Geekerella (Starfield #1)(8)
“He…he’s certainly buffed up for the Federation Prince,” I mutter. “I’ll give him that.”
I stare longer than I want to. Longer that I’ll ever—ever—admit. Darien, clearly loving every minute, spreads his arms and then, after a moment, flourishes a bow toward the audience.
The woman cohost begins fanning herself with her water gun. “Well. That makes up for you losing! Can I touch them?”
Outside, a rumble rips through the air so loud that it quakes the pictures on the mantel and I jump. Crap. I’d know that sound anywhere.
The Magic Pumpkin is coming.
Quickly, I turn back to the TV, clasping the remote like a prayer. “C’mon, just announce who the villain is!” I beg. “Please let it be the Nox King! Please! Please!”
“So, as the hero of the galactic Federation”—big-chin guy gives his cohost a pitying little lady look as Darien pulls his T-shirt back on—“you need a nemesis…”
“Think of the monologues! Think of the OT3s!” I cry out to no one. “Just give me something, universe!”
Big Chin goes on as though I’m not making a very compelling case. “Now I hear the villain has been very hush-hush and there have been some…rumors…going around. About a certain…lady.”
My mouth falls open wordlessly. If it’s a lady, it’s not the Nox King. But then it’ll have to be…
I lean in closer to hear over the rumble of the Pumpkin, holding the candle on the coffee table to keep it from rattling in its jar. Darien Freeman says something snarky, fiddles with his blazer cuffs, and wait for it…wait for it…
I squint to read his lips. They’re nice lips, at least. And I recognize the syllables that push around them. The way his mouth forms the villain’s name, the way his tongue curves around the sound.
The Pumpkin honks from the driveway, and next door, Franco begins yapping. The horn blares again, but Sage is going to have to wait—she’s way early, anyway. I just sit back, stunned. I can’t believe it. They picked the one villain—the one character—I never want to think about again. In the original Starfield, Prince Carmindor shouts her name to the skies with fist-shaking agony, in an image you may recognize from the internet meme “Angry Shouting Soul-Crushing Angst.”
Then again, she’s the only villain who makes sense for a movie reboot. The only one who could rip your weak human heart out of your chest and use your spine like floss against the teeth of agony and bitterness. Prince Carmindor’s one and only love interest.
Princess Amara.
Big Chin looks at the screen. “And if you want to be one of the lucky few to meet the Federation Prince himself, Midlight Entertainment is teaming up with ExcelsiCon this year to host a fan competition! Dress up as your favorite Starfield character and you could win once-in-a-life-time tickets to ExcelsiCon’s masquerade ball, where the winners will be treated to an exclusive meet-and-greet with our man Darien Freeman, plus tickets to the premiere of Starfield in L.A.!”
I shake my head. The only part of that prize I’d want are the tickets to L.A. And maybe the chance to tell Darien Freeman what I think of his stupid, vapid Carmindor to his stupid, vapid face.
Darien Freeman gives the host a weird look. “I…what?”
The host just stares at him, open mouthed. There’s an awkward pause. Then Darien Freeman looks at the TV again. At me. An emotion crosses his face I can’t quite recognize—something he’s trying to hide—and millions of Americans are watching.
“You know, Darien. ExcelsiCon!”
Darien nods distractedly. “Right, right. Sorry. Of course.”
The female cohost puts a hand on his knee. “Darien, it was so nice to have you on the show and we can’t wait for Starfield, coming to theaters next spring!”
Suddenly, there’s a noise off-camera. Shouting. Someone climbs onto the stage and takes a running start for the actor. A girl in a homemade I’LL SEA YOU AT THE COVE T-shirt and bikini bottoms.
Her mouth connects to his with such force that it sends them both tumbling over the sofa. Security swoops in. The camera cuts to a Huggies commercial.
I sink even deeper into Catherine’s squishy chair. This is Starfield now? All of these SeaCos and Darienites flocking to my Starfield? Where they treasure abs and golden sunsets more than lifelong promise-sworns and celebrating your own weirdness?
Fine. If the universe thinks they can dish it, then I can dish it right back. I shove myself to my feet and thunder up the stairs, hurtling into my room. I wrench open my laptop just as Sage lays on the Magic Pumpkin’s horn in my driveway.
I ignore it and pull up my blog. Honestly, Chloe and Cal weren’t wrong—when it comes to the internet, you do need to get your reaction up as soon as possible. And if I do anything in this life, it’s this: writing about the catastrophe that will become Starfield. Documenting it. After forty years this is how Hollywood repays us Stargunners? By giving us Darien Freeman?
FAN-TASTIC OR FAN-SERVICE? I bang out into the “title” field. Perfect.
My fingers shake as they fly across the keyboard. Words just pour out of me. I don’t know where they’re coming from. Maybe years of pent-up rage of not being appreciated. Of having to watch reruns on a secondhand TV for years just to see the HD face of some idiot heartthrob wreck my father’s favorite character.