Now I’m sure I’m dreaming.
Since I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with the archetype. Sheik was my inspiration to start learning martial arts. I dressed up as Samus—in her zero suit form—an embarrassing number of Halloweens in a row. Then there’s the summer I made my parents buy every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comic featuring Karai, or the shit I happily took for always picking Chun-Li in Street Fighter… (My friends were just salty they kept losing.)
There’s literally no type of character I’d be more excited to play.
My pulse kicks up another notch.
Stunt crew members in sweats and t-shirts stand behind Haley and double-check the harness under her costume, preparing for a ratchet pull. Crash and smash work like thisrequires less skill than fighting. For simple wire work, the hardest part is probably putting up with the discomfort of the harness, especially once it starts yanking you around. Still, I’ll need to keep a close eye on Haley to see if there are any mannerisms she’s carrying through that I’ll need to pick up on.
The stunt crew steps back and offers a thumbs-up to the assistant director, an attractive beta man. With his sharp jaw, dark waves, deep tan, and fashionably low v-neck, he’d look just as at-home in front of the camera as behind it.
Haley finds her mark, rolling her shoulders and readying her pose.
The assistant director reveals a hint of a Spanish accent as he calls, “Quiet on set!”
My gaze stays glued to Haley as the familiar sequence of call-and-response unfolds:
“Stunt team ready?”
“Ready.”
“Roll sound.”
“Sound is rolling.”
“Roll camera.”
“Camera one rolling.”
“Camera two rolling.”
“Camera three rolling.”
“Marker.”
In my periphery, a production assistant holds a clapboard in front of the camera. “Scene thirty-three, camera A, take five. Mark.” The striped arm on the clapboard clicks shut.
A static hush hangs in the air: a moment of anticipation like teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“Three, two, one… action!” The director’s command rings out, setting the scene in motion.
It’s the whirring of a decelerator that brings my eyes up, up, up a scaffold whose height I’d missed before. Hurtlingdownwards from thirty feet is a blur of motion and a billowing red cape.
There’s a catch as the decelerator engages and the cable slows the broad figure in the last part of their fall. They land kneeling, and their fist connects with the dusty ground. At that exact moment, controlled explosionssend dirt and sand spraying into the air, radiating from the impact.
As the explosions pass Haley, the wire yanks her backward out of the shot and onto a thick foam pad.
In the hanging cloud of dust, carefully positioned strobe lights flash with electric anticipation.
The breeze rushes past me, carrying with it the concentrated essence of the ocean: salty and crisp, with undertones of seaweed and driftwood. But the wind is coming from inland.
Silhouetted by the flickering lights, the figure rises, shoulders rolling back in heroic defiance.
Every breath stills as the dust slowly settles. The camera slides closer, and a wind machine starts, sending that brilliant red cape swaying.
Piercing blue eyes emerge from the cloud.
Christine Evansworth as Electra raises her spear, and her clear voice rings across the set.
