#ruecea

Few things made his skin crawl like the sound of his own voice. It dripped with honey, sickly sweet and placating in order to appeal to the powers that controlled his entire career. How miserable it was to go through life grasping at fame and affection when he had to become someone entirely different to get it? "My biggest role model? The empress, of course. I hope to have even a fraction of the stage presence she commands when she stands before a crowd. She's a muse for us all." The lights in the studio stage were too bright. The interviewer clapped enthusiastically in response, also bound by social etiquette to hold this answer in high regard.

Ruecea wondered what they truly thought of him. They had to know he was fake. Was it resourceful to sprinkle out sugarcoated lies to get ahead? Or was it pathetic to stoop so low in order to crawl his way in front of an audience?

"That's a wrap. Your manager wants to see you out back." The director rolled his fingers in a gesture to keep moving and get going. There were still so many things to do now that they'd finished filming. Ruecea was no longer interesting now that he was out of the viewfinder.

"Yes, of course. And can I say? It was such an honor to work with you today, sir, I really appreciated the way you took care of me." Another lie. They'd set him up with a series of questions to reaffirm his loyalty to the crown and tease at his plans for enlistment when the time came. Hardly any of it had discussed his actual music.

But what an honor it had to be to spend an hour getting stomped on. The words that squeezed out of him threatened to coagulate, each sentence getting harder than the last one to force out.