Mynah

Mynah sees the exact moment at which Phoebe spots and recognises her. The dragon rider's face is as open a book as ever, but for a moment its tale is in a language Mynah doesn't read. Emotions rush over it in waves, faster and more slippery than any surf. It is only when it settles to an immense and ancient weariness that Mynah realises she is seeing something profoundly unusual for her.

She is seeing someone who is not pleased to see her.

Mynah has been walking towards where the purple-haired woman stands, slightly lost, on the apron between the studio floor and the film set proper, and her step falters. She looks down, scowling at her own waist and its sudden stiffness. Only when the muted figure of a production assistant steps between her and Phoebe to hand the rider a drink does Mynah manage to get moving again.

The set is glass-fronted bookcases in a red wood polished to a high enough sheen that it will probably pass for mahogany in the right light. There is a high-backed black leather armchair, almost throne-like, and a matching chaise longue. Mynah can read the script of the whole shoot in that furniture, and suddenly she dreads the couch and what they will be expected to do. Jewellery ads aren't much better than perfume ads.

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Outside of the set, the studio is a cloud of gloom, enveloping the bustling figures of grips, PAs, cameramen and, somewhere, presumably, the people who know what's going on. That Phoebe is already here means she must have already been briefed on the shots, the nature of the ad they will shoot together. Mynah fetches up in front of her, one step further outside the puddle of light, with these thoughts foremost in her mind.

"Hey," she says, her voice thick with fry.

"Hey." Phoebe's tone is softer, and at least some of her weariness is clearly just straight-up fatigue. "You don't wanna be here either, huh?"

Mynah fights her own throat. "Did they not tell you I was going to be here?"

Phoebe shakes her head. "I'm sorry, it's not you. I just… don't you hate them doing this to us?"

There is a cold, hard emptiness in the place Mynah usually reaches to for composure when she needs to put a brave face on something. Eventually she gives up and shrugs. "It's the job."

A stiff, almost military nod is Phoebe's answer. Then a muscle in her jaw twitches. Her voice cracks ever so slightly. "I have no idea how to do any of this, Mynah, I'm so fucking lost."

She pats the rider on the sleeve and tries to ignore the flinch in response. "It's ok. At least I can help you get through this."