The Princess and the Fangirl

Oh starflame. My cover is so blown.

But as I make my way up the stairs, he does the weirdest thing—Darien Freeman loops his arm through one of mine. “You’ll be fine,” he whispers, and leads me onto the stage like…

Like we’re friends.

I know a lot about Darien Freeman and Jessica Stone and Calvin Rolfe. I follow the gossip blogs and watch TMZ. But somehow it never crossed my mind that Darien and Jessica could be friends. Well, that anyone could be Jessica’s friend. Not because she’s mean or curt or aloof (though she is kind of all of those things, but who can blame her?) but because…

I don’t know.

Of course they’d be friends.

And for a moment I feel like an imposter again—someone who’s stepped into someone else’s life undeserving.

Why am I so nervous?

I wasn’t nervous yesterday, when I was pretending to be a girl I only knew from interviews and rumors on Twitter and Insta comments. But now I’m supposed to be her—not a caricature— only better. The Jessica that everyone wants Jessica to be.

The one who would sign the #SaveAmara petition.

Remember your goal.

I have a job to do, and a career to save, and a princess to rescue. Or, at least, an argument to make for the princess to rescue herself.

I might not know who I am sometimes, but I know who everyone wants Jessica Stone to be. I know who I want Jessica Stone to be. Someone in whom every girl can see herself.

I am Jessica Stone.

The din of the room just a few moments ago goes deathly quiet as we all take the stage. Darien lets go of my arm as we reach our seats. I take the chair between Darien and Calvin—the one with Jessica Stone’s name card in front of it—and sit down, brushing my fake brown hair behind my shoulder in what I hope is a cool, aloof Jessica Stone way.

I breathe deeply and raise my eyes to the crowd. Three thousand pairs stare back, the stage lights almost blinding me as they rise to illuminate us.

The moderator introduces herself as Laurel Brinkley, a columnist for a sci-fi magazine, and asks us to introduce ourselves and name our favorite villains.

Amon leans into the microphone, mulling over the question with a dramatic pause. “That’s a tough one. Oh! By the way, I’m Amon Wilkins, the director of Starfield and the upcoming untitled sequel. I want to say I’m my favorite villain because who on earth would do what I did to poor Amara?” He winks at me, and I am really regretting my decision to like him. “But I digress. My favorite’s the Nox King. Robert sends his regards, by the way. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

The crowd cheers, and he gives them a quick wave.

“You took mine,” complains Calvin. “So I guess probably Darth Vader if we’re sticking old-school. He’s super scary. I’m Calvin Rolfe, also known as Euci. Hi everyone, thanks for coming!”

There’s a steady cheer from the crowd.

And then it’s Darien’s turn. A chorus of squeals erupts and outlasts all the other welcoming applause. He waves, disarming the screams of lust with a dashing smile, and the audience quickly quiets down. “I’m Darien Freeman, and I’d probably have to be the odd fish out and say the xenomorphs from Alien. They are terrifying.”

“That they are,” agrees the moderator, and then all four of them look down the panel to hear my answer.

Well.

I squint through the glare of the lights to the front row. To Jessica’s assistant, who crosses his arms and shifts in his seat like a bored four-year-old at a movie, as if he’s already predicted exactly what I will do.

Well, think again, bucko.

“I think everyone knows who I am,” I begin in Jessica’s sweet voice, turning my gaze to the audience, “and the most terrifying villain is, without a doubt, m—”

The stage lights flicker.

A crackling boom erupts from the speakers.

And a masculine voice, low and soft, purrs:

“Me.”

I jerk back from the microphone. What’s happening?

Everyone twists around, craning their necks to glimpse the source of the voice. Darien and Calvin look over, as if I’m the one doing it, but I shake my head. The lights flicker brightly again and then go out.

Something catches the corner of my eye.

A figure is coming up the back stairs to the stage, a golden robe billowing behind him, glimmering like the sun.

My stomach flops.

Me, I was going to say. Amara. But I’d forgotten about one villain. He was in only a few episodes but sent invisible spiders crawling across my skin the second I first saw him. The Nox King may be scary, but he’s nothing like this guy.

The figure in the gold costume stalks in front of the panel table; in the darkened room, his uniform shines like it’s made of the sun itself. Lights embedded in his cape blink and sparkle, neon-yellow piping underneath his crisp Noxian uniform glows. But he’s not Noxian, not in the least, with long white-blond hair braided down one shoulder and his pointed yet human cheekbones. He wears fear on his sleeves like precious cuff links and tugs at them as he stops center stage.

Is he here to interrupt the panel? Darien and Calvin don’t seem to understand either. They’re looking back at the volunteer behind the stage and then at Amon.

Who is smiling.

Oh. I get it.

This is part of the program.

The golden man outstretches his arms, and in the darkness I can hear the murmur of the crowd, the click of cell phone cameras, the rustling of bodies to get a better view.

He says, “My brothers, have you missed me?”

The crowd is silent.

Then everyone who has seen the show, anyone who knows who this golden knight is, collectively loses their minds. Like the christening of a champagne bottle against a new ship, I hear a thousand Tumblr stansites being born. The noise is so loud my waterglass vibrates, as if this guy’s the second coming of Loki at San Diego Comic-Con.

He holds up two white-gloved hands, lowers them gently, and the crowd quiets again, under his spell.

My heart races. Darien leans over and whispers, “Did you know?”

I subtly shake my head. How could I? I’m an imposter of Jessica Stone—I know less than anyone on this panel. Except for maybe Calvin. I don’t think Calvin realizes what is happening at all.

I didn’t prepare for this. I hadn’t even thought this could be a possibility. And also, this prick interrupted me. He could’ve waited until after I’d answered.

Or maybe this is symbolic of how Princess Amara and Jessica Stone are old news?

Whatever it is, it is very, very bad for me.

“I have woken from an endless slumber, brothers,” the golden knight says, addressing the audience, “and I know some of you are not quite sure what to make of me yet. But you will, I promise. All will become clear within the guiding light of the Sun. You will be saved, my children, my brothers, my…friends.” He says the last bit slowly, oily, and a tremble races down my spine.

He turns his head slightly—to me—and leans back against the table. He slowly raises a hand and runs his finger along my jawline. My brain turns to putty.

“All you must do,” he says, as if we are two lovers whispering intimately, “is conscript your fate to me.”

I stare into his face, which is lit from the glow of his costume, and see the thin mic headset clipped to his ear, the slope of his nose, the thin curve of his lips.

He slides the tip of his finger to the edge of my chin, following the contour of my face, before turning back to the audience. His smile imitates that of the original actor—the late Arthur Boise—down to the slight uptick on the left side of his lips.

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.