Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (28 page)

“Fine.” She sank into her chair, frustration playing out on her smoky blue face.

McNally stood up and said, “We can go about contacting Psystorm after the interview is over. Right now, let’s focus on getting that off our plate.”

“Agreed,” Gage said.

Renee didn’t look at me when I walked past her. She stood and spoke quietly with William. They hugged, kissed. Feeling like an intruder, I ducked into the corridor to wait with Gage and McNally. William joined us a moment later.

“You were pretty quiet in there,” I said to him.

“That’s because I’m worried about it, same as Renee,” William replied. “I think you’re right, though. We don’t have a choice. It’s what’s got to be done, and if you believe it, I believe it.”

I did believe it. I just hoped the others would be able to forgive me if I was wrong.

M
cNally had picked a small studio, host to several public digicast shows, including a morning and evening news hour. The studio was built inside an old warehouse in West Hollywood and had minimal security. Our window-tinted utility vehicle drove around to a rear entrance. The place didn’t even have a security gate. Definitely an obscure location.

An elderly gentleman in a faux-expensive suit waited for us in front of a pair of double-glass doors. He shook McNally’s hand, regarding us with open curiosity.

“Miles Lanthrop, segment producer,” he said. “I’m so pleased you chose our little studio for this interview, Miss Trance.”

I grinned; he was endearing off the bat. “It’s just Trance, Mr. Lanthrop. These are my associates, Cipher and Caliber.”

Lanthrop shook Gage’s hand firmly. He winced a bit when William took hold. He led us through the double doors and down a short, dark-paneled hallway. We passed a series of closed doors. Past the sixth, the hall turned sharply left. Directly ahead was a set of swinging double doors, and through
their windows was the studio. To the left was a sound booth and to the right another plain door.

We entered the studio, which was surprisingly active. Three cameras stood at attention, and two operators were fiddling with buttons and switches. A pair of young women with headsets scurried back and forth on the stage, shifting chairs and fluffing fake plants. They’d created an informal living room set—a nice touch.

One face was missing.

“Where’s Dahlia?” I asked.

“Probably chewing her fingernails to a nub,” McNally said. “The poor thing sounded terrified on the phone. She’s had a copy of your questions to go over, so she should be fine.”

“If she ever comes out of the dressing room,” Lanthrop said. “If you three don’t mind having a seat, I’ll have my makeup girl—”

“No makeup,” I said. “I don’t want this to look staged. You get us and all of our pores.”

Lanthrop gave McNally a pleading look; she just smiled. I might still be angry with her, but I did like having her on our side.

“All right, then,” he said. “The sofa there, stage right, is for you. The chair stage left is for Miss Perkins. We’ll be running all three cameras at once and editing it from tape. If you feel the need to address the camera for any reason, try to speak to the camera on your left. It will be in close-up.”

“I’m certain,” I said, “that Agent McNally has already discussed approval of the final cut? Just to make sure you don’t edit anything improperly.”

“I understand your suspicions, Trance, but please be assured I have no intention of snowballing you or your friends. I simply want to bring this news to the world, and you are allowing me the chance. Don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry.”

Gage cleared his throat, put his palm on the small of my back, and steered me toward the stage. I went willingly and sat with Gage on my right. William stood next to us. He’d come as a lookout, not a participant.

One of the headset girls—a PA, I assumed—clipped lapel microphones to our uniforms. She managed to find places that didn’t show, and we went through a sound check with a man in the glass booth. They brought up blinding lights and held black boxes in front of us. The other PA patted some powder on my nose before I could protest.

“This is a bit surreal,” Gage whispered, hand covering his mike.

McNally and Lanthrop stood by the middle camera, deep in conversation. Two operators had taken position on small stools attached to the hulking equipment, while the third camera remained unmanned.

On our left the first PA opened a door and held it. She beckoned someone forward. A few seconds passed. Dahlia Perkins finally emerged, thin hands clutching a yellow clipboard. She spotted us and stopped. Took a few steps, stopped again. I bit my lip, trying hard not to laugh.

“It’ll be easier to ask the questions from over here,” I said, waving her forward.

Some of her fear seemed to evaporate. Dahlia strode
toward us with an air of purpose, if not intent, and carefully perched on the edge of her chair. She wore a simple black skirt and jacket, blond hair pulled back into a tasteful ponytail. She looked the part, even if she acted like a frightened teenager.

“It’s good to see you again,” I said, and introduced her to William. “Are you okay with the list of questions?”

“Yes,” Dahlia said. “I still don’t understand why you chose me, though. I’m not experienced with live interviews. I’m a writer.”

“Because you’re not experienced, that’s why. I didn’t want someone coming into this with a preset notion of how it will run. I didn’t want someone to try and toss in a few unregulated questions. This isn’t a fluff piece, and it’s not a free-for-all.”

She nodded.

“And if it goes well, it will look great in your portfolio.”

That earned a smile.

“Chad!”

Dahlia jumped. Behind the glare of lights, Lanthrop stormed around, seeking someone. A sleepy-eyed man emerged from a side door, yawned, and shambled toward the vacant camera. Lanthrop muttered something, and Gage laughed.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Just some colorful curse words,” he whispered back. “I guess Chad’s been given final warning a few times for being late.”

“You heard that?” Dahlia asked. She blushed. “Oh, right, of course.”

Lanthrop stepped up to the edge of the stage. “Are we ready to make history? Ms. Perkins, you okay? Need any more antacids before we start?”

“No, I’m fine.” She fanned herself with the clipboard, and the blush started to fade.

William took that as his cue to leave the stage. He stood on our right with a good view of the studio, greenroom doors, and the sound booth. Knowing he was there helped me relax.

Please let Specter stay away for a while.

“The intro and questions are up on the prompter,” Lanthrop continued. “Just remember to smile, breathe, and you’ll do fine.”

“And try not to belch on camera,” I added.

Gage covered his mouth with his hand. Lanthrop glared. Dahlia paled, finally matching the color of her foundation. Perfect.

“Just remember,” Lanthrop said, ignoring me, “this is tape. If we need to stop, we can stop. Let’s just aim to not do that very often, shall we? The morning crew will need the studio in three hours.”

Gage leaned forward. “If this takes three hours, I’m going to sweat through this sofa. These lights are damned hot.”

“Someone crank up the air-conditioning,” Lanthrop bellowed as he turned around. He disappeared behind the lights.

“And let the fun begin,” I said.

Dahlia licked her lips and tried to smile.

“Rolling in three, two, one …”

The smile turned on full wattage. “Hello, and thank you for tuning in for this historic broadcast occasion. I’m Dahlia Perkins, and today I have with me two members of the revitalized and re-formed Ranger Corps. The history of the Rangers dates back over one hundred years….”

Ninety minutes later, we wrapped with a joke and laughter. Even though the questions and answers had been staged, we established a friendly rapport that lent itself to spontaneity and jest. Dahlia relaxed completely ten minutes into the interview. We had provided thirty minutes worth of Q&A, but Gage’s asides kept cracking us up.

By the time he yelled, “Wrap!” Lanthrop seemed to be teetering on the edge of a stress-induced implosion. William kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. Of our three observers, only McNally was as relaxed as those of us onstage. A bell clanged, announcing the end of filming, and Chad the sleepy cameraman bolted for the greenroom. Lanthrop muttered something uncomplimentary.

“Looks like someone’s getting fired tomorrow,” Gage said.

“That was amazing,” Dahlia said. Bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, she looked like a seasoned journalist as she unclipped her lapel mike. “Thank you again, so much, for choosing me.”

I plucked off my mike and deposited it on the cushion. “You’re very welcome, Dahlia. It was a good opportunity for both of us.”

“Do you—?” She stopped, pursed her lips, then continued
her question. “Do you mind if I ask you something completely off the record?”

“You can ask anything, but I reserve the right not to answer.”

She nodded. “Back when I asked one of the questions, the one about whether or not you knew why everyone lost their powers, you said no. You didn’t know.”

My stomach knotted. “That’s right.”

“Is that true?”

Had I given that away? I suppose I had hesitated a split second too long, actually thrown by the question. “It was true when I wrote it.”

Dahlia considered my response, then smiled. “Okay.”

A shadow fell across us as William stepped up onto the stage, blessedly blocking some of those horrid lights. I started to shout for someone to have mercy, but they began to dim on their own. Spooky.

“There a men’s room around here?” he asked.

“Back in the greenroom,” Dahlia said. “I’m heading that way, I can show you.”

“Thanks.”

Dahlia shook our hands and expressed half a dozen more thank-yous in the space of thirty seconds, before leading William toward the stage left door. I stood up and stretched, my skin ten degrees cooler with the lights dimmed.

“I wonder when we’ll be leaving,” Gage said

“Whenever you like,” McNally said. I turned and found myself face-to-face with the older woman. She smiled congenially as her curious gaze flickered between us. “They need
to start dressing the stage for the eight a.m. digicast. Mr. Lanthrop is thrilled with your work today, by the way. I think you’ll like the rough cut, improvisations and all.”

One of the PAs bolted through and picked up the discarded lapel mikes, there and gone before I could blink. They moved fast, because they had to. In L.A.’s waning production industry, there was always another intern or wannabe waiting in the wings to get experience at a lower pay rate than the current employee. I could rest soundly knowing no one would ever clamor for my job.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Gage said as he stood. I tucked my arm around his, and we followed McNally toward the studio doors.

“Did Caliber get lost or something?” I asked.

“Maybe Dahlia tricked him into answering more off-the-record questions,” Gage said. “I don’t—” He stiffened. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

“What is it?”

“Do you smell that?” He shook his head. “No, of course you don’t.”

He turned around, spotted his target, and strode toward Mr. Lanthrop. The elderly man was conversing with a pair of matronly women who could have been news anchors as easily as wrestling champs. I scurried behind, alarmed.

“Mr. Lanthrop?” Gage asked. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s all right, Cipher.” Annoyance filtered through his smile. I doubted Gage missed it, he just pointedly ignored it.

“Does this warehouse have a gas lead pipe?”

Lanthrop blinked owlishly. “Um, yes, I believe it does. We
have a gas oven in the break room, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

Gage’s nostrils flared again as he blew out hard through his nose. “Evacuate this building right n—”

The explosion rattled the ground and blew the stage left door off its hinges. It struck the floor, careened sideways, and whacked the sofa for a loop. Wave after wave of superheated air slammed across the studio, knocking us to our knees. A fire alarm wailed somewhere deep inside of the warehouse’s old interior.

“William!” I screamed.

Gage reached for my hand. I shook him loose. He started shouting for everyone to get out and head for the exits, even as I ran the opposite way, toward the explosion and the source of the raging heat.

The PA who’d powdered my nose tumbled out of the open doorway, her face streaked with gray. She fell to her knees, coughed, and tried to run, only to stumble again. I caught her around the waist. She yelped, and I saw the blistered burns on her bare midsection.

“In the … break room,” she sputtered.

I gave the girl a less than gentle shove toward the studio exit, then dashed through the door. The short corridor was stifling, the ceiling clouded with smoke. Orange flames licked the walls ten feet ahead where another door lay in shattered, charred ruins in the center of the hall. More smoke billowed out.

“We have to get out of here fast,” Gage said.

I jumped, heart in my throat. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“If the fire gets into the main gas line, this entire place will go up.”

Flames shot through the destroyed doorway and into the hall, like a puff of dragon’s breath. Just as quickly, it retracted, and a rush of air pulled toward the door, as though playing the entire explosion in reverse. I let it tow me forward, and I grabbed the burnt edge of the doorframe before the drag sucked me inside.

The interior walls of the break room were streaked with black soot and bubbling paint. A table and chairs lay askew in the corner, broken and blistered. The stove was a gutted ruin of twisted metal and exposed wire. William sat upright against the far wall, uniform in tatters, weeping burns on his face and hands. In the center of the room stood Dahlia Perkins, her clothes streaked with ash and not a mark on her exposed skin.

I blinked hard and pinched myself to make sure my eyes weren’t affected by the smoke. She was drawing the heat and remaining licks of fire toward herself, into her body. She stood like a statue, fingers splayed by her sides, saucer-eyed, clearly as shocked as we were, if not more.