After retrieving my bindle from under my bed, I headed out the door. I would have said goodbye to Katey, but she had already settled for a catnap in a dusty light beam coming in through one of the windows.

“Around back, take a left at the split,” I mumbled to myself as I started down the lane. “Then we’ll be in Cel City, I suppose.”

“And now we watch, as Sally Salamander, brave and strong, marches on to her destination of Cel City, the economic and societal hub of This Great Nation’s—”

“What are ya spouting about up there?” I asked, putting my hands over my earholes.

Don’t miss those lobes at all.

“Why, Sally, I was just narrating.” Then Mr. Narrator doubled down on the sarcasm. “It would be my absolute pleasure to loudly articulate every single action you take, padding it out with what I perceive to be your emotional response to the observations you synthesize in such a manner as to entertain the audience and handcraft a story truly worthy of your live and ongoing performance!”

The sour taste of guilt filled my mouth. “Sorry about that quip earlier, saying you weren’t following your namesake. Katey cornered me, but I took it out on you.”

“Well…” he drawled softly. “Perhaps I was being a bit gratuitous. Maybe I should only highlight what needs to be highlighted—when it needs highlighting?”

I nodded, started forward once again. “Yeah. You were doing swell before.”

After the split and a sharp bend, the whole front of Cel City appeared under a sunbeam, with a gossamer curtain splitting in half and being tugged open by its tassels by two… pigeons?

One of them winked at me before flying off in the opposite direction of its cousin. And while I swear I saw the curtains fall, there was no trace left of them.

“Here we are, Sally! Cel City!” Mr. Narrator affirmed. “Starting with the commercial district—Ink and Main.”

We followed the path deeper in, finding ourselves at a busy crossroads lined with shopfronts, their striped awnings flapping lazily in the air. One eager newsboy gave me the once-over but stopped hollering his headlines when he saw the bindle over my shoulder. His face fell, and he kicked the dirt in front of him before shuffling off.

Not your mark, kid.

Above the sights and sounds of shopping rose a hill that gleamed like a diamond. A tall, delicately wrought gate stood at its base, the words ‘Marquee Heights’ spelled out in script across the top. And to ensure that no one even thought about sneaking past it, two large bears in security uniforms rested their rumps against it.

Home to the stars?

“I’d certainly believe Mr. Eagle’s nest is somewhere up there,” Mr. Narrator agreed. “That’s his claw on their lapel.”

I wonder how many Star Power Points are squirreled away past that gate…

“Sally, you’re not thinking about doing anything untoward, now are you?”

“Nah,” I said aloud, turning back to the storefronts. “Not in the middle of the day, anyway.”

Mr. Narrator laughed nervously.

I could see a sign for the School of Hard Knocks two streets over, but there was something more distracting just a few yards up the sidewalk.

The grocer out front, an aproned goose, of all things, took one look at my bindle and somehow managed to crinkle her beak.

“Got some day-old bread back here,” she said, flapping a wing at the nearest side alley. “A little broth would soften it right up.”

“Nah, nah. I can pay for fresh—I think. How much for a loaf and a stick of butter?”

“For you? One SPP each,” she said dubiously. “For a total of two.”

It ain’t like I can’t add one and one…

“It’s most certainly the bindle. Folks see it and think you’re simple. Actually, Sally. That’s probably a good thing.”

Yeah. She said ‘for me’ specifically. I bet she charges on scale.

“I can afford it. You know—as a treat.” Then I tried my best to look humble. “I’m celebrating on account of finishing my first gig.”

I don’t want her sliding up that scale or anything.

A small honk of a happy laugh escaped her. “A fellow working woman! Let me throw in a can of beans, then.” Then she knitted her brows. “Lizards eat beans, right?”

“I dunno,” I replied. “But I do.”

She looked a little confused, but then she shrugged and rang me up. “Comes to 2 SPP,” she said. Card, please!”

I summoned it, not knowing exactly how to pay. Apparently, however, just having the card as a record was enough on my end.

After puzzling over my name, she punched a button on her register, and the number 2 popped up in its window with a ding. My card flashed in response, and a number 2 appeared in the air above it, flying upwards with a blazing trail of stardust as it disappeared.

“I don’t know about the easy come, but it’s certainly easy go,” I said with a contrite sigh.

“Stop by the shop again, Sally!” the goose said, handing me my purchases. “And good luck on your next gig.”

“Much obliged,” I replied as I stuffed them in my bindle.

The School of Hard Knocks had one wide entrance into its front hall, where a large circular desk rose from the floor. A floppy-eared dog peered down from over its edge, his spectacles appearing to be permanently attached just behind his roly-poly nose.

“May I help you?” he asked in a deep, rich voice, only sounding slightly condescending.

“Katey Kat sent me,” I replied, reaching up my sleeve to pull out her card. “I want the Works.”

He glanced over Katey’s card, then looked at me. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Why would I ask for something I don’t want?” I quipped.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said, pulling on a lever that popped up on the desk from nowhere.

The floor dropped clean out from under me.

Whoosh!

I saw a long arm reach from the desk out as I started to fall, which snatched my bindle.

“We’ll return it later,” the dog called from above as his arm snapped back.

A slide whistle accompanied my fall.

I landed on my keister with a loud thud only to be shunted sideways. A conveyor belt was under me, churning and bumping as it rushed down a long hallway. Energy crackled and hummed wildly, as if the joint wasn’t properly insulated. Then I heard a rolling bassline follow me as a sax and clarinet wound over it, grinding like gears as I headed off on a mechanical assembly line. Up on one of the walls, a neon sign buzzed on.

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NOW ENTERING: THE WORKS

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I barely had a second to read it before I sped by, coming to yet another sign.

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NOW MEASURING YOUR POTENTIAL IN ALL FIVE SKILL CATEGORIES

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Wait, is that what this is all about?

“Hold your horses! I don’t even know all the categories!”

The belt lurched to a complete stop as all the buzz cut off, leaving an awkward, ringing silence. From a metal panel on the wall, a metallic arm with a pincer unfolded, holding a clipboard with a paper stuck fast to it.

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STUNT: Physical performance, such as pratfalls, stunts, elasticity, that showcases what the body can do.

BANTER: Verbal performance, such as puns, one-liners, wordplay, or other witty dialogue.

GAGS: Props and object-focused performance, such as sight gags or rigged-up contraptions where objects and environments do the work.

TAKES: Reactive performance, such as double-takes and perfectly timed reactions.

RHYTHM: Timing- and music-dependent performance such as song, dance, and other beat-regulated moments.

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“Hmm…” I said, reading it twice. “Alright. Makes as much sense as anything else about this setup.”

The pincers pulled the clipboard out of my hand and retracted it back into the wall. Then the whole factory powered back on again, the bassline picking up right where it had left off, and away I went, jerked forward by the conveyor belt.

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FIRST — STUNT

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Two pairs of mechanical arms greeted me this time, but they had rubber gloves instead of pincers. Before I could figure out what they were doing, they grabbed my limbs and pulled!

“Hey!”

Then they wrung me out like a rag, while yet another set of arms measured my twisted length with a ruler before quickly disappearing. Somewhere a bell dinged, and the four arms holding me let go. I snapped back into form about two feet above the belt before I dropped back on it.

None of my words can be repeated here, as I was censored, only allowed a vitriol-filled line of high-pitched, warbling squabbles. Mr. Narrator even joined me, his voice sounding sped up on playback, too.

Behind it all, the same gear-turning tune picked up again as we whirled down the line.

Another neon sign flashed.

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NEXT UP — BANTER

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The belt paused for this one, and a speaker box rose from the floor next to it, cutting the background music by about three-quarters.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” its tinny voice asked. “A… salamander?”

“That’s right. A salamander,” I said, feeling myself heat up with steam. “A snarky, sassy, spitfire of a salamander!”

“Retort in less than two beats. Bonus added for the alliteration! Deduction for perceived physical threat! This speaker’s over and out!”

With that, it disappeared, and once again I was hurled forward. After a few moments of traveling last class, another sign appeared.

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GO FOR GAGS

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A gloved hand gave me a stick with an attached label that read, “A stick by any other name isn’t a stick, so what else can you pretend it is?”

“A stick?” I asked out loud, bouncing along merrily. “Well, maybe a sword—take that, knave!” I stabbed it forward. “Or a spear? Longer reach!”

“You went right to weapons,” Mr. Narrator observed.

“Well, it’s not like I want to pretend it’s a broom,” I replied. “Cleaning’s a job, not a passion. I’d rather do pull-ups with something like this. Course you can also cast like you’re fly fishing.”

Ding!

After the bell rang, they took my stick back.

“Well shucks.”

A sharp corner turn brought me to another sign.

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TAKES — SHOW US YOUR TAKES

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“Give me Surprise, Sally!” another tinny voice shouted from behind without warning. “Peepers wide! Hands to your cheeks! And go!”

“Uh… Aaah!” I said, gasping as my hands flew up to the sides of my head.

“Horror now, horror! Recoil in horror!”

I remembered what it was like, being trapped while my apartment burned, and flinched, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling my tail around my front.

A bell dinged twice, and I opened one peeper.

“A little slow, but it’s alright,” the voice said, thick with pity. “It doesn’t always come naturally.”

The belt sped up, and I almost missed the last sign.

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FINAL — RHYTHM

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The belt suddenly screeched to a halt, launching me into the air. Two mechanical arms caught me mid-air and spun me once, twice, and a third time for good measure, before guiding my feet to the floor.

“Who-oa!” I cried, staggering. The world spun off-center with me, and I fought to regain my balance.

“S-S-ally…” Mr. Narrator cried. “I’m too dizzy!”

You’re tellin’ me!

I heard something like drumsticks tapping out a straightforward beat, but my two left couldn’t follow. When I finally found a wall to hold on to, the damage was done. At one point, I must have stumbled across a pad of ink, because I had left my staggered shoeprints all across the factory floor. Several flashbulbs went off all around, and I realized something was taking pictures of my criminally executed Charleston.

“Now just a minute! I’m not culpable for this vandalism!”

A final sign lit up above me.

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ASSESSMENT COMPLETE

PLEASE WAIT FOR YOUR RESULTS

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All that, and now I gotta wait?!