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Old Dalton's death and Shelly freezing in the cold storage were no accidents...

Now Michael and Marion are dead too, in such a horrible way...

Who's behind all this? Why all the murders in the first place? And why are they so... gruesome?

I have a feeling that Michael saw this coming.

He looked a lot more serious than usual when we met the night before the murder.

He must've figured out the real reason Dalton died, panicked, and decided to get out of here, but...

Now we'll never know what he was hiding.

Maybe this all has to do with that accident five years ago, but what's really worrying me is that...

The killer's not even trying to make them look like accidents anymore. What if they're trying to tell us—

That until the entire truth is brought to light, nobody is safe.

Omigosh, sorry Molly, did my babbling scare you?

Don't worry, it doesn't matter if there really is, like, a crazy killer running out there, I'll protect you no matter how many of them there are.

Oh, that's not it, Detective Tippi. I was just thinking about... what I can do on my end.

Huh?

Michael's dead now, but that doesn't mean what he wanted me to do doesn't matter anymore.

The killer might be planning on using the escape landboats Miss Stone mentioned for their next move...

So if we can figure another way out, or put together something that'll get us to the ground, or even just find an exhaust vent...

We might be able to get away from this maniac hiding in the shadows and save ourselves during the climax.

Molly...

Tippi, you were the first person to really open up to me after I joined the crew.

Even though I kept messing up and getting you into trouble, you were always there to stand up for me. When Marion would forget my name, you were always ready to give her a proper reminder.

You're always looking after me, comforting me, protecting me...

So this time, I want to protect you too.

The Liberi gives a gentle hug to her most precious friend in the whole crew.

Once this is all over, we're totally gonna have a movie marathon at your place. Twenty-four hours of non-stop screams, paired with our favorite drinks and fried finballs.

I wanna see what the house you grew up in looks like, and meet that sister you're always bragging about.

...Sure.

I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your little sorority huddle.

Oh, wow, Miss Rutherford? What brings you to the prop room? Where's your assistant?

Didn't you receive Greta's notice on your terminals? She's already sent out compensation to everyone and officially disbanded the crew.

Whether you're scared of the killer, worried about the Catastrophe, or want to stay and finish the shoot, we're all free to do as we please.

So naturally it only took a blink of an eye for that spineless assistant of mine to run off god-knows-where.

Do as we please?

Don't tell me Miss Stone—no, none of the crew even care about the real reason all these murders are happening?

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn, and I don't see why you should either. Surely the reasonable thing to do is escape and leave that to the police?

Or, as Greta said, you can leave the truth to whoever feels like playing detective.

So, why'd you come looking for us, ma'am?

I'm only here for you, Tippi, the background painter.

Me?

I admire Greta's gumption in wanting to film a Catastrophe, and this is a fine opportunity for me as well, but films cannot rely solely on natural phenomena.

I know you're more passionate about cinema than most, and you must have heard how important this project is to me.

So I implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to put your talent in ambience-building and color-matching to work, and paint the perfect backdrop for my grand finale.

Wow...

I mean, I'd totally love to, but...

Go help her out, Tippi.

Hey, Molly, what's with the raincoat? Are you really going 'exploring'?

Mhm.

Don't worry, I've been part of the prop team for ages now, and I know my way around the plate. I'll be fine.

Remember what we were just talking about? This is something I need to do.

Alright then.

Once I'm done helping out with the backdrops, I'll come find you, promise!

You may enter, Madam Stone.

You know it was me before I even opened the door?

Yes. I have been waiting for you.

Your little investigation the other day forced me to reveal my plan of filming a real Catastrophe to the whole crew.

The timing couldn't have been worse. Abner and the rest of the crew were already unhappy with me. So I had to make some last-minute decisions. <i>Big</i> decisions.

If I wanted to, I could sue you for damages incurred by your act of industrial sabotage, Lucian.

But?

But I'm not going to punish my cast just to vent or assert my authority, especially when such actions would only complicate the situation.

And then, more murders. The killer even stopped hiding their savagery, and everyone's losing their minds, except you. You're the same as ever, cool as a cucumber, watching the crowd from a distance.

I suppose I can thank this crisis for making it clear that you have other reasons to be here.

But none of that's important right now. The crew's been disbanded. You can leave, or stay until the date specified in the contract. It's up to you.

Your part in this is done anyway.

Hardly.

The moment you came to find me, you proved that my part in this is not yet done.

...I can't magic up another Lady Dupont, or bring the three Rockefeller brothers back to life.

We're running out of both time and manpower. So I need to figure out the best use of our limited resources.

Lucian, I'd like you to be the lead for the rest of the film.

In the middle of the night, the clackety-clack of typing echoes through the office.

A despondent Perro curls up in front of his typewriter. He glances at his latest manuscript, and stubs a cigarette out on it.

Ending, ending, ending...

Lady Dupont needs to die in the ending...

'After she elopes with the second Rockefeller, they vanish from high society and live a poetic life out in the countryside.'

'But Rockefeller's life of affluence has left too much of a mark on him. He eventually shames Lady Dupont for her empty family name and leaves her. In despair, she slits her own throat...'

Too realistic...

And do they really have to be punished after leaving their extravagant lives behind?

This takes place back when Columbia held wealth as its highest virtue. I'm just trying to recreate it and let the audience judge for themselves!

The little cigarette burn grows, spreads, and swallows the whole paper up. Steven takes a deep breath and blows away the ashes.

'In the end, Lady Dupont chooses none of the Rockefellers. She had only wanted to escape her false destiny through marriage, but underestimated just how toxic love can be.'

'The brothers, unbeknownst to each other, each plot their own revenge, and Lady Dupont is killed by three different schemes at the same time.'

No, too lowbrow...

Getting stuck in a quagmire of love even after not choosing anyone makes it sound like it's fate at work, but it's really just slapping in a trope to patch up the gaps.

The final shot of her body being pulverized into nothing would definitely be shocking, but the setup's just too crude.

'The Dupont's family's false claims of being descended from Victorian nobility are finally exposed to the public. No matter how deep the Rockefeller brothers' love for her is, they cannot shield her from punishment.'

'The only time in her life that Lady Dupont is treated as true nobility is when the real Dupont family demands the death penalty for her...'

It's too... neat!

All tied up with a bow to show off how deep and meaningful it is, but it lacks any of the madness or romance a film called <i>The Death of Lady Dupont</i> should have!

Tch, out of draft paper. Let me fetch some more from the filing cabinet...

Whoa!

Steven slips on a wad of paper he threw to the ground earlier, falling flat on his back.

Only now does he notice that the entire office is filled with discarded drafts. There is nowhere left for him to stand.

He lies down amidst his aborted ideas, covering his face with his hands as he yells in frustration.

Get a Kubricking grip, Steven Quay! You've been messing with the ending for two whole months now, and don't even have a shitty half-baked scene to show for it!

This is your baby! You wrote every damn line in this story! Don't tell me you don't even know what you want to write?!

If you need to suffer to make a classic, then this must be a goddamn masterpiece, right?

You've got the time pressure of the shooting, the shock of hearing about filming a Catastrophe, the fear of some maniac going around killing the crew... You got it all, man! What more could you want?!

'God of Inspiration', my ass!

That was just some stupid excuse to get Greta off your back. Your god ain't coming—you lost his Falking contact details!

Who's there...?

...Well, honestly, I don't care who you are, as long as you can help me figure out this ending.