You approach the security guard. He looks angry, but he’ll know who you are, right? He might even direct you back to your dressing room.

But when you approach him, he folds his arm and blocks the way.

“And where might you be going?” he growls.

“Er… back to my dressing room,” you say. Upon seeing the blank look on the security guard’s face, you follows up with, “I’m Lister Bird. From The Ark.”

 

The security guard snorts. “And my name’s Celine Dion. You look about twelve.”

 

It’s incredibly rare to meet anybody who doesn’t recognise you. Usually you would be savouring this moment. But, right now, this is less than ideal.

 

You frown. “I’m seventeen. Have you ever met a teenager?”

 

The security guard does not look impressed. “I’ve been told that a group of fans have managed to get themselves backstage and I’m assuming you’re a part of it. I’m going to have to escort you out of here. I suggest you don’t kick up a fuss.”

 

Fuck. How are you going to talk your way out of this one?

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