The ship the Victors are supposed to live on during the Victory Tour is a converted luxury space liner. The walls are cream, and there are cream-colored couches ensconced beneath the panoramic glass windows. They're designed so the Victors can look out at the wonders of the universe, but as the ship rises into the murky blue twilight of Earth's upper atmosphere, Leela feels increasingly like a fish in a bowl.
It doesn't help that there are cameras in all the communal areas. The idea is that they'll capture everyday footage of the Victors, which will then be spliced into a weekly "candid" reel, so the people of Earth can feel more connected to their Victors. Here are your Victors eating ice cream in their pajamas! Here are your Victors watching TV! Here are your Victors staring starry-eyed at the wonders of the Empire!
Leela resents it already. It's bad enough that her every waking moment will be under scrutiny during each stop on the Tour. But for Earth to eat into her privacy between stops too? She'll only be free when she goes to bed at night.
As always, it's a line Amy seems used to walking. She stays in performance mode as as they step on board the ship, her artificially sunny smile a signal the rest of them should play along too.
"First stop, the Moon!" she says cheerily, as the airlock hisses shut behind them. "There's a costume change on your beds. Keep the moonstones, it's a theme. Moonstones for the moon, get it? But we need to freshen up. Gloops! Look at my boots! I stubbed my toe and now they're ruined . . ."
She babbles on as she leads them down the corridor, dipping in and out of every room to collect their clothes. The doors go thud, thud, thud, and Amy puts a finger to her lips each time, until at last she reaches her own room at the end and hustles them all inside.
No surveillance in the bedrooms. No cameras between rooms. But the mics in the lounge can pick up anything said in the hallway. Leela stows this information away for the future. It's mostly what she suspected, but she hadn't considered the hallways. That sends a shiver of cold fear through her. Who knows what she might have said or done out there, if Amy hadn't warned her?
She needs to be smarter than this. She needs to consider all the angles.
When the door closes behind them Amy dumps all the clothes on her bed, and drops her sunny attitude.
"We don't have long," she says. Her tone that is cold and brisk again. Her mentor voice. "This thing is built to move slow and they're giving us time to change, but not that long. So multitask."
She kicks off her boots, and plucks a silver lamé dress from the pile on the bed. It's high-necked, with a cut-out panel over her breasts.
The boys realize what she's about to do just before she does it. Kif flushes forest green and swivels instantly to stare at the wall. Fry claps his hands over his eyes.
Leela doesn't bother. Amy is thinner than she is, and her breasts sit too high, too round on her frame. Naked, they don't look natural. This is vaguely interesting, for comparison's sake, but a body is just a body, and Amy has nothing Leela doesn't have herself.
She meets Amy's gaze coolly - then frowns at the crush of red marks on her collarbone.
"What happened?"
Amy blinks, and Leela realizes she has unintentionally called her mentor's bluff. She was supposed to be shocked. She was supposed to be flustered, and turn around, and not get a good look at any of Amy's injuries.
The idea that she might not care about Amy's body - that she might be utterly indifferent to everything but her injuries - doesn't seem to have occurred to her mentor. It's as if no-one has ever appraised her body without arousal before.
That's a depressing thought.
"It's nothing," Amy says. "Just Nixon's goons."
"The president's henchmen," Kif says quietly, "threw her into a wall."
He's still staring diligently at a piece of modern artwork on the wall behind her, but at the sound of Amy zipping up her dress he turns around again.
"She antagonized them," he says.
"It's not important."
"So they wouldn't hurt me or your mother," Kif continues, as if Amy's dismissal doesn't register. His tone is as even as ever, but for the first time it sounds as if he's fighting to keep it that way.
Amy notices too, and scowls.
"Are you angry? We don't have time for this."
A vein ticks in the hollow of Kif's cheek. It's a tiny movement, there and then gone, and then Kif smoothes out like it never happened.
"Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry more often than you think. But you're right. We don't have time for this."
Kif takes the bottle of champagne from her bedside table, lifts it fastidiously out of the bucket, and then kneels with the bucket to lower her foot into the remaining ice. Amy hisses as the cold hits her broken toe.
"Leave it," Kif warns. "For ten minutes, at least. Please."
He passes the chilled bottle to Fry.
"Hold this to your stomach. You're wheezing. And give me your jacket."
He takes a handheld steamer from a slot in the wall by the roll-back closet, and begins quietly steaming away the creases.
Amy watches him, her expression unreadable.
"What happened to us isn't important," she says at last, returning her attention to Leela. "Nixon was just keeping us out of the way while he went after his real target - you two. You need to tell me what he said. Everything he said."
Leela brushes the dirt off her dress and reaches for a fitted, mother-of-pearl sheen coat it's clear she's supposed to put on over it. Belted, it hides the worst of the stains from her fall. And she feels more secure, as if there is now a thin layer of armor between her and the world.
She stands up a little straighter.
"It was the standard warning," she says briskly. "Do what I say or get murdered. I told him we would. End of story."
"He said he'd murder you."
Fry's voice is slow, like a sleep-walker. But he's looking at Amy as he speaks. Answering her question.
"He said he'd murder Leela. And Leela's mom. And me. And he said he'd murder you. He said you'd overdose and die, and no-one would even know." He shivers. "But we would. Because it would be all our fault."
Kif stands up abruptly, striding over to the window so they can't see his face.
There is a moment of awful, choking silence.
Amy forces a laugh.
"Is that all? Nixy's been saying that for years. He hates me. Murder threats are how he says hi."
"He sounded like he meant it."
"I better not antagonize him then."
Amy shifts her foot in the bucket, wincing as the ice slushes over her mottled purple toe.
"So," she says, offhand. "He threatened your mom, and me, and Kif, and you two, and the whole neighborhood -"
"He didn't threaten Kif."
Leela has been watching for it and she's not disappointed. Amy's hand spasms and she digs her fingers into the edge of the mattress to stop it. A spasm of fear set free by relief.
"Lucky Kif," she says lightly.
Lucky you, Leela thinks bitterly. She can't help herself.
Kif half-turns, frowning, and in the confused expression on his face, Leela reads the answer to a question she hadn't been sure about before.
He doesn't know. He has no idea of the lengths Amy has gone to to keep him beneath Nixon's notice.
Leela can't decide if she pities Kif for that, or not. It must be a special kind of hell, to love someone and never let yourselves speak it. How would either of you even know?
"So," Amy is saying. "The murder train leaves the station if . . .?"
"If the Tour goes badly. If Fry and I don't convince everyone watching that we're just two dumb kids who wanted to be together come hell or high water. He thinks if we're Disney enough people will -"
"Forget that you hate the President, and his Games, and his whole crooked Empire. And forget that your little suicide pact at the end of the Games was a giant fuck you to all of that."
"Basically."
There is a moment of silence, as Amy avoids her eye. She shifts her foot in the ice, her expression deadpan.
"Better be love's young dream then."
"I don't get it," Fry blurts out.
"Don't get what?"
Fry seems uncomfortable at finding himself the center of attention. Leela wonders if he even meant to speak.
He drops his gaze to his shoes.
"Why it would make a difference," he mumbles. "I loved Leela in the Games. But I still hated the Games." He glances up at Leela. "People can do things for more than one reason."
If they were alone, Leela thinks she would kiss him for that.
But Amy is already biting back.
"Not on TV they don't," she says. "No-one is complicated on TV. And you're on TV, you're Victors now. You don't get to be real people anymore."
"But -"
"Bu - bu - bu . . . gleesh. Listen to me. It's simple. You won the Games. You're rich and famous and everyone loves you, so you're not allowed to hate it. You have to be grateful, for the rest of your lives. That's the deal. There are rules, okay?"
"No-one told me the rules."
"No-one tells you. It's just the way the world is. It's . . ."
"Understood," Kif murmurs.
"Right. Understood. No-one else needs . . ."
Amy stops, as if she's suddenly remembering Fry's complete lack of situational awareness or verbal filter. Leela watches her face and knows that his first interview for the Games is flashing through her mind.
"Okay, fine. Maybe you need it. You're a freak. Fine. I'll do you a 101."
She eases her foot out of the ice bucket and pants in pain as she begins the arduous process of inching it into another pair of boots.
"For you, it's pretty much this. You're a sweet dumb kid, so you're not allowed to get angry about politics. You're not even supposed to see politics. The world is perfect and happy and there's nothing wrong with anything. Nixon could murder millions of people and it wouldn't matter, because in your world it's all sunshine and roses and Leela's pretty eye. And all you want is to marry her and live happily ever after for the rest of your pretty, sparkly little lives."
She points at Kif.
"Kif here is an alien, so his deal is that he's not allowed to be ungrateful. Not ever. And he's not allowed to be better than humans. He can't be smarter than you, or a better person, or . . ." She loses herself momentarily, her gaze hovering over his face, before she pulls herself back. "He's an alien," she concludes. "So when there are humans in the room, he's not allowed to matter. End of."
"What about you?"
"G'uh!" Amy perks her shoulders up, and flashes him a plastic, empty smile. "I'm the slut! I have to look maximum fuckable at all times. And never say no. I don't have feelings, or a real body. I'm not even supposed to have a brain. So, see, who cares if I kill some brain cells."
She produces a pill from somewhere in the lining of her fur shrug, and swallows it with a swig of champagne.
At last she points at Leela.
"She's the love interest. She's the sad little sewer mutant who fell in love with a human, and she's so lucky you love her back, she'd do anything for you. That's it, that's all she cares about. It's you. She's not allowed to see anything else. She's not allowed to be angry. And she's not supposed to put the moves on you, because that's arrogant. That's not what she deserves, get it? She doesn't have the right to touch you. She just sits there like a good girl who can't believe her luck, and waits for you to kiss her, and swoons like a fucking Disney princess when you do." She shakes her head, already turning woozy. "I know that's hard for you to remember, because for some reason that is the complete opposite of your relationship. But if you could try and be the man in this thin-"
"Wait." Another piece has finally fallen into place for Fry. "That's why everyone was so mad about that video?"
Amy flicks his cheek with her forefinger.
"G'uh! What do I keep telling you? It's cute when you fall in love with the ugly little freak who saved your life. It's not cute when you're . . . pussy-whipped . . . by some . . . psycho mutant seductress! What part of this is so hard for you to understand? Gleesh."
Amy gets to her feet and limps over to the bathroom.
"I need to fix my face. We land in ten, so get it together. Big smiles, empty brains! Go team!"
The door hisses behind her. The three of them stare at it.
Leela feels numb. She can't look at anyone else. She can't stand to see the look on their faces, looking at her.
Sad little sewer mutant. Psycho mutant seductress.
She stares at the floor, her face burning. She can't decide which is worse.
Fry is the one to break the silence.
"Leela's not ugly," he says, sounding so offended - so completely, unfeignably confused - that Leela could cry.
But they have bigger problems, so she crushes the feeling and shushes Fry, still watching the bathroom door.
After a minute, the faucet turns in the bathroom. Silence falls over the three of them as they listen to the sound of the water.
Amy is probably only running it to cover up more drug-taking, but at least she'll be too distracted to listen in.
"I'm sorry," Kif says, before either of them can say anything. "For the way she spoke to you. She doesn't mean it." His face turns tight. "She's in pain, and she doesn't know how to get through to you. It makes her cruel."
Not to you, Leela thinks.
Fry frowns at the door.
"She's getting worse," he says. "She wasn't this bad when she was our mentor. She was always mean, but now . . . sometimes it's like she hates us."
Kif winces.
"She doesn't hate you. She's glad you won. I'm glad you won. I hope that goes without saying." He fidgets with the ice bucket. "Amy . . ."
His gaze drifts to the bathroom door, as if he can stare a hole right through it and into Amy's head.
"She's afraid," he says at last. "She doesn't think you can do it. The Tour. Mentoring." He shakes his head. "Either of you. She doesn't think you have what it takes."
Cold floods the pit of her stomach. Leela swallows.
She wants to argue.
She wants to agree.
She doesn't know what she wants.
Kif hardly seems aware of her. He looks lost in thought, locked in some miserable inner world of his own.
He's still holding the bucket. He sloshes it from side to side, contemplating the melting ice.
"Do you know what I thought?" he says softly. "Before the cameras arrived. Watching Nixon's men hurt her." He shuts his eyes. "I wondered if this Tour would kill her. I wondered if any of us would make it out alive."
Suddenly Leela feels two feet tall.
"Kif." Her throat twists. "We're trying."
"I know."
Kif sighs, setting the bucket down gently on the bedside table.
"I know you don't want to hear this, but Amy's right. She has a terrible way of saying it, but she's right about what people expect from you. Fame, it . . . flattens. Distorts. I don't know."
He smoothes down the covers where Amy sat.
"Just try," he says at last. "For the cameras. It doesn't matter what you do in private. But when they're watching . . . try to be what they want you to be. It's the only way we might survive."