REFLECTION
Sir Alexander Dane sits down in front of the mirror, hours earlier than the rest of the cast to have time to do his own make-up.
"That's the thing about these 'conventions'," he grumbles, fiercely screwing a bottle of wig glue shut. "Too cheap to afford someone else to do the damned job." He grabs the case of purple powder and smudges it along the edge of his cap. He's done the whole thing so many times it has become ridiculously routine.
After putting some finishing touches on his eyebrows, he squints critically at himself.
With a grave and regal frown at his face in the mirror, his only audience, he murmurs, "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York. By Grabthar's Hammer, you shall be avenged. Dammit."
Sobriety disappears into a heavy glower and his fist sweeps across the counter in frustration, knocking the jar of brushes over.
He covers his face with one hand, and then lets it slide down to support his chin. His fingers twiddle with the spilled brushes and slowly replace them one by one.
Eventually, the actors of the Galaxy Quest cast arrive. Tommy, Fred, Gwen.
Not Jason. Oh ho no, not Jason. Too full of himself to turn up with the rest of them.
Alex picks up the brush and puts it to his nose thoughtfully, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection is detached, thoughtful. He doesn't listen to the others' talk. Grand scenes of himself as Richard III replay in his mind.
"How did I come to this?" he murmurs.
A pause.
"I played Richard III. There were five curtain calls. I was an actor once, dammit – now look at me, look at me!" He throws down the brush. "I won't go out there and say that stupid line one more time…."
He gets to his feet with an expression of utter disgust, turning away from his reflection.