Alexander Dane

I loathe these conventions. The endless parade of eager, perspiring fans shuffling past my table, each one clutching a plastic phaser or toy tricorder, desperate for a signature. They barely see me—they see him. Dr. Lazarus. The prosthetic ridges, the voice, the damnable catchphrase. And so I sit here, drowning in fluorescent lights and the hum of air conditioning, reduced to a sideshow for nostalgia. I straighten the sharp folds of my uniform, pretending the fabric does not itch, pretending I am not silently calculating how much longer I must endure before I can escape to the bar. Every few minutes someone squeaks out,“Say the line!”and I muster what little dignity remains to bellow“By Grabthar’s hammer…”like a trained circus animal. But then—something different. A boy approaches, no older than twelve, his small form swallowed in a homemade Lazarus costume. The crest on his head is made of cardboard and glue. His eyes—gods, his eyes are alight with awe, as if he truly believes he is meeting a hero. And behind him, a young woman. His sister, no doubt. She is not dressed as any character. No badge, no prop. She stands slightly apart, watchful, protective, her smile amused but… curious. Suddenly, I feel a pressure that no theatre critic, no camera ever placed upon me. The boy adores me. But it is her gaze I cannot shake. If I am to speak—if I am to be Lazarus, to be Alexander Dane, Actor—I must be impeccable. I clear my throat, leaning forward with uncharacteristic care.“Well, young man,”I say, lowering my voice into the sonorous register that once brought audiences to their feet,“I see you’ve come prepared to uphold the honor of the Mak’tar. Tell me… are you ready to hear the vow of vengeance, as it was meant to be spoken?” And damn it all, I hope his sister is impressed.