Her hair’s the same. exact. color. as the M&M’s candy my neighbor had at her little boy’s birthday party! And the lace on her dress is waaayyyy prettier than the slip-on sleeves my Mom got from ‘Sleevey Wonders…’ Leaning back in her seat as the singer’s voice reached an impossibly high octave, Chelsea finished her coffee as her thoughts were replaced by the mixture of booming music, a soaring song, and Lady Google’s performance– made all the more magical by all of the Bailey’s Irish Cream she’d opted to add to her cup instead of almond milk.

“That was great, S.J.” Punctuating his announcement with a smile, the Music Director leaned closer to the microphone that was as long as the lace arm of a sleevey, and said, “Take a few– then let’s make it better than great!”

Fascinated by the movement of Lady Google’s blue hair as the singer nodded her agreement, Chelsea was startled when Hank slid into the seat next to her. Replacing her empty coffee cup with a half-filled mug, he asked, “Who’s S.J.?”

Smiling her thanks, Chelsea replied, “Her.” Nodding towards the studio’s ‘live room,’ she explained, “Her real name is ‘Stephania Jodelle Gerbanodda’– but she changed it to ‘Lady Google.’” Blushing as her gaze met the Best Boy’s, Chelsea murmured, “But you already knew that. That she changed her name I mean.”

“I knew she goes by L.G., but didn’t have a clue who, or what, S.J. meant.” Extending a styrofoam cup, Hank grinned, “I couldn’t help but notice that you take cream in your coffee… Irish cream.”

Giggling as she added the liquor to the steaming mug, Chelsea said, “Do you like her? Her songs, I mean? And her hair?”

“I like some of ‘em. Some of her songs, I mean. Especially The Vedge of Glory.” Studying the singer as she moved a stray strand of blue hair away from her face, Hank said, “Not sure if I have an opinion about the hair– blue is so ‘done’ in L.A– and, unless that dress is a vegetarian pastrami-beet concoction, or tied together with tofu, I don’t like it at all.”

Nodding her agreement, Chelsea asked, “You’re a vegetarian?”

“Nope. Vegan. You?”

“Vegetarian, but not vegan.” Lifting her mug, Chelsea smiled, saying, “As you saw, I like a little cream in my coffee.”

“And her hair– do you like the blue?”

“Kinda.” Touching her long blonde hair, Chelsea said, “But not for me, personally. But it sure suits Lady Google. Of course, she’s a star, so she could probably go on stage naked if she wanted to!”

Laughing, Hank replied, “I think she did– on the Thrones, Dragons, and Nudity set– which I guess counts as a stage!”

“I must’ve been on the run for the crew when that happened!” Looking around the lounge, Chelsea watched as the creative crew stood, stretched, or shouted questions about the new theme song, the blue haired super-star, or her lacey pastrami dress. “Speaking of the crew, I should probably see if anyone needs anything.”

Standing and extending his hand to lift Chelsea from her chair, Hank said, “Maybe we can catch up later?”

Smiling as she put her hand in his, Chelsea replied, “Sure.”

“Great!” Replacing his hand with the cup of Irish cream, Hank nodded towards a small line that was forming near the refreshment table, and said, “Best take this with you, in case you want another cup of coffee.

Answering Hank’s smile with one of her own, Chelsea moved toward her coworkers… happily humming the chorus of “Vedge of Glory.”

Diego Reyes sat on the couch in the studio, listening to the outlandishly successful Lady Google record the theme song to their new show. A show that, by all intents and purposes, should not exist.

But they did it. They made it work. Fresh off the high of winning an Emmy award, they’d made a drunken promise to a sleazy HTO executive, agreeing to write a show about drones. And getting the idea to a place where it was even remotely shootable was filled with insanity, even down to one of their own disappearing out of thin air and ending up committed in a psych ward. Not to mention the frightening assault on their lives from a weaponized drone at the alleged hands of a disgruntled employee. It had all been a sadistic game.

A game of drones…

He was still in the business. His luck had not yet run out. Just maybe, if the team around him kept their heads in the game for long enough to cash the checks from Drones, he’d get the opportunity to write that space opera he’d been working on but never finished.

He smiled.

As the music wafted through the wall-mounted speakers, Ellie leaned over to him and quietly said, “So, what do you think of the song?”

His grin growing wider, he nodded to the beat of the contagious pop tune. “It’s terrible.”

But as with so many things in the entertainment industry, one just had to apply enough pressure to a dried lump of excrement, and eventually, it would become a diamond-studded cash cow.

And that was really all they needed.

For now, he was relieved that he didn’t need to type the words “The End” on what he’d thought was the final page of his career. At least for the moment, those two frightening words could be replaced with three others instead:

“To be continued…”

And the song was “terrible”, but in both the “awful” and “awe-inspiring” senses of the word: a T-Rex made of late-Eighties pop. Like a Bond theme from that era, it was both impossible to defend and impossible to get out of your head.

Ellie lounged back in her seat and let it wash over her. It was a clear reminder of how far along production was, and of how it was largely out of their hands now: the strategy was set; all they could contribute now were small tactical victories in each episode.

She smiled across at Chelsea and Hank. It seemed the young lady did have some taste! Was she jealous? A little, perhaps, but she knew she’d be bad news for Hank in the long run, and he didn’t deserve that, so probably better to leave the field clear for Chelsea. And besides, there was a young exec she’d met at basketball last week that she fancied a bit of one-on-one with.

Even more exciting, though not nailed on yet, it looked like she might be getting the chance to act as showrunner for the next season of the US version of Muther. The show wasn’t getting quite the plaudits of the original BBC title yet, but it hadn’t bombed either. This could be her opportunity to step up to the big league.

First though there was the small matter of 23 more episodes of GoD to complete. She took one more look around the room at her co-writers, smiled, and then closed her eyes and relaxed. It wasn’t going to be poetry - not often - but they’d definitely make something worthwhile out of it. So long as there were no more defections, they’d get through this with their dignity and their reputations intact, she was sure of it.

Plus they were almost guaranteed the best viewing figures in history for a pilot episode. Nothing like a bit of leaked iPhone footage of a real-life flying chainsaw attack to bump up the ratings!

They had a theme song. It was remarkable how validating that was. They had made it, they had a show. They had all traversed together the long road from the spark of an idea to a living, active product. No longer did they have to face that daunting intimidation of staring at a blank piece of paper

With a whistle, Brett carefully balanced the tray full of paper coffee cups, using his chin to help secure the two stacked over the ones secured in the cardboard carrier. As he joined the rest of the team, he very carefully pulled out the hot beverages and distributed them.

The first one to be handed a cup was Chelsea. She looked up at the writer with appreciative surprise at the sudden reversal of the normal pecking order; until Brett ruined the thoughtful gesture with an unconsciously condescending tousle of the intern’s hair.

Next he handed drinks to Diego and Ellie, hoping that he had the orders correct. He wasn’t used to doing this. Next he placed cups in front of Elmo and Lance before tossing the carrier aside and taking his own drink.

Finally he turned to the team and raised his coffee, “Here’s to another successful project and to whatever comes next.”

After everyone lifted their own paper glasses and took sips to a variety of assenting murmurs, Trett took his place at the table and looked down to see the next blank page laying in front of him.

Lady Google still had it, Lance readily admitted. Like most people in showbiz, he would be at a loss of words when it actually came to describing what it was, but it was there in spades for Lady Google. He knew her song would go screaming to the top of the charts, and that Game of Drones would be along for the ride.

She’d need a music video to accompany the song, of course. Music videos required choreography, and Lance was an accomplished choreographer. This particular number would also require some droneography, naturally.

And Lance could make a reasonably decent argument that he was Hollywood’s top droneographer. Then a new word popped into his ever active skull.

Choreodroneography. The weaving of drones into intricate maneuvers, particularly those associated with modern dance. He imagined the Wikipedia article, visualizing his face prominent as the accompanying picture.

Lance Goodwell. Lady Google. Game of Drones. Choreodroneography.

It all just went together, didn’t it?

There was, of course, the sticky bit about the restraining order, which he was at this very moment violating. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near her.

“Stupid details,” Lance Goodwell muttered as he took another sip of coffee.

He was undeterred. “Just dumb details.”

Elmo sat for a moment, stewing in the combination of shock and awe that Lady Google did so well. It was an undeniably catchy future hit for Lady Google, but it didn’t really feel like a theme song. Elmo lifted an eyebrow at Damen Rajwadi in the control booth, who just shrugged and smiled, holding up a finger briefly.

Damen turned around and leaned back into the mic, pushing the button at its base, “We’re going to lose the electronic track and drop the tempo 10%. Just the harpsichord and the string quartet this time.” Lady Google scowled at Damen in disapproval.

Damen and Lady Google had been arguing this morning when Elmo arrived at the studio. Elmo gathered from the darts Lady Google was shooting from her eyes, that Damen’s idea had been the source of the disagreement. The music started again and Lady begrudgingly sang through thinly veiled contempt.

Halfway through the song, she stopped abruptly. “Everything alright?” Damen asked from the booth, already knowing the answer. “No.” Lady Google said angrily shaking her head while smoothing down her pastrami dress. In almost a sigh, she let slip through her teeth, “You were right.” Damen smiled gently from the booth. “Then let’s try it again from the top.” Damen counted Lady down into the intro and the next take gave Elmo the chills.

As Elmo leaned back closing his eyes to listen, Alice Flynn ran a slender hand down his on his goose-bumped arm. “It’s beautiful.” Elmo nodded, “Haunting, even.” He smiled as he cupped a hand over Alice’s.

They made it work, everyone last one of them. They woke from their drunken shenanigans and found serendipity. There truly was magic in Hollywood.

Alice leaned into Elmo’s ear and whispered “Pastrami for dinner?” Elmo grinned, “I’ll stop for Rye.”

Yes, there was magic in Hollywood, Elmo had no doubt.