The day was finally here - graduation! The Town Hall of Wonder City, normally the site of dazzling, effects-laden battles between the forces of good-actors and evil-actors, has today been fitted out with several hundred cheap plastic chairs to accommodate the forty gowned graduates of the Wondertainment Actor Training Program and their friends and families.
And there you are, front-row seat. Being here, in the vaulted halls right at the heart of the WonderWorld complex, you can't help but feel excited and trepidation in equal measure. How many thousands of actors have given their utmost to amaze the audience, to bring a touch of magic into a mundane world. How many millions of excited visitors, men and children alike, have passed through here and watched in wonder, believing for just a moment that dreams really can come true?
The weight of that obligation presses down from you, made all the more real by the stern, granite visage of Doctor Wonder staring down from the stone statue of 'Mayor Wonder, Established Wonder City in 1837' at the front of the hall.
Nervously you fiddle with the hem of the rental graduation robe. Your fiance notices and slides her hand within yours, interlacing her fingers to stop you fidgeting, and gives you kiss on the cheek. "You're going to do great. We're all excited to see who you're going to be," she says warmly.
"Speak for yourself, I'm just here for the base package," your dad jokes, slapping you on the back so hard that it dislodges your mortarboard hat. "Three days in WonderWorld almost makes up for the three years of tuition we paid."
"I promised I'll pay that back." By which you mean, 5 years on your contract and Wondertainment will void the debt. Nobody pays off loans of that magnitude on an actor's salary.
Up on the podium, Mayor Hamilton Hayworth Hill III - or at least the actor now known as such - glances at his watch in impatience. The Town Hall is set aside for this occasion for one hour every year, and one hour only. In 27 minutes 14 seconds, the villain known as Firefly is due to burst through the front doors and the pyrotechnics under the floor will go off, with or without a roomful of graduates sat on top of them. Where the hell is Captain Capable?!
"Sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen! Had to stop a bank robbery on the way here, you know how it is!" comes the valiant call across the room.
The lighting technician is at least partially on the ball. The lights dim. A spotlight swinging up to one the empty balconies of the auditorium, drawing the audience's gaze. The spotlight quickly shifts a different balcony where stands Captain Capable, his bleached white smile shining brilliantly. Striking a noble pose, he rises into the air and floats over the crowd.
"More like Captain Cable, I can see the wires," Maria whispers in your ear. You hush her, not wanting to ruin the magic for the rest. The audience watches transfixed as the Captain makes his landing beside the podium and extends his red-white-and-blue gloved hand to shake the hands of the scowling mayor. There is a brief pause as a stage hand dressed as the sidekick Boy Competent rushes on stage to release the harness on the Captain's back.
"You're gonna make such a better Captain than that guy," says Maria, looking at you with admiration.
"In my dreams am I going to get that lucky," you reply, showing her your crossed fingers.
"Ladies and Gentlemen gathered here today..." begins the Captain, glancing at the clock. "... let's begin."
One by one, the graduates' names are read out. They go up on stage to shake the Captain's hand, receive their diploma, an envelope containing the details of the role they will be playing, and most importantly, a few private words of wisdom from the Big C himself. Then it's your turn.
Wow, your hands are sweaty. Thank god the Captain is wearing gloves. With every eye and a swelteringly hot floodlight on you, it feels to take an age just walking to the stage. Somehow it is challenge just to move one foot after the other without tripping over the steps or themselves. How have three years of stage school not prepared you better for this moment? Your heart feels like it is beating out of your chest...
... and then it stops as a cry of "we love you, Charlie!" comes from your fiance. The crowd titters at the sudden outburst, and the Captain himself puts his head back and gives a theatrical guffaw.
The leather of the Captain's glove is worn smooth from hundreds of hands as it shakes yours. He hands you your diploma and the envelope, though his head is turned away, fixated on somebody in the front row. "Quite a mouth your girlfriend's get on her," the Captain mutters below the threshold of the microphone.
"Uh, yeah, she's got a pair of lungs on her alright", you laugh in embarrassment.
The Captain leans in, your heart leaping in anticipation of his words of encouragement. "Oh, she's certainly got a sweet pair of something," he sneers, slapping your shoulder and guiding you with a shove towards the far side of the stage.
The far side of the stage is dark and quiet, the sounds of the auditorium soon swallowed up by the thick red velvet curtains. A set of stairs leads down and down. As you descend, the gilded, baroque architecture of the Town Hall very quickly becomes grey concrete and stark fluorescent lighting. Yet this mundane, industrial area thrills you. This is the actual WonderWorld utility network! The Wonder Kingdom is fabled to have the largest utilidor system in the world, a network of tunnels running under the park to allow its actors to get from place to place out of sight of the visitors. This is where the magic is made!
You take a deep lungful, savouring the moment. Oddly, it doesn't smell much like magic. It smells like rust and sweat. And there is the strange, strong scent of hot fat and burnt hair which only grows stronger as you progress further down the corridor.
There is nobody here to greet you, and it is eerily deserted even of actors. There is just a misspelled sign - 'gradautes this way' - pointing down half a mile of industrial corridor before there is another sign - 'garduates check number'. Beyond, the corridor is lined on both sides with numbered doorways.
The stench of cooking flesh and burnt hair is overpowering here, and there is an odd, muffled noise just at the edge of hearing, a repetitive thud echoing through the concrete like somebody hammering against a wall.
In the moment of confusion, you look to the envelope for guidance. Printed on the front in glitter is the number '7'. You step through door 7, tearing open the envelope as you go.
The room beyond is little larger than a closet with a bare bulb illuminating side walls of steel, a floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of you, and a concrete floor crisscrossed with drainage channels and a wide drain. The door seals shut behind with a heavy, pneumatic clunk.
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