always try to look your best

“sounds like you got billed as assistant. first mistake.” she let perfect cherry lips turn down in a sympathetic smile. no empathetic— they’d all been taken advantage of in this sick sad world. that’s how it was supposed to go. no one liked a sweetheart who gloated her good fortune in sadder people’s faces, even if it had come through hard work. she’d been hospitalized twice already, that had to be something like four jobs at once. at least the nod it conjured would suffice. 

“cancellation, oh gosh—i better make a good impression!” expression lifted again from misery to something closer to shock. there was so such thing as safe, although she felt pretty darn far from in danger. there was just no point in dashing any dreams, if she wanted to run the department then at least she was finally on the right track. “especially for an editor! i thought only mr. roth used that term.” it didn’t really matter who wanted to be called what. she’d spit out enough sirs and ma’ams for a lifetime. this daydream was nothing. “geez, what a scary time that was.” as if this was any better. the new department was run more like a glorified torture chamber. input from a cia spook—get real! 

“who was it? i’m being a total gossip i know, but i mean accidents happen all the time.”

[...]

"I was a naive little fool," Cayla admits readily enough. She isn't interested in pretending she didn't walk into Miguel's arms with her eyes wide open. She knew what this industry did to the people inside it, what the people did to each other, and she had told herself she was different. That she was better, somehow, untouchable. She had no interest in pretending to never have made a mistake, only in making those who took advantage of that pay. "But I'm a quick learner. It won't happen again."

Normally, Cayla would try to simper and flatter the talent, but she simply didn't have the patience for it. And, after all, that quiet voice in her head asked, steadily growing louder, why should she? Why should she be that stupid little girl at all anymore? Eloise obviously knew what Cayla was, the artist who would use Eloise as a tool if given half the chance. What was the use of pretending otherwise anymore? Of pretending to care about the faces that told stories others invented, picked up and cast aside so easily?

"I'm not interested in the politics of it," Cayla says instead. "The whole culture of machination, of trying to cancel those who have offended you, or trying to save the chaffe you think you can use... It's all bullshit. Either Cancellation is an art or it isn't." That was why Cyrus was gone now, Cayla was sure, although those who had replaced him weren't any better. Cyrus had been an artist through and through, just one who had let his heart lead him. Trapped between the art and the schemes, he had torn himself apart. Mary, however, was a businesswoman through and through.

Cayla could respect that, but it wasn't the person she wanted to be.

"Cancellation and revenge are two different things. I just happen to enjoy both."

Struggling not to lapse into the philosophical ramblings she's been prone to lately-- (And it's hard to think about how Miguel has physically changed her, how she let him into her body, how she lived through it but now she is a different person on the other side, her brain half-wired and stuttering) --Cayla pulls out a pack of cigarettes from her purse. It's a nasty habit, but it calms the shaking of her fingers like nothing else. It'll kill her all the same, but slower, maybe. Less pretty, she thinks, but she was never one for looking at.

"Cardosa. I know," she says, interrupting the judgement she can feel coming. "He can barely keep himself alive, how could I have trusted him?" Lighting her cigarette, Cayla can't meet Eloise's gaze. "Because I was the one keeping him alive, and I was stupid enough to believe that meant something to someone other than me."

She stays a long drag of nicotine. "You know, the funny thing is that I don't even think I like men? In theory they're fine, I guess. Okay to look at. But in practice..." Cayla makes a face. "You can almost convince yourself that the older ones will be better at taking care of themselves, but at the end of the day they're just meaner about it."

It had been too quiet. Not his Cayla! This wasn’t like her! Even on that day where she had trouble waking up, gargling little breaths still counted as noise. Obliviousness wouldn’t have been so easy to soak into his veins if it wasn’t the secret ingredient that laced his drugs, going hand-in-hand, creating the perfect storm of blissful ignorance and complete negligence. Miguel was the walking definition of it, even as he slipped into the room, shoes off at the threshold to poke around silently on the pads of his feet, assistant in his crosshairs until striking.

“Choke me!” he greeted, arms wrapped tightly around her from behind, chin pressed to her shoulder before face leaped up to kiss her temple. “It is very, very point! On the point! Yes, yes, yes,” he went on, bits and pieces of her conversations filtering in, the tumblr posts he stole from her making their dent on his already impaled mind. “The death! Who is it for? Tell me, tell me! It is killing me, Cayla! You are giving me the death!”

Wide grin illuminated, eyes sparkling at her until shifting nosily to the screen, only one thing catching his eyes. “It is me! Miguel!” he beamed, tapping wildly at his e-mail in the To field as if he had been bestowed a great honor. “What are all the other words! Too much! All the letters! Read to me, my Cayla!”

[...]

Miguel's hands on her are no longer than comfort they once were. She knew, more than anyone, the lecher that Miguel could be. Once, though, she had considered herself an exception to that. That Miguel appreciated her not for te fact that she could offer him sex, but because she was Cayla, someone who could match his enthusiasm. She had considered them, briefly, as soulmates.

Now, though, Cayla knows she is nothing but a silly little girl in his hands, and her skin crawls with it.

Cayla slams the laptop lid and draws the laptop to her chest, hunching over the plastic like she can protect herself by keeping it out of her sight. It's hard feat to manage, struggling as she is to get out of his grasp.

Shoving at Miguel's chest, Cayla stumbled a few steps away from him. "No, Miguel. You don't get another fucking word from me," Cayla said. She wished she could be refined and cold, like Ms. Samson would have been. Instead, the betrayal tugs at her vocal chords.

"You're here now, so I guess I'll just tell you now. I..." Cayla squared her shoulders, lifting her chin at him. "They offered me a job in the cancellation department and I'm taking it. You have two weeks to find a replacement." A bitter sneer settles on her lips. "Good luck."

“what’s wrong with saying it like that?” eloise bardot was an icon, cemented forever and ever in the hallowed halls of those who made it. she had no one to thank but herself, pulling points from all those men who were already convinced of their greatness, willing to trade favors as easily as anyone might. she had yet to find the thing that made her say no. tie a noose around her neck, she still broke even.

she couldn’t help but eavesdrop! what self-respecting young girl could leave well enough alone. top top top of the list was little lo. she was starved for a good time. “i mean— it’s real harsh, but if it’s the truth then what more can you do!” as if speaking the truth ever got anyone anywhere. but it was the nice kind of advice that girls doled out to each other, at least in some american ideal. “who are you gonna boss around?”

[...]

Cayla's brain faltered in noticing her new companion, stuck in the haze of writing. She pecked idly at her keyboard, frowning down at her screen. The idea of telling the truth was a nice one, of course, but not one Cayla really had time to dwell on. The truth would never work with Miguel, not if she wanted to keep her dignity. What was she supposed to say, I loved you and you left me for dead? You broke my heart? As if Miguel would care. As if anyone would care.

"Telling the truth isn't exactly in my job description," Cayla said, but her voice didn't sound dismissive, just... sad.

Looking up, Cayla blinked in surprise. She knew Eloise Bardot, of course-- There was hardly anyone in the country who didn't at this point. More than her acting, though, Cayla admired the way Eloise interacted with the world when she wasn't on the clock. Her performance during the dare event last year had been especially impressive. Cayla hadn't been able to watch, too busy preparing for her own debut that day, but when she had watched the recordings afterwards she was almost jealous. Eloise was so invested, a breath of fresh air-- So fun. And Cayla had been stuck with Eila and Luda, twin downers.

She offered a small smile and a shrug. "Um. My boss," Cayla said, not entirely sure it would be a good idea to start directly shit-talking Miguel. "Ex-boss, I guess. He's an asshole." Cayla shifts, getting more into finally venting all her issues. "He steals my work constantly, I'm working like four jobs and getting paid for one, and he--" The words faltered in her throat. God, how could she even explain that final betrayal? "It doesn't matter. I'm transferring to the Cancellation department."

"One day, I'm going to be Editor, and he's going to have a very sad accident." It would be easy to pull it off, Cayla thought. She was the only one who would miss him.

On one hand, there was a part of Cayla that wanted to hurt Miguel, and the keen narrative sense developed over the past year told her that this would be the perfect time to strike. The season finale, if you will.

Life wasn't a TV show, though, of that Cayla had become keenly aware. Now, hours into trying to write this stupid letter, it had dawned on her that nothing she wrote would ever be able to reach him through the haze of drugs and stupidity. Why should it? Nothing, not her devotion or love, had before. It ached, knowing that he would accept her hatred with the same apathy he had accepted her affection.

There would be no sense in flinging insults that wouldn't land, in the end. Although she doubted very much that Miguel would bother to report her, she couldn't be sure if he even read his own e-mails since she'd stopped doing it for him. Nothing could jeopardize her job with the Cancellation department, not even her own futile revenge.

Begrudgingly, Cayla set about editing. Frowning down at her laptop screen, she mumbled, "How do you tell someone politely that they'd be lucky if they choked to death on their own vomit because you're going to be their boss one day?"

Cayla tried to look confident as she led Liana through the Contract's backyard, but the fact of the matter was that she'd never done this without Miguel before. She'd never even been tempted to try, before Liana. That was her downfall, really: Liana was beautiful, funny, and cool in a way that Cayla had never been able to manage. Impressing her was absolutely a priority.

When they reached the backdoor, Cayla knelt and pulled out her new set of lockpicks. She was so sick of using subpar tools for work. She wiggled them in Liana's direction, grinning wide as they glinted in the moonlight. "They were on sale. The ad said they were for people who forgot their keys." Cayla snorted. "Yeah fucking right."

Miguel, as usual, had pushed his responsibilities onto Cayla. People were used to that by now, and had mostly settled into simply letting it happen. After all, Cayla was enthusiastic about the system in a way Miguel simply didn't care to try to emulate, and showed up to work sober at least half the time. Little did they know, however, that Cayla had begged for this particular opportunity. This event was practically tailored for her, she was sure of it, and since Miguel had spent Cora's party practically throwing his own game of Truth or Dare, well...

Miguel was pretty much the best boss, ever.

Cayla sat, now, on the prize counter of a Chuck E. Cheese, a handful of pilfered candy in her grasp. Beneath her, the glass boxes showed off the usual cheap plastic prizes, but behind her-- Behind her, the objects ranged from soft plushes to sharp knives with colorful handles. The party room was smaller than usual, the game machines closer together. It was a wonderful, claustrophobic tableau. Cayla had never had much talent for cinematography, but her hands itched to grab a camera.

"So!" Cayla chirped, feet kicking out as she swung them like a child. She was sober, but had made sure she wouldn't be on the come down during filming. Cranky withdrawal Cayla was not entertaining. "I know they probably filled you in on everything beforehand, but do either of you have questions? If not, feel free to go ahead," she continued. "I'm dying to get started."

Tommy did really feel guilty as he stared at the defenseless pretzel on the ground, the bread not even halfway done. It was a pity, really. Those things were really good except for the part where it cost you fifteen dollars and your first newborn. Happiness was expensive! Glancing back up to the blonde he tried his best to look apologetic, a slanted smile with pursed lips bringing the look together. “I’m really sorry.” Tommy apologized again just for the sake of it as he moved to clip his sunglasses on to his shirt collar, trying to decide whether he should just leave the pretzel on the floor or pick it up to at least throw away.

In the end he decided to pick it up, quickly leaning down as it dawned on Cayla who she had bumped into. He missed the way her eyes widened with excitement and recognition, too busy picking up the ruined piece of food and holding it far from him, just his thumb and index finger enough to grasp it. “Uh, hold on.” Tommy’s eyes searched their surroundings until realizing that at least they were strategically placed near a trash can, and so he took the five steps needed and let the pretzel fall into the trash. Environmental King ™. When he returned to her and finally got a good look at her, he offered her a polite smile, trying to sway away from the fact he was wiping his fingers on his jeans. There’d been far worse things in his hands and yet, he did this.

“Are… you okay?” His smile faltered for only a moment when he noticed the way her eyes swelled up in the slightest, not ready to have another girl burst into tears right in front of him. It was only then that the idea that the blonde could possibly be his fan popped into Tommy’s head, eyes gazing at her curiously and smile returning in full effect. Tommy Price didn’t get sad. He was too punk rock for that. “Well shit, let’s do it” Tommy shrugged nonchalantly in response to her quiet request. “We can totally get you a new pretzel.” He scoffed only to let her know it wasn’t a big deal. Because it really wasn’t. “I’m Tommy by the way. But my friends call me pretzel murderer. It’s just what I do, I guess.”

Something was off about him. Maybe a normal fan wouldn't have noticed, but Cayla Barker was not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Tommy's smile didn't go all the way back, and while Cayla could quite see what was behind it, she knew a mask when she saw one.

Probably his fight with Ingrid, Cayla decided. After all, Ingrid had seemed properly devastated that night; They probably didn't fight much at all. That seemed weird to Cayla, honestly. She was constantly fighting with someone she loved, whether it be her mom or Hannah or Miguel. She happened to think being able to fight with someone without losing it was a pretty important skill, but maybe some people just weren't cut out for it.

"I'm fine," Cayla said quickly. She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes to hide the way she watched his face. "Sorry, I-- Gosh, please don't tell anyone at Prometheus this, because I kinda work there, but, uh... I'm a really big fan of yours. You... you're kinda what inspired me to switch from music to film."

Her eyes widened. "I promise I won't be weird though! I..." Cayla shrugged. "I work on film sets now; This will be good practice! We can just be Cayla and Tommy, two people who met in Disneyland and happen to work for the same people!" Nervously, Cayla tucked her hair behind her ears, but even the anxiety couldn't stop her bright grin.

"I am Cayla, by the way. Cayla Barker. I'm a writing assistant." Cayla led the way back to the concession stand, nose crinkling as she giggled at his jokes. "Is that why you're here, then? On the hunt for innocent pretzel victims?"

She managed out half a laugh, more of a wheeze, for the compliment that was immediately thrown at her. She knows she doesn’t look beautiful, it’s hard to think that a swollen face under fluorescent lights says anything other than just got dumped! but at least the girl was nice enough to say different. Her next question is enough to pull a fresh round of tears from some space of pain she had yet to discover. Where is she going go, who is she going to call? Her answer had always been Tommy Tommy Tommy. Tommy since her second year of high school. It didn’t matter where or when, he’d always been her first answer.

Who was there now? Cy? She wanted to say just as much, but there had to be a moment where they were both pushed out of her head. “Um, Teagan.” She tried to wipe her face with some of the napkins, but there’s hardly any effort in the action. Especially not if she’s going to just keep on crying. “My friend Teagan, you should call them.” She put her phone on the table, no passcode, waiting expectantly for the stranger to take some control of the situation. “They’d like that joke.” It’s much easier to think about than the next few questions she’s posed with.

“You know him?” There’s a little awe to her voice, she wanted to know where from, a few questions spanning into a thousand conversations. Each came back to the same central problem, the one that kept her eyes just watery enough to blur her vision. “He’s not getting away with anything.” There’s a hiccup in there that under cuts the honesty in her sentence. “It’s really, it’s my fault.” Talking about it wasn’t going to ruin anything, especially not when there was anything left to keep in tact. Would the world still be there when she woke up tomorrow? There was only one thing to find out. “We just got scared. I didn’t notice the leaderboard and—“ And, what? How much did she believe; how much could she force herself to say out loud. “It was my fault. I should have known better.”

Cayla nodded, and took the phone. She resisted the urge to snoop, dutifully finding Teagan's thread in Ingrid's messages. She typed as Ingrid explained-- hi, my name is cayla. ingrid needs you. bk on sunset. not 911 pls dont speed :) --her eyes occassionally darting up to meet Ingrid's teary gaze.

"I work at Prometheus. I've never met him before but it's kinda my job to know the talent," Cayla said, shrugging-- There was no reason that couldn't very well be the truth, as far as Ingrid knew.

As much as Cayla thought she had this handled, however, she couldn't help but frown at the explanation. Surely Tommy Price couldn't be so narcisstic as to believe his point drop was actually the responsibility of his friends. That was his fan's job- Cayla's job -and Tommy's job was to make as many of those as possible.

"Hey, no, don't let it get in your head like that. He survived, didn't he? Come on, it--" Cayla struggled to do the numbers in her head, the flowchart of logic that could have brought them to this place. "Look, no one could have seen tonight coming. The rate he was falling could have only been from a targeted attack, and once his fans noticed, they rallied together. And everything's okay again! That's how it's supposed to go, you know? The system works."

Cayla bit her lip, trying to figure out how to get the most gossip out of the situation. "Um... if you really wanted to help him, I guess you could... find out what group took points?"

He sees Cayla’s mouth moving, but the only thing going on in Miguel’s mind is Kesha’s hit single Take It Off. “There’s a place downtown where the freaks come out…” he sings along to the music in his mind while his hands are still on her shoulders. Their eyes are meeting, and he just grins when his voice drags into the background before his dilated pupils flash with a sudden thought. “A bitch! You want to be the dog?! I love it! Cayla! You will make the best bitch! I believe it! On all fours and little waggy tail! So cute! So new! Who is Stan?! Why doesn’t he like pandas? I don’t like him! Head of a catfish! Delete him! No! Don’t delete! We have to go! We have to go!”

Miguel’s movements are erratic, especially as he speaks, but the moment he stops talking, his hands trade places for his assistant’s waist to lift her up clean off the floor. In an instant, she’s hauled up and thrown over his shoulder, galloping down the hall with her. “WE ARE COMING FOR YOU CYRUS! THE BITCH AND THE PANDA ARE COMING FOR YOU!” he belts out right before the red curtain to the stage is scattered over them and then freeing them the moment they make it on the other side with an audience staring back at them.

Cayla struggles against Miguel's group while he babbles on, his words nonsense that Cayla wouldn't be able to decipher even if she were sober. It was like that, sometimes, when they got a little too high-- Miguel would just talk, for hours, and Cayla would eventually give up, making up her own script for their conversations.

“Ah! You are not a fuzzy? Is that it? I see your little friends mention it when I steal your phone! What is it? What is it? Ah! Furries! Yes! Furries!” his voice calls out into the hall that was very much not abandoned, making a few heads turn in their direction, facing the grinning write that had no scruples. “I would try it once! What animal would be the best, Cayla? I love pandas! But do I love them that way? I don’t know! My heart! It’s torn! And very, very, very confused.”

His pace has been quick, practically running if it hadn’t been for his assistant slowing him down as his hand is still wrapped around hers. She finally stops him, and his face still is lit with that childlike enthusiasm, in spite of that devilish tongue that only moments ago spoke about orgies and something he’s just beginning to grasp with dressing up like a panda. At her words, though, Miguel’s face softens as it tilts at her. “You are the sweetest! An angel! But! I would never forgive you if you didn’t call me! Anytime, Cayla! You have to! It’s now in your contract! You must call Miguel Cardosa when you are having an orgy!” His tongue is thrown out before he laughs.

Only when she mentions her final words at him does he look at her with mischief written all over his face. “You are giving soft, Cayla, Cayla.” It is barely half a second later that his tone changes rapidly, back to excitement. “OH! You should be the panda! Yes, yes, yes! Cayla!”–his hands rest on her shoulders, shaking her with the idea–“Be the panda! If I don’t like it, I know I could never like any other! You are the bench!”

"No, I'm not a furry! I'm a stan account, Miguel, the furries are our enemies--" Miguel is paying even less attention to her words than he was before, barreling down a conversation about which animals he would like to try having sex with. Cayla blanches, even the molly in her system isn't enough to make this conversation okay. "I mean, I think the dogs are the most common, but like-- Gross, Miguel." She tries to pull away, wincing as he continues to talk about orgies and being a panda and a list of other nonsense that Cayla isn't exactly comfortable with.