questions best posed to your fellow humans.”
“Gotcha.”
“So now you see how mythics watch a show—on whatever available water source they have. We call it—”
The penny dropped. “Streaming.”
Jason beamed at her. “So you do understand!”
Starr understood nothing. Maybe half of a percent of something. And what she did understand was unnerving. This was beyond improv. Beyond visual effects. Her words emerged like treacle. “So, every ‘mythic,’ as you call them, watches your show.”
“Not precisely. If everyone did our ratings would be much higher. You are here because we need new blood. Not literally—at least, not this week. But we have had difficulties obtaining and retaining anyone who was suitable. The rigors of the production are truly not for everyone, and Fiona is uniquely… qualified to weed out the undesirables.”
He waved his hand and the image disappeared. The water collapsed into the sinks with a splash, and he turned the faucets off. “All clear?”
No. But she worried about asking too many questions. She could figure things out as she went. “Sure. I’ll do whatever’s needed. I’m a hard worker.”
“You are!” he grinned, as they stepped back into the hallway. Starr shivered in the relatively cool air. “I’ve been observing that for many years.”
The improv shattered. “You have?”
“Indeed, ever since I caught you at a comedy club years ago, singing about being a fruit.”
Starr covered her mouth for a second. “A mango! You’ve been watching me since I was in college?”
He sighed. “Cherished memories. But we, and you, have had to wait. Much as a mango must ripen, you were not ready to be here back then. Now I believe you are. And we are in real need. This last bit will be up to you.”
