Prison

Hurt them? Callie, don't be silly.
I don't care what happens on TV,
No one here will hurt anyone else.
People who do wrong are locked away
Until they learn better.
Like when you're sent to your room.

Callie hasn't seen Mary for three days. Not that there's a problem with that; they've both been busy, with Callie working on Fortunate Betrayal six days a week and at least three evenings a week at different talk shows and variety shows. And with Mary's radio show and the music shows she's on now and her insistence on taking over everything with the splatoon. It's no wonder.

Mary's missing Gramps so much she can't help herself, and Callie'd protest... but it does make Callie's life easier. Especially today, when she begins shooting Fortunate Betrayal at last, now that all the fitting's done and the sets are finished. Once things have calmed down a bit, she'll insist on doing everything for a week or two, give Mary a break.

She grabs her phone from her bedside table and slips it into her purse, then cooks some breakfast, still in her pajamas. Three eggs and some toast later, she gets dressed. Shades—she goes to her collection and finds her phone there, hanging in a case marked with a 3, in the middle of all the shades. Callie checks her purse, she could've sworn she already... no. That's right; Callie put it there because she's been seeing if having it further away from her bed helps her sleep at night. Maybe a better night's sleep will help her memory.

Callie tucks her phone into her purse and gets dressed. They'll do her tentacles special for the show, so she pulls them into a simple ponytail, then pulls on comfortable leggings and a hoodie for anonymity.

She checks her purse for her phone one more time, just to be sure... wait. It's not there. How did she—she just mistook it, that's all. She must need more sleep. All right, check the usual spots. Bedside table? Also no. Headboard?...tucked into her bed?...kitchen counter?

It's not on the counter, but there is a note.

Hey Cal,
Your alarm went off eight times this morning. Unlike SOME people, I can't sleep through that.
I grabbed your phone and shut it off. It's in my bedside table.
Hope you enjoyed your beauty rest.
Break a leg.

Eight times, seriously, Callie has got to get more sleep. Callie shakes her head and goes into Mary's room. It's the usual disaster: Callie steps over the clothes dropped on the floor, catches a pile of books she nudges before it can fall over, and resists the urge to make Mary's bed. She finds her phone right where Mary said it'd be, in the top drawer of her bedside table, under another couple books, though she's... it looks like she made a cardboard sleeve for it, like one of her book jackets, and duct taped it to the bottom of the drawer.

She must have really ticked off Mary. She should stop at Arowana on the way home, buy some cookies as an apology. If she has time. Calle can't remember the last time she didn't have take-out for lunch and supper.

Still, she breaks out her phone and shoves it in her purse, puts the books back, and she's ready.

Ready at last.

Filming for today isn't far from here; it's in a small building off of Inkopolis Plaza. Callie enters through the front, goes through another door, and then—because they're really tight on security—she has to squid through a tunnel to get to the studio proper. When she emerges at last, the director barks, "You're right on time, Cuttlefish. Don't do it again."

Callie folds her arms. "Is there a problem with punctuality?"

"Don't worry, Mr. D, I've get her," shouts someone, and seconds later a boy is taking her arm. "You're new, but Mr. D is—if you're not early, you're late, in his book," says the boy, in flawless Octarian. Callie looks at him and blinks: he is an Octoling, her age or a bit younger, with dark skin and teal eyes. He pulls her along, talking fast. "By the time we're actually supposed to be here, he's grumpy if you're not halfway—or more!—finished with make-up and costuming. Am I going too fast? I know you spoke flawless Octarian during your interview, but..." he stops talking to peer at her.

Callie smiles at him. "You're not going too fast. Is Inklish your second language?" Then, a little lie, "I know some people who live near old war sites speak Octarian first, still."

He looks relieved, still steering her towards some make-up tables. "What make you know?"

"Your pronunciation is perfect, but your grammar is just a little off," she says. "You'll get it with practice." She'll have to tell Mary about him, or investigate him herself, to make sure he's harmless. Not now, though. She's got too many other things to do, and her cover's important—maybe more than her job as an agent, sometimes.

He squeezes her arm, then gives her a gentle shove towards the make-up tables. It feels like no time at all that she's made up, her hair in her trademark bow, being presented with... Callie wrinkles her nose. She did fittings, but the reality of the stomach-showing outfit leaves her less than pleased.

At least until they shove her in front of a mirror, and Callie's breath catches. She looks good. She looks—and the corners of her lips turn up a bit—just the slightest bit evil, but that's what they're going for, and while it's a little more revealing than she's comfortable with, it could be a lot worse. She's seen the outfit they gave Marina for the news.

Or worse, the one they gave Pearl.

"Now, Callie," says the director, as she walks on set. It's designed to look like a store, very fancy, with an enormous glass display case and several smaller ones. "We want an establishing moment with you, understand? Here is our villainess, the henchman to the Big Bad, and she speaks many languages. She is full of fun and song. Improvise. Remember what I said about method acting. Do you have your lines memorized?"

Callie nods, swinging her costume's oversized purse. "What weapon do I break things with?"

He gives her a dynamo. Callie grins, running her fingers along it. She loves this weapon, and having permission to destroy several tables and 'priceless' items while searching for a Magical Item (she's been assured she'll know it when she sees it) is going to be fresher than anything she's done in her life. Besides, it's obvious what she needs to steal: in a large, globe-like display case is a sticker or something, like a pink octopus.

Along with the dynamo comes a stylish ink tank, with black webs or vines curling all over it, and a matching purse. "Can you change to a slightly less vibrant pink for this?" he asks—well, demands. "You have three phones in your purse, one for each language, understand? Do not forget your lines."

But Callie doesn't care about his rudeness, because when they call Action! she swings her dynamo onto the floor and pushes it straight into and through the center table, breaking off two of its legs and sending its contents crashing to the floor while she hums Bomb Rush Blush. Whirling, she lifts her dynamo and, with a little hop, slams it into the big display case.

It feels like she hit a wall full force, and she almost drops the dynamo; a few cracks lace the display's surface, but it doesn't break. One of her phones rings. Method acting; Callie sticks her tongue out at the case, because clearly it wasn't designed to break on the first strike, and fishes out the phone. It's a weird one; answering it requires going through three different screens. "Hello?"

"Keep going," says the person on the other line.

So Callie chatters on about her remodeling efforts as she sweeps her dynamo down through another table, trying (and sometimes failing) not to laugh as obvious costume jewelry gets crushed under her roller. She 'sweeps' it into a corner as she ends the call with her 'sister', then hangs up and turns back to the display case. "This time," she hisses, "you're mine." She leaps towards the case with a flying leap, putting all her strength behind the blow.

The glass almost creaks. Cracks spiderweb across it, but it doesn't break. The force travels up her arms in a shockwave, and Callie almost growls.

The second phone rings. Callie fishes it out, an old-fashioned flip phone, still glaring at the display case (and trying to ignore the octoling giving her a thumbs up out of frame), and makes her way through the menus a lot easier this time. This conversation is in Gells, where she promises the 'shipment' will be in on time, and everything will be in place shortly. She takes her time, leaning on her dynamo and sorting through some of the 'jewelry', occasionally pocketing a piece. She glares at the display throughout (people with cameras circle her), even though she keeps her voice pleasant.

When she flips the phone shut, she drops it on the ground, raises the dynamo with both hands, and slams it on the display with all her strength.

The glass shatters. Callie flinches back, pain racing up her left arm. She ignores it, opens her eyes, steps forward. Balances the handle of the dynamo on her hip. With one hand, she reaches for the third ringing phone. She bends in the glass and fishes out the sticker with the other, holding it before her as though examining something priceless.

She goes through the menus one-handed in seconds. "I got it!" she sings, in delighted Octarian. "Can I deliver it to Mr. Fish myself?" She pauses as though listening, then puts on an exaggerated pout. "Oh, you're no fun."

"CUT!" yells the director, and Callie gets to her feet, beaming. "You, good job. Harbor—"

"I've got the help-aid kit," he pipes up.

"Good. Callie, go with him. You have an audition for some movie soon, right? We'll take care of your arm, fix your outfit; we should be able to do most of your sections this week."

Callie can't help it: she beams as she follows the dark-skinned octoling to a chair. She loves being an actress.