Trigger Warning: Gaslighting, Memory 'problems'.

Act

If you want to be famous, Callie,
You can't always be honest.
I know we've raised you not to lie,
But when you're on stage,
People expect things from you.
If you mess things up,
Your career may be over.

Callie sits on her hands and tries not to squirm. She's warmed up, she's been practicing all her languages, she's got her best good-luck charm (the friendship bracelet Marie made her when they were 5 that got too tight and had to be cut off so she turned it into a braided keychain) clipped to her belt. She closes her eyes and starts running through Gell verb conjugations in her head, and is swinging her feet as she works her way through Urnese when someone calls, "Cuttlefish, Callie."

Finally. Callie leaps to her feet and fixes her tie. They're doing auditions at a traditional theater, and there were only a few other people auditioning today. She's last.

She's never been on TV—well, outside of the news. She wants this. But she's... she's Callie. She has a reputation. So, though her stomach is in knots somewhere around her toes, Callie dances on stage, doing backwards hops and spins like it's either Bomb Rush Blush or Calamari Inkantation or some sort of weird conglomerate.

There's scattered applause, and Callie spins once more, bounces on her toes forward to the X, and bows way too far forward. "Callie C, at your service!" she chirps, giving a cheerful wave into the pink-tinted lights. "And while it would be the ultimate betrayal to come here only to tell you I don't want the part, I do."

Now she's got laughter. Three rows in, center, sit five people; a few others are scattered through the theater, though she can't see any others clearly.

"Well then, Callie," says the director, leaning forwards; the pink light and red seats wash out his skin. "We've seen you work on the news over the years, but the part we're working on will be... a little different. Since we're nearing the final season, we need to start wrapping things up, so we need this season's secondary villain to be more than she appears."

Callie nods, though she's confused. "More how?"

"How would Mr. Fish have bases in all those countries, creating havoc, without a great translator?" Callie's eyes bulge; his smile widens. "If you get the part, it'll be a three-year contract. A minor part for this year, as a multilingual henchman to our season's villain, with an air-headed laugh and more focus on fashion than villainy; we've already cast Arnold Jellinator to be the season's main villain. Instead of being redeemed at the end, though, you'll be the main villain next season."

"You started foreshadowing this in season two!" Callie cries, forgetting this is an audition she needs to be respectful. "With those phone calls in Gells, and the notes in Urnese, and the blueprints have all been written in Blubbarian, and the finale of each season's had music in a different language!"

The director laughs. "You've done your homework. How well do you speak Gells?"

Callie has a short conversation in Gells, and Urnese, and manages passable Blubbarian (she admits she's only been studying it since her agent said she'd need as many languages as possible) (to the casting director's obvious delight, she is nailing this) when one of them gets on the stage with her and passes her three pages of script. "All right, let's try it. You have ten minutes to study your lines."

Callie looks it over and can't stop her grin, because this is in Octarian. She looks through it, taking in the dialogue beats, the pauses and places where she may want to glare or stalk menacingly, then looks at the director and asks, in Octarian, "May we get started now?"

The casting director looks startled. "You know Octarian?"

Callie grins. "Gramps fought in the Great Turf War. He taught us." Why he taught them doesn't matter. "I'm betting the big secret has something to do with Octarians in the final season, doesn't it?"

The casting director taps his chin. "Taught us? You and Mary, right?"

Callie blinks. "Me and Marie, yeah."

"Well, I suppose since you and Mary were friends since childhood, it'd make sense for her to have spent time with your grandfather," he says. "All right, let's do a take. Come on up, Finnley."

Callie blinks, because that's twice now he's referred to Marie as Mary, and that hasn't happened since their first month on the news. She catches herself in time to get her cue, and scowls appropriately and dramatically turns her back and walks away, doing a monologue at the curtain, and flings an imaginary cape like she's Three when she turns around. When they're done, Finnley blushes, pink as his tentacles "You do that really well."

"Don't flirt, intern," the casting director admonishes. He nods at Callie as Finnley stumbles off. "One last question. Are you familiar with method acting?"

Callie nods. "It's where you don't tell part of the cast what to expect, so they get better reactions. Right? Is that how you get even Dr. Troutley to jump sometimes? I'd be okay with it."

One of her interviewers jots down a note. "Thank you for your time. We have a few more auditions to do, and some deliberation, but we'll get back to you in a week."

Callie nods, but unless she's mistaken she aced it—she can see the spark in their eyes, the grin on the casting director's face, all add up to a good audition.

This is the freshest day ever.

"One last thing," the director says. "Please don't tell anyone you auditioned, or if you get the role." He smiles. "Confidentiality, and all that."

"We may require you to move to an apartment close to the set," says another interviewer; Callie didn't catch their name. "I understand you and Mary—"

"Marie," Callie interrupts.

The person talking looks up from her papers. "Are you feeling all right?"

"You and Mary have been performing together since childhood, correct?" asks another interviewer.

Callie props her hands on her hips. "I'm pretty sure I know my own cousin's name," she says, "since Marie and I have been performing together most of our lives."

One of them gives a cough that sounds like a laugh. "Dear, you don't need to stick to your stage lie right now."

"It's not—"

"Anyway, since you and Mary share an apartment, you may need to alert her to a change in living arrangements," the first one finishes at last. "If you get the part. Maybe you should take a rest."

"Why don't you go take a walk," Finnley suggests, taking Callie's elbow. "It's a beautiful day, and you have those great shades; get some fresh air, clear your mind." She doesn't realize she's walking until she's at her stuff.

Callie smiles, though she didn't even remember she was wearing the shades. She thought she took them off. But it didn't seem dark in there... yeah. She'll take a walk.

She gets to the plaza just as the news starts. It's a recording she and Marie made the other day, and they of course introduce themselves as The Squid Sisters. Callie...

...and Mary.

Callie stands there, her eyes on the screen, watching as she and Marie—Mary? Marie? Mary? They introduce the stages, and she—she addresses her as Mary. She...

Callie takes a deep breath in and holds it. Lets it out. Takes another. Closes her eyes. This is... this is okay. She's been under a lot of stress. She's been on three talk shows this week and auditioned for another TV show, and she and M—and—and—she and Mar are under a LOT of stress.

She doesn't know how to tell—how do you tell your best friend, your cousin (are they cousins? That interviewer called it a stage lie) that you forgot her name?

She'll just... she just won't. That's all. She won't. She'll just...

Callie focuses on her breathing, and wishes for a chocolate. A lollipop. Anything.

But instead she starts to cry in the middle of the street.