“Hey!” one of the customers shouts.
“Three minutes!” I reply.
“This is life-changing!” Annie adds, holding up her phone screen for us. The glare of the halogens above us catches on the edges of the screen protector as she sticks one earbud into her ear and hands me the other.
The trailer begins to play.
Darkness. Then, a sound—the beat of something striking the ground. Sharp, high-pitched, steady.
Coming this December…
It’s only September, and December feels like a lifetime away. We’ve been waiting a year and a half for the sequel—a year! And! A half!—and my twisting stomach can barely stand it.
There is a soft, steady beat that echoes over the sweet, low horn of the Starfield theme.
The text fades and there is Carmindor kneeling in front of the Noxian Court. His lip is bloodied, and there is a gash across his eyebrow. He looks to have been tortured, his arms bound tightly behind his back. His eyes are shadowed by his disheveled hair.
“Prince Carmindor, we find you guilty,” says a soft, deep voice.
The other members of the court, of the different regions in the Empire, some emissaries from far-reaching colonies, representatives from the Federation, all dressed in their pale official colors. Their faces are grim. At the head of the court is a throne, where the ruler of the Nox Empire should sit, but it is empty.
“Guilty of conspiring against the Empire,” the same voice says. “Of treason.”
There are flashes of the first movie—Carmindor at the helm of the Prospero, the defiant faces of Euci and Zorine beside him, the fight between the Nox King and Carmindor on Ziondur, the moment Amara says goodbye to Carmindor and locks him on the bridge—
“But most of all,” the voice purrs, and the blurry image of a man in gold and white, hair long and flowing, looking like a deity of the sun, slowly comes into focus. Bright blue eyes, white-blond hair, a sharp face and a pointed nose, the hem of his uniform glowing like burning embers. A chill curls down my spine. “We find you guilty of the murder of our princess, our light—our Amara.”
Amara’s ship swirls into the Black Nebula, her smile, her lips saying words without any sound that mysteriously look like “ah’blen”—
A hand grabs Carmindor’s hair and forces his head back. Lips press against his ear, and the prophetic voice of General Sond whispers, “No one is coming for you, princeling.”
Annie gasps, pressing her hand to her mouth. Because Carmindor’s eyes—his eyes are the pale, pale white of the conscripted. The beat—the clipping sound—gets louder. It sounds like the drum of a funeral march, like the coming of a predator, like a countdown to the end of the world.
The screen fades to black again, and then on the next beat—two pristine black boots, heels striking against the ground. The flutter of a long uniform jacket the perfect shade of blue. The errant flash of bright red hair—as red as a supernova. The glimmer of a golden tiara.
Annie grabs my wrist tightly, and squeezes. I know—I know.
It’s her.
The camera pans with her as she makes her way toward the throne, from her fluttering Federation coat to the golden stars on her shoulders, to her face. You can tell she’s different. That she isn’t the same princess who sacrificed herself to the Black Nebula. She’s new, and unpredictable, and impossible.
My heart kicks in my chest, seeing her again, returned from some improbable universe, and my eyes well with tears.
Because for once death isn’t final.
For once, for once, love is enough.
And the left side of Amara’s mouth twitches up.
The screen snaps to black—and then the triumphant orchestra of the Starfield theme swells into our ears, and the title appears:
STARFIELD: RESONANCE
And then it ends.
We stare at the blank screen for a moment longer. My heart hammers in my chest. It’s real. It’s happening. And Amara is back—our Amara.
Finally, Annie whispers. “I…I think I just popped a lady-boner—”
“A-hem.”
Annie and I whirl around toward the sound of our manager, Mr. Jason. He’s red-faced and standing with his arms crossed over his chest in the middle of our respective cash registers. She quickly yanks the earbud out of my ear, rolls up the wires, and shoves the cell phone into her apron.
“If I see you two with cell phones out one more time tonight…” he warns, wagging his finger at us, “then I’ll—I’ll…”
Uh-oh, he’s so flustered he doesn’t have words.
“We won’t, sorry, sir,” Annie says, and Mr. Jason nods, not quite believing her, and turns on his heel back to his office.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Annie mouths, Yikes.
I agree. He’s really not in the best mood tonight. We shouldn’t push our luck. Mr. Jason is known to have two modes: absent and dickweed. At the moment, he’s in full dickweed mode.
After I ring up the waiting customers, I straighten my aisle and leave to wrangle the shopping carts from the parking lot. There’s a toy dispenser outside that is calling my name, and I’ve got just the quarter that feels lucky enough for me to test it.
“Going to go try it again?” Annie calls to me as I wander toward the automatic doors.
“After that trailer, I’m feeling lucky,” I reply, flipping the quarter with my thumb, and step outside in the warm September evening.
There is a Starfield toy dispenser by the grocery cart lane, featuring the old characters from the TV series, though the Amara really looks nothing like Natalia Ford. She’s in this skimpy bodysuit with a pistol, and honestly Princess Amara would burn the entire dispenser if she saw that. Carmindor and the other six collectibles look somewhat like themselves, at least, though I’ve gotten so many Carmindors I could melt them all down and make a life-sized Carmindor to use for target practice whenever I decide to take up axe-throwing.
Maybe today, though, I’ll finally snag a Sond.
I pop the quarter into the Starfield toy machine. A toy rolls out, and I fish it out of the metal mouth and shake it. It doesn’t sound like another Carmindor. Maybe Amara? Euci?
Ugh, I have enough Eucis, too.
The outside of the shell reads, LOOK TO THE STARS AND CHASE YOUR DESTINY!
Dare I disturb the universe, crack open the egg, and find out what my future holds?
I’m about to twist the sucker open when someone calls my name. Like, not just calls from across the parking or anything, but like…megaphone calls my name.