cancelled.starter

[tomas-visser]

open

With projects picking back up again, their schedules completely packed, it’s harder to keep an eye over a tiny little kitten. During Boy Venus she was curious but timid, usually happy to simply stay by Jess’ and Julian’s side while the world hustled around her. Now, with a few more months of growth, she thinks she’s queen of the world ready to tackle it all, easy to lose sight of her the moment you turn away. Speaking of.. 

“Appel..” Tomas called out, slightly frantic as he searched high and low for the tiny rascal. If he lost her, he is probably dead to Juno. “Sorry.. have you– uh seen a small orange tabby kitten about -this big? I– I just turned away for a second and..” Tomas flusteredly asked the first person that crossed his path, she couldn’t have run off too far, and she’s quite the squealer, “she’s around here I swear..”

[tastextatum]

tatum’s lips puckered out into an exaggerated kiss, her voice going up three octaves as she spoke to the reptile on the other end of her screen. “hi babyyy!! mommy’s picking you up dinner right now, i’ll be home soon.” the redhead was absolutely smitten with her new pet, so much so she’d never stopped to question why julian santiago had been so willing to part ways with the beautiful snake–and why he’d given it to her, someone who was more or less a perfect stranger. no, tatum was simply too preoccupied with the darling creature to really give a shit about the circumstances that had brought crowley to her. she stared at the screen a few moments longer before waving and ending the call, looking up with a grin. “i’ve had crowley for three hours and if anything happened to him i would kill everyone in this room and then myself.” 

[gabrielboucher]

gabriel boucher walks into the studio space that will be his set, pristine white counter tops and stainless steel appliances from top to bottom. never been touched before. why shouldn’t it be this way? he has done the same training that every other promising young chef has done. and he has paid for it just the same with the blood and sweat—though he refused the tears. cooking after all should be a joyful experience, not one marred by anxiety or overthinking. a kitchen in harmony needs no words, he has travelled the world to find one. and now he has his very own. teaching the american populace the stories of his travel with a charming grin and recipes to boot. 

his studio is gleaming and pure. it is the dawning of a new era as young gods go, the last of which he has to conquer is célébrité. he need only look in the mirror to be assure that such a task is possible. his agent has said as much. the heavy studio door swung open, someone else walking on the stage, the first to witness a king on new land. he turned around with a dazzling smile to greet them. “bonjour. you’ve intruded! but i promise i will forgive it, if you can think of a toast for me.” a bottle of champagne is sitting on the counter. flown in from champagne. there’s only one glass but he moves quickly to pull a second from the rack. it is only a display, but that doesn’t mean they should not be used. everything will be eventually, that’s the beautiful of a kitchen. “this is the dawning of a new era, as they say.”

[siobhanproductions]

It wasn’t always the money that meant success. It was the critical feedback, the feeling of a polished product, the fact that the points of the contracts on her production had not been hit to the point of cancellation. If they happened to reach that end on their own recognizance, there was nothing to be done, but it would not be held over her head. A contracted actor had signed their /contract/ with all the liability laid out before them. If only we all could be so lucky to know the worst consequences beforehand.

Siobhan had been in the business too long to let it hinder her. Mahogany desk, veneer shining from what was not covered by scripts awaiting to be put into use, to be picked by her good name and brought to life from her funding and supervision. Even the blot at the door could not distract her fully, eyes raising in her own time to catch the face.

“You aren’t scheduled,” she pointed out at first, her normal voice showing no highs or lows, no inflection to betray whatever emotion could be still within her. “Your own schedule is full from what has been relayed to me.”

[skylardevisser]

No one ever wanted to do the weekly deep cleaning in the kitchen. Papa would wake Skylar up in the middle of the night, drag him downstairs when he was still rubbing sand from his eyes. All he wanted was ten more minutes, enough time to pretend it was a lifetime, but he was always going to be the one to take over the family business. It was his predetermined destiny, written in his blood. It would remain his responsibility, the torch to carry, and even now the eldest boy of the family was on his hands and knees, scrubbing out the cabinets, grown to accept the wake up call that his mind did all on its own from years of practice.

The flour sacks were on the counter above. Every single one of them was from the spot where the bristles of the brush were scouring, even the ones shoved in the back for no one to find, the ones that were just a little heavier and not as malleable. 10,993 dollars, and somewhere rolling in the bottom of one was seventy-four cents. He counted once, and then broke one of the hundreds to buy a new whisk before Tomas won Masterchef. All of that for nothing when the answer was here all along.

BANG

“Pleurislijer!” Who was here? Whose footsteps were those? His hand rubbed at the top of his wounded head, eyes rounding at the visitor. “You saw me here and didn’t say behind!” His forehead creased, a weird concern that fought his words before he went on, tone adjusting. “What’s the big idea?”

[malransom]

she hadn’t slept in forty six hours, eyes red rimmed and hands shaking, but not so much that she spilled the coffee she was holding. she would not ruin her chance on this set over any one of the thousand details she was put in charge of. it had been too long, the window on reality was closing, much longer here and they would all be trapped. stuck forever in this quasi reality that mirrored more hell-scape than her half remembered dreams. she blinked, eyes burned, she was standing on a studio set, there were people buzzing around her as if she wasn’t even in the room. was no more air to be passed through.

she had been mailed the worn and ducted taped binder for production assistants, memorized every one of the golden rules. they weren’t so terrible, they slotted into the gaps in her guesses quite easily, not so much filling in blanks as illuminating what had always been there. forty seven hours. had she ever been asleep before. 

coffee black, too hot, supposed ask if the cinematographer wanted one too. pretend to nod when she answered yes or no, stare through with hollow tired eyes as if she wasn’t the one doing all of this in the first place. it must have been nice, to be so at ease in the wrong. existing in the problem. “for you.” she offered out what she’d been holding. black coffee, hot too. “if you’d like.”

[zoexmarshall]

Ampersand was the underdog, not a worthy contender against the soft commercial glow of People magazine or even the edgy cut-throat powerhouse that was Axed!. On that lowly totem pole, though, was the staff of Ampersand, and at that very bottom rung, face half-covered in dirt and splashed with mud whenever it rained, was little Zoe Marshall. Iced coffee, double espresso shot, pumped up with caffeine and sugar from the source of her clutched hand, her foot anxiously tapped outside the locked studio door as she sat, waiting to strike.

One sign of movement caused her to bounce up, short heel clunking against the concrete slab, caught on its edge, tote swinging into her side, coffee knocked forward as her balance flailed. She was hardly the viper she wanted to be, hand catching her fall, sacrificing the mocha as trade-off as it splashed. She would have rather had the scratched knee than the waste of five bucks and her lifeline to meeting today’s deadline. The deadline. The person. The door.

“No, no, no!” she grappled with the concrete, pushing herself up, flinging forward to just have her fingertips miss catching the closing door. “Shi-!” she caught herself, wheeling around to have the person finally in her viewpoint, eyes lighting up. “Hi!” She waved. Idiot! She waved! Hand still stained with the mocha she probably spilled on their shoes, and this girl waved! It was retracted, dried off on the back of her skirt. More idiot! “Heh. Fancy seeing you here, huh? …outside… you know…your studio… I mean, a studio. I don’t know whose this is… You busy?”

[caylabarker]

Her resignation letter was the hardest thing Cayla had ever tried to write.

On one hand, there was a part of Cayla that wanted to hurt Miguel, and the keen narrative sense developed over the past year told her that this would be the perfect time to strike. The season finale, if you will.

Life wasn’t a TV show, though, of that Cayla had become keenly aware. Now, hours into trying to write this stupid letter, it had dawned on her that nothing she wrote would ever be able to reach him through the haze of drugs and stupidity. Why should it? Nothing, not her devotion or love, had before. It ached, knowing that he would accept her hatred with the same apathy he had accepted her affection.

There would be no sense in flinging insults that wouldn’t land, in the end. Although she doubted very much that Miguel would bother to report her, she couldn’t be sure if he even read his own e-mails since she’d stopped doing it for him. Nothing could jeopardize her job with the Cancellation department, not even her own futile revenge.

Begrudgingly, Cayla set about editing. Frowning down at her laptop screen, she mumbled, “How do you tell someone politely that they’d be lucky if they choked to death on their own vomit because you’re going to be their boss one day?”

[charlesirons]

 His parents had been placed on one of the highest floors that Ms. Samson’s building had; the view it provided of the city would be the envy of most. Only the best accommodations for the Irons, except it never was good enough, not for Mrs. Jacqueline Irons. Even on one of her more gracious days, she could find fault in being stranded in a suite, the little nuisances that were not up to par coming to bring her down to the levels of poverty in her mind. Charles had spent the past hour hearing all about it until he finally found reason to excuse himself. He had fulfilled his obligation as the dutiful son for the day, bringing with him a bouquet of peach roses and calla lilies, regaling her with his progress on Nocturnal Animals, reassuring her that things were /fine/. It was enough.

The door closed behind him and he released a small breath before the back of his hand smudged away the faint mark of lipstick on his cheek. It was too late, though. It apparently had already been noticed.

“At least you’re not a paparazzi,” he spoke with a thin smile before he went on with a tilt of his head, taking the last bit of stain off of his skin. “This could have been the start to an awkward conversation.”

[margotolivier]

the outdoor pool had a tendency to empty out after midnight, every one running for their beauty sleep, leaving the entire deck for her. she sat on the edge of the pool, legs submerged, watching the water swirl with every passing breeze. the cigarette in her hand slowly burning without any aid, her attention had the tendency to drift so late at night. the least of which being why she was here, what she hoped to gain by her petty challenge. that she could hold her hand over the candle her brother presented and prove once and for all that it never burned. that she was the stronger one. the only thing that brought her back to reality was the sound of footsteps against the wet tile. her head turned sharply at the sound, pulling her robe up from where it’d slipped off her shoulders to expose swimsuit. “what do you want?” she studied the person as they drew closer, “sneaking around in the dark, merde! most people announce themselves.”

[teaganharper]

teagan had taken the liberty of moving in with simon to keep an eye on him, deciding it would be better to ask for forgiveness than permission–as fucking lame as that sounded. they were in the process of moving from their old room to the new, stopping in the hall as another contract passed, giving them a cheeky grin. teagan wasn’t really sure what that was about–until they turned back to look at their suitcase and realized part of a strap-on was peeking out from a tear in the bag. “uhhahaaaa… fuck me.” they laughed nervously, kneeling to shove it back into place before realizing the tear was a lot bigger than what they’d thought, and had likely left a trail of belongings along their path. they shoved hair out of their face, letting out a breath of annoyance as they prepared to backtrack to their old room. “really? we’re just, we’re gonna keep fucking me in the ass, life? i mean, even after you got mom involved last time?” teagan asked bitterly, not realizing they weren’t alone.

they opened their mouth, then closed it. a sigh of exasperation. “okay, to clarify my last comment my mom punched me in the face on live television and i had an emotional outburst and tried to kill us and two other people in the room. it had nothing to do with, like, actual fucking.. just… a matter of speech..” teagan nodded, pointing a thumb in the direction they’d come from. “i’m just gonna go now.” 

[julianxsantiago]

It’s all boiled down to this. A pack of cigarettes. It’s one of the few possessions that’s left behind that holds a part of Jessamine’s essence. Julian already has one pulled out, thinking of how his fellow director offered one to him while joking of jumping off a building. There was no joke then, no laugh heard then, and it’s all the same now except it has all come to fruition instead of just hanging in the air.

Smoke breathes out of Julian’s parted lips, eyes looking down on the city with arms resting over the railing. It’s a lost habit that will become him now, envious of how something can burn but find a sweet release in escaping. He has just been burning and burning, no end in sight, always the last one standing, whether he’s pushed them away or they have been buried by Prometheus.

The pack is turned over in his hand, eyes glossing over the warning label from the surgeon general. Birth defects. Death. Underneath it is the logo of the company that supplies the risk. His gut clutches the same way his hand does before hurtling the pack across the rooftop, hitting the visitor he’s only now paid any attention to. Meanwhile, Steele Tobacco is crumbled but completely unharmed by his hate.

“What is it? What do you want?”

[fabiancbishop]

There was a scratch at Fabian’s office door. A scratch not a knock, followed by a strong huff.

“Ms. Jennings!” he called out to his secretary, only to have no response back. His lips pursed together. What if there was some wildebeest on the other side? Of course not! Impractical, a manifestation of the imagination when running rampant in uncertain times. He stepped closer to the door, adjusting the latex gloves on his hands to hold to them better before opening the door, only to be instantly slobbered on by a Great Dane, followed by another one.

“Blasted! You mongrels! What on earth are you doing here? Begone!” he protested before pushing their mouths away until seeing that it wasn’t just them. Had they done something to the visitor? Were they here to deliver them undoubtedly from his hellish brother? “I genuinely apologize if they caused you any trouble,” he staggered out between his continuous pushes against them to leave him be. “What is the extent of the damage they’re responsible for?”

[simonsaysfuckthis]

“Fuck…” Once again, this wasn’t his floor in Cora’s safe house. He had had a fool-proof system in place to guide him in the right direction, too. “Hey,” he called out to the first person he stepped out to see down the hall before pointing to the wall that was opposite to the elevator doors he had just come out of. “Did you see some fucking nazi take down a sticker from here? Looked like a pile of shit with some orange hair stuck on it? And I mean an actual shit pile, not just Trump’s orangutan form.”

[miguelcardosa]

Miguel had already become friends with the staff of the complex, wriggling into their hearts or anywhere else he was allowed to fit into, in exchange for taking over certain room service orders. No questions came to him, no orders looked too closely at, nothing that screamed out at them when a certain word was dropped in to be his cue that something other than food was needed.

The trolley wheels ran down the hall with Miguel balanced on the bar connecting the two back ones, skidding to a stop only when the door to one of the rooms opened up. It nearly knocked into them, but Miguel had a face lit up as though he was free of all fault. Whether they were the ones that ordered the drugs that were under the silver dome or not was unknown; losing track of the numbers on the doors. Did they look like a Yaneth? Only time would tell.

“There is special food for you! All for you! Say the special word and it is yours!”

[cleo-gurvich-deactivated2020032]

Cleo had just finished unpacking and plopped down in a cushioned chair, staring at the door to the room. It was empty. And then it wasn’t. Whether that was due to someone merely passing by, or due to someone genuinely curious about what was inside Cleo’s shared room, she didn’t know right away. 

What she did know was that she was achingly bored, and that she was willing to bother whoever walked past. 

“Please tell me you have a card game,” Cleo said. “Or something interesting. And if you’re about to ask, no, I did not pair you guys up. That was someone else’s job.”

[sebastianxsteele]

Sebastian was a guest to Prometheus, not a welcomed one, but one that had been invited to stay only to be monitored. It was becoming blatantly obvious, even the rooftop was not immune to prying invasion. Unfortunately, he was amused by the paranoia. The sound of Sebastian’s revolver being fired was proof enough, followed by the collapse of the drone that crashed at the feet of the new visitor. A fatal wound.

“Cancellation must be losing its viewership for Samson to turn her contracts’ deaths into a reality show. The stench of desperation is getting harder to hide, even with the rotting flesh.”