Galatic Pictures: Subsidiary Studio #431

“What’s my motivation?”

A sigh, “You’re an Imperial Admiral, Mandi Graysen. You’ve just witnessed the tragedy of Bespin – you’re grief stricken! You’ve come home to the chambers secretly shared between you and Governor Thorin Gavaal, looking for solace and consolation – aaaaand action!”

TAKE 1.

In one of thousands of film studios all across Adarlon, the board clapped on the first take of ‘Cloud City Confidential’. Like millions of other citizens, director Kurt Werner was hoping to become the galaxy next big thing. On the payroll of Galactic Pictures, the planets sole company whose hegemony over national industry and economy spanned decades, Werner was expected to churn out a minimum of fifty holos a year so slake the ever-growing need for entertainment. Pictures produced on Adarlon were shipped to all corners of the galaxy, and ranged from awe-inspiring to abysmal – of which ‘Cloud City Confidential’ was the latter, in spite of its not-so-subtle political allusions. A low budget genre-hybrid, it told the sentimental tale of two Imperials embroiled in conflict on both a galactic and emotional level. Any credibility that the project might have had was lost in attempt to make the piece more marketable – especially to an adult audience.

The lead male, an under-paid and under-acting meathead with the intelligence of a sea cucumber whirled out onto the set, almost knocking over one of the paper-thin walls of the set in the process. He was shirtless, and had a fat hand-bar moustache. The (using the word loosely) heroine collapsed into his waiting arms, seemingly unaware of the entire harvest of oil smothered thickly over his skin. Her cheeks were rouged and her hair twisted into a neat bun. She wore a pair of spectacles, then when removed magically turned her into supermodel. The pair exchanged poorly written dialogue for a minute or so before ‘Mandi’ complained of being hot, opting to strip herself down to little more than cheap lingerie. Soon enough, any notion of plot or sympathy for the plight of Bespin was lost, in a dirty and frankly unwieldy coital bout.

“OHHHHHHH!”

“No, no, cut!”

The bed ceased its creaking. Victor Von Krane, who had appeared indifferent and apathetic throughout the whole supposedly emotionally charged scene, looked across at the director with an innate expression of confusion and vague annoyance.

“Look, now, kids. We don’t have time for re-takes. Everything needs to be done on the fly. I have thirty more of these to do before the end of the month. I don’t know what you call this, but it certainly isn’t acting.”

The director ambled around the freeze-frame, where Victor knelt over a red-faced young woman on all fours. Unlike her partner, she was showing a great deal of emotion – most of it frustration. While Von Krane was a mindless no-talent whose main strengths lay in his trousers, she was a theater and music degree graduate, with honors. She had brains, and ones that worked at that. Unfortunately, on Adarlon, everyone wanted to get into show business, and that meant that even promising new talent such as Jennifer Crowley could end up being wasted on the cast list of such classics as ‘I Was A Rodian Love-Slave’ and the musical-sex-romp that was ‘Bang Me, I’m A Stormtrooper’. As she looked up at the squat director, she couldn’t help but feel absolutely mortified. While he spoke to them, technicians buzzed around the still interlocked pair with cheap make-up and props, setting the light to a suitably sleazy tone in preparation for the continuation of filming.

“Say it with emotion, Jen, okay? ‘I want your starship inside me’ … ‘Oh yes Thorin, fire your laser in me’ … ‘Your gun turret is so big’ … It’s really not that hard.”

“Yes it is.”

“I didn’t mean that Victor. Now – let’s take this from the top!”

TAKE 2.

Galactic Pictures Trailer Park

There was something disenchanting about living in a trailer. Perhaps it was the grime covered walls, or the smell of raw-sewage. While trying to fight back the rising feeling of nausea, fumbling in her hold all for her keys, before stumbling into the caravan and slamming the door shut - which caused a shudder throughout. The interior was nothing short of squalid. Each caravan was paid for and furnished by Galactic Pictures. As actors were given a minimum wage, it was impossible for them to acquire any form of accommodation. This had been a serious cause for concern in the Entertainment Drought of 92, whereby the amount of actors and actresses plummeted due to homelessness and subsequent loss of all hope. When you signed up to Galactic Pictures, which everyone days, they owned you for seven years. It was their responsibility, then, to take care of you, and no expensive was spared.

“Yes, I am grateful, Bill.”

She slumped down onto her fold-out cot bed, hand-held communicator pressed to her ear. It was a cheap model, supplied also by the studio, to ensure that their employees could be reached at any time. On the other end of the line was Bulldog Bill, as they called him in the business. Bill was manager and agent to approximately two-hundred and forty five people, all of whom worked – of course – for Galactic Pictures. Jennifer Crowley had been on Bill’s actor-list for the past two years. In the beginning, she had worked as an extra on smaller budget pictures, occasionally getting a speaking part. Now, as Bill would tell, she was ‘moving up in the world’.

“I was just hoping the… yes, I know… I was just hoping next project I get to work on could be a little more serious, you know?”

Jen rose to her feet, peering out from behind the net curtains of her window at the row-upon-row of trailers. There must have been thousands – there were thousands. Glamour and glitz had no place here. This was a factory.

“Yes, I know it pays my wages, and I’ve said a hundred times I’m thankful that you’re helping me out, Bill- … No, I won’t be put on hold!”

A two-tone version of the classic Fifth Symphony began to screech in Jen’s ear. She cursed and threw the receiver down…

Bulldog Bills Casting House

Beneath a wall of diplomas, doctorates and swimming-certificates, Bill Pain sat. Amidst towers of papers, portfolios and pictures, he worked. The sign on the door said ‘Casting Director’, beneath which someone had crudely inked ‘Buy One Get Ten Free’. All over his walls were hap handedly stuck Polaroid’s, of the thousands of faces he dealt with daily. With four communicators already in his hands, he had concluded long ago that having six arms simply was not enough.

“Jen, I’m putting you on hold.”

He barked, his cigar lolling off his lips as he switched to another line. How he managed to remember everyone’s names was quite simply a miracle. While he suspected Crowley was sat at home celebrating another day’s work completed, he had other important business to deal with. The packaging and poster designs for ‘Cloud City Confidential’, ‘The Stormtrooper Always Knocks Twice’, ‘Double Imperiality’, ‘The Bothan And The Beautiful’ and many, many more. If the best pictures were A-List, these were somewhere in the region of F. Not everything Bill was involved in ended up as such however. There were screen-gems that had stumbled upon, where the right components came together to make a hit. It was just a shame that this happened so infrequently.

Today just might have been one of those special days.

On the other end of his line was the renowned director Fritz Tee-Ang. One of the real moguls of Adarlon, Fritz’s pictures raked in billions of credits a year for the economy. He often came to Bill for help, but only in the region of acquiring extras and occasionally stage-hands – the young stars of Galactic Pictures weren’t above working a boom-mic if it was needed. Today, however, he was looking for something more. Some supporting cast for his latest psychological-slasher-thriller ‘Doctor Skywalker and Mr Vader’. It was a new spin on a very old story, which required five key spots to be filled, alongside many stand-in roles. Three of these parts were for females.

“Who have I got?”

Crowley, Jennifer
Age: 23
Height: 175cm (5' 8")
Weight: 52kg (115lb)
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Species: Humanoid
Accent: Middle-class Basic (adaptable)
Fee: Negotiable.

Credits:
Cloud City Confidential (Admiral Mandi Graysen),
The Bride of Palpatine (Villager with torch),
Bang Me I’m A Stormtrooper (Stormtrooper recruit),
I Was A Rodian Love-Slave (Slave / Dancer),
Whatever Happened To Shmi? (Tatooine waitress)
The Whisperkit In The Hat (Shrieking customer)
HOWL 4: The Revenge Of The Canine (Werewolf woman)
SSD Lollipop (Chorus member / singing sailor)

… and the list went on. For over a page. The amount of name parts was small, but that was the case with everyone. In the horror sector of Adarlon, there was a big cross-over between the terrifying and the camp. Stars of awful, seedy F-movies often made the jump between genres easily, due to the audience of the pictures often being similar. Bulldog Bill was feeling generous.

“Jen Crowley, you know her, right? Big, up-and-coming,” he grunted, pushing aside some papers to get at his box of strawberry glazed pastries. He plucked one out and swallowed it hole, coughing and spluttering.

“Right, Fritz, baby. I’ll send the kids over in the morning.

click

Jen? I have some good news.”

Fritz Tee-Angs Casting Call

No matter how far up the ladder you went, it was the same. When you went for a job, you were crammed into a room with tens of others after the same part, and left to stew there for a minimum of thirty minutes, just enough time to receive a healthy amount of glares and sneers. Jen had been sitting, flicking through but not reading a two-year-old ‘Woman’s Monthly’, for just over twenty-five minutes. Though she tried as hard as she could to appear nonchalant and indifferent towards what lay ahead, she was not as good at feigning interest in ‘the height of Wookie fashion’ as she would have hoped. Frequently she found herself looking up at one other actress in particular, who looked like a slightly bedraggled, aged version of one of the models in the magazine.

Some of those in waiting seemed to know each other. In fact, even Jen recognized a few faces. Often, she would bump into the same people many times, at many different auditions. Agents seemed to tout similar actresses in groups, and the theme for today – excluding the Wookie and handful of oddities – was dark-haired, pale-skinned and petite in stature. Whatever the role was, Tee-Ang wanted something very specific for it. Unlike Crowley, some had come in what appeared to be costume. Bill had given Jen information prior to the audition, simply that it was likely that she would have to sell herself more than a two-bit Coruscant call girl to get any recognition. Singing, dancing, begging. Some of the potentials had started this already, and were even getting into minor arguments over who was the better brown-noser. Jen remained silent. She was listening.

Between her and the doorway into the audition room, there were two occupied chairs. The women there were also reading, trying to hide various nervous twitches in the process, and therefore made little noise. This allowed Jen to hear a little of what was going on with the current person currently being auditioned. She had deliberately hung back a little when queuing up, in the hope that she would be able to glean some information on what had already impressed – or unimpressed – the casting directors, that could be incorporated into her own pitch. From what she had gathered so far, the actress went in and introduced herself briefly. Jen was not sure what happened next, but after a couple of minutes, she would begin to read lines. Finally, music would begin to play, and she would sing. It seemed simple enough. As far as she knew there was no musical element to this holo, but the directors wanted to bend the actresses to their limits – to see if and when they would break.

“NEXT.”

Confidence, confidence, confidence. Jen stood in the center of a barren room. In front of her, there sat three people. The first was a wiry middle-aged man in wire-framed spectacles. The second, a younger man with a beret and a goatee beard. The third and final was a gelatinous specimen of a woman, who could quite easily have been some kind of Hutt-hybrid. She had been handed a script, only a page long.

“Hello. I’m Jennifer Crowley. It’s wonderful to meet you all. I hope that I can satisfactorily show you what you want within this short session we have together. I’m very grateful for being here. It’s all very exciting. Do you mind if I have a smoke? Not literally. Just, I find sometimes smoking calms my nerves. I can get so jittery sometimes. I know I shouldn’t smoke, what with the blackening of the lungs and all, but I do. It was peer pressure, you? I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to fit in, and you had to smoke and wear leather to do that. I never really liked the music to be honest, although I wouldn’t have minded a go at that Mickey Jones, if you know what I mean.”

She blinked. Rambling, rambling. The panel was staring blankly at her, waiting for an introduction. She forced away her anxiety and reminded herself once again not to ramble.

“Hello. I’m Jennifer Crowley. I’m here to read for the part of Lorana Dolo.”

A man, who Jen hadn’t noticed but had apparently been in the room the entire time, stood up from slouching against the back wall of the room. He held a script too. “This is Gavrilo. He will be reading the part of Smash. You have ten minutes to impress us. Go.” Her eyes moving down to the first lines of the script. The page began as such:

FADE TO INT.
The scene opens on a shot of a stark white chamber. There are a number of small seats within the room, and a door in the wall that the camera is looking onto, which slides open with a hiss. Enter a worn looking man in a robe, SMASH HIREN, and a young woman in white, LORANA DOLO. They both look scared.

LORANA (worried):
What are we going to do, Smash? It seems like there will be no end to these killings.

SMASH (gravely):
I don’t know. We’ve followed every lead we can and still made no progress. I don’t know how this frelnik is managing to escape us time after time.

LORANA:
If we don’t do something about it all soon, trust in the Jedi will drop even further.

SMASH (seizing LORANA by the shoulders):
Damn it, Lorana! I’m a Jedi, not a miracle worker! There’s nothing we can do! Haven’t you been listening? We just can’t find Vader. It’s useless, damn useless!

LORANA (tearful):
But Smash…

SMASH (stern):
Pull yourself together, woman. This is no time to turn on the waterworks.

LORANA (a single tear rolling down her cheeks):
But Smash, what if one of us is next… what if…

SMASH:
Don’t even think it.

LORANA (hysterical):
What if it’s me? Or you? What then, Smash? WHAT THEN!?

SMASH:
Then it is the will of the Force.

LORANA:
Don’t say things like that! I couldn’t bare to loose you. Not again. (pressing close to SMASH)

And so the scene played on. Jen was beginning to notice a distinct pattern. It was a popular trend in Adarlon right now to play out satires of the outside world. In particular, figures that spent time in the spotlight were often parodied and written into ridiculous situations with their peers. The Holos were intended to stir up controversy, but often became little more than camp melodramas. Jen had a horrible feeling that this would be the same. However, there are of course levels of such Holos – those which she had formerly been in were far lower than the potential ‘Doctor Skywalker and Mr. Vader’. Against her better judgments, she began to read.

Her partner was unresponsive, but she was used to that, and carried on regardless, pouring as much emotion as the character seemed to demand into it. If she remembered rightly, she had seen the person whom Lorana Dolo was based upon in a news broadcast of some kind, and so tried to adopt some of the speaking nuances that she had. She was dramatic, but not overdramatic. She acted out each stage direction, even going so far as to roll up her script into a makeshift weapon when the directions demanded the use of a lightsaber. In the end, it seemed like it paid off. When it came to the singing portion of the audition, she went so far as to perform one of the numbers from one of Fritz’s previous productions, in an attempt to gain extra points in her favor. The elephantine woman was left smiling, even if her contemporaries looked as though they had been watching paint dry.

“You’ll hear from us if you’ve been chosen,” the woman slurred, as Jen was waved out into a room still full of flustered and blood-thirsty women. In spite of some mishaps, she could not help but leave with a spring in her step. For once, she hadn’t needed to belittle herself. For once, her clothes had stayed on. For once, there had been no double meanings- lightsaber had just been a lightsaber. For once, it had been her assets in acting skills that had counted as opposed to the assets beneath her shirt. For once, she actually thought she’d done herself justice.

And how.

24.4124.78.40 //. 54
Galactic Pictures MEMO
Miss Crowley; Your presence is requested in studio lot number 14, at 4 o’clock in the morning at the beginning of this coming week. You will arrive promptly. Rehearsals begin at 5 o’clock sharp. Bring a fresh onion bagel.
J. P. Hancock, Secretary to H. Lewis, Secretary to Mr. F. Tee-Ang.

In the Galactic Pictures Trailer Park, on a busy coffee table, a scrawled note lays. It has been written in the heat of some frantic passion, each lettering trembling with the writers’ anxiety. It is only three words long, but these three words sum up entirely the emotions of the writer at the time. It is a perfect portrait of hysteria. It reads, in slightly disjointed hand, OH MY GOD.

Until that night, Jennifer Crowley had not known the meaning of insomnia. It was a vicious cycle. At first, she had been on a high, buzzing from the prospect of her new job. Then, she had begun to worry, about whether or not she would impress and perform well on the day. It had gotten to a point when, as she flicked through the early morning infomercials, Jen had realized just how late it had gotten. Subsequently, she began to worry that she wouldn’t wake up in time. This in turn hampered her from sleeping, and so the circle continued. In the end, she dozed off at 2 O’clock in the morning, and woke at half past 3.

“Frrrrrell.”

Socks? Socks. Black, yes black is good. Why did I start with socks? Frell, shower. Water. AHHH! COLDCOLDCOLD! … aaaah, warm. Towel, dry. Yes, can’t put that on while still wet. Panties, bra, NOW the socks. Shirt, black too. Black is slimming. Look in the mirror

…

…

Stop looking at yourself now, you gorgeous thing. Trousers. Okay, trousers on, shoes on. Hair, good. Make up? They’ll do it. On second thought… yeah, mascara, lipstick. Dabdab, pout, mwa. Gorgeous darling, gorgeous. Not. Record timing, Jen. Now stop talking to yourself. Get out that door, you star. GOGOGO.

Studio Lot 14 – 20 minutes and 3 seconds later

“Hello?”

Empty. The studio parking lot was empty. Had she come early, by mistake. Again, she called out, glancing for a moment at the bagel in a big in her hand, hoping it didn’t go cold before she had to relinquish it. Ahead, there was a creaking, and the main door to the studio creaked open. A rotund middle-aged woman squinted through half-moon spectacles.

“You’re the girl, aren’t you dear?” she said, interlocking her flabby arm with Jen’s and shepherding her into the doorway. It was dark inside, but there was another door, and once it was opened the whole world lit up. Inside, the floor was on fire. Crews rushed back and forth, tampering with lights and cameras and sets and so much that it was hard to take it all in. Immediately guided away from all of this, Jen was brought to a very long, thin room, with a handful of illuminated mirrors and chairs in it.

“You look ghastly pale, dear, but we’ll sort that out soon enough.”

Dust from a powder puff made Jen cough, as the woman began to deftly apply whatever make-up was required to the young actresses face. As she sat, not daring to move for fear of loosing an eye, she heard the door open and shut numerous times. On one occasion, it swung open and remained as such for five minutes, while people exchanged whispered conversation. The bagel, notably, disappeared shortly after this. A short while later, it opened again and the pudding of a woman cooed.

It was ‘Smash’.

“There you are! You’re late, young man. Sit yourself down. Once I’ve dolled your leading lady up, I’ll get onto you, my dear.”

"But, Dan, please, I love you! The thought of losing you," she said, looking away with tears in her eyes.

"Then you will not lose me. On my love, I swear!" The man was the typical actor for the genre. Black hair, leather jacket, muscles that couldn't possibly be attained through natural means. Always naked without shooting a gun in some sort of acrobatic maneuver while the helpless damsel clutched to his side.

Enter street thug. He was the opposite: wryly, his brown hair messed and missing a shave for a week. His white t-shirt hung over the old pair of jeans, a few stains evident. It was decided that for such a small role, anything else really wasn't needed.

"On the contrary, mister Bandanna, I-" Jim managed before a loud voice yelled 'Cut!'.

For the seventh time that day, Jim Starling had a talk with the director, which always ended with Jim yelling "Fine!" and trying the line once more. He sighed, the scene beginning again.

"On my love for you, I swear!"

[Then I'll be killin' you and yo' @#%$. Boss will be proud when looking at yo' ugly face.] Jim let go of his dignity and said, managing the best Huttese accent he could. Which, only meant the words really translated into something much more confusing and jumbled.

Dan Bandanna lifted his arm and aimed the blaster pistol, pulling the trigger. They might have done something better then just hand him a real one set on stun, but the special effects needed to make a fake look real was too much for the budget. The world darkened, and the last thing Jim remembered was being pulled back by wires in an impossible death scene to the enjoyment of the soon-to-be movie's viewers. When he blacked out, he was certain all five would be cheering.



"What do you mean I've been evicted?!"

"Because you're months behind on your payments. I'm taking the initiative and kicking you out. And don't bother getting your stuff, I've already sold it." Which explained the man skipping happily from the building with a box of old jeans, a few shirts, and an exact replica of the antique urn Jim kept on a shelf. What he now knew as his mother was left falling out of a new crack in the pot in a perfect line outside one of the many apartment buildings of Adorlan.

"But it was only a janitor's closet that you taped over and wrote a few letters on when the only janitor died!" Jim yelled in frustration. The man in front of him only shrugged, before grabbing him from the back of the shirt and tossing him unceremoniously out of the building.



"Jim Starling, greatest actor of all time. Yeah, that's me alright," he said, tossing another empty bottle out of the locker at a dumpster below. Like the six more before it, it missed and shattered. He mumbled something, trying to get into the most comfortable position in the locker.

It had been exactly one local year since he'd been thrown out of the apartment, stunned, and used the rest of his money to rent a storage locker on the second row. Every other day was spent trying to find work, the others spent trying to get drunk enough to accidentally fall out of the locker and kill himself. Or at least sue the storage company.

And it was every day that he found the most comfortable position was to sleep with his legs pressed against his chest, an arm twisted behind his back, the other under his legs. He had so many places screaming in pain that he hardly noticed them.

"Don't everyone come rushing up for an autograph at once."



"Yes. Yeah, I understand. Look, you sure there isn't anything?"

There was a slight pause, "Well, I suppose I can work you into something," another pause, "-can work. Okay, Jim, you'd better not screw this one up. If you do, I'll-"

"You'll what? Kill me? You know that doesn't scare me."

"You're lucky I haven't turned you back out on the street yet. Now, listen..."



There she was. The most beautiful woman he'd ever known. The most beautiful woman he would ever know. He'd known Jen since an audition a few years prior. He would have given anything for to have been able to add 'and one hot summer' to that.

Instead, as she had put it, "They were just friends." Hell, they weren't even close friends.

"Hey, Jen," he mustered, putting on a fake smile. She didn't even notice. Three years, and she didn't even seem to hear Jim. Not even look in his general direction. He looked down, he was in a bright red and yellow costume that was supposed to be some kind of military uniform. Damnit, his hair was combed back. It was the best he'd ever looked in his life, and she couldn't even look his way!

"...I've dolled your leading lady up."

Jim swallowed. He was barely any part at all, and she was the leading lady. He didn't even live halfway through the movie! His face turned a red in frustration, slowly turning into a sickening pale when he saw who the woman was talking to. Now he knew why she wasn't looking in his direction.

That, he thought to himself, would be 'Smash'.

“It works like this, Griffen. You’re Smash Jailen, and your young lover, Lorana Dolo, and you are trapped on the world of Fussos. It’s attacked by the Vuvam Yong, and you stand, with sword in one hand, and Lorana in the other, and fend back the invasion. Single handedly save your planet, again. You’re the hero. You save the day.”

Griffen exhaled deeply.

“It’s f<f>u</f>cking bulls<f>h</f>it.

What utter lunacy. No half-retarded doped up Rodian with his head up a Hutt’s ass will believe that streaming line of bulls<f>h</f>it. They don’t come that stupid, outside of Coalition Admirals, and none of them have time to watch movies as they’re too busy surrendering.”

The man on the other end sighed.

“But it happened! You know this is based on a true story!”

He snorted.

“True story my ass! Let me tell you a true story, Fenris. The good guys never win. Evil will always win because they are willing to commit unspeakable acts, kill innumerable people, and subscribe to deplorable ideals to get what they want. These Vuuzhan Long or whatever the f<f>u</f>ck they’re called, they’re no different. They aren’t going to be stopped by a key with one hand on his lightsaber and his other hand on his lightsaber. It’s not going to happen. He’d get slaughtered, and then to top it off, they’d gangrape the woman. That’s what would happen. That’s your true f<f>u</f>cking story.”

Fenris was clearly getting frustrated.

“But people don’t want to see tragedy, and suffering. They want to see heroism! They want to see something uplifting!”

“But it’s not true!”

”No one cares! It’s fiction. They check their skepticism at the door. They want to leave the theatre knowing that, even if just that hour, that the good guys could win, that they did win, and that sometime soon they’ll be back to win again.”

“The hell they do. People are tired of being insulted. Haven’t you noticed that movie sales are dropping off? And don’t give me that down economy, war economy crock. It’s because every week they release the same crap. They release crap like “Smash Jilean and the Defense of Cormunscant”, “Smash Jilean and Shamons of a Twist”, “Smash Jilean and the Battle with the Crisillians.” I mean, s<f>h</f>it, doesn’t this guy ever go on vacation?”

“Come on, quit messing around. Let’s get serious, I…”

“I am serious, damnit. Look, I stopped doing crap like this ten years ago. I live on Coruscant, for Fearson’s sake. I don’t need you, or some new kid on the block like Galactic Films…”

“Pictures…”

”Whatever who think they’re big because they can make sequels to a s<f>h</f>itty action movie offering me garbage like this.”

Fenris Black had tried, but he had just been pushed too far.

“All right, Kahane, you want to be serious? You want to talk about the truth? Fine, let’s talk about the truth. You haven’t worked in 3 years. You have bills so far up your ass you have an aftertaste of ink when you swallow. You live on Coruscant, in a 1-bedroom apartment in the Old Quarter that is in the process of being repossessed because you have never paid rent on it. You are 43 years old. You’re a washed-up has been. And I have worked hard to change that, Griffin, I really have, but you are unresponsive to everything I try. Finally, I get you this role, and you tell me to shove it up my ass. Well, you know what, f<f>u</f>ck you Kahane. You want the truth, fine. Galactic Pictures doesn’t want to make Smash Jilean movies. They don’t want to cast Griffin Kahane. Someone owed me a favor. I said I wanted to get you in a big-ticket movie. Smash Jilean is about as big-ticket as they’re willing to spend on a loser like you. Even then, they were reluctant. But I told them if they made Smash Jilean an older man, he would have more sympathy. So that’s the truth, since you care so much about the truth. You were hired for sympathy. This is a charity, for you, and Mr. Bigshot turns it down.

Well then f<f>u</f>ck you Griffin Kahane. Keep your ego and I’ll keep getting actors movies, and making money, and I’ll still be doing it when you die, bitter and alone, forgotten, in an alley.”

Griffin Kahane felt nothing. His body was hovering between furious anger and consuming self-pity, and unable to choose, was devoid of any feeling. When he answered, he was monotonous, thou he sounded very tired.

“What do you want from me, you go<f>dd</f>amn leech?”

Fenris sighed.

“Look, this is your call. If you don’t want to do this, fine, I give up trying to get you movies. But the least I am asking, all I am asking, is to read the script. They’ve got a good crew, they’ve hired a great director, this leading lady they have looks like she could be the next big thing… and whether you think the movie sounds stupid or not, I’ve read the plot, and it is engrossing. I think this could be a good movie. And I think this is a good part for you.

Regardless, it is the only part.”

Griffin Kahane sighed. He felt himself being talked into it, and somewhere, in his heart, burned a deep and consuming hatred for what he had become.

“Whose this actress?” was all he asked.

“Her names Jen Crowling. Or something. She’s great. I’ll send you some of her stuff along with the script. Trust me, this is going to be a good project.”

Griffin said nothing, unenthused.

“So, can I tell them it’s a go?”

Griffin shook his head, and realizing that was insufficient, merely grunted.

“Well, I have to go. My free minutes on this phone end in about 40 seconds. I’ll call you in a week after you’ve read the script.”

Griffin heard the static creep onto the line, and he terminated the line. He looked down to his hand, and the glass in between.

He raised it to his lips and drank. Hating himself. Drowning himself. Unable to escape himself, he drank.

He sat there for days.

***

“Oh yes Peersons, oh yes, you’re my Master, you’re my Jedi Master, I want to fell your force! Oh yes!”

He sat, in his disgusting chair, in his disgusting apartment. Disgusting. He was watching the holo that Fenris had sent him, “The Rouge Emperor”, a holovid that the box told him “was about one man’s struggle against impotence, both personal and galactic, and his fight to secure his place in history with his life’s love by his side”. Once the credits finished, however, it was like many other holos that he had watched.

Disgusting.

He shook his head, disgusted by what he saw. But he was also unable to turn away. He didn’t know what it was… he had watched countless holovids of this nature and had seen countless of women in this or similar degrading positions, but there was something about it… something about her… that captured his attention. She seemed so… honest, so… innocent, despite it all. It looked like she was actually committing herself to her work. Throwing herself into it, on top of it, and whichever other direction she was asked to throw herself. He knew… he knew, that this isn’t what she wanted to be doing, but looking at the screen, he almost disbelieved. He almost thought that she was enjoying herself.

She was an actress.

That was the conclusion he drew. She was an actress. She would do what it took to become an actress. Say anything. Sing anything. F<f>u</f>ck anything. Nothing would stop her. One day, she would run out of obstacles and she would be an actress. And she deserved it.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so disgusting.

It was mildly uplifting.

He felt his hand reaching for his groin, and moved it instead to rest silently on his thigh. It was useless, of course… the last time he’d tried, years ago, he had found that Glitterstem had taken its toll on him and he wouldn’t likely try again… but the fact that he was even remotely considering it was better than any mild euphemism he would receive from committing the act of self-gratification. In fact, he felt self-gratified; he felt self-confident. He felt himself, and when he did so he no longer felt the burning self-loathing he had remembered only hours before.

He felt difference.

He looked around, and it was no longer disgusting.

He looked on the screen, and it was beautiful.

She was beautiful.

He knew in that moment, that agonizing moment between when he turned to her kneeling form and when he turned away, that he would make this movie. That he would do it because she needed to be an actress, and he needed to get off his lazy ass and be an actor.

He was disgusting.

But not for long.

***

He walked into the studio, doled up and freshly shaven, wearing a cheap suit and cheaper aftershave. He wanted to look good, but he realized all of his life he had looked gruff, uncivil, and disheveled. It was too late to change, but he could pretend, for a few moments, to be the dignified star he had once wanted to be.

He wasn’t high, which was unusual, but he felt high. Like he didn’t belong and at any minute the world would fold over and swallow him whole. He realized it was anxiety. For the first time he could remember, he was anxious.

He smiled, a s<f>h</f>it-eating grin because he knew no other. He walked with confidence, false as it was, conjured from his experience as an actor to hide his anxiety. He began to slow as he entered the studio.

He saw her.

Through a transparisteel window he watched her, disinterested, as her face was assaulted with brushed-on this, dabbed-on that. He had to say that she didn’t look as beautiful. She didn’t look… genuine. She looked fake. But then she looked idly in his direction, unfocused, and he saw it in her eyes. That look.

Like a mirror of his soul.

She was nervous too. He remembered his first days as an actor. Actually, he didn’t. He got f<f>u</f>cked up on ryll and was fired from his first holo for beating up one of his costars. But he could surmise that before that, he was nervous, and wasn’t sure that he fit in. That he felt slow amongst the rush and the commotion that is common on a movie set. That he felt isolated.

He didn’t want her to feel that way. The way he felt everyday. She deserved better than that.

He walked up to the door, and it spiraled open around him. He stepped into the room, totally ignoring the dribble spewing from the make-up woman. When she stopped spraying spittle on his suit, he turned to her with a look that had killed men; at least, it had on film.

“Don’t put any of that s<f>h</f>it on my face.”

He turned back to the woman in the chair, who looked up at him as he did, and once again, the eyes melted him in place.

“Hello. I’m Griffin Kahane. You must be Mandi Graysen.”

There are times in your life where you don’t know what to think, where your whole body seizes up and your mind is thrown into a sort of stasis, where logical thought is thrown out of the window and replaced by blank-faced, glaze-eyed silence. Now was one of those moments, when such a plethora of reactions demanded prominence that each cancelled one another out. It was emotional equilibrium of the worst kind.

While staring at Kahane, she was vaguely aware of the presence of Jim Starling. Vaguely. For a moment, her gaze had slid over onto him, drawn by the garish colours of the costume he wore. The recognition had been immediate. Committing names and faces to memory was important in this business, if only so you didn’t cold-shoulder someone you should have been kissing-up to. It was then a matter of piecing together from when and where you knew the person.

Jim Starling had been more of an acquaintance than a friend at first. They had read a couple of roles together, and not by chance. It was decided early on that the two worked well together on screen, and had even been pitched together many times as a package deal. In spite of this, they had never worked together on anything that had ever gone beyond post-production, and even then, neither had been in a leading part.

More than anything, Jen remembered Jim as being someone she could relax with in-between shoots. When she thought of the name Starling, she thought of wisps of cigarette smoke at four o’clock in the morning. She thought of that time when night was just turning into day, when the streets were empty and you could hear your voice echoing for miles. She thought of a casual friend, of casual chats and casual attraction.

Jen often wondered whether she was going to go through life associating the word ‘casual attraction’ with every man she met. Life was a bit of a pot luck gamble for her, and somehow she believed that she was upping her odds by giving any man benefit of doubt, so far as being potential ‘relationship material’ went.

But then there was Griffin Kahane.

He totally eclipsed Starling. Even if she hadn’t known who he was, which she did, Jen would have felt awed by him. There was something in the way he carried himself, in the way he smiled sort of lopsided, like he didn’t give a damn what the world thought. She immediately pictured him in a Stetson hat, chewing tobacco while levelling a vintage slug-thrower on some grease-caked outlaw, inquiring as to whether or not the man was feeling lucky. Well do ya, punk?

There’s a saying that states that people, like wine, only get better with age. If Griffin Kahane was a bottle of wine, then Jennifer Crowley was ready to get drunk out of her impressionable mind. She could feel herself getting tipsy just looking at him. All of that experience, all of that ‘wisdom’- it made her light headed. After a moment or so, she became aware that she hadn’t said anything. A nervous smile eked into her lips.

“Jen-… Jennifer Crowley.”

What had he called her? If it had have been possible for her to go any paler than she already was… He had seen Cloud City Confidential. She could no longer look him in the eye, not without feeling a horrible churning in the pit of her stomach. Things like that, her past, would always be an irremovable stain on her character. Instead looked to Jim and somehow she didn’t feel so ashamed.

“Hello, Starling.”

The smile became a little less nervous. There was some small comfort in his presence. Jim had known all about her escapades, what she did to pay the bills. Sometimes she wondered if he paid the bills the same way, but didn’t ever bring it up. It was a ridiculous taboo. Not everyone started so low on the ladder, but it was an accepted practice, regardless of what every moral fibre in Jen’s body said.

“I… I think I’m done.”

Without waiting for a protest from the woman, who had now been black-spotted in Crowley’s mind, she stood up. For a moment, she hovered uncertainly between both men, before edging a little towards Kahane, summoning up the courage to once again look him in the eye.

“I suppose we should… be getting on with rehearsals?”

If actors and actresses were the ancient Romans, Jamie Catalano was one of the Gods that governed their very lives. He was an entrepreneur, among other things, owning countless chains of casinos and night clubs right on down to a few fast food restraunt chains. And, of course, he owned a sizable proportion of the Adarlon holo business.

And that was why he was here, looking down upon the rehearsal for one of the many "Smash Jilean" movies that had been decreasing in popularity as of late. This would likely be the last in the series. Jamie was here because he held most of the stock in Galactic Pictures, as well as a few other newbie film industries and even a couple large ones. He was just beginning his stake in Adarlorn, and that was why he was stuck here viewing rehearsals of a low funded, second rate holofilm.

Except this one was different, and it wasn't one of those small things that you couldn't quite place your finger on. From the moment he noticed it, Jamie knew exactly what was causing it, exactly who was causing it.

Jamie had seen a lot of beautiful women in his lifetime, but he had never seen anyone quite like Jennifer Crowley. The pureness, the innocence, the sheer reality. She was like no one he had ever seen before. Even though he knew the transparisteel was one-way and nobody there could see him, he still felt her piercing gaze everytime she looked anywhere near him.

The soft crescendo of footsteps brought himself out of his haze, and Jamie quickly got into character. The security cameras revealed the man to be exactly who Jamie had thought it would be. "Bulldog" Bill Pain, the man who had casted Miss Crowley for this role.

Jamie was facing away from him as he entered, still staring down upon the rehearsal. The man cleared his throat to announce his presence, and Jamie slowly spun his chair around to face the man.

"Look familiar, Bill?" Jamie asked, "Kind of reminds you of holofilms. You know, when the evil mastermind slowly turns to reveal himself to the hero when all seems lost. Do you know why they turn like that, Bill?"

"No, sir," Bill, of course, did know. This was his business, but he knew better than to say something like that to Jamie Catalano, "No sir, I don't."

"I'll tell you why, Bill," Jamie said, smirking, "They turn like that because it adds to the suspense of the scene. It makes the villain look all the more vile and cruel. In this aspect the holo business if akin to the rest of the business world. Except for one thing. Do you know what that is, Bill?"

"No, sir," Bill said, and this time he honestly meant it.

"In the rest of the business world, everyone is evil," Jamie's smirk turned into a smile, and then he laughed. Bill laughed as well, but it was a facade, "You know, Bill. You remind me of the holofilms as well. Do you know what type of character you remind me of?"

"No, sir."

"The henchman, Bill. The dimwitted lackey," Jamie smiled even wider as Bill frowned, verging on a scowl, "Don't take it too hard, Bill. You're just trying to avoid getting fired. You've probably heard stories all about how quick-tempered people like me are, haven't you? And be honest, Bill. This question could affect the rest of your career."

"Yes, sir," Bill finally managed, visibly sweating.

"Tell me, Bill," Jamie said, "Have you heard any stories about me? Remember, you're still on the hotseat."

"Yes, sir," Bill replied, "I've heard one."

"Tell me the story, Bill."

"I heard," Bill started, his voice audibly cracking, "That you once fired thirty people because you didn't like the color scheme of your office."

"Really?" Jamie said, letting out another laugh. He noticed Bill sigh with relief, "You know whats even funnier than that story, Bill?"

"What, sir?"

"That its true," Jamie casually replied, reveling in the expression on the man's face, "Don't worry, Bill. You're not going to be fired. Today, anyway. In fact, you preformed quite admirably in an awkward situation. I'll see about getting you a raise, if you can do something for me."

"Anything, sir," Bill said, eyes wide but no longer with fear, "Just name it."

"You're a good lackey, Bill," Jamie said, "I guess, now that I think about it, you're not entirely like the ones in the movies. The movie lackeys always screw up. You don't screw up at all, do you Bill?"

"No, sir!"

"Good," Jamie continued, "I want you to set up a dinner with me and Miss Crowley. Call it an 'informal business meeting'."

"Yes, sir!" Bill said, turned, and began to leave.

"Oh, and Bill?" Jamie called.

"Yes, sir?" Bill asked.

"Don't call me sir."

They stood at the top of the stairs. Below Mrs. Dudley and Theo, 20s, exotic, sophisticated, in Vera Wang leather, wrestle with a pile of designer luggage. Theo peers up. She's dark, sexy in an amused, worldly way: someone who has seen and done it all.

"You may think I have a sickness about packing, but asking people to help me shlep the stuff I take with me everywhere is a cheap and exploitative way of making new friends. My name's Theo."

Theo foists a very heavy bag off on Mrs. Dudley who looks like she's been handed a snake. That makes Nell smile. She comes running down
to help with the bags.

"I'm Eleanor but everyone calls me Nell. Eleanor Vance. Nell. I'm really glad you're here. Really."

Theo is a little thrown by Nell's gushing. Mrs. Dudley leads Nell down a curved hallway, over aged Persian carpets and turns to a door on her left. She throws it open, stands back. Nell enters. Nell lowers her suitcase.

"The Purple Room. You're going to be the first visitors that the House has had since Mister died."

The room is spacious, in a rococo gothic style with low-relief woodwork on the walls rising to a dark, coffered, ceiling of carved
ivory. A king-size bed, furniture, all in blue purple. An open door gives a glimpse of a bathroom. A large fireplace dominates one wall. Its mantle is carved with the faces of children, happy, at play, alive. Nell touches the wood, loving.

"They're so beautiful. Aren't they?"

"I've seen 'em. Lot to dust."

"Well, I've never lived with beauty. You must love working here."

Mrs. Dudley peers at her. A beat. And then, cryptic.

"It's a job. I keep banker's hours. I set dinner on the dining room sideboard at six. You can serve yourselves. Breakfast is ready at nine. I don't wait on people. I don't stay after dinner. Not after it begins to get dark. I leave before dark comes. We live in town. Nine miles. So there won't be anyone around if you need help. We couldn't even hear you, in the night....."

Suddenly the lights flicker, a series of disruptive shunting sounds overriding them. In a bathe of light a lone figure emerges from an opening in the wall. Nell looked back to Mrs. Dudley with a confused look on her face

"Cut! Cut! Cut! That last line was horrid Eva! You in no way conveyed the amout of desire this scene requires... Look we put alot of hope into brining you into this, and if you wont be able to cut it..."

Eva sighed, looking to the ground for a moment, she faced the director once more a little more enthusiasticaly.

"I'm sorry Mr. Neilson, I guess I just didnt have the right motivation for the scene, I swear I'll get it next time. Maybe it's time for a short break?"

"Yeah, I think we can all agree to that. Everyone meet back in an hour! Union Lunch Break!..."

[i]With that he was seen walking off towards the visuals trailer. Eva sighed and leaned against the fake wall, making sure its securing was strong enough to support her weight before fully falling back. Eva wasn't even her real name. These days if you didn't have a good marketable screen name, your career never got off ground level. Even as it was, she was still preforming in cheapo B horror movies. Sterocast for sexy dead girl each time.

Not what she had dreamed of, but it got her by....

So the man's name was Griffin. Jim thought of how fitting it was. He'd seen others like him hundreds of times before. Always the leading actor, willing to take whatever @#%$ the world gave them. The one's who slept with the leading actress. The one's who always ended up shooting him before sleeping with the leading actress. If Jim's heart could sink any lower, it did.

"Hello, Starling."

His smile changed from the nervous one he'd thrown on to something more...real. It warmed to know that she had at least noticed him. But the way she had looked at Griffin, Starling already knew the leading actor had sunk his claws in. He let out a sigh when she looked away.

Jim began to recall his lines, in an effort to distract himself. He was to play Tasien Dreseda, Smash's friend and faithful sidekick. It was probably the best role Jim had ever, and would ever, play. The very fact that he had more than two lines was proof that this was a role he could only have dreamed of.

Which he did. Often.

A memory of him walking on a red carpet, fans throwing themselves at his feet while two beautiful woman hung to his arms came to his mind. And then the memory of him tripping and drowning in a large bowl of soup. He didn't know why the two were connected, but one always followed the other.

He shook his head to wake himself, and stood up. His knees almost buckled beneath him, but he swallowed hard and steadied himself. He stretched out a hand to the man.

"The name's Jim. Jim Starling."