I saw Vasha’s eyes narrow. A mean smile crept across her lips. She was thinking or hoping I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t.
She also must done the comparison-thing that women do with other women and realized that in an unspoken contest between our bodies, she won. She was probably used to winning.
“OK,” I said, “Let’s get this over with.”
I was ready to meet the producers and do whatever else they wanted to in order to complete the show. I played along. The producers and the audience probably thought the finale was over and that this next part was just the wrap up – a rare exit interview with a survivor – but they were all wrong. The real finale was about to take place.
Vasha and the cameraman left and the “team” went to work. If I’d been expecting a glamorous makeover, I would have been sadly mistaken. Secretly, I was a little disappointed. Just because I was getting ready to exact bloody revenge didn’t mean I shouldn’t look good while doing it. Actually, the clothing they provided was just a clean version of the training uniform. That wasn’t so bad, but I didn’t like the subtle reminder that the show still owned me (or so they thought). Still, I suppose the suit was oddly appropriate. Little did they know, but I was still in warrior-mode.
When the crew was finished making me “camera ready,” we left the hospital. Outside, I could see I was in the same military compound that had been commandeered by the show. I could see the track and field where I had trained. I half-expected to see Quinn in her black spandex suit, out training new recruits.
My armed escorts and I approached a two-story brick building bristling with massive array of large satellite dishes and radio antennae on the roof.
I was surrounded by security the whole time. I almost felt like a high-profile prisoner being transported between jail and a courthouse.
There were military guards at the door and at different posts throughout the complex. They wore the standard uniforms of regular troops and not the fancy, expensive armor of the security forces employed by Monster Gauntlet. Either way, these men looked strong and scary.
I had doubts about my plan, and my own sanity, but I kept the creeping cracks from branching out and shattering my resolve.
Not much longer now, I thought. Still, as we walked down the long hallway, I couldn’t help but think, Damn, there’s a lot of security.
–––––
Two double-doors opened to the control room, and we walked inside. The room was large and other than small desk lamps, the lights were off. The room was eerily lit by the video screens and the glowing computer monitors. LEDs scattered about the room created pinpoints of light like stars in the sky of an alien world.
Vasha led me to the center of the room. Everything seemed visible from this focal point, as if it were the podium for a conductor standing in front of a symphony orchestra.
A round of applause started when I entered and trickled off when I arrived at the center of the room.
Was that for me? I wondered. That was weird. Yesterday, these people were all working in a coordinated effort to kill me and to make a good show out of it.
A tall, bald figure approached.
“Moira MacMillan!” the man said, smiling and extending his hand.
“Maximilian Cain,” I said. I hesitated, but then slowly extended my own hand into his and shook it. Best to go with the flow and not alarm anyone, I thought. At least, not yet.
“Congratulations, Moira,” he said. “You’re a star.”
A star?
“I don’t want to be a star,” I said. “I just wanted my life back.”
Cain gave me a weird look and said, “Moira, you ARE a star. You gave up your right to a quiet, anonymous life the moment you took up arms against the government, attacked those officers, and led the revolution that started at that protest.”
What?
There was so much wrong with that statement that I didn’t know where to begin. I was about to say something about “revisionist history” when Cain continued, “And you survived Monster Gauntlet. That is a huge accomplishment.”
Well, he wouldn’t get any arguments from me there.
“That was some performance, Moira. That made for a great show. We’re all proud of you.”
Cain gestured to the colleagues near him, who had spun around in their chairs. “You remember Mr. Ziegler, the director, and Kent, our AD?”
“Sure,” I said, unimpressed.
Then Cain turned to a woman seated next to these guys.
“This is Tara, our technical director.”
The woman barely looked at me. Her expression was not of disdain, like Vasha’s, but was marred by embarrassment and guilt.
That’s unusual for this lot, I thought. Maybe there’s someone in here with a conscience after all.
There was a moment of silence. Finally I said,
“So what happened to the others?”
Cain smiled. He was waiting for this question.
Everyone looked around at each other. After a dramatic pause, the producer proudly said, “The witches got ‘em.”
“Sexy witches!” the assistant director said quickly, with a big smile on his face.
Was there something I was missing? Did that make any difference?
“Sexy witches?” I repeated. If this wasn’t literally a matter of life and death, I would have thought they were joking.
“Well, yes,” said the director. “They were effective in getting Bear to lower his guard. Mason too.”
“What about Trish?” I asked.
“Well,” said the director. “That was awesome. She didn’t succumb to the women’s charms the way the men did, of course. The witches underestimated her. She nailed one in the stomach and shot another in the chest. That was her last bolt. The remaining woman attacked her with a knife. Trish bashed her with the crossbow. God that was awesome. The witch did cut her and the drugs on the blade caused her to hallucinate. Then Trish fled into the woods and ended up passing out on top a boulder for the rest of the night. Brilliant.”
I stared at the director and said, “You mean Trish is still alive?”
“Yes,” he said. “The witches charmed and sacrificed the men. Trish fought and won. It made for great television.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the hospital, of course. “She was in a lot worse shape than you.”
I felt a spark of hope at learning Trish was still alive.
Maximilian Cain said, “It was a great show. It was truly the episode of the woman-warrior. Think about it. All the men are dead. The two women survived. The kelpie was female. So was the cat, by the way. The deadliest players in game were you and Trish. That really threw off the betting, I’m sure. The men underestimated just how dangerous women can be.”
“That’s right,” Vasha said, looking at me coolly like a girl at school looking for fight.
I eyeballed her and said, “Yes, that’s right.”
They were celebrating that girls could fight and that women were dangerous? They had no idea.
–––––
“Are the camera’s still on?” I asked.
“They’re always on,” Cain said with a dismissive, matter-of-fact smile. “In here, out there, in public. Everywhere. You can’t go outside without your actions being recorded. Whether it’s the city, hover cams, or people with their phones, you’re being recorded.”
I winced. It was true. Then he added, “History will have its witness.”
“But this is your control room, isn’t it?”
“Yes. So?”
“And it’s your show, right?”
Cain looked confused. “Yes,” he said, not sure where I was going with this.
“So we can talk in private, right? You owe me that. Unless, of course, you want to answer my questions here.”
Cain looked at me slyly, like someone playing a game who suddenly realizes his opponent is smarter than he thought. Cain smiled at the discovery, enjoying, as always, the challenge and opportunity to beat someone.
He said coolly, “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”
I looked back at him and said, “OK, but that won’t stop me from asking them. Do you want that on camera?” I paused for dramatic effect and said, “This is a live show, isn’t it?”
Cain suddenly looked uncertain. Asking questions was dangerous. Broadcasting them to the public was worse. They might provoke a discussion, and the discussion might lead to action. He couldn’t have that.
“Alright, in my office now,” Cain ordered. He looked at his crew and said, “B roll,” calling for filler-footage.
I followed the producer to his office. It was large and bright and sterile. I didn’t seen any family photos or anything to humanize the man. Somehow, the cleanliness and emptiness of the space was scary, as if that were a reflection of his soul. Then again, maybe everything freaked me out now.
I sat in a chair across from Cain.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Moira,” he said, easing back into his chair. “You’re tougher than any of us thought. You really put on a good show. Your life is going to be changed forever now. You know that don’t you?”
He was distracting me, trying to control the conversation.
“The woman who looked like me. What was that?”
Cain smiled. “A clone.”
I stared and let that sink in. “A clone? You cloned me?” I had never felt so violated. It wasn’t possible.
“Sure. Why not?”
“WHY NOT?”
I almost went berserk. I saw Cain’s fingers lingering around button I assumed would call the guards, so I took deep breaths and tried to calm down.
“We had the right to kill you,” he said. “You’re our property. We own you.”
“Owned,” I said. “Past tense. It’s over now.”
“Sure it is,” he said, laughing. “Sure.”
I didn’t see what was so funny.
I stayed calm to get some answers.
“So you cloned my body,” I said. “How do you give it a personality in just a few weeks?”
“Oh, technology’s an amazing thing,” Cain mused.
“What did you do? Fill her head full of bad memories to make her violent?”
“Oh, not at all,” Cain said grinning. “She was actually a decent young woman – a reflection of you. That’s what made it brilliant. It would have been ironic if you had killed her out of fear. We were all wondering what you would do. Brilliant.”
Brilliant?
I cleared my throat. “So what happened to her?”
“The Loch Ness Monster got her.”
“The Loch Ness ...” I didn’t even want to know.
I was quiet for a moment and asked, “So what if a monster hadn’t ‘gotten’ her? What would have happened then?”
“Well,” Cain said, easing deeper into the chair, “We had many options. We could probably have used her in a later show. Women are valuable, of course. Many of the male extras get fed to the monsters. But that wouldn’t have happened to your double. As it turns out, a number of the single men on the crew had a lottery going to decide who would get her if she lived. They were disappointed when she didn’t. You should be flattered.”
“Get her?”
“Flattered?”
“Still,” he continued, “the scene where Nessie got her ... now that was some great footage. It would’ve been better if it had actually been you, but we had the next best thing, so that was good.”
Good?
Button or no button, I was ready to attack this man. My eyes darted around, looked for something in reach that I could use as a weapon.
I backed down when he stood up. He was tall, after all, and dangerous. Behind his professional demeanor, constant smile, and TV-friendly persona, I sensed something else. His image was a mask, and behind it lurked a real sociopath.
He said, “Enough, Moira. We’re wasting air time. The viewers want to see you. We’re going back out there. This is the finale.”
I smiled wickedly. I was no longer intimidated by the man’s size as I thought, Oh yes, it is.
Maximilian Cain led me out of his office. We walked back to the center of the Control Room. The guards followed. When we were back to the center of it, I turned to Cain and asked, “So, am I free now?”
Cain said, “You’re free when I say you’re free.”
I winced and said, “So in other words, no.”
“Moira,” he said, smiling and shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “You need to relax. We’re still talking. And there’s something we’re all dying to know. How did you kill the Bogeyman?”
“The what?”
“The monster in the meadow. We didn’t think you had any of the weapons needed to kill it. Tell us what happened.”
My skin was tingling. The air was vibrating. The people near me noticed it to. I heard, or thought I heard, voices whispering in my ear. Or in my head.
“Moira?”
“I ... I can’t hold them back any longer, I said.
“Moira? What are you talking about?”
Cain looked concerned. Tara said, “She needs to go to Medical.”
The voices were getting louder. The air around me was humming with energy. I felt the tiny hairs on my arm rise, the way they do when electricity is in the air and lightening is about to strike.
Someone said, “Maybe she needs help.”
“No!’ Cain said. “She’s being difficult. Guards!”
“No! Everybody stay back!” I shouted. I barely recognized my voice. It was unnaturally loud, as if it were somehow amplified.
“That got her attention,” the director chuckled.
“I can’t ... OK! NOW!” I said.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by a cluster of tiny, flying colored lights. They buzzed about me like bees hovering around a hive.
I heard gasps of astonishment.
The producer’s mouth fell open and he took an involuntary step backwards. Then, to my surprise, his ever-present smile returned as he regained his composure with a remarkable recovery time.
“Wow,” he said. “That is spectacular. I was not expecting that. Clearly, the guys in the FX Department set you up.”
Looking up at no one in particular, he said, “Good one, guys! You got me. That effect is awesome!”
Everyone else was looking at each other, trying to figure out what the appropriate response should be. Most looked uncertain. They did not share Cain’s confidence that this was a joke.
“You want to know what killed the monster?” I shouted in a voice that echoed throughout the chamber. “They did!”