Sleep came quickly despite the night’s friction. Being at the far end of the dorm meant I had a lovely wall to stare at, and as far as I could tell, it didn’t hold no grudges like the other dorm girls might. My dreams were a bit fuddled, and for some reason I kept hearing someone say they couldn’t trust my face. After about the fourth or fifth time of it, I snapped straight up to give ’em a piece of my mind, only to find I was up about half an hour before the alarm.

Well, no point in trying to catch the next train to slumberland now, huh, Mr. Narrator?

I didn’t get a response.

You out for the count?

Silence.

I worried a little, but figured he was probably still counting sheep. Tip-toeing through the garden of sleeping beauties turned out to be a little nerve-wracking, but I made my early morning escape with none the wiser.

Today I gotta earn more SPP.

It wasn’t that rent was due again or anything. It was that I needed doodads. Whatnots. Notions, even. You know.

Things.

Like what, you ask?

Well, if you must know…

First, a hand mirror so I could study my face without fighting for a spot in front of the vanity. Then I could stare at my mug for as long as I liked, trying to get used to it and make it react the way I want it to.

And a hairbrush. Sure, the bow did its magic, but the hair on my head made me sentimental, what with its default style being the same as how I kept it back on Earth. Of course, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t switch it up from time to time, but to do it up proper, I’d need a good ol’ boar bristle.

Then there was the pocket watch.

No, I wasn’t going to fence it and break Mr. Narrator’s heart. I needed a working timepiece to keep me in check, because I was starting to get plans.

I’d like to say it was because I was all about becoming a star, but the truth was—

No, you better lean closer.

Closer, even.

Hey pal, that’s too close!

Zoom out a little.

Okay. Perfect.

Confidentiality, I’m a believer in spite.

The great, god-given motivator! Why, with enough of it, you can wake the dead!

Or at least the asleep. But anyway.

I didn’t want to lose to June Rabbit before I got started.

Yeah, you think I’m petty? Well, good, cause I am.

I ain’t letting no one make me feel small anymore. And June already had it out for me, so I had to build up my resources. My standing. My rank. My house, such as it is. And all that depended on me completing tasks on the callboard.

I mean, if I was gonna take on Mr. Eagle, I’d have to get through June first.

Don’t tell me you already forgot about Mr. Eagle?

He stepped on me! No apology!

Then he’s all over the big title cards for what, 30 seconds of scene?

Yeah, I ain’t letting that slide neither.

We all should be on them title cards.

“Who are you talking to, Sally?” Mr. Narrator mumbled.

Why, you. Didn’t my spite wake ya?

He yawned loudly. “Is that what it was? I did feel a little feverish…”

I coughed, realizing steam was escaping my collar.

Oh, pardon me. I think I turned the spite up a little too much.

“Why, we’re already halfway to the front gate!” he exclaimed, more awake now.

Thought I’d get an early start, see if there are any better jobs available—

“Telegram!” a voice called from ahead on the path. “Telegram for S. Salamander!”

I squinted, seeing a small shape floating about fifty feet ahead. “I’m S. Salamander,” I replied.

Whoosh!

Something shot straight toward me.

“Telegram!” the floating paper said as it snapped taut in front of me.

“Hmm…” I said as I leaned in to read it.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

NORTHERN CONFUSION TELEGRAM

MIRACLE IN MOTION PICTURES — PERSONNEL DIVISION

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

RE: SPLATTER GIRL GIG ENCORE REQUEST STOP

SAME TERMS AS BEFORE STOP

REPORT SOUNDSTAGE SEVEN IMMEDIATELY IF INTERESTED STOP

B BEAVER

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“A chance to reprise my Splatter Girl gig?” I asked aloud.

“That’s what it says on me,” the telegram confirmed.

“If you can speak, why didn’t you just say—”

“I don’t get paid to speak!” The telegram turned and started to fly off, paper edges flapping like wings. “And I’m not singing to you either, sweetheart.”

Passing through security at the front gate was hardly anything to mention now. It was a shift change, and Mack was taking over. He squinted at my bindle for a moment, but then he just let out a sullen bark as he nodded me past.

Soundstage seven was farther back, behind all the lettered ones, and looked positively barren.

“It’s made up to be a desert, Sally,” Mr. Narrator explained.

Awful, just awful…

It reminded me of some no-good memories, back when I was trying to get all the way out West. At least nothing was blowing all the dirt around, though.

“The ink spots are strange, aren’t they?”

I looked at the dusty canvas serving as the desert floor. “Drips and drips everywhere, it looks like…”

Even with taking a gander at the rafters high overhead, I couldn’t find the source of the ink leak.

A few soft footsteps echoed in from a nearby door. “Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Salamander.”

“Morning, boss,” I said to Benson Beaver, who was fiddling with a clipboard and pencil. “Thanks for the gig.”

He took the one end of his pencil and gnawed on the tip until it was sharp before marking a giant checkmark on his paper. “We’ll see if you’re saying that by the end. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why there’s ink all over. The set isn’t live yet.”

My eyes went wide with possibility.

Sabotage?

“Sally, that’s…!”

Possible?

“Very, very unlikely.”

How do you figure?

“You’re doing that empty-eyed take again, I see,” Benson noted, already walking over to a supply closet. “If you tune out any longer, you ought to hang a vacancy sign up to recoup your losses.”

“Heh…” I didn’t really laugh.

He disappeared into the depths of the closet and started tossing out supplies—first a mop, then a bucket, along with a few small wooden boxes. As I waited, a small spot caught my eye.

It was moving. Maybe even crawling.

“A bug?" Mr. Narrator suggested.

I started to walk toward it, and it zipped away with several zig-zags.

Hmm...

“Everything you need,” Benson said, dusting off his hands. “I’ll check on you in a little bit, okay, Sally?”

“Sure, boss,” I replied, watching him leave. Then I filled up my bucket with soap and water. “Time to clean.”

The ink drips were easy enough to remove with a few swabs of the mop. Some of the dust stuck to the canvas floor came up too, but I wasn’t too worried about it. Further out was hardwood, so I had no worries. After a little while, I had worked my way from center stage to one corner. With a prideful exhale to commemorate my morning labor, I wiped some sweat off my brow and turned around.

All the ink spots were back, double thick now.

“What in blazes?!” I shouted, stretching a bit at the seams.

With grit teeth, I took the bucket in one hand as I shoved the mop in with the other, sprinting to swab up a whole line of drips. But sure enough, I turned around, and even more were lined up all the way to my heels.

“Unbelievable!”

“Sally… What if it’s your shoes?”

My shoes?

I picked up one foot to look at the underside of my shoe, then the other.

Nothing.

Slowly, I began to mop. This time, however, I didn’t go quite half the length of the floor. Instead, I paused, then turned super quick. A flea-sized blot was in mid-bounce, decorating the soundstage in inky blots behind me. As it caught my gaze, it turned into an exclamation point, shivering with terror about a foot off the floor.

I chased it into a corner. With my mop raised, I declared, “You messed with the wrong Salamander. Any last words?!”

To my surprise, the tiny dot flattened and started squeaking as if it were saying its final prayers.

“Wait…” I said to myself, dropping the mop. “You. You’re alive, ain’t ya?”

It squeaked excitedly.

Of course it was alive! Come on, Sally, get it together!

“And you’re that same ink from the other day?”

Three more squeaks.

I leaned in carefully, half afraid it was gonna squirt me. “Are you some kinda bug or something?”

Two large eyes formed on top of the spot, blinking. Then two little nubs sprouted from either side of it. They were a bit floppy and lopsided, sort of like a dog’s ears. Then it shook them in a solid, definite no.

I sighed and held out a hand. “I’ll put ya outside, okay? It’s downright dangerous for you in here.”

The spot bounced into my hand, but instead of settling, it raced up my arm, under my collar, and down a bit of my tail.

“Hey! That tickles! Huh?”

Where did it go?

“I think it’s become your newest speckle,” Mr. Narrator observed.

And which one is that?

“Why, Sally, I couldn’t say for sure. They all look so new.”

“Are you taking its side? Can’t you see, I’ve been infested!”

I think you should name it. It’s taken quite a liking to you.

I glowered a bit at my own tail, where one suspicious speckle was purring like a cat.

It’s kinda cute.

Then I made a big show of waggling an index finger at it.

“This ain’t over, Inky. If you wanna pal around with me, you better be on your best behavior, you hear?"

One of its ears popped up, folding over to give me a salute.

Wonder if it has fingers to cross behind its back.