Following the release of the Mockumentary film and the subsequent success of the “My Uncle Fifi” sitcom, Tristan Sinclair was riding an unexpected career high, now as a sexy Hollywood starlet. But the woman who had schemed to put Tristan in that situation wasn’t at all happy about it...

 

Author’s Note: This story exists largely thanks to Fraylim’s amazing Mockumentary artwork, which inspired me to revisit the characters. But if you haven’t read the original story, that’s fine! I’ve added context to the pics so you can appreciate what’s going on.

However, for those readers who are more familiar with the characters, this let me fix an issue in the original story: while Terry's journey in My Uncle Fifi parallels that of Tristan (the actor-turned-actress who plays him), Tristan’s story stalled because of Felicity’s ongoing behind-the-scenes torment. Here, Tristan and Felicity finally have a reckoning, and we see Tristan realize Felicity isn’t the friend she pretends to be. Staying true to Mockumentary’s spirit, their conversation is all subtext—accusations, apologies, lies, and threats disguised as polite words. It was a fun way to explore the dynamic of two people who know each other all too well yet remain stuck in each other’s orbit. I hope you enjoy it!

 

Mockumentary: The Briar Patch

By Jenny North
Artwork by Fraylim

~ Act I: Hedging Her Bets ~

Waterloo. Little Big Horn. The Pass of Thermopylae. Table 14 at Hollywood's La Scoperta restaurant. All sites of glorious and bloody last stands.

While admittedly lesser-known, Table 14 had distinguished itself as a particularly gruesome location given the innumerable executions and slayings that had taken place there. Albeit metaphorical ones.

Oscar-winning actors had been fired there. Up-and-coming stars had their dreams summarily crushed. Famous directors informed that their services would no longer be required. Long-running TV series canceled over tiramisu. Multimillion dollar cinematic universes snuffed out even before appetizers were served.

It was silent testament to the glitz and showmanship of Hollywood that Table 14 hadn't become more infamous. After all, dining at La Scoperta was generally thought to be an enjoyable (if expensive) experience. Hollywood stars enjoyed the "rustic elegance" of the place, which made them feel more in touch with the common folk, enjoying such down-home dishes as mac and cheese. Mac and cheese that was crafted with handmade artisanal noodles, five kinds of exotic imported cheese, and a healthy inclusion of tropical rock lobster, all for a cost that could only be described as scandalous.

But the wait staff--who frequently got front-row seats to the carnage--had come to appreciate that Table 14's power was more geographical than supernatural.

First, it was a booth, not a table, and one situated off to the side of the restaurant, which afforded a modicum of privacy, perfect for giving bad news. But it also had a commanding view of the space, which meant that half of the seats--the "death seats"--were in plain view of most of the restaurant. This tended to minimize the likelihood of tearful or angry outbursts by the condemned, who were shamed into not making a public scene.

Marie Antoinette's guillotine should have been so ruthlessly efficient.

For lunch today, the Angel of Death was seated in her usual seat at Table 14. That's what the wait staff had taken to calling her, because she was responsible for more kills there than the next three Hollywood producers. Though you wouldn't know it to look at her.

Felicity Manchester had once been an actress herself, making her name on the Galaxy Crusaders sci-fi show several years earlier. She had a bright, easygoing demeanor with a quick smile and a bouncy blonde hairdo that drew you in, with a face you could trust.

Her facade had served her well in the cutthroat and image-conscious world of a Hollywood producer. It certainly made the deathblow of her bloody scythe upside the head that much more unexpected.

The young waitress approached the table with a bottle of wine, but Felicity had busied herself with her tablet computer and didn't even look up. Her brow was furrowed just slightly and she had a visible tightness in her shoulders as she looked at whatever was on the screen. The waitress hesitantly poured two glasses of red wine that were the color of spilled blood.

"May I get you an appetizer while you wait for the rest of your party to arrive?" the girl asked with the hint of a tremor in her voice.

Felicity looked up, and her face transformed into the pleasant, easygoing facade she'd cultivated over the span of years. Though the waitress noted that the smile didn't entirely reach her eyes, giving her a predatory look.

"Gosh, no thanks," she responded in a slightly sing-song voice. Then she held her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. "You've got a pretty face. You ever been in anything of mine?"

Every single member of the wait staff was an aspiring actor, actress, writer, or director, with a strong emphasis on 'aspiring.' To get noticed by a famous Hollywood producer was the dream.

To the young waitress, this felt more like getting noticed by a great white shark.

"Mmm," she intoned with a minute shake of her head.

Felicity gave her an appraising glance. "Omaha?" she asked. But when the waitress looked at her blankly, she added, "The place where you came from?"

"Dubuque."

"Next time, just say, 'Yes,'" Felicity told her. She continued to stare at the waitress, a friendly, open expression that gave the young woman a shiver.

"I bet you were hot shit in Dubuque. Leading lady in your school plays. Part of a whimsical improv group. Then you broke up with your boyfriend to move out here. Tears were shed. A big fish from a small pond, feeling lost in the big, wide open ocean. Learning that 'starving actress' isn't as noble or glamorous as it sounded in whatever favorite celebrity biography it is you keep by your bed. Something like that?"

The waitress looked like she was going to say something, but then changed her mind. "Yes," she replied simply.

Felicity's eyes sparkled a little. "Ooh, but you take direction well. Duly noted."

The young woman cleared her throat and found her voice. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

Felicity responded with a slow and toothy smile. "I can't imagine."

The waitress nodded quickly and executed a swift but orderly retreat. The Angel of Death was in a rare mood. Whatever poor soul she'd set her sights on today was in for some very bad news.

~O~

Felicity sat back in her seat, gripping her tablet so tightly that her knuckles were practically white. Fortunately, her side of the booth wasn't as visible to the rest of the restaurant as the other side, giving her some privacy. She knew she didn't dare drop her "aw, shucks, chipper 'girl next door'" act entirely, but she afforded herself a hint of a scowl. From a distance, she calculated that it would probably read as concern.

Concern, and not total fucking kick-a-kitten-through-an-electric-fan pent-up rage.

"Tristan," she muttered to herself as she skimmed over her files. Fucking Tristan. Once, just once, couldn't that self-centered prick take a hint and slink off in humiliation and live out his days under a slimy rock in abject misery? Was that really so much to ask?

She took a bigger gulp of wine than she intended as her finger deftly worked the tablet screen.

Galaxy Crusaders. When she'd been cast on the show as a teenager, she'd been so excited, thinking it was going to be her big break as an actress. Only to find out she was expected to run around in skimpy miniskirts as eye candy. Forced to play second fiddle to all the men on the show, and to fawn over that sexist and entitled little shit Tristan. Who had the temerity to believe that he was the star of the show.

Her first bit of revenge on him had taken some doing, but arranging with the writers for his character to get hit with a gender-changing virus had been a masterstroke. Seeing him mincing around in a miniskirt with his pretty makeup and prosthetic boobs was absolute joy. It was ironic that his best "acting" had been as a girl. Too bad it had only been for one episode.

Even worse that he apparently hadn't learned anything from it.

Neither had Felicity, for that matter.

Dating Tristan, especially while both of them were still on the show, had been a blindingly stupid move on her part. Definitely not part of The Plan that she'd set out for herself. But his cocky, self-sure attitude had been pretty charming. Extremely charming, actually. He'd chased after her for years, so when they finally got together, it had been explosive. And not just in the tabloids. For all of Tristan's bragging and his myriad shortcomings, Felicity couldn't fault his performance on the decidedly more intimate stage.

Their breakup had been equally explosive. Tristan's wandering eye (and roaming hands) shouldn't have come as a surprise to Felicity. But he'd gone and added insult to injury by dumping her, both publicly and harshly. The gossip rags ate it up, and Tristan had been only too quick to mug for the camera. In his playful desire to keep the press interested, he'd even jokingly called Felicity and some of the other actresses "star whores."

And Felicity? She had smiled and said nothing. Because she was the good girl. The cool girl. And she was patient.

Feminizing Tristan properly and permanently had taken every dirty trick she knew. Getting kicked off the show had been Tristan's own handiwork, but it had made him desperate enough that he was open to the "publicity stunt" of pretending to come out as transgender. An actor-turned-actress on a flagging sci-fi show. A show that was so desperate to reinvent itself and become relevant again that they reversed their decision and scooped up the little darling.

Tristan's mother and his agent had been willing dupes. For a while, they probably even thought they were helping him. Until they were finally forced to choose between Tristan and saving their own hides. Not really a choice, really. In Hollywood, even a mother's love was for sale.

The outcome of Felicity's plan was as cruel as it had been predictable. Tristan received all the attention and publicity he'd ever dreamed of, pretending to be a woman. It was his greatest performance, but one he could never tell anyone about. But now, he was the eye candy. He was the one on camera in the ridiculous skimpy little outfits.

Felicity had turned him into more of a "star whore" than she ever was.

Of course, the real genius of Felicity's plan was that she'd enjoyed a front-row seat for the whole thing. Because of her cool-girl "no hard feelings" approach to the breakup, she was still able to play at being Tristan's friend and confidante. Behind the scenes, she'd laid trap after trap for pretty Tristan, and he raced into every single one, tits first. Then afterwards she was there as a shoulder to cry on as he complained about how horrid it all was.

It had almost been too easy.

Felicity glanced up to the other tables to make sure she couldn't be seen, and she opened up a hidden folder on her tablet. One that she liked to revisit.

The before-and-after pictures of Tristan really were impressive. On the left was a picture of Tristan at some stupid gamer expo as a male teen, with his "pretty boy" good looks that had made him quite the heartthrob back in the day. And next to it was a picture taken years later at a Galaxy Crusaders convention where the now-female Tristan was signing autographs.

To look at the pictures, one might have assumed that they were brother and sister. The girl was stunning with her pretty eyes, long tumble of hair, and prominent cleavage...and with just enough of the old Tristan still peeking out from behind that makeup to be a delicious reminder to Felicity who was filling out that brassiere so extravagantly.

Those had been the golden days. The very male Tristan traipsing about in his high heels and playing at being a woman even as he got more and more trapped in his web of lies. Telling himself that it'd be over soon--that he'd be a man again soon--even as he fell further and further in to the trap he'd so eagerly raced into. All in a desperate bid for relevance.

Felicity sighed as she looked over the pictures from back then. Tristan had gotten the celebrity he'd always wanted, but he was getting it in lipstick and heels. And with some extra time to kill between seasons on the show, it had been simplicity itself to invent ways to keep him in the public eye. He was pretty enough for modeling and vapid enough to make it look good. And the perfume/cologne "Tristan: For Men and Women" had been good for a giggle. Especially bringing in the male lookalike. Between that and some clever photo trickery, that had twisted the knife as the feminized Tristan got to see how dramatically he'd changed.

When she got to the picture of Tristan in the ridiculous gold dress, Felicity grit her teeth. That had been all set to be such a beautiful moment. Tristan had somehow managed to parlay sympathy for his situation into a damned Emmy nomination, but at least she'd ruined the moment by arranging for him to attend the awards ceremony looking like a common stripper. He'd even been drinking beforehand. Except that when he was interviewed, he'd managed to blather something out that sounded like a cheeky statement about feminine empowerment, and of course the media gobbled it up.

'Feminine empowerment.' Tristan wouldn't know feminine empowerment if it crawled into his bra and bit him on the boob.

He looked good, Felicity had to admit. But while the new Tristan may have been a dime, in this town, pretty girls were a dime a dozen. And Tristan had all the acting ability of a Ritalin-addicted toddler in a children's beauty pageant jumping frenetically around the stage to "Shake It Off."

Which is what made his constant comebacks so annoying.

After the final big scandal exploded, Tristan's career was sunk, and Felicity figured that would be the end of it. He fell off the grid for years. But then the little twerp managed to straighten out his life and stage another comeback. Still as a woman, but shimmying his way into people's hearts with that way he had.

Releasing the Mockumentary footage of his time on the show seemed opportune. After that had been framed into a documentary, Tristan's fraud would be revealed to the world. That he wasn't trans or heroic, he was just a sad and desperate actor playing at being trans until he could reveal that it was all a big publicity stunt.

Except that people ate it up. With time and distance--and Tristan still living as a woman all these years later--his self-inflicted trials and travails seemed positively earnest.

Felicity could have screamed.

Her one bit of good news was that she'd been able to exercise a bit of "editorial discretion" on the final cut of the film to trim off the final scene. The documentarian she'd hired had been a trifle overzealous in putting all the pieces together, and his initial cut of the film had ended with a finale that had fingered Felicity as responsible for a lot of Tristan's feminization.

Fortunately, that cut didn't see the light of day. She had a reputation to consider, after all.

She was also left with Tristan as a starlet on the rise. So, in the finest corporate tradition, she promoted him to a position where he could do no harm.

My Uncle Fifi was a turd of an idea that had been occupying her trash bin. With a bit of re-tooling, it was tailor made for her feminized ex. A comedy about a guy who gets feminized and has to run around dressed as a French maid. It was perfect. She'd get to tune in every week to watch him humiliate himself, all tits and petticoats. And then after everyone saw that he couldn't act his way out of a fishnet stocking, he'd be lucky to be doing commercials for hemorrhoid medication.

Except...

Felicity swiped her finger and stared incredulously at the next images. Tristan in the My Uncle Fifi promotional image in his French maid's outfit was everything she'd ever hoped. But who the hell knew Tristan could be funny? And not just funny, but self-effacing. The more the show paralleled his own life, the more Tristan seemed to shine. And people had noticed. This stupid throwaway show turned out to have better legs than its "leading lady," and in those fishnets, that was saying something.

To paraphrase the famous line from another frustrated producer: Felicity had been so careful. She'd picked the wrong script, the wrong show, the wrong star. Where did she go right?

Even more galling was that Tristan was becoming a proper sex symbol. Being the "cover girl" for Flaunt magazine didn't seem like much, but heads were starting to turn. Worse, people were starting to listen to him. To actually give a shit about what he had to say. Tristan-fucking-Sinclair had somehow arisen from the ashes again.

There was a line from the Fifi holiday special that she kept turning over in her head: "You took what should have been your fleshy and jiggly prison, and instead you turned it into your castle and declared yourself the motherfucking princess."

Felicity grumbled as she looked at the pictures again. She wasn't sure which possibility bothered her more. That Tristan was back up to his old tricks and was getting everything he ever wanted, or that maybe the Tristan she knew and hated really was gone. That maybe Felicity had done her job so efficiently that she'd completely destroyed the man whose life she'd set out to ruin. Which meant that the woman left standing in his place wasn't her enemy.

Had she won? Was this what victory felt like? It didn't feel like winning.

She'd play-acted at being Tristan's friend for so long that the notion that she might genuinely be friends with the female Tristan felt weird. But if that was the case, and if Tristan really was a changed person, Felicity could call off her little vendetta.

If.

Yeah, not real likely.

Felicity took a calming breath. This...was okay, she told herself. Let the little famewhore enjoy moment in the sun. This would die down once the novelty wore off.

Except...

Felicity flipped to the next image.

This. This is where she drew the line. A goddamned knockoff show. She couldn't believe it when she read about it in the trades. Miss-Orientation was another crazy sitcom that featured a main character who was feminized and then pretended to be a foreign exchange student named Svetlanya. Its star had even bigger boobs than Tristan. It made Fifi seem almost respectable. Normally something like this would be destined for ignominious oblivion, but with comedy, you could never tell. Apparently.

With any luck, the show wouldn't last a season, but it hardly mattered. Fifi's success might have been dismissed as a one-off fluke, but a show like this validated its existence. And much like with Fifi, the off-screen shenanigans with the main actor/actress practically guaranteed that it would be in the gossip rags for months. Months.

Months of drawing comparisons to the show. Months of drawing attention to Tristan. Shared interviews with the two "leading ladies." Eventually there would be talk of crossovers between the two shows.

By the time the dust finally settled, Tristan would be smooching A-list actors in tentpole romantic comedies. Making regular rounds on nighttime talk shows. Getting treated as a serious actress.

No. Absolutely not!

Felicity suddenly became aware that she had been scowling and shaking her head slightly at the thought. She quickly checked herself and looked up to confirm that her slip had gone unnoticed, but the gaffe was yet another reminder of how much this business was affecting her.

This was going to end today. Felicity was going to strangle this baby in the crib before it had a chance to grow up into something more terrible than it already was. She couldn't kill Miss-Orientation, but she could do one better.

She could axe My Uncle Fifi.

Felicity had just enough pull with the show's producers that she could do it without any fingerprints that would trace back to her. A couple of well-placed phone calls would be all it took.

But first? A little victory lap. Once they pulled the plug, it'd get back to Tristan right away, but Felicity wanted to be the one to break the news. To see the look on his pretty face as his dreams were dashed and savor every moment. Killing the show was killing his career. And this time, it would stay dead.

Felicity practiced the sad little pout she'd make as she told Tristan the bad news over lunch. A rumor she'd heard from a credible source. Then she'd play the supportive friend, there to lend a sympathetic shoulder to cry on as Tristan pondered his dim future.

It'd be beautiful.

Just then, she looked up to see Tristan entering the restaurant, and she felt a little flutter of anticipation.

Show time.

 

~ Act II: The Briar Rose ~

Tristan made her way over towards the table, and as she did so, Felicity reflexively did a little double-take.

Hollywood fashions were fickle, and what starlets wore in their off hours sometimes strained credulity. But even image-conscious actresses tended to dress down when they could. Felicity had fully expected Tristan to show up in something like a loose blouse and designer jeans. She wasn't expecting clubwear.

Tristan was wearing an extremely daring burgundy red minidress. It might have been designer with its asymmetrical cut and one long blousy sleeve, but it was cut shockingly low, and it was tight enough that it clung to Tristan's curves like a second skin. The skirt was also short enough that she was only a couple of scant inches of fabric away from settling some online arguments about whether she'd had her bottom surgery.

An outfit like that was sexy as hell and might have passed muster on the red carpet, but for the middle of the day, it was...unexpected. If the dress had been two shades lighter and had a big tacky fabric flower on the shoulder, she'd have looked for all the world like a slutty cheerleader eager to get laid at homecoming.

Her little display hadn't gone unnoticed, either. As Tristan delicately threaded her way between the tables perched on her strappy stiletto heels, Felicity noticed men turning to look. Meanwhile, Tristan had a bright smile, but Felicity recognized it as a Hollywood smile. Beautifully practiced, and just a touch artificial. But Felicity perceived a flicker of anxiety on Tristan's prettily made-up face that she was straining to hide.

Seeing that anxiety put Felicity on her guard, wondering if maybe Tristan had some inkling of what she had planned. But as Tristan reached the table, Felicity realized that it wasn't about her. If anything, Tristan looked relieved to be there, like she'd reached a safe haven.

The two exchanged a friendly kiss on the cheek, and Felicity smiled. "Well, you're all dressed up," she observed.

"Am I?" Tristan said absently as she sat down and tugged at the hem of her dress. "I'm supposed to be a speaker at an LGBTQ thing this afternoon. Something about authenticity. Which is hilarious." She waggled her hands at herself, looking mystified.

Then she spotted the wine glass in front of her. "Oh, thank God, is this mine?" she asked as she grabbed the glass and took a healthy gulp.

Felicity's brow knitted slightly at the unusual picture. Unless Tristan was meeting with drag queens, the outfit seemed wildly inappropriate.

"Everything okay?" she prompted in her own equally practiced tone of friendly concern.

"I don't want to talk about it," Tristan declared. She then picked up the menu and looked it over. "Ugh, they changed the menu. You know, life was so much easier when I could just order a hamburger. Now I'm forced to have an opinion on quinoa. I don't have a quinoa opinion."

"You're nothing if not adaptable," Felicity quipped with a feline grin. She took a sip of her wine and casually added, "When were you here last?"

"It's been a while. These last few years, I couldn't hope to afford it. I'd have been more likely to be a waitress than a customer. You?"

Felicity shrugged. "I come here from time to time. Special occasions, mostly."

"Is that what this is?"

Felicity smiled broadly. "Tris, any time spent with you is always a special occasion."

Before Tristan could respond, the waitress approached, eyeing Felicity somewhat warily as she did.

"Are you ladies ready to order?" she asked.

Tristan perused the menu and sighed. "I'll have the vegan bowl with tofu and the lemon dressing. And some sparkling water with lemon. Oh, and some herbal tea."

Tristan handed over her menu, and Felicity watched her with a spark of interest.

"The lamb. Rare," Felicity said as she held out the menu with a flip of her wrist for the waitress to retrieve before she scampered off.

"I don't miss that," Felicity remarked.

Tristan sniffed in agreement. "Tell me about it. Such is the life of the Hollywood actress. If I put on an ounce, the social media sites light up with how fat I've gotten. You were smart to get out when you did. Back when we were on GC, I didn't give a thought to any of this." She stopped and checked herself. "Well, y'know, I mean, before. When I was still...you know."

Felicity smiled. "Yeah, because after, you were squeezing into the same skimpy outfits I was. And I still say you had better legs," she teased. "You were quite the sexpot, the way you strutted around. Especially the way you filled out that uniform."

"I remember those times a little differently," Tristan said.

Felicity gave Tristan a sly look. "You don't actually read the online posts about you, do you?"

"I'll take the fifth."

"Tris," Felicity chided mildly.

Tristan gave her an exasperated look. "You know what they call me? 'The Queen of Meme.' My boobs are lighting up the internet. I swear, I'm a cautionary tale in stiletto heels. It's bad enough I'm prancing around in those French maid dresses on the show all the time, but after all those costumes in the holiday special, I'm boy bait."

"You did make a very fetching Playboy Bunny. You may have missed your calling."

"I could've lived without seeing the memes of me in that pregnancy getup," Tristan grumped.

"Mmm. Not exactly mommy material," Felicity agreed as the waitress returned with the drinks.

"Thanks," Tristan said as the young woman put her drinks down in front of her. She then absently started fussing at her tea.

"So," Felicity began in a forced innocent tone, "I heard a rumor that you and Val are an item?"

Tristan froze. "Good grief, word travels fast in this town," she said as she returned her attention to her tea. "We're...I dunno. Yes? Maybe? We're sorting it out. Taking it slow."

"I don't suppose I have to warn you of the dangers of dating someone from your own show."

"You do not," Tristan agreed carefully.

"Well, I'm happy for you. You always seemed to be better when you were in a relationship."

Tristan laughed a little. "Depended on the relationship." But as she said it, she read the change on Felicity's face. "I didn't mean--"

"I get it," Felicity said, cutting her off. "You know your problem, Tris? With you, everything is about winning and losing."

"I'm not sure that's just my problem," she countered, taking a sip of her tea.

"My point is, you could stand to lower your guard a little. You'd do well to--"

"Surrender?" Tristan said with a smirk.

"Your words, not mine."

Tristan bit on her lip like she was considering bringing up an awkward topic. "You ever think about our time back on Galaxy Crusaders?"

"Not especially," Felicity said as she took another sip of wine from her glass.

"It's been funny working with the kids on Fifi. They're practically the same age we were back then."

"They're young, but they're hardly kids," Felicity countered. "More like miniature adults."

"Hollywood years are like dog years," Tristan conceded. "It hardly seems fair, making them grow up so fast. Casey broke up with a boy and it's all over the news rags like it's a big scandal. It's like they're not allowed to make mistakes."

"Oh, I think they know the score. The thing I don't think is fair is how they enjoy being treated like adults when it suits them, but when they act badly, they try and say they were just kids and didn't know any better. Although personally, I blame the parents."

Tris fixed Felicity with a pinched expression, even as she pressed her lips into a mawkish smile.

"You know," she began, "I was sorry you weren't available to come guest star on the show. The fans would've gotten a kick out of seeing both of us together again."

Felicity scoffed. "What, playing your character's shrewish ex-girlfriend? That's a little on the nose, Tris."

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. I liked how one of the themes of the show is making peace with your past. Finding ways to move on."

"Funny, I always thought it was about a man stuffing his big boobs into a low-cut French maid's outfit," Felicity teased. "Still, it's just as well. You're the one who craves the attention of the fans. And you've always made a much better actress."

Tristan pursed her lips at the backhanded compliment. "Mmm. Don't sell yourself short. I've always been extremely impressed with your ability to put on an act. Though I have to concede your best work has always been done off-camera. You know, behind the scenes?"

Felicity held Tristan's gaze for a long moment. They were smiling politely like two old friends reminiscing, but the energy had changed. Felicity didn't react, but Tristan casually flicked an eyebrow as she took a sip of her tea, holding the cup in front of her with both hands.

"I've enjoyed some successes," Felicity said finally. "But then I suppose we both have, haven't we? After all, you wouldn't be where you are right now if it weren't for seizing the opportunities that came your way."

"I'm sure to a mouse, the cheese in a mousetrap seems like an opportunity," Tristan said.

"Especially if the mouse makes a beeline straight for it," Felicity countered. "Why, are you feeling trapped?"

Tristan ignored the comment. "Felicity, you and I--" she began, cutting herself off. Then she started again. "I've been thinking a lot about the future lately."

"That's funny. I always imagined you as someone more focused on the past. Reliving the glory days."

"Sometimes I think I'm more defined by my mistakes," Tristan admitted. "But the truth is, I always really admired you."

"Oh?"

"You always seemed to know what you wanted out of life. You were driven and focused. I really respected that you wanted to build something, not just tear things down."

Felicity held her glass and ran a finger along the rim. She pressed her lips together as she tapped at the glass with a long scarlet-tipped fingernail. "Sometimes tearing things down is unavoidable. I mean, gosh, look at the woman you've become. Just think of all the many things you tore down to get where you are."

"Is it, though? Unavoidable? I feel like--"

Felicity put her glass down and gave Tristan a serious look. "Tris, why don't you just say what you're trying to say?"

Tristan sighed and put her own cup down. She rolled her shoulders and ran her own manicured finger over the silverware in front of her. "Felicity, I...listen, about the show. I know you pulled some strings to give me a shot, and I'm more grateful than you know."

"It's funny you should bring that up," Felicity said, reaching over to the wine bottle and refilling both their glasses. "That's actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh, good. Me, too," Tristan said. She bit her lip nervously as she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a feminine gesture. But she seemed distracted. She peered quickly down at herself in her low-cut dress, and for a moment her fingers fluttered like she was going to make an adjustment to her decolletage before her eyes cut over at the rest of the restaurant and clearly thought better of it.

The little display had only taken a moment, but Felicity watched it with interest. Tristan, meanwhile, took her wine glass and took another healthy gulp.

"I heard you finished shooting the last two episodes of the season," Felicity said evenly. "The convention episode and the wedding episode."

"Yeah," Tristan said. "It was good, rounding out the season. Getting a bit of closure. I feel like sometimes we don't get that."

"We don't always get what we want, though it's not for lack of trying," said Felicity. "I know those two episodes haven't aired yet, but the studio is already asking about a second season. I'm sure you've seen the ratings."

"Yeah," Tristan said, glancing away and biting her lip again.

Felicity's brow creased a tiny bit, but she pressed on. "Of course, ratings are only part of the picture. Which is why--"

"I can't do it!" Tristan blurted out. "I--I can't. I just can't," she said quickly, the words coming out in a quick but desperate tumble. "I know I'm the star, and I know there are people counting on me, and I know the show is doing great. But I--I--I just can't."

Felicity's expression remained frozen as she peered across the table. "Why is that?" she asked.

"I know. I know. It's insane. Being the lead on a show is everything I ever wanted! But...when I agreed to this, I thought it'd be a lark. I'd do a few episodes, get back in the public eye, and then..." She shrugged in an offhand manner, like she was trying to put on a good show, but her face was contorted in distress.

"I don't understand. Tris, what's the matter?"

Tristan looked at Felicity pleadingly. Then her shoulders slumped as she closed her eyes. "Oh, God, please don't make me say it out loud. Felicity, you know me."

"You're not a woman."

"I'm not!" Tristan fretted in emphatic agreement. "Felicity, the only reason I'm famous is for how I look! Do you know what that feels like? I'm nothing but a pair of boobs bouncing around in those stupid outfits I have to wear every week! I'm not famous, these are!" she said, gesturing down at herself. Her hands were wide open and a few inches away from her chest, avoiding touching her breasts like they were hot and she was afraid of burning herself.

Felicity regarded her evenly. "I thought you were enjoying yourself?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, peering over at Tristan's skimpy outfit.

Tristan did a double-take as she glanced down at herself again. "Felicity, I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing! I mean, this is how starlets are supposed to dress, right? This is all so embarrassing. But--" She cut herself off.

"But...?" Felicity prompted.

Tristan wriggled her shoulders like a little girl who'd been caught misbehaving.

"I mean... You know..." she said.

"You like the attention."

"No!" Tristan objected. "Well, yes. Kind of. I mean, it's creepy the way guys look at me. But...yeah, when people are saying how much they like the show, and want to take my picture, and tell me what a good actor I am... Well, y'know, actress..."

Felicity's expression remained inscrutable, playing the part of the supportive and concerned friend. But she could feel her blood start to boil. The asshole hadn't changed at all. Give him a pair of tits and put him in makeup and a dress, and he was still the same old fame-obsessed prick. He even dressed like a slut because that's what he thought women like him were supposed to do? He was no different than when he was a teenager on that episode of Galaxy Crusaders, prancing about on high heels as he made play at being a girl.

"Felicity...please, there's gotta be something you can do to help me."

She regarded Tristan for a long moment. Sometimes the old Tristan could be hard to spot underneath all the makeup and artifice, but hidden in the hoarse tone of voice, she could practically hear his pleading. Begging.

"I'm sorry, Tris, there's nothing I can do," she said finally.

"But--!"

"They're picking up the show for another season. This can't be a surprise to you."

Tristan's eyes darted around like a trapped animal. "I--I'll quit. I'll quit the show."

"You can do that," Felicity said slowly. "I'm your friend, and you know I'll support whatever you decide to do. But your agent will explain that there will be penalties--significant penalties. And then, what are you going to do after that? Who's going to want to touch you if you torpedo your own hit show? Pretty soon, you'll be back to waitressing tables and doing community theatre."

Tristan said nothing as she sat there in shock.

"It's just for another season. Or maybe longer. Talk to your agent. Maybe she can find you some other parts more in line with your...unique talents."

Felicity's phone beeped. She'd left specific instructions not to be bothered, but as she read the message, she saw that it was indeed a brewing crisis. Another wayward soul in need of her special attention.

She grumbled to herself. She'd been looking forward to having more time to savor Tristan's distress, but with the show getting extended, she had all the time in the world. Suddenly, the thought of Tristan making the rounds on late night talk shows seemed like a good way to twist the knife. She'd have to put in a good word with the right people. Maybe volunteer to take Tristan shopping for just the right dress to wear. Something racy. Lewd.

"I'm so sorry I have to cut this short, but duty calls! Lunch is on me, though. Tell them to put it on my tab," Felicity said as she tucked her phone and tablet into her bag and slipped out of the booth. "Hey. Cheer up. You're a Hollywood actress with a hit show! Things could be worse. Good luck at that LGBTQ meeting, talking about authenticity."

She leaned down and offered a friendly and supportive kiss on the cheek, which Tristan numbly accepted.

From her seat, the dumbstruck actress watched as Felicity made her way between the tables of the restaurant on her way out. The wait staff parted like the Red Sea to make way for her as she made her exit.

 

~ Act III: In the Briar Patch ~

As Felicity exited the front door, Tris expelled a long, slow breath.

However, she hadn't been expecting the sound of a single person's slow, measured applause coming from the other side of the high-backed booth next to her.

"Oh, bravissima, bella," a woman's voice came.

Tris rolled her eyes. "How long have you been sitting there?" she asked, recognizing the voice as belonging to her girlfriend, Val.

"Long enough. I particularly enjoyed your little 'please, oh, please, don't throw me into that briar patch,' moment at the end. You think we still have jobs?"

"You didn't see her face. If she thought it would hurt me, we'll be doing this show until I'm wearing ruffled granny panties. Oh, and speaking of seeing her face, you took a hell of a chance. If she saw you, she easily could have recognized you."

Tris picked up her wine glass and took a sip, and sat back in her seat as Val slipped out of the adjacent booth. Tris slowly turned to face her, but when she did, her mouth dropped comedically wide open in surprise. Val was dressed in a casual outfit with a white blouse that contrasted prettily with her dark olive skin tone, and her dark almond-shaped eyes were hidden behind the big designer sunglasses she wore. But what threw Tris for a loop was her dark hair--or rather, the extreme lack thereof, as it had been trimmed into a shockingly short style.

Val smiled as she nudged Tris over and sat down next to her in the booth. Tris, however, was still gawking at her closely-cropped hairdo. It was cute, but a massive change from her usual long locks.

"Oh, my God," Tris said.

"'Oh, my God' yourself, you little prom tart," Val teased, admiring Tris's dress. She took off her sunglasses and brushed her short tufts of hair with her fingers. "It's for that Roadblasters movie that starts filming next week. My agent was pissed when she saw it. She said it makes me look like a teenage boy."

"Your agent is a fucking idiot," Tris said in wonder.

"And are we going to talk about this?" she said, gesturing to Tris's outfit.

Tris straightened up in her seat. "In the immortal words of Sun Tzu, 'When going into battle against a superior opponent, be sure to flash a lot of cleavage.'"

"I don't believe I'm familiar with that part of The Art of War."

"It's towards the back. Besides, if Sun Tzu had my knockers, you better believe it'd be in there." She grabbed an empty wine glass from the table and poured a glass for Val.

"Hm. Not bad," Val said, taking a sip. "How'd you even know Felicity was planning to get the show canceled?"

"I had a pretty good feeling when she suggested that we meet at this restaurant, but I didn't know for sure until I walked in here and saw her sitting at this table."

"What's so special about this table?"

Tris sighed a little. "This was the same booth where I dumped her all those years ago."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

Val gave her a long look. "That is a woman who seriously knows how to hold a grudge."

Tris looked sheepish. "I...might have done her wrong."

"You're defending her?"

"Oh, God, no. But she's not wrong about one thing. She may have put the cheese in the mousetrap, but I went straight for it. Every time."

Val put her hand gently on Tris's arm. "Tris, what happened wasn't your fault."

"Actually, yeah, it kinda was. I don't have to absolve Felicity to own up to my own bad decisions. And hoo boy, have I made some whoppers."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. You're not furious with her?"

"I was. But it's not like I can prove any of what I suspect. And absolutely none of it changes what I am. Besides, just look at what holding on to grudges has gotten her. She's bitter and alone, filled with hate. I don't want to live like that."

Val pursed her lips and looked her in the eyes. "Tris...not that I'm not grateful, but why are you telling me this?"

"Because as much as it slays me to admit this, Felicity was right about something else. I can't do this alone, and I need to...share. To let myself be a little more vulnerable. It'd do me good to--"

"Surrender?" Val prompted with a knowing smile.

Tris demurred. "Your word, not mine."

Val gave her a funny look and looked like she was about to say something, but apparently changed her mind.

Rather, she said, "Y'know, you don't exactly have the greatest track record when it comes to romantic partners." She counted off names on her fingers. "Felicity... Jackson..."

"Connor," Tris volunteered with a wince.

"Connor," Val agreed emphatically. "Jesus, you're a train wreck."

"I do get it right eventually," Tris said with a sly smile.

"You'd better. And it's not lost on me that I'm playing a character on the show who gets to boss you around. So, if you're expecting me to be the latest dominatrix to rule your love life..."

"Yeah?"

Val reached over and brushed back Tris's hair to get a better view of her impressive cleavage that was on display in her dress.

"We'll talk about it."

"Nice."

Val gave Tris a lusty little leer. "Do you really have a talk with an LGBTQ group after this?"

"I do," Tris said as she glanced down at herself. "You think I have time to change first?"

"Don't you dare," Val said with a laugh. "And for real, you're talking about authenticity? Not exactly your strong suit."

"Hey, I am perfectly capable of faking authenticity when I need to!" Tris said with a smile.

"Yeah, well, better not try any of that with me. I can always tell when a woman is faking," Val teased as she leaned in for a kiss.

As the two of them parted, Tris wriggled her shoulders as she tugged at her dress. "Ugh. Bad enough I have to look like this, but now I'm gonna have to keep dressing this way just to keep Felicity satisfied."

Val snorted out a short laugh. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"Meaning?"

"Listen, beautiful. I know better than to try to unravel the tangled plate of angel hair pasta that's going on in there," she said as she playfully bopped her finger against Tris's forehead. "But don't think that I haven't noticed that when things happen around you, they have a way of turning out the way you want."

"Are you suggesting I wanted this?"

Val said nothing. But her eyes cut over at Tris's neckline and then back up to her face.

Tris gaped at her in astonishment. "Hang on a second. Are you suggesting that I wanted this?" she said, making a more comprehensive up-and-down gesture at herself.

Val still said nothing and merely raised her eyebrows in response.

"That is-- Oh, that is totally--" Tris sputtered, wagging her finger. "Oh, that--that--that's rich, is what that is."

"Uh huh."

"That is character defamation. I will not be slandered."

Val scoffed. "Honey, in that dress, you're gonna have guys slandering all over themselves for you."

"Okay, eww." She started to lean in for another kiss, but Val pulled back. Puzzled, Tris glanced over her shoulder and saw that there were three young women standing by their booth. They were in their teens or early twenties, and they were all looking straight at her. And holding their phones.

"Hi, sorry," the oldest girl said. "But...are you Tris Sinclair?"

"Yes, she is," Val said cheerfully, clearly having gone unrecognized by the girls as one of her co-stars. Tris looked about ready to say something, but Val jabbed her with her elbow as she got up out of the booth.

"Oh, hey, would you take our picture?" the girl said to Val, handing over her phone.

"I would be delighted," Val said. She dutifully took a few pictures of the smiling girls as they crowded around Tris. As she handed the camera back, she added, "She's also really good at selfies. You should take a few."

Tris shot Val a look, but Val just quietly mouthed, "You love it." She then leaned closer and said, "I'll see you later. And you'd better still be wearing that dress. If you wore it for her, you can wear it for me."

When Tris scoffed, Val responded with a pointed look.

Tris held her gaze for a moment. "Okay, fine, I surrender," she said with a smile.

Val slid her sunglasses back on and took her leave. As she did, Tris's eyes followed her for a moment before she turned back to face the chattering girls. But she paused to cast her eyes around the booth and made a wry smile.

"Didn't really expect this booth to be my Waterloo," she said to herself.

THE END

"Waterloo" by ABBA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcssw3utx7o