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SIXTEEN

Gaea had been watching war movies almost exclusively for a long time.
When the power went out, it couldn’t have picked a worse moment. It was during the last reel of The Bridge on the River Kwai. The tension was building in one of the all-time great big-budget final scenes. You could hear the little Jap choo-choo coming around the bend and it looked like the guy had gone bananas, because he was helping the Japs find the bombs wired to the bridge, and  . . . 
Alec Guinness, she thought sourly. It was almost like an omen. She didn’t believe in omens, of course  . . . 
So then the power goes out. Some distant, vague part of her mind knew what had caused it, but she didn’t want to think about that. This had all started out as a lot of fun, but she was getting more and more bored with it every day.
She was getting tired of movies, if the truth were told. She was tired of that little brat Adam, and that stinking drunk Chris. Most of all she was tired of waiting for Cirocco Jones to show up. She didn’t think it was going to be the charge she had hoped it would be when she mashed the bitch under her foot.
She fumed about that while they scurried around getting the emergency generator turned on, bringing in a transformer so the projector could run off it  . . .  all the dreary little things the dreary little technical people do. Didn‘t they know she was a star?
Then they finally got it running again. It clattered along for maybe fifteen seconds, then it stopped, and the lamp burnt a hole in the film.
Enough was enough.
She killed the projectionist and stomped out into daylight to see if Cirocco’s army was here yet.

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SIXTEEN

Gaea had been watching war movies almost exclusively for a long time.
When the power went out, it couldn’t have picked a worse moment. It was during the last reel of The Bridge on the River Kwai. The tension was building in one of the all-time great big-budget final scenes. You could hear the little Jap choo-choo coming around the bend and it looked like the guy had gone bananas, because he was helping the Japs find the bombs wired to the bridge, and  . . . 
Alec Guinness, she thought sourly. It was almost like an omen. She didn’t believe in omens, of course  . . . 
So then the power goes out. Some distant, vague part of her mind knew what had caused it, but she didn’t want to think about that. This had all started out as a lot of fun, but she was getting more and more bored with it every day.
She was getting tired of movies, if the truth were told. She was tired of that little brat Adam, and that stinking drunk Chris. Most of all she was tired of waiting for Cirocco Jones to show up. She didn’t think it was going to be the charge she had hoped it would be when she mashed the bitch under her foot.
She fumed about that while they scurried around getting the emergency generator turned on, bringing in a transformer so the projector could run off it  . . .  all the dreary little things the dreary little technical people do. Didn‘t they know she was a star?
Then they finally got it running again. It clattered along for maybe fifteen seconds, then it stopped, and the lamp burnt a hole in the film.
Enough was enough.
She killed the projectionist and stomped out into daylight to see if Cirocco’s army was here yet.

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