sail3695

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”The Courtesy of a Reply…"

“Gorram it.”

The draw weren’t feelin’ right, like her whole body done fergot how. Truth be told, Abby ain’t had practice in a coon’s age, and brother, did it show. She’s still fast, leastways to her own thinkin’, but with each draw before her mirror the deckhand conjured just how much she’d left the muscle to atrophy. Her right shoulder’s dippin’, one of the worst tells to anyone might choose to square up with her some day. Gotta calm that la shi right down, she pondered as Daddy’s Colt slipped back inside the holster.

”Ye gotta be loose, Chick Pea.” Uncle Bob told her that a thousand times. ”It’s like what them monks an’ nuns call meditation. Ye gotta clear yer head til they’s nothin’ left but yew, yer pistol, and the fella done been stupid enough to call ye out.”

She waved her arms a spell, slippin’ ‘em out like she’s balancin’ on a tightrope. Abby crooked her neck, tryna summon the sort of limber she knowed she had. ‘Cept it weren’t comin’. Meditation…maybe I should ask Sister Lyen about that, Way she figgered, gettin’ ‘er head right was tha whole sitchiation. And it weren’t no mystery what had her nickers in a twist.

<TJinks>:
Hey, can we talk?

After so long silent, seein’ his message at first robbed all common sense outta her. She opened it soon’s her cortex pinged its’ arrival…before remembrin’ he’d git word she done seen it. Abby’s still cringin’ over herself when Thomas’ next wave hit.

<TJinks>:
I miss you.

She let two days pass with no reply. Not that she ain't wrote one…or three…or six, afore deletin’ each. She wanted to rage, tear inta him with a buzzsaw of harsh words. She wanted ta hear him apologize, tell ‘er how wrong he was fer goin’ silent so gorram long. She wanted tah remind him that she’s a growed woman and she’d make ‘er own choices, thank yew very much. But underneath it all, Abby wanted most to hear his feelin’s. He said he missed ‘er. Well, that was kinda goin’ the direction she hoped.

But no way was she just gon’ go runnin’ back now he had a mind tah pallaver.

First she thought was tah make him wait a spell. Seemed only fair, after all tha weeks an’ weeks he done left her waves hangin’. But as days went by, she come tah conjure she couldn’t know how her silence measured on him, but it sure as hell was playin’ Merry Hob with her equilibrium.

That, and Alana, the girl reasoned as she slipped outta her gunbelt. China Doll just seemed all dumbstruck by the doc’s passin’. Nobody talked about ‘er, leastways not in sense of some kinda memorial. It’s jest like she’s never a part of tha crew tah begin with, and deep down, that weren’t sittin’ right with Abby. Folk come an’ go in tha ‘verse. How many times had she held ‘er own feelin’s in check with that old sayin’? She weren’t thinkin’ tah argue tha wisdom of it, seein’s how she could count plenty folk left China Doll over the two and a half years she worked aboard. Pen left tah reunite with ‘er pa. Rex joined the bikers what had kidnapped her. Hook? Man had demons tah smoke out.

But they’re all alive, she mused. Alana’s gone forever…and it’s like nobody’s allowed to say goodbye or feel sad about it. It was then that one of them connections snapped home in Abby’s head. So I’m not talking, she realized, about Alana, or to Thomas…and all I’m doing is hurting me.

The truth of that couldn’t be denied. She sat down on ‘er bunk, beside tha pistol and gunbelt, her mind connecting the dots between issue and resolution. As she thought on it, her eye traced them captures of ‘er fam’ly taped onta tha bulkhead. They was all there, tha folk she loved, mem’reis and bonds explained through a rainbow of colorful chalk connections. It was then she got her idea. Don’t need to talk about Alana, the girl’s expression brightened, not when there’s a better way to remember her.

With a freshening resolve, Abby took on her next vexation. The cortex reader slipped into her hands. Her thumbs went to work on a fresh response. This time, she sent it.

<Abn8r>:
What do you want to talk about?

This time, Thomas didn’t make her wait. Weren’t more’n a minute before he banged out a fresh wave.

<TJinks>:
About how I’m a real idiot for puffing up and trying to tell you how to manage. When you shared the pic of all your bruises I just went all ‘male gorilla.’ I’m really sorry, Abby.

“Puffin’ up.” Seemed like the first time in forever that Abby smiled. She dashed off a response.

<Abn8r>:
I conjure you were feeling protective. Next time, let me tell you when I need a hero?

<TJinks>:
Shiny. My sister said the same thing while she was whacking me with a dead mackerel.

That got Abby gigglin’. The Jinks fam’ly must be out on another fishin’ run.

<Abn8r>:
Tell her to hit you one for me.

<TJinks>:
How about we save future assault and battery for the next time you’re back on New Melbourne?

<Abn8r>:
Deal.

She checked the time. ‘Bout three hours left til they docked at tha Skyplex. Her chores was all done, an’ the passengers was just fed, so Abby had some time tah kill. Judgin’ by tha way he’s tryin’ tah catch up, so did Thomas. As she traded wits an’ stories with him, Abby come tah realize that her world was brightenin’ right up.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

History Lesson 3: “Survivors’ Guilt”

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

From Let’s Learn History! Grade 3

…”The arks carried all the people from Earth-That-Was for a long, long time, over 100 years! If you were a new baby when the journey began, your grandchildren would be very old when they arrived in our new home.”

From Foundations in Alliance History - Grade 12

…”While the arks carried a substantial portion of Earth’s population to the new system, there were other vessels that followed in the journey. Conditions aboard those ships could be harsh. Some didn’t survive the rigors of a 125 year spaceflight.”

From The Eternal Voyage: The Lost Generation Fleet - Banned

…”Due to the physics of inertia in spaceflight, these ‘ships of the dead’ kept pace with their living counterparts, a vast, traveling graveyard that over time hindered navigation and forced the use of precious fuel in collision avoidance burns. When the time came for the designated course correction burn to intercept the terraformed worlds of Londinium and Osiris, many ships of the following fleet lacked sufficient fuel. Some fared well, choosing pre terraformed worlds on which to land and await possible rescue. Others lost the gamble, and were subsequently doomed to join their counterparts of the ‘Graveyard Fleet’ for an unending journey.”

…………………………

For a humanity now spaceborne, the first few years were dreadful. Year One of The Migration saw an astonishing death toll. Most casualties were those whose only choice to escape their fate on Earth was a berth aboard one of the thousands of vessels ill suited for a 1.25 century voyage. The first ‘Mayday’ calls came after only a week, mechanical and structural failures outweighing the wishful thinking of those who cast their lots in the ragtag flotilla. As weeks became months, once optimistic supply manifests were reduced to ever more draconian rationing. When a vessel’s food, water, or oxygen reached critical levels, their fate was broadcast via the now customary SOS call.

The cruel truth not taught in history classes was that none of these cries for help was ever answered.

This willful ignorance was based in sound reasoning. In space, the old adage about “turning the battleship” is made exponentially more costly and difficult. The first challenge to a would-be rescuer would be their own fuel consumption. The acts of changing course and implementing acceleration/deceleration burns would greedily consume resources sorely needed for the final maneuvers at voyage’s end. The actual rescue itself was fraught with danger, from two vessels maneuvering in close quarters at speeds beyond 20,000kph to the crewmembers who’d be forced to traverse the void between them. Of course, supply was the most insidious hurdle. Those rescued and their eventual progeny would spend the rest of the voyage consuming their savior vessel’s food, water, and oxygen. Long story short, a rescue attempt could very well be a death sentence for the rescuer.

Many bridge crew personnel suffered neurological trauma, relative to the ongoing litany of exceedingly desperate distress calls. For those tortured souls, relief did not come when a ship would eventually fall silent. One had only to glance at the radar screen, or in some cases, look through a viewport to witness the fate of their fellow travelers. The corpse ships would glide along their course headings, a ghostly reminder of unanswered distress calls that drove many a conscientious survivor to madness.

Most of those afflicted fell into deep bouts of depression. More serious cases retreated into delusional thought, manic judgment, or suicidal tendencies. Some lapsed into a wanton depravity that present day Alliance officials are quick to point toward as counterpoint to the assertion that their Miranda experiments might have created Reavers.

Though it is rumored that some records of the Graveyard Fleet exist, the Alliance firmly refutes this claim.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

OOC: Happy New Year!!!

We hope that you all had a great holiday season, and hope for a year full of well being.

Couple quick notes:

1. The "Galley Meeting" JP/Collab has been completed, and the first installment posted. We'll get the second half up in the next day or so.

2. TIME SKIP: Once that piece is up, we'll leap ahead a few days, moving to China Doll's arrival at the Skyplex. Boone will get to show off some pilot skills as the rest of the crew makes ready.

3. SKYPLEX: While there are some orders for each crewperson to follow, you're encouraged to write your characters' doings during our stopover.

4: HOLIDAY AU CONCLUDES 1/7! Hard stop in our OOC channel next Sunday night. If you've got an AU adventure you'd like to continue, we'll move your story to a Gdoc to share with the crew.

And that's all for now. We've got some excitement planned as the current tale progresses, and can't wait to see what you and your characters bring to the party.

Happy New Year and WWIF,

Wolf and Sail

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Welcome Wagon - Galley Meeting, Part One

OOC: Part 1 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Bugman, @Little Bill, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

Cal entered a full galley. The Sister, Abby, Edina, Elias, even Imani were all present and correct, though the looks on their faces were a cocktail of sorts. Strand wore an inscrutable expression; somewhere between that last ‘I-told-you-so’ and the somber mask he’d worn ever since Pelorum. As his gaze passed over each member of crew, the Captain pursed his lips, a herald of the silver case which was already in his palm. It ignited, a near spontaneous combustion, as the first mate–the picture of a classic jawline and fit physique–entered the room. To follow, a gargantuan tree-trunk of a man ducked as Boone crossed the threshold into the high-ceilinged galley. All eyes, including the Captain’s, were certainly glued to the China Doll’s new pilot.

Crossing to the table cigarette in his lips, Cal took a pull before gesturing toward Boone. “I’d like to introduce you to your new crew. This here’s Len Boone. He’s taken up as our pilot, and China Doll’s in good hands.” The Sister’s brow raised at the word ‘good’ from the Captain’s mouth, eyes full of those ostentatious tattoos.

“I’ll let him introduce himself,” Cal said, leaning against the table in Boone’s direction to cede him the floor.

Elias raised an eyebrow at the fellow, eventually uncrossing his arms and decided to give himself a little bit of vain hope. “My dearest gentleman, you do not appear to be of the erudite variety or of otherwise disposition that would have a reason to learn sign language, but perchance, would you know it?” Was the sentence formed in Elias’s head, and then transmitted somewhat imperfectly through his fingers. It was worth a try before writing a far more meager greeting on his card.

Edina’s eye caught the opening gesture of Elias’ response, the palm of his hand tapped twice to his chest. My, her mind reacted, drawing upon recent ASL training sessions she’d arranged with SAM. She watched as the mechanic’s hand moved upward, fingers clutching the air before a slight bow of his chin. The galley hand thought he’d signed “dear,” but there was something else there, a prolongation of the motion that left her curious.

As with any new language, sometimes discerning individual words and phrases from a native speaker’s conversation could prove daunting. She tried, her brow furrowing as occasional bits were cherry picked, You, a simple point of Elias’ index finger, was quickly followed by a negative shake of his head and arms folded across his chest. My dear…something…you don’t… but then she’d lost it. She knew he’d ended with a question, having caught know and the crook of his index finger.

And there was Yuri, offering up some sign language of his own, a subtle tilt of his head toward the Captain, followed by a more pointed glance toward the carafe and mugs in her hands. “Sorry,” she mouthed silently as she moved toward the head of the table.

The unmistakable colossal shape entering the galley drew her attention, and Imani made no deliberate effort to attempt to conceal her surprise. The reason was simple: in her mind, she’d already pictured a much smaller human on the pilot’s throne. Maybe not the same tiny frame as their previous one, but by no means had she imagined a mammoth for a counterpart. Now, the mental image was etched in her mind... The burly man hunched over the controls while the chair underneath him tried its hardest not to break apart.

Imani cleared her throat to keep from laughing, reaching for the warm cup of tea set in front of her.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The giant sheepishly said after what felt like an eternity of silence, scanning the many expressions before him. “Name’s Boone.” More silence followed, and he gave a deflated exhale somewhere between a sigh and a balloon having its air let out.

Though he had his back to the galley’s sole exit and looked to weigh about as much as Elias if he had just eaten Yuri, Boone had the body language of a frightened rabbit in a trap, holding his hands in front of himself to look as small as possible, with his head hanging low.

“Usually, on someone’s first night in Urvasi we grill ‘em with questions, so I suppose it’s my turn to answer ‘em.”

Questions. Always struck Abby funny how tha whole room’d go silent as tha grave when questions was called for. But, the deckhand conjured, when tha fella what’s askin’ for ‘em got a Cut Throat tat on ‘is neck an’ a teardrop under one eye, ain’t no mystery how folk might feel a tad bit skittish ‘bout gittin’ all up inta his business.

She took a swig from her soda, chance tah hide tha fact she’s readin’ tha room. Yuri wore a poker face, eyes down on ‘is cortex. Elias looked like he always did…pissed off. One of her books called that “resting bitch face.” Tickled her a bit, but she reasoned them scars’d wipe tha smile from any man. She couldn’t see Edina or Imani, ‘less she made a show of lookin’ at ‘em. Lyen? Sister kept an open face, but Abby had tha devil’s own time readin’ them almond eyes. Only other in her eyesight was Cap’n. She been on his crew for two and a half years now. Prided ‘erself on knowin’ tha man’s tells. There he sat, lookin’ ever’ bit tha cat what ate tha canary. She ruminated on that a spell, afore decidin’ on a question weren’t above her pay grade.

“Did they hurt?” Abby asked as her soda bottle pointed out tha new pilot’s tats. “Ain’t never got one, but I been thinkin’ I might.” A real softball, she mused. Sometimes it was good to jest be the deckhand.

“Only this one, dear.” Boone said, pointing straight to the tiny teardrop below his eye, tapping a four-fingered hand on his face. “I got it when somebody I care about happened to pass away,” He continued with all the softness of a schoolteacher in his tone, lowering his index finger to his chest, “So it hurt my heart.”

That comment cracked the porcelain visage of the nun of the Order of the Interverse, whose teacup hid the beginnings of a smile. Here, the pit fighter of a man had called Abby ‘dear,’ and had spoken with the tone one might use to speak to a cherished child. She cocked her head, taking stock a second time from behind her cup. Her chestnut, braided hair fell from her shoulder as her eyes traced from heel, the height of the man.

Placing her cup on the galley table before her, she asked, “Who was it you cared about?” The nun’s gaze glued to his shining eyes.

“Dan. Two-Thumbs Dan.” Boone said, clasping his hands in front of him and switching his gaze to look down at his own thumbs. “We’ve all got two thumbs, only Danny only had the two thumbs on account of all the mistakes he had made.” Boone smiled a silvery smile, flanking his pale eyes with a set of crow’s feet, clearly picturing some cherished memory of an old friend. “We came up together on ‘Dinium. He was a real wild card, Dan.” Boone’s smile quickly gave way to a more wistful look. “Anyway, I killed him.” Boone sniffed the air, unclasping his hands to absent-mindedly scratch his chin. There was an unnervingly casual tone of disappointment to his admission, as if he had just admitted to buying cigarettes while trying to quit. The silence in the room was somehow even stiller than before.

“That sort of thing was just a part of the life. At the time, I didn’t really feel like I had a choice when they told me to.” He looked up and met Lyen’s gaze for the first time, his tone now barely above a whisper. “But I did have a choice, sister. And I’ve spent twenty-four-and-a-half-years sittin’ on that choice, and a lot worse choices than that, just trying to get a little closer to heaven one day at a time.”

A sonata played in Elias’s head as he zoned out listening about things like tattoos which he pretended to not find cool, and also pretended to not hear the tone in the voice that also very clearly found them cool. Instead, he wrote on his card. “DOES MR BOONE HAVE RECOGNIZED QUALIFICATIONS FOR FLIGHT?”

“Just over twenty years of sim-flying.” Boone said, giving a nod to his enshrouded crewmate. “Mr. Cal didn’t put much stock in it ‘till I took off.” Under normal circumstances Boone would have asked about his covered face, though these seemed far from normal circumstances for the giant.

Jesus Christ the insurance premiums. was the thought that immediately went through Elias’s head. He wouldn’t bring that up here, he was raised too politely. But he’d have to talk to the Captain or one of the other crew that could be described as a crafty ne’erdowell about coming up with some sort of scam to not suddenly have any company automatically assume the ship is about to crash at any moment and adjust payments accordingly. For now as these new thoughts flooded in he’d let the next question go.

…TO BE CONTINUED...

What shows/movies are you watching?

I tried to watch 'Rebel Moon.' Thirty minutes in, I gave it up.

Over the holidays I took a second run at 'Blue Eye Samurai,' and I'm truly glad I did. The visuals and animations are quite beautiful...so much so that first time around I missed some really entertaining subtleties in the plot and character interactions. 4 hacked limbs out of 5.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Family Businesses? (Katya Voss cont.)

There’s a father, Dorian mused as Katya moved to carry out her decision. Whether the patriarch was at hand, not to mention handy, might be a consideration. Then again, the apparent ages of his adult children offered the possibility of his incapacitation by any number of maladies. Here on the outer rim, a man was considered long lived if he accumulated sixty good years. What he’d seen of Katya’s mettle was admirable, but the presence of a father might force her to stand her ground, a frequently unwise tactic. Still, the little knowledge he had wasn’t worthy of a course of action. He had to know more.

“Fahgive mah interruption,” Adler spoke as a deliberate hand pulled a second revolver from within his coat. The barrel dipped, pointing between his knees toward the floor planking as he popped the cylinder open. “Ah might be mistaken,” he continued as one by one, bullets were loaded, “but past experience tells me that yah friend shall return, doubtless with numbahs tah back his play.” He gave the cylinder a quick spin, followed by a fluid snap of his wrist to flip it into place.

“Grady,” he said. In the blink of an eye his arm extended, the gun scan emitting a near inaudible whine as he targeted his own reflection. “You were asked a question,” he swiveled on his barstool as the pistol slipped into its’ holster. “At this juncture, tha right move fah yah family’s well being is tah answer.” Dorian’s eyes lay casually upon Grady, his shooting hand once more wrapped around the drink glass.

<Open tag>

What Are You Listening To?

Firefly - Second 'Verse

The Long Con (Katya Voss cont.)

Now was the perfect moment to take another drink, lest one laughed out loud.

Dorian pressed the glass to his lips, ignoring the offer to play the useful idiot to one of the oldest con games in the ‘verse. Just give me my share and I’m gone forever. The trouble was that so long as there was coin to sniff out, they never were. He recalled a lyric, a song from Earth-That-Was about a man coming to such self awareness.

”Sometimes I get this crazy dream
That I just take off in my car.
But you can travel on ten thousand miles
And still stay where you are.”

This Grady lived under the curse, perpetually trapped within a cage of grand desires and the allure of fast money. Dorian could empathize; that desire and other lusts had introduced him to Faeroe, Tall Card, and Poker. Whatever his intentions, Grady threatened to drag his sister along that dark path. He wasn’t holding a gun to her head, but in the end, the damage would be the same. This time, Dorian would not intervene. He’d known Katya for all of thirty minutes. She had to weigh her brother’s challenges on her own.

Fingers dipped into the pocket of his silk vest, past the small blade to close around the pocket watch. Dorian brought it into the light and loosed the catch, checking the time. It had been roughly twelve minutes since he’d sent the gunman scurrying for the door. That, and the barked knuckles of Katya’s errant brother, led him to believe that reinforcements were soon to arrive. How they’d be dealt with was a matter that hung upon Katya’s response to her brother.

What Are You Listening To?

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Anthem - (That’s a Wrap, Part 2)

Who needs coffee when you’ve got a 5:00 AM face plunge into ice water?

“Girl,” Rene cocked an eyebrow as she coaxed Morgan from the sink, “tell me you got some sleep last night?”

It was good that the makeup artist didn’t wait for the actor’s first performance of the day. “I got a few hours,” Morgan lied before her voice was snuffed out by the hot towel.

Rene shook her head. “Mmm, mmm, mmm,” she placed a judgmental hand upon her hip. “That mouth says ‘yes,’ but those bags under your eyes say ‘huh uh.’ I’ma tell Summer…she will so give you ‘the look.’ Good thing I brought my bag of tricks."

“I’m sure I’ll get busted any minute,” the girl smiled at the unintelligible muffle of her voice. Rene soon lifted the towel, wiping Morgan’s face one last time before setting to work. Though the character Abby typically shunned makeup and only occasionally brushed her hair, a typical day’s makeup prep still required a good thirty minutes to be camera ready. This morning, Morgan was slated for ninety, a much more detailed treatment for shooting her “Mirror Abby” parts. Wise of Edgar to plunge her straight into the most nerve wracking portion first.

As Rene set to work her art, Morgan glanced over the swath of photos taped to the mirror. Summer gazed back, her expression neutral through the series of closeups detailing her makeup. The two women were a match for height and body type. Summer had colored her hair to match Morgan’s reddish hue. She noted the difference in their faces…Summer’s jawline was a bit more rounded, and Morgan realized that her nose was more of a button, where that of her dance coach and on camera double had more graceful lines. “How’d she do?” she asked.

Rene pulled back, admiring her work. “I missed the dailies…had Harrison in the chair for a night scene, but I heard it was all B roll…hmmm.” She rummaged through her kit, frowning. “I’m a little short on your base. Gimme a sec to grab more from the van.”

“Sure.” The makeup artist dashed from the room, leaving Morgan and her stomach full of butterflies. She pondered these fears as the confident eyes of Summer gazed back from the photo set. It’s not Abby, the actor mused. I can wear her like my own skin. Maybe it’s how this scene connects? Or how it doesn’t? She knew the script, knew the blocking and moves. She understood the overall surreal nature, a fantasy sequence which could be the actual choke point for a girl as grounded as Abigail Travis. She’d listened to “Pipe Dream” so many times in rehearsals that she could make her marks without thinking. But could Abby? The character hooks were easily adopted, but for the life of her, Morgan had yet to find ‘that thing’ which would tie this scene directly to the soul of China Doll’s youngest crewmember.

Her hip pocket vibrated. Good thing Rene’s not here, Morgan smirked at the makeup artist’s “no phones!” rule. She fished the iPhone from the pocket of her sweats, then blanched when she saw Edgar’s name on the text.

When I listen to the lyrics, I hear a young woman discovering her personal anthem. What does Abby hear? -E.

Morgan knew them by heart. She’d pored over the lyrics, industriously conjoining important words and phrases with Summer’s precise choreography. She’d done the work, graduating from the timed mechanics to the addition of more graceful, fluid efforts. The music flowed through her.

As was often the case, Abby’s observations could knock her right off her pins. ”Yah conjure sharin’?”

”Sharing?” she asked the character. ”What haven’t I shared?” She mused over the question.

”After I press ‘play,” Abby’s familiar twang filled her mind’s ear, ”yew ain’t give me a shot at la shi ‘til we’s up against tha wall.”

There was no arguing. Morgan knew…felt…the truth of that. A big, surprise dance number in a show that wasn’t big on dance moves. In her worried rush to master Summer’s choreography, Morgan had left the principal element standing outside the dance studio door. Abby, the rough hewn girl to whom this scene belonged, hadn’t been given any say. Sorry, Abby, Morgan acknowledged her failure as the earbuds came out from her pocket. I’ll fix that right now. With the deckhand settling into her skin once more, Morgan called the song onto her phone. For the first time, they shared the music, listening together as the lyrics struck home.

”Well if it feels good then do it,
Don’t let nobody shake you down…”

The music pulsed through them. A smile rose to Morgan’s lips. “What do you think?” she asked.

Abby’s head bobbed gently as she listened. “Yeah,” she answered. “I cotton tah this.”

”Think you can dance to it?”

“Mirror Me?” She could feel a wry smile from Abby. “She’ll be tolerable shiny . But Real Me, wearin’ muh boots an’ day-tah-day? Let’s jest say yer girl Summer’s gon’ have ‘er work cut out when I’m done.”

“But…it’s all planned. All set up.”

”Best thing ‘bout havin’ a plan,” Abby quoted one of Cal’s signature lines, ”is how well yah can change it. Put reg’lar me up first.”

“Abby, there’s a schedule. Edgar…” Morgan protested as her thumbs began tapping a message into her iPhone.

Abby wants up 1st. B4 Mirror Abby. That OK?

“God, he must think I’m a spoiled little diva,” Morgan whispered as she and her character awaited the director’s response.

They didn’t wait long.

Splendid.

”I like that fella,” Abby said.

Morgan could feel the smile spreading across Abby’s face. “Me too.”