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For our friends joining us for the first time, if you're here for exquisite Yanese calligraphy or rare Sargonian treasures, I suggest you save yourself some time and leave now.

This here is a Script Auction, unique to Wrankwood, where unfinished ideas, drafts, and their associated copyrights are up for sale.

As such, unlike traditional auctions where anything put up must have its authenticity verified, we offer no guarantees as to the value of the items—

Whether it has marketing potential or artistic value, whether it will become Wrankwood's next timeless classic or a forgotten flop...

That is for you, and you alone, to decide.

To protect the intellectual property of the items on auction, you are asked to put away your terminals and turn off any recording equipment. And without further ado, allow me to introduce the first item—

<i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i>, a story of love and hatred taking place in Columbia, involving two blue-blood families in changing times. Bidding starts at one hundred thousand gold certificates.

One hundred thousand. We have a bid for one hundred thousand from the gentleman in the back... One hundred and fifty thousand from the pretty young lady on my left! Anyone else?

One hundred and fifty thousand going once...

One hundred and fifty thousand going twice...

Six hundred thousand.

(Whispers) Miss Stone! Are you here to ruin my auction? Placing such a high bid for the first item will only make the rest of it seem like an afterthought!

I have no interest in slowly inching up the price. I simply bid what it's worth to me.

I understand that it's your style to gamble lavishly on scripts, but think of your finances... Didn't quite a few of your recent films flop? Are you sure it's wise to spend so much?

I can afford your fee. Smack that hammer of yours, old friend.

You have a rather talented young man here, and I'm eager to have a conversation with him.

Whiskey, please, no ice.

Would you like one too, my friend?

My doctor has advised me to refrain from drink.

That accent... are you from Sargon?

Interesting. That stern, sullen complexion of yours could not be more Victorian.

(Sargonian) I have tread the sands of Sargon.

(King's Victorian) But I was indeed born in Victoria.

You switch between languages at ease, and your accents are flawless. But from what I can see in your habits, those aren't the only two countries you're familiar with.

I've been to Bolívar, Siracusa, Leithanien, Rim Billiton... and now, Wrankwood.

—The entertainment capital of Terra. Pleasant weather and lots of sunshine—the perfect place to shoot movies. So what brings you here?

Research? Pleasure? Or perhaps you're like everyone else who came to seek fame and glory, most of whom end up at the extras market, fighting over bit roles to make ends meet?

I'm looking for someone.

I've tracked his shadows across many lands, over the span of many years.

Oh? Who? I know all the film crews, whether they work downtown or on the nomadic plates. Maybe I could be of help.

That won't be necessary.

I see, fair enough... What a shame though...

If there's nothing else—

My name is Greta Stone. I'm a producer here at Wrankwood... a rather well-known one in the industry, if I might add.

I took you for the son of some noble, or a film school student who came to try your luck, and was hoping to invite you to join my film crew.

Everyone who comes to the Wrankwood Script Auction tends to have a passion for artistry, and I must admit you have a rather unique aura about you.

I was once an actor for a small theater troupe in Victoria.

I knew I was right. You were born for the silver screen!

But I suppose that's all moot if you have other business to attend to. I guess I'll be going home empty-handed.

Can I see the script?

Of course!

This rough draft is just the starting line. I'll give it the time, manpower, and money it needs to become a masterpiece that will leave its mark on cinema history.

And I guarantee that you'll shine, even with just a minor role in a single scene.

I also wouldn't worry about your, um... little health issues. Wrankwood has special protections in place for Infected actors, so long as you pay for proper insurance—

You may call me Lucian, Madam Stone.

I will consider your proposal.

Let me apologize again, Lucian.

This is your first time working on a film, and you signed the contract after careful consideration. You deserved to experience the joy of cinema I'd promised you.

But who could have imagined such a terrible accident happening on your first film shoot in Wrankwood?

I'd understand if you need some time to process things. I'll have Shelly reschedule your next scene.

But I'm afraid there's no way to cancel your contract and leave the cast now. The plate has already moved beyond the range of short-haul transports, and won't return until the lease expires.

I'm not leaving.

And there's no need to reschedule.

Are you sure? Trauma like that could easily affect your performance, let alone your daily life.

I'm no stranger to surprises on the stage.

Performing on stage like you're used to definitely has more unpredictability than in front of a camera. Still, they're just plays.

'Plays'... perhaps.

The mysterious and elegant creature once again shows up by Lucian's feet, rubbing herself against the Feline's calves, seemingly oblivious to Greta's presence.

Are you <i>sure</i> you don't need rest, Lucian? I wouldn't mind letting you enjoy Miss.Christine's company a while longer.

She's looking forward to the next part of the story. As am I.

Hm. You're much calmer about this than I expected... But I suppose it would be tactless of me to say anything more.

Then I'll see you on the set tomorrow.

The mysterious and elegant creature grooms her fur, then gazes at Lucian, as though deep in thought.

Miss.Christine?

Her two tails sway freely in the air, drawing blurry shadows.

She floats up and orbits Lucian's shoulders, perhaps observing, perhaps savoring.

Finally, the beautiful creature sits upon Lucian's knees, placing one paw on his forehead. Lucian feels a comforting warmth.

Tart. Astringent.

Lucian hears a mysterious voice in the empty room. He does not bother looking for its source, instead gazing into Miss Christine's eyes, still as a statue.

He knows she is projecting these words into his mind.

Stealth and silence are your ways of avoiding trouble. You rarely talk unless necessary.

Do my emotions taste that bad?

It's not a bad flavor. I like trying new things, even if they're not always to my taste.

What are you thinking about? That long-winded snake could not have incited such complex emotions.

One of many memories of my life in the Troupe.

The Troupe Leader saw that I was a fast learner and personally instructed me in the use of weapons.

When I held that knife in my hands, I felt exactly the same as I did that day.

Then I understand the spiciness, and the sweetness of the aftertaste.

The conflicts and struggles you experienced at the Troupe, those things humans call pain and tragedy, have been transformed into an alluring meal. I like it.

Even after killing him, I've continued to search for him.

The remaining Troupe cultists, the strange rumors in remote villages, and that ostentatious mark... Along the way, I've been trying to verify a hypothesis that has been floating in the back of my mind.

That perhaps he has come back to life.

The story that the snake is filming has quite the strange flavor, one that is most addictive.

Thank you for reminding me. While flipping through the script, I saw the twin-faced seal of the Troupe engraved in the gaps between pages.

What seems coincidence for the characters is always deliberate design of the author. Madam Stone, seemingly unrelated to the Troupe, has become our guide.

Yet I was still not certain. The riddles he left behind are mixed with lies and half-truths, as we know only too well from these past ten years.

That is, until Dalton died by my blade today, and my memories of the past were awakened by the familiar sensation...

This is an invitation from him.

I think... we've come to the right place, Miss.Christine.

Mrrow~