Fifteenth Race

Mynah

Mynah dances, iridescent streamers swirling from the tails of her bodice. She sings – long notes, high notes, bright chords, driving rhythms. The crowd cheer when she waves, roar when she asks, sing the harmonies in the chorus.

Around her the stage is a blaze of light and colour, lasers and smoke and dancers and screens. She looks out into the cavernous darkness of the arena, at twelve thousand people penned in squares only dimly visible by the glow from behind her. They are every age and gender, energised and exhausted, and their differences are invisible to her.

She does not miss a step, does not miss a beat, does not miss a note. Even by her standards, she can tell, her performance is excellent. Her choreographer, voice coach and personal trainer will all be effusive with praise once the show is over. She relishes the prospect of the shower she will take, the slight tingling as hot water will remind her muscles of the work they are currently doing.

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This song finishes, the lights go down, and she dives into the wings amid a crescendo of synthesizers and vfx. Her costume change is as carefully choreographed and rehearsed as her dancing. She has twenty seconds to rehydrate before it's time to swagger out onto the stage again. The crowd howl on cue, a wave of noise crashing about her as she greets them.

The next track begins. Dragon's Feather. They're stuck with the damn thing despite the axing of her management's relationship with Phoebe. It's like singing through glue, slow and turgid, utterly unlike the dragon it was meant to capture. What would she think if she knew Mynah was singing the song right now?

I wanted to see you do what you love. Phoebe's words haunted her still. What would she see if she was in the crowd?