Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
MYLO
Haley’s off the hook for shooting today, but she still comes to find me and ask if it’s alright if she watches. I’m happy to have her company as wardrobe, hair, and makeup work their magic again, transforming me into Melinoe.
It’s better than thinking about Christine.
I had another weird dream. This time, the ocean was grey and black, frothing with a storm. I woke up in the same… state as before. Solved the problem. Took another icy shower.
As I was toweling off, it occurred to me that I might have overreacted yesterday. I think the nausea took more out of me than I realized. It was back with a vengeance this morning until my Dramamine kicked in.
Somehow Haley and I ended up talking about embarrassing high school stories with Sharon, our makeup artist. It’s a great way to pass the time until we’re called onset.
We pile into a van for the short ride over to the rig, which now sits ten feet above the ground to accommodate the safety net.
Christine hasn’t been called yet, so I work with the stunt team to go through the initial safety testing.
“Let me get a feel for this net.”
There’s a ladder set up so I can get into the fuselage, and once I give the okay, the rig rises and lifts the net with it, up to about thirty feet.
The dark, fine net almost disappears, like the screen on a window.
My heart’s been running fast all morning, and it kicks higher. I take the kind of deep, intentional breaths that tell my nervous system we’re on the same side here.
The best way to get over a fear of heights?
To fall.
Once the crew at the base gives me the thumbs-up, I step out of the door of the plane, then land on my back.
The fine net is both softer and springier than I expect.
It’s a different experience than landing on an airbag, but the principles are all the same.
Try to land on your back, spread out the force.
Protect your head; never land on rigid legs.
I push easily upright, taking a few steps along the net to get used to the feel. Seeing the drop clearly between my feet sends a pang of adrenaline through my chest, and I smile at the thrill.
Yeah. Today’s gonna be fun.
I grab a luggage strap left intentionally dangling from the doorway and climb up it to get back into the plane.
I take a few more falls, including a header (flipping over my head and landing on my back) and a suicide (falling face-first, then flipping over at the last second) to get a sense for how the net responds and work the excess adrenaline out of my muscles.
Spotting the net is a little harder than I’m used to.
Given a day of practice, it’d be second nature, but I don’t have a day.
I grab the walkie-talkie I was given and page the ground crew. “Can we get some more of that orange safety ribbon? I want to tie a few lengths into the net to have some brighter points to spot from.”
The response crackles in from Pauli, “No worries, cuz. We’ll ‘ave her done.”
I stay in the net as the rig slowly lowers. It stops a few feet off the ground, and I bounce across and vault over the edge of the frame as Christine, Lana, and Bella arrive.
Lana and Bella find Andy and talk through the plan.
Christine lingers near me, but doesn’t say anything.
When you’re lower on the pecking order on a movie set, you learn to apologize first, whether it’s really your fault or not.
“Sorry about yesterday,” I offer. “I… overreacted. What you do in your free time is none of my business.”
That icy blue gaze meets mine, steady as ever. “I do take this seriously.”
“I know.”
Christine eyes the rig, already a good bit higher than when we were in it yesterday, but at less than half its full height. She certainly looks serious.
It’s not so hard to find a teasing tone. “You’re not going to chicken out on me once we’re up there, are you?”
There’s a flicker of surprise, then that cocky smile settles into place. “You wish.”
Andy comes over. “You ready to do this?”
I shrug. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Christine casually folds her arms. “What he said.”
We take the ladder back up into the rig, and the camera winds into place.
“Slow and steady this time,” Andy says over the radio. Our handset to reply is cleverly hidden amidst the plane’s cargo and instruments. “I want Lana to see the angles. We’ll go to right before the drop. Better to do as few of those as necessary.”
I reach for the handset and push the button to reply. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
They can see us over the live camera feed, so Christine and I both give a thumbs-up.
The rig begins to rise.
I keep my eyes upward, on the wisps of clouds across the bright morning sky.
There’s so much tech crammed into this rig that the camera and its track seem to blend right in. It suddenly doesn’t feel like a set.
It’s just me and Christine.
Or, really, Melinoe and Electra.
Maybe it’s the striking heroic costume, the prop Thunder Stone sparkling from a cord around her neck, the sea breeze ruffling through her platinum hair, how her eyes catch the light and seem to glow, or the rare glimpse of an honest, unguarded expression, but I can suddenly understand why she’s ‘America’s sweetheart. ’
She’s gorgeous and powerful and focused.
Electricity seems to crackle through the air.
Alejandro’s voice comes over the radio. “Marks.”
“See you in a sec.”
Christine nods.
Since this scene begins with Melinoe infiltrating the plane, the shot begins with me swinging in through the open door.
The radio buzzes again, “Christine, move about six inches to your right and center the Thunder Stone. We want to make sure it’s catching the light at the start of the shot.”
The rig shifts slightly as Christine follows directions.
The sea breeze ruffles through my hair—or, well, through my wig.
Sixty feet is plenty high to let the vista unfold, rolling emerald hills turning to mist on one side, ocean rippling to the far horizon on the other.
Fuck, it’s gorgeous.
I can just barely hear Lana’s voice the moment before it crackles over the radio.
“Three… Two… One… Action!”
Let’s rock and roll.
I strike a low, slinky pose. Even though I’m out-of-shot, it helps me find Melinoe’s headspace.
I grip the top edge of the doorframe and front-flip into the plane’s fuselage, landing low and silent in a crouch behind Electra. My movements are fluid and twisting, giving the post-production team as much to work with as possible when they add in Melinoe’s shadow effects.
Like a cat in the bushes, I move slowly, setting up my strike.
Out of the corner of my eye, I track the camera. Once it hits the perfect position, I pounce.
Christine’s quiet gasp as she startles is real, but we practiced enough that she still blocks my lunge, stepping around to keep the Thunder Stone out-of-reach.
“Melinoe! You don’t need to do this, your father—”
I strike again, forcing Electra onto the defensive. She dodges. Then again. And again. I start slow, gradually speeding up, helping Christine find the rhythm as I push and pull her in front of the camera.
We carefully watch for our marks, hitting the high-tension moments when the camera is in just the right spot. I clamber along the ceiling and drop down onto Christine, hooking an arm around her neck. She slams me into the wall and I sell the impact, then slide off and reset.
A few passes later, she goes on the offensive, and I use her own momentum to throw her into padding disguised as a tarp in the cargo nets.
All the while, the cabin blares with alarms, lights flashing.
The longer the scene continues, the more we sink into it. Electra snarls, huffs, and pleads.
I play off her energy, taunting and leading, feinting a few times just to make her flinch.
Slowly, we build toward the climactic moment. As I lunge for her, I pretend to miss, soaring out the open door and landing on the wing. The danger feels real, clambering over a slippery plane sixty feet high, and it keeps me agile and sharp.
The camera follows me over and around as I clamber over the top of the plane, then drop back through the other open door and swing a kick into Electra from behind.
Electra stumbles forward, then pushes off the inside wall of the fuselage, using the force to increase the speed of her lunge.
I let it come. She locks iron-strong arms around my waist, but I take that chance to slip the Thunder Stone from her neck, making sure it’s out-of-view for the camera.
Once the stone is secure in my hand, I reach out for the conduits and use them to yank myself upwards and out of her grip.
I turn a smug look at Electra, waiting as the camera slides around to the right spot for the next maneuver. The rig shudders in warning, and I begin the countdown for the hit.
Three… two… one.
I let go, and as I drop, it looks like I’ll land on my feet.
As-planned, the plane lurches, and the floor smacks across my back.
My toes get down in the nick of time to protect my tailbone, and pain rings through my shoulders.
Still in control, I slam my arms into the metal, making a clang that sounds like I hit my head.
My body goes limp, and I slide toward the open door as the rig tips further.
I convince my body to stay totally relaxed, forcing an exhale as I trust the rig to do what it’s been designed to do and drop me right over the airbag. If everything’s gone to plan, the frame for the net has folded neatly out of the way, and the camera will follow its track to chase my fall.
I’ll slide out on my side, tipping myself to face the ground as I go. That’ll let me spot my mark on the airbag and flip onto my back at the last second.
Nothing to do but trust that everything’s in place.
As I feel empty air under my shoulder, I open my eyes and begin to turn over. The bright red circle on the center of the airbag is directly underneath me, and I surrender to the fall.
My heart pounds in my ears. I slip into the open air.
Something hot and tight closes around my wrist.
My fall wrenches to a stop as pain tears through my shoulder, turning into a choked scream in my throat.
Fucking hell.
Adrenaline and experience keep me focused. I hang from my arm, and my shoulder is definitely dislocated. I take a steadying breath and look up.
The iron force holding my wrist is Christine’s hand. Beyond it, I glimpse her fear-stricken face.
If she drops me now, I’m fucked. I don’t have any leverage to start a spin, and if I hit the airbag feet-first, I could easily break a leg—or worse.
Two thoughts go through my mind.
One: If we break character now, this whole shot is ruined.
Two: I saw the airbag. I didn’t hear the radio call out an issue. Do I trust Christine or the stunt crew more?
I trust the stunt crew.
The show goes on.
I snarl—it’s not hard, with the pain—and haul my body weight up with my core, planting my feet against the lower edge of the door.
I flash the Thunder Stone in my free hand, taunting Electra, and Melinoe’s voice rings in my mind.
If I can’t have it, then neither can you.
I tense the muscles in my dislocated arm as much as I can, then kick off the door, yanking my arm out of Christine’s grip.
As I fall headfirst, Christine’s anguished cry follows me.
In that moment, I don’t know if I’m Melinoe gaining the upper hand or Mylo falling to my death.
The red circle gets closer.
At the last second, I tuck and roll, bringing my back into contact with the airbag as I brace wide with my legs and good arm.
I’m alive.
With a dislocated fucking shoulder.
“I’m good!” I yell.
There’s only a second before I’ll be swarmed by concerned stunt crew. I take a deep breath, try to relax on the exhale, and wrench my shoulder back into place with a low pop. It’s not the first time I’ve dislocated a shoulder; hypermobile joints will do that to you.
It fucking hurts, but nothing’s permanently torn, and it’ll heal fast: one of the few perks of being an omega, I guess.
I work my way carefully off the bag, leading with a thumbs-up with my good arm.
Bella hurries over. “Mylo! Are you okay?”
“Yep. All good. Just need to walk this off.” I rotate the injured shoulder to keep it from freezing up, gritting my teeth at the pain.
When I give a thumbs-up with both hands, most of the crew relaxes. Bella sends a couple of them to go get ice and nods at Gabriel to tell Lana I’m fine.
Then it’s just me and Bella there, and she leans close.
“Mylo, are you sure you’re alright? I heard your shoulder over the mic.”
Yeah, that about tracks. “Bark’s worse than the bite.”
“A shoulder’s a big deal.”
“Exactly,” I say quietly. “And I can finish shooting.”
Bella looks me in the eyes, and I know she’s trying to see through me. “Mylo…”
“It’s happened before. I swear, it’s fine.”
“You don’t have to be honest with anyone else,” she whispers, “but you have to be honest with me.”
“Bella, I mean it. It’s fine. I’m fucking pissed, but my shoulder is fine. God, I hope that shot’s perfect.”
Bella searches my gaze again. In this moment, she shows the sharp edge that makes her so good at this.
There’s concern, but not pity. She knows I’m tough, that I can and will roll with the punches and thank her for the opportunity. She’s gauging exactly how much I’m lying, and she’s balancing the liability to the production and my chance of further injury with how bad she knows I want this.
Bella may be pissed, too.
I suddenly realize this is what I crave but will never get from my mother. Someone looking out for me who’s also willing to respect my addiction to this insane job.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, voice softening. “I really will be fine. Ice’ll help.”
Bella finally nods. “I’ll go talk to Lana. Ice and rest for a full fifteen minutes. No buts. I’m going to push her to take that shot. What’s your limit?”
“Tomorrow I could do five. Ten. Whatever.”
“Storm’s coming in tomorrow. Rig’s gotta go down tonight.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” I sigh and test my shoulder, jaw tensing to keep from wincing. Another take will require twisting, hanging, lunging, and doing that fall again. “I’ve got one more solid run in me. If Lana wants any more footage than that, she’s going to have to give up the oner.”
Bella gives a sharp nod. “Roger. I’ll be back as soon as I have the word.”
One of the stunt crew members pulls up a chair as a production assistant brings over a disposable ice pack.
I wave off the concerns of the stunt crew, but as that ice pack settles on my shoulder, it’s sweet relief.
The pain radiates down the back of my arm, throbbing through my elbow and down to my fingers.
God, I am going to kill Christine.