The hallway, mundane and ordinary, but for a high ceiling that extended up to the reflective glass above the front section of the building.

Then the studio. The energy of a few hundred people in their seats, all chatting as commercials played, the set, the music, the iffy curtains that kept us out of view until our reveal. People had spotted us and were pointing, leaning toward one another to whisper and to get a better peek.

There was a buzzer, a red light, and conversation stopped.

Televisions throughout the area and screens on various cameras all showed the episode resuming. A flash of gold, a silhouette, and then the word: Answers.

The distortion of voice and bass with our proximity to speakers made words almost unintelligible. A hand gave me a light push. Kaylar.

And I stepped past the curtain, into the studio, wearing my A− costume with my makeup at an A and my hair done to an A+. I stood tall and walked with confidence, my hand at Lookout’s shoulder.

Swansong, an image, not the real her, made her debut in a way. A++ in poise, and that counted for enough.

And Capricorn, Byron up to this point, turned into Tristan to ‘transform’, to drop armor helmet, and to be presentable. He’d done his hair differently, almost but not quite making the two sides of the parts into horn-like lengths, and he wore a mask that left his mouth free.

The hot lamps and spotlights of the studio left me momentarily blind.

Beacon 8.11

Our applause was like most of the applause at a golf match—far from uproarious, provided by expectation, not by free will. All light was reserved for the stage; four fifths of the expansive room was dark. The audience were nebulous shapes, an audience manager with her back to us keeping everything in order. The audience was easy to lose track of, as the lights were directed our way, a brightness I had to look past.

The three hosts were standing in the center of the stage, in front of the arrangement of table and chairs. A woman at the front of this particular triumvirate—Lynn Chess. Black hair in a bun, bangs straight across the forehead, black suit jacket, a light blue silky top that cut straight across her cleavage, black skirt. She would have looked severe, if it weren’t for her expression and the animation in her eyes, a smile natural on her lips. The face of the group.

With the applause dying down, I could hear her talking. We didn’t have the benefit of speakers, and she didn’t do the talk-show thing of waiting for the applause to die down, gesturing and smiling all the while.

“Breakthrough is an up and coming team, credited with identifying the threat to the inter-world portals and helping to save one of them…”

Hamza Kouri and John Combs walked behind Lynn to greet us while Lynn talked.