I drummed my foot impatiently on the elevator floor. Steel walls and impossibly nerve grating jazz were not compatible with the types of people we were. Thorne was ready to break open the doors and climb up the elevator cables, Ashton was pacing, and Jesse's left eye was twitching violently. Mom had better have something good. If she doesn't, I swear I'm breaking ties with the feds.
The elevator doors slid open smoothly, almost mocking our discomfort. I fought the urge to injure it because Jesse would crack up, Ashton would join in, and Thorne would try to get me a therapist because I attempted to murder an inanimate object. And then smirk. Instead, I hurried down the hall, leather jacket billowing. For "business days" we were forced to wear fight suits to appear "professional".
I thought they just wanted us to look tough for the crowd.
I barged into Mom's office, the rest of the team hot on my heels. "If this isn't big news, I swear I will-"
"We're making your life into a reality show."
Four voices screamed, "WHAT?!"
"I said-"
"We heard what you said, Director! But that is so.... idiotic! I mean, it's cruel and conformist and-"
"You have no say in this. Photo shoot in half an hour. Get over it." Mom cut Thorne off sharply. In turn, Thorne's eyes widened and her eyebrows raised. She pulled herself up to her full height, an astonishing (for her age) 6' 2", set her jaw, and crossed her arms. Every part of her screamed, "You did not just cut me off. For your sake, you better hope to God you didn't."
Mom just smiled cruelly, pointed to the door, and said, "The camera crew comes when you get back to the penthouse. Be ready." Thorne was the first to leave, jaw set. She had grown up in the spotlight; I could tell this was getting under her skin. We followed after her quickly, not wanting to take the stairs because she had mutilated the elevator. We exited on into Somnium with hoods drawn and faces downcast. A lot of people in Somnium wore hoods, so we wouldn't stick out horribly.
We managed to get to the SUV without a paparazzi ambush, thank god. I leaned over into the driver's side, told him, "Weylind Studios, ASAP," and leaned back again.
"Team meeting." I called weakly. The other three teens in the vehicle positioned themselves around me. "Well, we know we can't fight this. You know how Mom gets. The best we can hope for is that it won't be all icky, and that this could actually be somewhat fun."
Jesse shrugged. "I agree. I don't like this in the slightest, but we've got to go with it if we want to keep our positions, most likely."
Thorne pouted, but agreed reluctantly. Ashton nodded. "As long as they don't mess with my stuff, I'm cool with it."
We all exhaled simultaneously. I had never put it past my mom to pull something like this. I should've thought she would've done it right after we beat the world record for Most Nightmares Slain in One Night.
Thanks, Mom.
The SUV pulled up to a long, low building. We got out quickly, heads down, and ducked inside before the turds wielding flash cameras turned the corner.
I hated the building as soon as I stepped into it. The main color theme was, as far as I could tell, white and light brown. Our penthouse was silver and black and white, with splashes of bright colors that we had put there. And -ugh- there were flowers everywhere. Flowers were not my thing. I could deal with them if they were, y'know, cool looking, but here all there was were white roses and daisies and stupid frilly girly flowers. We had a strict rule at the penthouse: if it's girly, it's going in the incinerator.
Dear Lord, how I wished for an incinerator.
We stalked over to the white sheet meant to be a backdrop and hung by the side, arms crossed. Photo shoots make us twitchy, especially.... well, all of us. Thorne had a slight phobia of flashing lights because she had faced them basically her whole life, Jesse had been on the run from authorities before he came here, and to him, flashing lights meant searchlights; Ashton was a conspiracy theorist in training and had some wild suspicion that flashing lights drew secret info from your mind, and I just didn't like having to get all dolled up.
After getting all prettied up by the hair and makeup people (or in our words, "torturers wielding hairspray and lip gloss"), we were ushered onto the sheet and moved around like mannequins. We held tight and smiled real big until the shoot was over, and left without so much as a thank you.
Next on the agenda was an interview for Daydream which none of us were too pleased about. If it was our decision, we would still be at the penthouse, watching some action flick with a lot of fighting, and pointing out each move and explaining how the actors were doing it wrong. But it wasn't our decision, which meant like it or not, we were on our way to a studio that couldn't be much better than Weylind's to have an over energetic, nosy jerk-face attempt to pry out our "dirty little secrets."
There was no point in it, really, simply because a) we were never going to tell our pasts and dreams and ickiness to a stranger, and b) the only people whose opinions we cared about were each other, and we already knew everyone else's quirks and histories. Like I said, no point.
We pulled up to a tall grey building and got out nonchalantly. We had been through this routine before: go to the office, give the answers they wanted to hear without completely lying, and basically play nice. Only the last step was tricky, because our main pastimes involved playful violence. It was hard not to break out in a wrestling tournament at any given time; we were used to it, but our interviewer wasn't.
The office we entered was no better than Weylind Studios. Light brown walls, white flowers, gray chairs. We took a seat and waited; rather an incredible feat with us. Just when I was certain Jesse was about to run straight through the window to freedom, a tall woman with practically carmine curls dancing around her cheeks and an obviously fake smile plastered on her face walked in (on three inch heeled red boots that Thorne tittered at).
She hobbled to the chair facing us and pulled out handheld computer that recorded our words, exactly as they were said. "So! This is Esmeralda Shadeiri, interviewing Scarletta Quick-" I nodded with a smile. "Jesse Grayson-" He lifted his hand in recognition. "Ashton Luzo-" He smiled. "and Thorne Maybeck-" She tossed her hair with a smile. "our current Dreamkeepers, who have just set the new record for Most Nightmares Slain in One Night. First of all, just tell us: how does it feel?"
Jesse took this one. "Well, mainly, just mind blowing, really. I mean, it's a big deal, and it was incredibly difficult, but we all knew we could do it. But still, it's really incredible." This was why Jesse was one of our main talkers: he was modest without being overly humble, he seemed human, and he said it like they wanted to hear. Too bad that didn't always transfer over to our home life.
"Ah, well, we're all very proud. Now, Scarletta, I hear you make a mean bowl of mac and cheese. This true?"
I, of course, was forced to take this one. "If I do say so myself. I mean, we depend a lot on caffeine, but we do need some substance once in a while. So, I just whipped some up, and they loved it!" I used as much energy as I could without gushing. Tip for the famous: outgoing and bubbly gets you almost anywhere. I won't bother to give you the rest of the interview. Trust me, I'm sparing you a long, boring piece of time. We answered pretty equally, no one doing more than the others.
When we were safely back in the SUV, I massaged my jaw gently. "Good heavenly lord, I've never spoken that much for an interview. Back home, please, Harry," I groaned, rubbing my eyes.
"Hey, Sparks, did you forget what's waiting at home?" Ashton asked, plucking at his curls. I moaned.
"I don't know why she thought this was a good idea. When we're not out and about or fighting, we basically have no life." Jesse pointed out as we pulled up to the door of the Haven.
"True, true." Thorne said, dropping through the entrance.
Once we were all in the elevator, I wondered aloud, "Maybe they think they can provoke us into, like, getting into cat fights." I pushed the down button (the pent was five stories below ground). Thorne shrugged.
"Wouldn't put it past them." she said as we walked into the penthouse. We were greeted with a blessedly small camera crew (five people, tops!) and a few others carrying makeup sets. I scowled.
"You guys-" I pointed at them accusingly. "-can go. You'll still get paid. But... go."
Thorne turned to the head producer-type person. "Here are the rules: No prying. No provoking. And don't touch Ashton's stuff. Deal?"
"Deal." he said back. He sounded almost, dare I say it, frightened.
I mean, c'mon! Who's scared of Thorne Maybeck?
Oh, that's right.
Everyone who knows her.
(If the smiley don't convince you, nothing will.)
