It’s not so hard to find a teasing tone. “You’re not going to chicken out on me once we’re up there, are you?”
There’s a flicker of surprise, then that cocky smile settles into place. “You wish.”
Andy comes over. “You ready to do this?”
I shrug. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Christine casually folds her arms. “What he said.”
We take the ladder back up into the rig, and the camera winds into place.
“Slow and steady this time,” Andy says over the radio. Our handset to reply is cleverly hidden amidst the plane’s cargo and instruments. “I want Lana to see the angles. We’ll go to right before the drop. Better to do as few of those as necessary.”
I reach for the handset and push the button to reply. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
They can see us over the live camera feed, so Christine and I both give a thumbs-up.
The rig begins to rise.
I keep my eyes upward, on the wisps of clouds across the bright morning sky.
There’s so much tech crammed into this rig that the camera and its track seem to blend right in. It suddenly doesn’t feel like a set.
It’s just me and Christine.
Or, really, Melinoë and Electra.
Maybe it’s the striking heroic costume, the prop Thunder Stone sparkling from a cord around her neck, the sea breeze ruffling through her platinum hair, how her eyes catch the light and seem to glow, or the rare glimpse of an honest, unguarded expression, but I can suddenly understand why she’s ‘America’s sweetheart.’
She’s gorgeous and powerful and focused.
Electricity seems to crackle through the air.
Alejandro’s voice comes over the radio. “Marks.”
“See you in a sec.”
Christine nods.
Since this scene begins with Melinoë infiltrating the plane, the shot begins with me swinging in through the open door.
The radio buzzes again, “Christine, move about six inches to your right and center the Thunder Stone. We want to make sure it’s catching the light at the start of the shot.”
The rig shifts slightly as Christine follows directions.
The sea breeze ruffles through my hair—or, well, through my wig.
Sixty feet is plenty high to let the vista unfold, rolling emerald hills turning to mist on one side, ocean rippling to the far horizon on the other.
Fuck, it’s gorgeous.
I can just barely hear Lana’s voice the moment before it crackles over the radio.
“Three… Two… One… Action!”
Let’s rock and roll.
I strike a low, slinky pose. Even though I’m out-of-shot, it helps me find Melinoë’s headspace.
