“I lost the script, Amon,” I say, “and I spent two days looking for it because I thought someone had stolen it out of the trash. At first it was so I wouldn’t look bad in front of you, or any other director who wants to work with me in the future, but now…”

“Jess, come on,” Amon groans. “Stop making a hysterical spectacle. You don’t like Starfield anyway.”

At that, I hear a few people in the audience chuckle. I feel their laughter crawling up my spine, mocking me.

“You’re right,” I admit.

The murmurs grow louder, and Amon sits back, amused.

“I didn’t like Starfield,” I go on, “but that was because I didn’t know what it could be. I only saw a part of it. I only knew what it was like from the outside looking in.

“But I think I’m beginning to. Starfield isn’t going to win any awards, and Starfield isn’t going fix everything that’s wrong with the world, but you know what? Sometimes the stories we need are the ones that can show us a happy ending and make us feel whole and welcome and loved. And that, I think, is the true magic of Starfield, of watching twenty Amaras through a small camera lens strike the same pose, of howling a theme song off-key, of debating its economy and its politics and its world-building and whether Carmindor’s uniform is really the perfect shade of blue. That’s the part of Starfield I never saw before, that magical, weird, and wondrous part that I now want to protect.”

I turn to the audience and survey the three thousand shadows staring back at me. My doppelgänger sits behind me at the table, looking increasingly uncomfortable, but she shouldn’t worry. The audience isn’t looking at her. In the dark room, telltale flashes of cameras and lock screens set people’s faces aglow.