One
After hours of hair and makeup, I finally look like I’ve crawled out of hell.
Greta Thurmway, who sits in the makeup chair to my left, bites off a yawn as technicians glue rhinestone ornaments to her wig and paint her makeup to stand up under harsh studio lights. But I play the space warrior Morgantha Moonblade, and I need to look professionally messed up.
My long black wig is curled and tangled—but not too tangled—every lock expertly positioned to cast dramatic shadows on my otherwise round face. The stylists and the director of photography argued all morning over which shades of eye shadow Morgantha could feasibly access on the swamp planet where her Season Five character arc begins. Someone suggested painting a bruise on my chin to cover a cluster of zits. Someone else pointed out I’d look like a victim in a domestic violence PSA.
As they work out my look, I thumb through fanfics on my phone, tilting my head as the makeup technicians ask. I trust they’ll do their jobs, and I’ll do mine. Besides, I’ve already had my creative input in the hit sci-fi drama Galaxy Spark. My beloved ship #Morganetta will become canon in Season Five.
Morgantha, who treats men as (a) mentor figures, (b) brothers-at-arms, and (c) murder victims, comes off as such an obvious lesbian. When Greta’s character, Princess Alietta, was introduced in Season Four, fans latched on to the idea our fictional counterparts would get together—especially after I came out as queer in a video I posted on Quicshot. Viewers flooded my mentions with heart eyes, crossed fingers, and rainbow-flag emojis, begging me to make #Morganetta canon. I read countless fanfics about sheltered, shy Princess Alietta falling for the loud, boisterous Morgantha. Then I screwed up my courage and asked the showrunners to let Morgantha and Alietta fall in love. It took some off-set battling of my own, but Peter and Wes finally agreed.
But once Morgantha and Alietta start dating on-screen, people will ask me and Greta how we feel about representing a queer couple. I’d rather give mouth-to-mouth to a cactus than have a serious conversation with that prickly perfectionist, but I need to learn how she feels about LGBTQ+ issues before the new season premieres, if only to stop her from saying something awful to the press. Nothing will ruin the fandom’s joy like discovering the actor behind their beloved Princess Alietta is a homophobe.
“Do we have to do full makeup?” Chris Arden, my stepbrother, says from the chair to my right. A stylist is meticulously texturing the stubble painted down his cheeks. “We’re just shooting promo photos.”
“Millions of people will see these,” Greta says. “Do you want the world to think of you as the guy with half a beard? This is premium cable, not a Syfy original with a five-dollar budget.”
“Chris is very image-conscious,” I joke, trying to melt the awkward tension Greta injected. She’s always talking about her image. I bet she runs every photo she takes past her publicist before posting it. “Remember that time he tried to bring socks with sandals into style?”
“It was my first time in New York in fall,” Chris says. “I only brought one pair of shoes and my girlfriend had a migraine. Someone had to run to the drugstore, and I didn’t want my toes to get frostbite and drop off on the way.”
“But think how impressed she was by your heroic sacrifice,” I point out. “Is she coming to the first-reads party tomorrow?”
“Probably.” He angles his coffee mug to drink without smudging his lips. “Did we figure out the food? Dad texted he made cupcakes.”
“I ordered from that shrimp barbecue place. I don’t want to volunteer the cast as test subjects for Will’s baking.”
“Got your wig,” says a makeup technician, offering Chris a model head covered in foot-long silky black curls.
He snorts. “You’ve made me wear those for five seasons, and they always look terrible. Until this crew hires some Black stylists, Bryken Moonblade is bald.” He shaved his head this
morning—and used my sink to do it, even though our house has five bathrooms.
The tech coughs nervously and holds up a piece of paper. “Mr. Arden, we have a style sheet.”
I snatch the style sheet and a pen and write Bald next to Chris’s name. “Put him in a helmet.”
The techs dig through their big bin of prop hats. All the official Galaxy Spark armor is stored on location back in Northern Ireland, but they do find a passable substitute: a spray-painted bowl with molded plastic panels on the sides and a thick leather chin strap, left over from Season Three’s promo shoot.
Chris mimes pouring his open bag of Doritos inside, laughs, and puts it on his head. I snatch the Doritos bag off his knee while he’s busy. Chris and I fumble for the chips until the contents spill across the floor in a tide of orange powder.
“Stop,” Greta whispers. She hasn’t moved her chair so much as an inch all this time. If a tech’s hand slips while they’re gluing on Princess Alietta’s wig, her hair will be pasted to her eyelid. I guess she’s been watching us in her mirror. “You’re making a mess, and you’ll get us all in trouble.”
“I know how to behave on set,” I say. “I was filming diaper commercials when I was five months old.”
“It’s just that most people grow up and stop throwing food off their high chair.”
“I’m mature.” I’m not just a child actor who got her first jobs because her mom owns a production company. I’m giving queer fans the on-screen representation they crave, not just a kiss in the background but a love story between stars. I’m showing straight viewers that Morgantha and Alietta’s romance should be celebrated, not just accepted. My contributions matter.
I change the subject. “Greta, are you coming to the first-reads party?” A tech hisses as his hand jiggles, smearing my mascara. “I know it’s a long drive to my house.”
“I’ll be there,” Greta says. “Still the shiny mansion that looks like an ice cube, right? I want to make sure I don’t miss my turn because a literal house blinded me.”
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to tell my mom how much you hate it.”
“I make it a rule not to disagree with Kate Ashton. Unlike a certain actor who got last year’s party ended early when she argued with her mom about not allowing bubble bath in the hot tub.”
I flush. Of course she brings up that specific humiliation.
If I didn’t need to ferret out how she really feels about our on-screen romance, I might not even have invited her to the party. I don’t need her high-and-mighty attitude around when the LA-based cast gathers to read the Season Six scripts. Learning where Peter and Wes are steering my story will be stressful enough without Greta criticizing me for breathing wrong.
My phone dings as an email lands in my inbox. The subject line: CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL. A
password-protected attachment—the Season Six scripts. Chris touches his waistband, where he’s tucked his phone. Greta’s phone beeps atop her makeup table. She bites her lip, leaving trails through the layers of painted gloss. Staring at her phone like it’s a rattlesnake.
“Don’t mess up your makeup, Miss Perfect,” I say. No response. Can’t I even needle her back? “Don’t peek at the script until the party. It’s—”
“En garde!” Chris shouts, poking at me with his plastic stellar sword. I draw Morgantha’s blade—or at least the replica prop I’m wearing for the photo shoot—from my belt and whack it against his. He drops into a fencing stance. We both got master lessons when we were cast on the show, and even though I usually lose two of three bouts, I always relish a chance to test myself.
Greta sighs. “I mourn the day Wes and Peter decided to put swords in their space show. Why are our twenty-ninth-century warriors running around with fourteenth-century weapons?”
“It can shoot plasma beams,” I remind her, showing off the amethyst power crystals in the hilt. They match the purple tunic I wear, stitched with the crest of Morgantha’s adopted family, House Moonblade. My silver leggings are as shiny as if they really came from another world. “It’s super-high-tech nanosteel.”
“It’s because the showrunners don’t trust viewers to watch more than twenty minutes without hooligans bursting into fight choreography.”
“You’re just jealous because Princess Alietta doesn’t get any cool battle scenes.” I dig through the prop bin, grab what seems to be a quarterstaff with an umbrella hot-glued to the end, and offer it to her. “Join us! Lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up when I’m not on the clock. Enjoy getting fired.”
Is this wrong? Uncertainty fizzes in the pit of my stomach like warm soda. Maybe Greta really knows something I don’t. “Maybe you’ll get fired for being boring,” I say. The retort feels as clumsy and awkward as I am, but hurt flashes deep in her big brown eyes. With something sharper beneath it, like the shark from Jaws circling under a boat. Fear.
I don’t know what to say.
“All done.” The wig supervisor gives Greta’s head a final tap. “You three can head in now. They’re all ready for you.”
Chris’s sword whacks across my shoulder. I laugh and curse, chasing him down the hall from the makeup room to the photo studio. My sword pokes into his back, his leg.
“You’re dead!” I shout. “You’re dead again!”
“Then why am I still running?” He flashes me the famous Arden grin over his shoulder, and I chase him down the hall, Morgantha’s long black boots squishing with every step.
Head over heels, we tumble out into the studio. The doors bang against the walls as we knock them open. Photographers and lighting techs stare at us. A costumer winces at the sight of Chris’s helmet, now knocked sideways.
“Miss Ashton. Mr. Arden.” The creative director clears her throat. “Where’s Miss Thurmway?”
Greta. I look back over my shoulder. She didn’t follow us. My heart sinks. How can I ask something as personal as How are you on gay shit? when I can’t even seem to get us into the same physical, mental, or emotional zip code?
We get started without her. Chris and I pose on purple-painted papier-mâché rocks, a green screen hanging behind us where another world will be pasted in later. We draw our swords, flex our bare-arm biceps, crack up laughing. That gets the camera clicking, and the photographer suggests I swoon in Chris’s arms.
“How about he swoons in mine?” I say, and Chris obliges. I stagger to hold him up, but we grab some good photos anyway, and I’m sure the obsessive fans who want Morgantha and Bryken to wind up a couple (ew, and also ick) will go nuts for them. In the actual canon of the show, Morgantha and Bryken haven’t even talked since midway through Season Four, when he was captured by Queen Aylah’s space marines. I’m hoping we’ll reunite in Season Six. I can’t wait to shoot with my brother again.
“Bench-press him, Lily!” Peter shouts, laughing from the sidelines. The younger of the two Galaxy Spark showrunners eyes us over the lid of his massive travel coffee cup. His hair and beard are a mussed-up mess, and he’s wearing one of his fifty interchangeable wrinkled black tees, which probably reeks from his motorcycle drive here. If someone asks about his appearance, Peter brushes them off by saying he’s on a big script deadline. Kate sent him some fancy shampoo as a Christmas present, but I don’t think he took the hint.
With Greta still absent, the photos grow sillier. Chris tries to clamber up onto my shoulders, piggy-back style. I crouch forward and try to accommodate, but he’s almost a foot taller than me. I can’t get the leverage to swing him into place. Peter sets down his clipboard, rushes over, and kneels down behind us, supporting Chris with his back.
“I can see you,” the photographer complains. “Could you stick your face down behind that boulder?”
“Can I be in some of the shots?” Peter says. “I’m part of the story, too.”
“Photograph Peter!” I say. “It’ll be hilarious.” If Wes, the older showrunner, was on-site, I’m sure he’d shut us down. He doesn’t approve of Peter and me being friendly, of how Peter taught me to drive his motorcycle and took me and Chris fishing when we shot in Vancouver. But I’ve heard stories of terrible bosses in the industry—just ask anyone what Hitchcock put his stars through. It’s nice working for someone who wants to be likeable. “Just call him, like, the new super-secret villain we’re introducing in Season Five. The Hideous Scraggle-Bearded Swamp Smuggler.”
Peter winks at me as he tugs his scraggly beard. “I’d have to write one hell of a death scene for myself.” Peter and Wes love writing twists and turns to keep the fans buzzing. They’re especially famed for their creative death scenes. Just last
season, a pop star with a cameo appearance was blown up after Queen Aylah flung him out an air lock, and Sir Henry Pellsworth, distinguished British Shakespeare veteran, saw his character die of infection after Morgantha stabbed him in the groin (sure, they should have antibiotics in space, but I cracked up watching a man famed for his King Lear roll around in front of a green screen shouting, “My jewels!” as fake blood capsules spurt through his hands). Season Five will contain the biggest shock death yet—Alban Moonblade, Bryken’s father and Morgantha’s adopted dad, leader of the resistance against Queen Aylah, will nobly sacrifice his life attempting to rescue Bryken from the evil queen.
I’m expecting Morgantha’s Season Six story line to include fabulous, devastating twists. But the thought she might die makes me sweat through my plastic tunic. Morgantha has so much story left to tell. She’s destined to find the mystic spark at the galaxy’s core and defeat Queen Aylah for good. Galaxy Spark should give her and Alietta the most shocking ending of all time—a happy-ever-after. Anything else would devastate the thousands of queer fans who made #Morganetta trend globally even before Morgantha and Alietta ever met on-screen.
“Seriously, where’s Greta?” Peter asks. “I want some shots of her with Lily. Need to promote how we’ve written her into a subplot viewers will like.”
Princess Alietta debuted in Season Four. Greta, who grew up in a suburb outside Pittsburgh, aced an open-call audition, and made it on the show. “I couldn’t imagine a better fit for the part,” Peter told me at the time. “Some people are just born to be stars.” But the reviews of Princess Alietta’s story line—she’s the last member of the mysterious House Dustborn, a traveling diplomat who promotes interplanetary peace—were mixed, to say the least.
“People like Princess Alietta,” I say. “It’s just they’re all girls, and the male fans complain loud enough to drown out their voices.”
“You’re right,” he says. “Sorry. God, it’s stupid—I’ve been watching all these YouTube videos about why Alietta’s story makes me a bad writer.”
“Dude, don’t. Just because someone’s got a camera and an internet connection doesn’t mean they know what they’re talking about.”
“I’m here.” Greta quietly stumbles into the room. She’s in full Alietta mode, tight purple silk dress, LED locket flashing the crest of House Dustborn, blond wig glittering with gems. Normally, in character, she carries herself with a regal bearing that draws every eye. Now she’s chewed through her lipstick, and she’s hiding her bunched fists in the folds of her gown.
Something’s wrong.
Greta spreads out her fractal-patterned skirts and perches on a fake rock. She crosses her ankles with an easy, ladylike grace I’ve never been able to master. Her cool brown eyes are deep and full of secrets as she stares into the camera. Acting on instinct, I step up and stand tall behind her.
“I like that direction, Lily,” the creative director says. “Put your hand on her shoulder. Like you’re protecting her.”
I swallow. Greta’s dress is bare-shouldered. Her skin is cool to the touch. I give her shoulder a squeeze, trying to convey everything too awkward to say out loud—I really hope you don’t hate me because I’m a girl, doing this—and give the camera a death stare. Morgantha won’t let anyone hurt her girlfriend.
That’s the nice thing about acting. I can slip into someone else’s skin, wrap myself in a cool, badass identity straight out of a script. Things between Greta and me have always been strained as hell—the first time we met, on set, I said, “Hi, I’m Lily Ashton,” and she pivoted and fled for her trailer. But under the lights, with the cameras snapping, I can pretend I’m standing behind the love of my life, even though I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve never had a real girlfriend.
Finally, the creative director nods us finished. Greta shrugs me off and brushes at her shoulder where I touched her. Like it itches. God, it would explain so much if she was actually allergic to me.
“Want me to get us some sandwiches?” I jerk my thumb at the catering table. “We could go eat on the balcony. And talk.”
“I don’t eat gluten.”
I can’t even eat right, I think as I stomp to the table in my squeaky pleather boots.
Just as I reach the mountain of carbs and sweets, a preteen girl tugs on my pant leg. Her T-shirt reads Sunset Meal Supply—one of the caterer’s kids. “Are you Lily Ashton?” she says. When I nod, she says, “You’re my hero.”
Did I look that young in middle school? Nuh-uh. No way. “Your parents let you watch the show? It’s got adult content.”
“I know their streaming passwords. I watch everything you’re in because you’re gay, like me.” She says that without hesitating. Completely unafraid. Like I’m a magic talisman. “Can I have your autograph? Please?”
A grin breaks across my face. I’m used to people asking, but I’ll take any opportunity to make a queer kid’s day. Life can be so hard for us, especially when you don’t have rich, supportive parents like I do. An autograph is the least I can give them—and soon, I’ll give them even more. That kiss scene in Episode Three. Canon #Morganetta.
I scribble my name on one of the menus, and she hugs it with an excited blush.
“Want mine?” Chris asks, coming up at my side. His plate is loaded with ham sandwiches. I snatch one and stuff it into my cheek. “I know. I’m just the boring buff guy who carries Morgantha’s sword.”
“Hey,” I say as the starry-eyed girl hands him the menu, “I carried your sword for, like, a whole episode after you got poisoned by that scorpion on the desert moon. Not my fault that thing’s a foot taller than me.”
“Do you want my autograph?” Peter says as Chris signs. “I’m the showrunner.”
“You’re the boss?” asks the girl.
“Not in a boring suit-and-tie way!” Peter spins his keys around his fingers. “I’m the one who taught Lily how to drive a motorcycle.”
“Okay. Bye.” The girl clutches her menu to her chest and skips away. Peter frowns. The look on his face tells me he’s taking that rejection seriously. For a grown man, he acts like such a kid sometimes—but considering how Chris and I spilled Doritos all over the makeup room, who am I to judge?
“Can I borrow your bottle opener?” I say, fiddling with my cream soda. Peter tosses me the key ring. The souvenir Key Largo bottle opener, parrot faded, is so worn it barely hooks under the lid. Peter’s disappeared by the time the bottle fizzes open, so I tuck the keys in my waistband and go looking for him.
He isn’t talking with the director or back in the makeup studio. He must have gone outside to smoke. My tightly stitched tunic rubs tight against my chest and stomach as I tramp down the fire stairs. Hot air washes over me as I step out into the Burbank afternoon. The desert stretches out before me, dry and biting, the broad sun in the blue sky painting everything in primary colors.
What’s she doing here?
Greta’s leaning against a battered old pickup, chewing on her fingernails, staring at the road. Her shadow stretches long and black, washing over the road to the slumped white strip mall on the other side, tall and lonely like a palm tree ringed by asphalt. I’d think she snuck out to vape if I didn’t know how obnoxious she thought vaping was.
Oh, god. Maybe she snuck out here to avoid me. Maybe she hates #Morganetta so deeply she’d rather tunnel to the center of the earth than speak to me.
Careful as I approach her, I weave my fingers together behind my back and keep space between our shadows. “Hey,” I mutter. “What’s up?”
“I skipped ahead in the script.” Her whole body trembles silently. Her head is tipped back so the tears rolling out can’t smudge her makeup.
I rub my chin, confused. Does her favorite character not get enough screen time? Did she have a personal fan theory proven false? “Please tell me they didn’t write us a sex scene.” I don’t turn eighteen until principal photography is over, in late April, but Greta’s birthday is in November, so they could tell her to do it with a body double and green-screen in my face. It’s part of acting professionally, yeah, but I’d like to have sex in real life before I have to fake it covered in mocap dots.
Her head does a tiny, tightly wound shake. Her eyes don’t even flick my way. I’m not sure of the right thing to say to reach across the distance between us. Probably not “Are you weirded out by the idea of people making you film topless, or weirded out by pretending other girls turn you on?”
“No. I—” She chokes off and passes me her phone.
EXT: A field outside the burning village.
ALIETTA stumbles out of the smoke, disguised in a stolen army uniform. We have a moment of relief: she survived the terrible raid. BRYKEN enters, covered in the blood of the civilians he failed to save. We’re so excited to finally see these two characters meet at last, it takes a beat to realize he thinks ALIETTA is the enemy.
BRYKEN
ALIETTA
BRYKEN cuts her off by slapping her across the mouth. Stunned by the blow, ALIETTA sprawls back in the dirt.
BRYKEN
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