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Episode 1 - The Beam

Episode 1 - The Beam

Titel: Episode 1 - The Beam
Autoren: Sean Platt
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away. She lowered her head, looking toward the foot of the stage. Her posture caved, curling her shoulders down and forward, defeated. The note collapsed, then died. The lighting director dimmed the lights on cue. The last thing the crowd saw in the faltering light were Natasha’s eyes — her deep green irises, soulful enough to penetrate all the way to the cheap seats — and as they wet, as they fell, as the crowd hushed.
    The spotlight winked out. The stage fell dark. For a moment, there was nothing, not even a whisper. The world had vanished.
    Then, all at once, the hall erupted in applause. The house lights came up, and Natasha watched as the crowd stood, beating their hands together, most of their faces plastered with tears. In the back, where inhibitions were lower, the questionably dressed attendees jumped and clapped overhead, cheering, whistling, crying out. The stage light went bright. Natasha bowed. A rose landed at her feet, followed by another. A full bouquet.
    Natasha bowed again, her heart full.
    The few people who hadn’t already stood came to their feet. Their faces didn’t look reluctant or goaded; they looked overwhelmed. It had taken them a while to rise because they hadn’t felt emotionally capable of standing. These last applauded slowly and quietly, because it was all they could muster. Yes, Natasha had done her job well.
    She bowed again and again, letting her face portray more exultation and overwhelm than she actually felt. The room’s emotional swell was impressive, but adoration had long ago stopped giving Natasha a high. These days, it merely saved her from depression, and got her back to normal.
    She could hear a few people in the crowd calling her name.
    Natasha, we love you!
    Natasha, you’re beautiful!
    Get off the stage, bitch!
    Her head jerked up. Something else landed on the stage amidst the roses. It was a tomato. An honest-to-God tomato .
    Natasha wasn’t the only person who’d heard the anonymous heckler. All across the crowd, heads searched the room, looking to see who dared to ruin the mood and the moment. The voice had seemed to have come from Natasha’s right. But then from the other side, a chorus of boos burst out, becoming a taunting chant.
    Natasha was turning to find the source of the discord when some sort of heavy rubber ball struck the stage at her side and skittered away, making her jump. Boos bounced through the crowd from every direction. Natasha spied a few of the people making the boos, hands clapped to mouths and faces angry. The offenders were among the most shabbily dressed, their appearances unenhanced, the grit of below-the-line living embedded in their skin. There were only a few of them, but they were so loud … and they looked so angry . It was a species of anger Natasha vaguely remembered but had mostly forgotten: the anger she’d once had for those who had plenty when she’d had so little. It was the anger of a young girl whose family had barely gotten by — who’d seen the way the rich got richer during the disaster years, while the rest of the world crumbled.
    Now, that same anger was booing her . Hating her . Throwing things at her .
    A shoe struck the stage. Who would throw a shoe? How would they ever get home? The shoe was heavy — someone’s idea of a dress shoe simply because it was black. The shoe nearly hit Natasha’s foot. She jumped back, shocked.
    The man who’d thrown it yelled, “Thieving cunt!”
    And Natasha thought, This is Directorate.
    Natasha stepped back, away from the tomato, the shoe, and the rolling rubber ball as if they were bombs. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She’d poured her heart out. They were supposed to love her. She wasn’t supposed to be booed. She wasn’t supposed to be the whipping girl for the world’s social woes. She’d gotten her fame and fortune through hard work, clawing her way through the same system that was in front of everyone. The difference was, she had taken a chance. She had gambled. They — the bastards who were booing her — had just accepted their government dole and complained. Who were they to boo her? But that was what the venue got for selling cheap seats, for giving away tickets as promotions. Elegant affairs were supposed to be accessible only to elegant people — especially this close to Shift, when things always went to crap and when mixing classes was always a recipe for disaster.
    The boos grew louder. It was so unfair. Natasha’s
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