act43side

Mrow—

The mysterious and elegant creature darts through the set, weaving between the wires and delicate equipment laid out over the ground, its two tails moving this way and that as cries are heard up and down the crowd...

Stop painting that background and catch that thing, Tippi! And you there, the prop intern—

Her name is Moira. Moi-ra.

Forget it, Tippi.

You're, like, way too nice, Molly. You can't let people walk all over you.

Who cares? Just catch that thing!

I-It stopped.

Well, aren't you a cutie! You're even more mysterious than the monster in that horror flick I saw last night!

Mind if I use you as reference for the street scene?

Meow...

The mysterious and elegant creature settles onto the prop box, looking up at the two girls with what seems to be displeasure.

Moira cannot help but bend down and reach out to it, but as she looks into its clear blue eyes she feels her mind go blank...

The next moment, the creature has vanished from the set.

Finally...

How could you idiots let it get away from right under your noses?!

Now, now, Marion.

I'm the one you're mad at. No need to take it out on the newcomers.

You...

If you're going to argue, take it outside. Or better yet, off the plate.

After all, no one expects professionalism out there.

Greta.

Back to work, people.

I thought you'd be more upset about the shoot being delayed.

I'm not THAT harsh, Steven. Besides, her appearance on set means we're in for a wonderful surprise when it's time to shoot.

'Her'?

Wait, you mean that creature?

Who else?

She's the companion of a guest of mine... and her showing up means that he's finally made up his mind.

He'll play the Messenger who appears in the next scene.

Isn't that right...

Lucian?

...As you wish.

Miss.Christine is free. None may interfere with her intentions or actions.

I apologize on her behalf.

Hold up, we're making a last minute cast change, just for some pretty boy no one's heard of?

It's only a minor role. No need to feel threatened, my handsome leading man Michael.

And it's not out of nowhere. Greta gave me a heads-up earlier.

Fine, fine.

I'm glad you've made your decision, Lucian. Film is a very different beast from stage, so I understand why you needed to take your time thinking it over.

But that costume fits you so well. I was right to invite you. I guarantee you'll be the next big thing in Wrankwood.

I can only hope.

Well, we've delayed enough. If the actors are ready, let's get on with the run-through.

I take it you've got your lines down, Lucian?

I could recite them backwards.

Alright then... <i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i>, front hall, scene four, action.

As the second Rockefeller pours his heart out to Lady Dupont on the balcony, a young Messenger from afar pushes open the front door.

Hello.

He's welcomed by Lady Dupont's brother, who always seems to have a lot on his mind—

Oh, for God's sake—where's Sir Dupont?!

—Dalton!

Where the Hitchcock has he run off to this time? Drinking again?

Where's my coordinator? Shelly?

We're here, we're here.

Thank goodness... *pant*... I found him... I brought Dalton!

(Drunken eyes)

(Hiccups)

I realized he was missing when I took a head count at the waiting area.

I searched every food cart, self-service bar, and outdoor rest area—anywhere that might have booze... I finally found him in some bushes by the road.

Knife... I found the *hic* knife!

He said he was looking for the knife prop that the Messenger is supposed to 'kill' Sir Dupont with.

So which one of you sent a drunk to go hunt down a prop? Where's the prop master, Moira?

I-I don't know...

Fine, whatever, as long as we've got the prop.

Costume crew! Get his clothes in order!

You <i>do</i> remember what you're playing in this scene, right?

Of course... a corpse. Nobody does it better. Haha.

Pathetic.

*hic* What'd ya say?

I'm sorry, but I simply can't stand people like you.

You used to be the darling of Wrankwood when pioneer films were in their heyday. Producers were queuing up to book you.

And now you're just going to let yourself rot, like mud in a pit?

Wh-What do <i>you</i> know?

I couldn't care less what you've been through. But at least show a shred of self-respect in front of the younger generation.

...That's one of the rules of Wrankwood, too.

You're playing opposite a man who's standing in front of a camera for the first time.

Fine, fine.

*hic*—Whasyourname?

Lucian. You may also call me... Phantom.

Whatever.

Sorry kid, didn't know this was your first shoot. But don't worry, just follow my lead. I can play this role hammered, no problem.

I'm gonna *hic* try to kill ya to shut ya up, 'cause of the news you brought...

We get to scuffling, then you grab this knife and stab me with it... It's a prop so the blade just slides into the handle. I got a blood bag in my chest pocket, and it'll pop with just a little pressure.

Just don't get stuck on thinking 'when am I gonna grab the knife', or you won't get in character. Got it?

You've read through that letter three times now, Sir Dupont.

If there's no issue with it, please assemble everyone in the household so I can read it to them.

Huh?

Dalton's eyes meet the young man's, and he swallows the drunken hiccup that had reached the front of his throat.

He sees not a rookie actor on a film set for the first time, but a Messenger who had come all the way from Victoria, his gaze tired but strong.

The studio falls silent. Director Quay has yet to call 'action', but Dalton can feel his counterpart's focus, and Abner's camera points towards them—

He is looking at a natural.

And so he takes a deep breath—

No, this is an official letter from Victoria's royal house. I can't let you read it aloud.

If people were to hear that the Dupont bloodline is all a lie, then my sister's marriage to any of the Rockefellers will be called off!

All that wealth, all that money that should have been mine, my very future... All gone in an instant, like popping a balloon.

Can't you just leave, boy? Pretend you were never here... I'll give you money. I'll give you all the money you want!

You have no authority over me.

You're just a Messenger! What part of this has anything to do with you?

The truth.

What?