Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
MYLO
The international terminal at LAX hums with familiar, chaotic energy. The white, sweeping struts that support the roof either strike me like the ribcage of a beached whale that’s swallowed us all into purgatory, or a sleek starship, depending on my mood.
Today it feels more like a starship, so that’s nice.
Tourists arrive and depart, looking around eagerly for the chance to spot a celebrity. I don’t bother telling them they’re wasting their time: the truly famous fly private, and the medium famous are likely tucked away in one of the airport’s many luxury lounges.
I jog up to my gate right as they’re announcing the final boarding call.
Anticipating the time crunch, I brought only my usual carry-on—a sensible black nylon camping backpack with a bright orange luggage tag—which I keep packed at all times.
The contents took me through a two-month Europe trip back in college, and though I’ve upgraded here and there, my approach to shooting on-location is basically the same.
The production will provide everything else I need.
I thank the airline employee who scans my boarding pass, then lope down the jet bridge, joining the end of the line just as it reaches the door.
A tall, willowy flight attendant with dark skin and micro-braids raises a hand apologetically. “Sorry, sir, we’re out of room in the overhead bins. We’ll have to check that.”
“No problem.” I hand over the backpack; my phone, headphones, and passport are already in my pockets.
I tell the attendant my seat number from memory, and he gestures to premium economy. The tall, suited businessman in the aisle seat barely looks up from his phone as I slip past him and settle into the middle seat.
Fine by me. A minute later, I have my headphones in, seatbelt on, and eyes closed. I’ll need to hit the ground running in New Zealand, which means getting as much rest as I can along the way.
Time-of-day wise, New Zealand is only four hours behind LA. But since we fly over the International Date Line in the middle of the Pacific, it’s almost a whole day ahead.
When the plane touches down at five AM local time, I’ve been awake and listening to podcasts for a couple of hours. Jet lag won’t really be an issue going in this direction; if anything, it’ll make those early call times easier.
I still don’t know much. There’s a link in my email to a secure document portal that’s supposed to tell me more, but for the life of me I couldn’t get it to work on the in-flight WiFi.
While the plane taxis, I buy a New Zealand eSim and switch over to cellular data. Still, the portal gives me the same error: Sorry, the document cannot be loaded.
I still haven’t heard back from the sender, so I add another follow-up message to demonstrate I’m being proactive.
The lack of reply isn’t super surprising; the production staff are busy and have likely been sleeping the whole time I’ve been on the plane.
While stars get the white-glove treatment, people like me are expected to be low-maintenance.
Nobody’s going to lose sleep over a stunt performer being a little out-of-the-loop as long as the production keeps spinning.
They have my promise that I’ll be there ASAP, and they’ll be counting on that—and ready to blacklist me should I fail to keep that promise.
Fortunately, I know the drill.
I pause briefly to grab a coffee and a pastry from a café in the terminal, then follow the signs to baggage claim.
Since my bag was the last to go in, it’s one of the first to come out, and I sling it over my shoulder as I stuff the rest of my croissant in my mouth.
After washing it down with burnt coffee, it’s an easy stop in customs to get my passport stamped before heading on down to arrivals and looking for my name.
A middle-aged man in a golf cap holds up a piece of paper with Mylo Rye written in block letters, and I offer a wave as I approach.
“G’day, then!” he says, offering a hand.
I nod and respond with a firm shake, and his smile deepens.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mylo, but you already know that.”
The man chuckles. “Jack. This way, cuz.” He beckons, and I fall into step beside him.
“How’s the flight?” he asks.
“Good. Long.”
Another chuckle. “Good as gold. Well, let a wrinkled ol’ Kiwi welcome you to New Zealand.”
“Thank you.”
I follow Jack outside. The brisk, fifty-degree Auckland winter is a welcome change from LA’s peak summer heat. According to the airline website, it shouldn’t get much colder than forty-five while I’m here.
As we reach the waiting car, a small green sedan, he gestures at me to take the front passenger seat—on the left-hand side of the car, since cars travel in the left lane here.
I’ll be very happy to let locals, or at least people more accustomed to it, handle the driving here.
As soon as I’m buckled up, backpack slung in the back seat, we set out.
I’m dying to ask Jack a thousand questions about the production, but he could be anyone from a local gig driver who knows nothing to the director’s brother, so I have to stay on my best behavior, which means not asking too much.
So, it’s Jack who asks the first question.
“Whatcha doin’ on the movie, ay?”
“I’m a stunt performer.”
“Far out! You wonna those ones’s jumps from buildings?”
“Yeah. And fights, acrobatics, that sort of thing.”
He shakes his head. “Always wanted to ask, ya brave or crazy?”
I chuckle. “Little of both.”
Turns out Jack is a big talker, and he quickly gets into telling me about the landmarks we pass by. He doesn’t give me much chance to respond, which is for the best, since I lose every fourth word on account of either his thick accent or the local slang.
The industrial zone around the airport gives way to suburbs, and the palm trees lining the highway feel oddly similar to LA. As our drive continues, the houses sprawl wider and scrubby brush takes over, unfolding into rolling fields of gold and green.
Jack must know the area well enough to not use a GPS, so I have no idea how much further we have to go, and I’d rather not risk sounding ignorant to ask. It’s not like the answer will change anything.
I have the fleeting thought that there’s a nonzero chance I’m being trafficked right now, but given the brilliant blue sky and friendly company, I figure there are worse fates.
Taller trees rise around us, spindly branches winding outwards to puffs of leaves at the end. With palms still scattered throughout, it’s like California-but-not.
I note the road signs as we pass: bright blue here instead of green, but otherwise familiar.
We seem to be heading toward Bethells Beach, though what really catches my eye is a hand-painted community notice board pinned with equally handmade signs advertising wetland restoration, a local cafe, a recruiting poster for a Junior Surf program, and even a hand-drawn memorial plaque for a name I don’t quite catch.
We take a turn onto a single-lane road—mercifully still paved—as we head deeper into what I’m assuming is a wildlife reserve.
As the car summits a low crest, rolling hills unfold before us, trees glimmering emerald under the azure sky. The farthest hills turn hazy with distance, yet remain breathtakingly brilliant.
Goddamn, if all I get out of this trip is the free flight, it’ll have been worth it.
Even Jack quiets a bit, making a few affectionate remarks about the landscape but otherwise just enjoying it.
Shortly after the road turns to gravel, we pass around a bend and come upon a patch of modernity.
White trailers line up along a gravel lot, squeezed close as if self-conscious about encroaching on the forest’s space.
I gratefully note a cluster of blue portable toilets, jarringly identical to the ones back in the States.
Jack stops amidst the trailers. He turns off the car and gets out, which means he’s more than just a gig driver.
I hop out and follow him, which seems to be what he expects. “Bella shouldn’t be far…”
“Bella Zepper?” I blurt, and it’s just about the only name that could get me to lose my cool.
Jack turns to me with a grin. “Yeah, you know ‘er?”
“I know of her.” It’s a struggle to rein myself in.
Bella Zepper is one of the most well-known and well-respected stunt performers in all of film history.
She’s doubled for a whole slew of female superheroes, was a pioneer of women’s acceptance in the industry, and whoever she takes under her wing has stunt work for life.
This can’t be real life.
A trailer opens, Jack waves, and out steps Bella Zepper. She’s fit in her early sixties, blonde and tanned, with a face aged by sun and cigarettes, now warmed by a genuine smile.
“Jacko! And you must be Mylo.”
Then, in a dream-like haze, Bella Zepper is shaking my hand.
I manage to look outwardly calm as she and Jack exchange some quick words, then Jack departs with a lively “Cheers, eh!” which Bella echoes.
I finally find my bearings and clear my throat. Getting star struck is a great way to not get invited back. Stunt performers are often in close proximity to A-listers, and the production crew has to be confident you won’t embarrass them.
I really couldn’t care less about A-listers. But this is Bella Zepper.
“I’m a huge fan of your work,” I say, compartmentalizing again and finding that inner calm that keeps me steady even when I’m a hundred feet off the ground without a wire.
“The feeling is mutual,” Bella says smoothly. “You’ve got a talent for imitating mannerisms. Reshooting stunts isn’t an option, so we’re depending on you to match Alanna exactly.”
“She doing alright?” I ask, carefully choosing words to mask that I have no fucking idea what’s going on.
Bella gives a nod and a sad smile. “As well as can be expected. Physically, the surgery went well, and she’ll make a full recovery within a year. Emotionally, she’s devastated.”
“I can imagine. Any insights on what went wrong?” My survival instincts haven’t totally abandoned me. This work is dangerous to begin with, and a negligent director or stunt coordinator ups that risk by an order of magnitude.
Bella’s lips press into a thin line, and her shoulders tense. “It was a dead man’s fall. She landed on her wrist, and the angle was just wrong. Tore a ligament.”
It’s a common stunt: you wear a harness with a wire attached to an object that won’t move.
If you fully commit to a forward sprint, when you hit the end of the line, it stops your body suddenly and you fall.
It’s a pretty convincing approximation of getting shot at close range or blown back by an explosion.
“The kind of thing we’ve all done a hundred times,” I say with a solemn nod.
Overall, the story passes my sniff test: footfalls are responsible for more injuries than you’d think, since you only have so much time to react being so close to the ground, and every fall is different.
Plus, a lot of stunt performers are on the extra-bendy side.
It’s usually an asset, but when you land at just the wrong angle, having looser ligaments makes you more prone to tearing them.
I continue, “You can only have pads in so many places. Unlucky.”
Bella sighs, forcing her shoulders back down. Her expression is something like motherly guilt. “I take every injury personally; I’m sure you understand. Please feel free to ask me anything. I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I offer a wry smile. “There are few sets safer than one where a freak accident just occurred.”
Bella mirrors my expression. “Don’t I know it. Any questions before I take you to meet the team?”
A million. But I can’t risk looking unprepared, even if the job is last minute and it’s not my fault the portal malfunctioned. I should be able to piece most of it together before anybody asks me to step into a harness. I’ll tip my hand at that point, if I have to. But not sooner.
“I’m more of a hands-on learner, to be honest.”
“Choice,” Bella says with a grin and a convincing New Zealand accent. “She’ll be right.” She waves me to follow her through the trailers.
“Actually, I might need a crash course in Kiwi slang from you…”