The Princess and the Fangirl

by Ashley Poston

  His voice, languid and commanding, slithers across the crowd. “Any volunteers?”

  Everything I know about Starfield changes in an instant. Of course no one wants to be conscripted to the Path of the Sun—it’s like watching Patrick Stewart be assimilated into the Borg—but honestly I don’t think anyone’s thinking straight. I know I’m not.

  In that moment, I admit I’m kind of fantasizing about how long that conscription would take.

  The crowd explodes like the Death Star after Luke hits the sweet spot.

  Amon stands as the lights rise and then walks in front of the table. “Vance Reigns, everyone!”

  Vance Reigns.

  Ohmygod. The heartthrob who stole MTV’s Hottest Actor award from Darien Freeman last year. The face of Chanel advertisements. The magic-sword-carrying hero in the Blades of Valor TV series. The guy I watched play Never Have I Ever and cop to “had a crush on Ron Swanson.”

  That Vance Reigns.

  I swallow thickly.

  Amon grabs him by the shoulder and grins, pleased as a peacock. “And Vance, can you tell me who you’ll be playing?”

  The golden knight sneers, still in character. “General Sond, you plebeian.”

  Vance Reigns is playing General Ambrose Sond.

  A villain who somehow got into the hearts and minds of half the Starfield fandom and became a reoccurring character. A problematic fave if I’ve ever known one. An antihero. Not quite evil, but not all good either. A zealot of the Path of the Sun who believed in harnessing the Black Nebula to become a god. But Princess Amara saved everyone in that three-episode arc because she couldn’t be conscripted to the cult due to her half-Noxian lineage. She brought Carmindor back from its depths, and he ended up trapping General Sond in a cryogenic chamber, never to be woken again.

  And I realize as I glance over at Darien, who seems to come to the exact same conclusion at the exact same moment:

  Princess Amara is very much dead, and if they wake General Sond, there will be no one left to save the Federation Prince.

  * * *

  AS WE LEAVE THE STAGE, I train my mouth to stay in a straight line. Amon slaps Vance Reigns on the back for a job well done with one hand and slides his phone into his back pocket with the other. I can’t help but give both of them a wary eye. I guess I could have predicted General Sond as the new villain. You know, if they hadn’t killed Amara at the end of the Starfield reboot. So now I’m beginning to wonder, will someone else be immune to General Sond’s conscriptions? Will that just eliminate the importance and agency of how Amara defeated him to begin with?

  Princess Amara is supposed to be unique in that way—she can’t be swayed or conscripted. She can barely be told no, for starflame’s sake.

  I don’t like this.

  I follow the rest of the cast down the private hallway and into the green room, which is little more than a hotel meeting space with a few chairs and a measly buffet. Darien grabs a water bottle and offers it to me. “You okay?”

  “Hmm?” I don’t realize I’m chewing on my thumbnail until it’s too late, and quickly pluck it out of my mouth. “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Is she okay?” he adds in a quieter tone, and my breath hitches. He means Jess. So he knows—like yesterday, he knows.

  “Listen, Jess was—”

  He puts a finger to his lips and his eyes flick to a nearby volunteer. Right, people could overhear us. You’re being real smooth, Imogen.

  I whisper, “She’s fine. Did you—did you know? About…” I motion toward the film star in his golden cloak as he and Amon come into the green room.

  Darien lifts an eyebrow. “No. I mean, I assumed there’d be another villain besides the Nox King, but we were told it’d be a surprise.”

  “I wish it was a different surprise. I hate that guy,” Calvin interjects, coming between Darien and me. He grabs a sandwich from the snack table. We’re all staring across the green room at Amon and Vance laughing it up, feeling like we’re the old toys in a playroom. “No one asked me to go onstage in costume.”

  “Or me,” Darien adds, and his voice has a weird edge.

  “Didn’t Vance beat you for best stud of the year or something?” Calvin asks, earning a glare from his co-star.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Darien deadpans.

  Calvin shrugs and chomps into a tuna melt.

  My stomach growls. Jess didn’t tell me a rule about not eating in public, but I’m pretty frakkin’ sure she’d chase me down and stuff me in a hundred sardine cans if I blew tuna breath on everyone. I’m so hungry even Pizza the Hut sounds delicious right now.

  “Crap, act natural, here they come.” Darien quickly turns toward me as Amon and Vance saunter over. Darien gives me a half smile, but it’s a weird one. Like he’s encouraging me that I have this. Why wouldn’t I?

  Amon and Vance join us, but I can tell it isn’t because they want to shoot the breeze. I shouldn’t be here, I realize, looking around to see if I can escape. Jess’s assistant finally dips into the Green Room, making a beeline for me, but security stops him and asks for his badge. He pushes up his glasses as he assesses my situation.

  “Help,” I mouth.

  His eyes dart to the real actors—and then he shrugs and mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Thanks, buddy.

  “Jess, did you hear me?”

  My ears prick as I whirl back to Amon.

  “I, um…no.”

  Amon laughs. “You’re always a breath of fresh air, Jess. I hope everyone enjoyed the panel. As I said, the script leaking is real. But we’ve been told by the higher-ups to sandbag every question—”

  Say it now. You didn’t have a chance to on the panel. Bring up the #SaveAmara initiative.

  “Actually,” I interrupt, “wouldn’t it be a good time to talk about some of the fan movements, especially the Save Am—”

  “Amon,” Darien interrupts, giving me a strange look. “You said you needed to talk to me about something?”

  The director claps his hands. “Right! Jess, can you excuse us? Just put a pin in our conversation and I’ll be back later.” He takes Darien by the shoulder and steers him away.

  The strained smile across my lips falters. Why did Darien interrupt me? Does he do that in real life? Just interrupt people?

  I guess being a movie star has gone to his head.

  Calvin also slinks off, back to the snack table, where he picks up another tuna melt.

  So now I’m alone. In the green room. With Vance Reigns, like, ten feet away.

  General Sond. It’s still so weird. I’m not sure whether I’m absolutely terrified of him or really digging the long white-blond hair. He looks like Orlando Bloom as Legolas, and my childhood Lord of the Rings trash self is low-key screaming right now.

  Okay, maybe not low-key.

  My moms say I don’t do anything low-key.

  Vance approaches me, sipping a cup of water.

  “Where did everyone go?” he asks in a surprising English accent. I did not realize he was English.

  “To, ah…they went…”

  Brain, you have failed me for the last time.

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Vance,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you earlier. It was just my cue, and you know how we Brits like our queues.”

  I think he’s trying to make a joke about standing in lines, but all I can do is stare at him.

  I thought being flabbergasted by Darien was the extent of my fangirling, but this is insanely different.

  One, Vance is single (and straight, with the exception of Ron Swanson), which means my inner monologue can’t scream but his girlfriend/boyfriend/partner! Thus the unoccupied part of my brain is already marrying him and having his children and—

  Two, being in the same room with him is like being next to the sun. He is face-meltingly hot. His shoulders and chest are broad, his torso tapers down to thin hips and sturdy legs. I mean, not that his legs
wouldn’t be sturdy, but you know the kind of legs where you just know, under the molten-golden trousers, that he can basically smash watermelons between them? Yeah, that’s the kind of thighs I’m picturing, and I think my knees have gone numb and oh dear god he’s way too close. He clasps his hands behind his back in this unassuming, almost boyish way and gives me a smile that exudes warmth and honesty and long walks on the beach, causing the system-wide meltdown of Imogen Lovelace.

  Mayday. I am in trouble.

  He’s playing the villain?

  “So,” he says languidly, almost in a purr, and that coupled with the English lilt of his voice makes me remember how much I love accents. His, specifically, the way it forms around his lips. “You’re the infamous Jessica Stone.”

  What are words? Who am I?

  I think my ovaries are exploding.

  “I…ah…” I have absolutely nothing in my head. It’s a blank slate. His smile renders me absolutely and ridiculously incompetent.

  I didn’t think I was this kind of girl. I’ve never been speechless before.

  Lies! my emergency reboot program howls. All lies!

  He goes on, oblivious to my distress. “I know we kind of got off on the wrong foot. I honestly didn’t want to interrupt you, but Amon thought it would serve the best dramatic effect. I want to get off on the right foot, so…do you have plans tonight?”

  What are plans?

  I am a puddle of human flesh who can’t even form words because his eyes are the prettiest shade of blue I have ever seen and his eyelashes are long and his eyebrows are well groomed and his face has just enough stubble to make his General Sond cosplay believable and terrifying and…

  So hot.

  “Plans?” I squeak.

  He smiles, and my melted brain goes into overdrive, launching a thousand OTPs. Sond and Carmindor. Sond and Euci. Sond and the Nox King. Sond and Amara. Sond and Zorine.

  Sond and me.

  “I was thinking we could get dinner.” His laugh jerks me from my stupor.

  “I…we…ummm…”

  Think, Monster!

  But it’s no use. I am now made of idiocy, my brain launching ships that I shall go down with—

  An arm loops under mine and pulls me to the side. Sweet cologne, a starchy suit jacket. Ethan, I realize. “Sorry, but we have plans,” he says.

  Vance’s face falls slightly. “Oh, that’s a pity. Well, all right then. If you do end up free tonight, I’ll be watching reruns of Parks and Rec in my hotel room here at the Marriott if you need me.”

  “I’m here at the Marriott!” I gasp. We have so much in common already!

  “Good. Maybe I’ll see you there.” Then he leans in and murmurs in my ear so Ethan can’t hear, “And maybe we can talk about saving Amara. I’ll call you tonight.”

  He knows about my initiative?

  He will call me tonight?

  Au contraire, he can call on me anytime he—

  Imogen, breathe.

  Before I can muster up the brain power to say anything, Ethan clears his throat. “It was a pleasure, Vance. Jess, we have to go.”

  He drags me away from my hunka-hunka-evil-space-general-Englishman-lover and doesn’t let go until we are well out of the green room and in one of the off-limits stairwells. He whirls to me, his lips set in a thin line.

  Ruh-roh. That’s not a happy face.

  “You will not get away with this,” Ethan snaps.

  I blink. “With what?”

  He takes out his phone and shows me my profile on Twitter,@OhSparkleMonster. “Jess might not have done any digging, but I sure have. You started the Save Amara movement. That’s why you were so willing to trade places with her. Your outburst yesterday on the panel makes so much sense now—” This he says more to himself than to me.

  My mouth falls open. I don’t know whether to be offended or to applaud him for figuring me out.

  He puts his phone away. “You don’t understand what’s at stake. I won’t allow it—and neither will Darien.”

  I scoff. “Allow me? What can you do to stop me?”

  “You’ll ruin her career.”

  “Ruin it? I’m going to save it! If the world knows that Jessica Stone backs the movement, maybe the producers will think twice about killing her. Or having her stay dead.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to get behind the movement.”

  “Maybe she should. Maybe she should stop being Burr and start being Hamilton.”

  He blinks. Of course that reference went straight over his head. He’s the pencil-straight, button-up-shirt kind of guy who probably listens to smooth jazz while reading a Stephen Hawking book. Which is fine, no shade there, but ugh. Of course I have to be stuck with the most uncool person at the con—

  He steps up to me, looming like the five-foot-eleven beanpole he is, and says in a soft rumble, “She is. She just doesn’t want to waste her shot.”

  Gooseflesh ripples across my skin.

  “You know the rules,” he says. “And that thing you just tried to pull with Vance? Yeah, smooth move, criminal.”

  “I wasn’t actually—that wasn’t—I had it under control.”

  “Right, ‘under control.’” He puts it in finger quotes. Starflame, who does that anymore? “Jess would never have given him that much face time. Not to mention he interrupted you.”

  “It was a great entrance!” I defend. “And it was a crowd-pleaser. Besides, he apologized.”

  “Get the lovesick out of your ears, Imogen.”

  I grit my teeth as I feel a blush redden my face. “I am not lovesick. I just had a minor brain fart, okay?”

  “A brain…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and mumbles under his breath, “I should get a raise for this.” Then he pushes up his thick black glasses. “Jess—you—have a meet-and-greet in”—he checks his watch—“twenty minutes. We should get lunch, and I’ll teach you how she signs her name, and you need to fix your makeup and—”

  “Chill, dude.”

  He shakes his head. “Jess’s career is already on the line and I’m here to make sure she doesn’t screw up her chances because of some rapscallion look-alike.” He stands a little straighter, as if needing the extra height in order to call me names, even though he is already a full head taller than me.

  Which, point taken. He does. Especially after that name-calling.

  “Rapscallion?” I echo, keeping my voice even. “That’s all you’ve got? Rapscallion?”

  He hesitates, unsure whether I’m just so angry that I’ve lost all inflection or I’m about to burst out laughing. “It—it sounded fine in my head.”

  And he looks so uncomfortable and so embarrassed but trying so hard to keep his cool that I just sort of…lose it.

  Laughter bubbles up through my chest and I double over in hysterics, gasping for breath. “Ohmygod, rapscallion! It’s like you’re from some eighties fantasy cult classic or something! Ohmygod, my spleen. Where did you get that—your mother’s regency novel? ‘Hark, you dastardly rapscallion!’ What do you say when you’re really pissed?” I straighten enough to twist my voice into that of a crotchety old man: “‘Oy, you rascally kids, get off my lawn!’ Oh, you and Pretzel Henry would get along so well!”

  And then I bend over into another gasp of laughter.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbles, but there’s definitely a red tinge to his cheeks. He folds his arms over his chest and looks away. “And who’s Pretzel Henry?”

  When I’m finally able to calm down, I wipe the tears from my eyes and blink at the ceiling. “Oh my God, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages. My mascara isn’t running, is it?” I ask, batting my lashes at him.

  He looks into my eyes, and oh—he is blushing. He quickly looks away. “No, it’s fine. Come on. We should get lunch.”

  “But shouldn’t you text Jess about this first?”

  He pauses midturn. “I already did. She’d want to know about Vance—”

  “No, I meant about you secretly being an old m
an in a young body,” I say, at which he frowns again.

  +10 Disapproval.

  “Ha ha. Come on.” He turns abruptly and marches out of the stairwell, and I feel a grin tugging at my lips before I can stop it.

  “Whatever you say, old man.”

  He tosses over his shoulder in a startingly awful Yoda impersonation, “Master Ethan it is to you, young Jedi.”

  Five minutes later, he peels me up off the floor because I’ve died and become one with the Force.

  And then it hits me—

  If the script is real, then Amara is truly, truly dead. And that means I’ve failed. I failed, like I always fail, and our princess is never coming back—

  No.

  Just because there’s a script doesn’t mean the fate of the character can’t change. Like Agent Coulson in the MCU! Darth Maul in Star Wars! Spike in Buffy! Freaking angel Castiel in Supernatural! Axel in Kingdom Hearts! I can go on. It’s not unheard of, and I still have time.

  I have to.

  “HERE,” SAYS THE MUSCULAR GUY WITH the gray lock of hair, handing me a rag full of ice he got from a nearby vendor selling water bottles and shaved ice. I’m sitting against a wall, close to where I bit the ground. “You hit your head pretty hard.”

  I take the ice pack gratefully and press it against the side of my face. I don’t think I have a concussion, but this is exactly why I don’t do my own stunts. I hiss as the cold cloth touches the growing bruise on my cheek.

  How am I going to explain this to Ethan, or Diana, or at the pressers I have after this convention?

  Thankfully, I have makeup. I guess.

  My pursuers had quickly helped me up from my faceplant and are now squatting beside me. Well, the waifish guy in the witch’s hat is leaning on his umbrella, looking down at me as if he can’t quite figure out who I am. But I am most definitely not “Monster.”

  I hate conventions.

  “What happened to the Nox King?” asked the burly one to his friend.