war.

i think of filmmaking as a form of communication. maybe it's also an art but that's for someone else to decide.-claudia marshall, cinematographer.

[julianxsantiago]

His head tips up. Usually guarded, combative, he blames the night for taking Primal Fear's compliment without an urge to fight it back. It's vague enough of one to slip through a crack that will be gone before the morning comes--all patched up as if it had never existed, just like the sentiment itself. It rests on a moment of pursed lips before his eyes search through the next round of words to come from her, parting her smile and lighting her eyes.

"Next time? From you?" Off to his side, his hand gestures for a drink from behind the bar, barely a glance away, offer extended to her with a shift of his head. "When?" As if the surrounding is mere backdrop, prop material, not to cause interruption to their dialog. "You will wait a year?"

[claudiamcrshall]

"i'll wait longer." the response is there without thought, the ease of a conversation she never thought she'd have. she didn't need to give a standing ovation to every film, why not every one of his? at least in this phantom conversation, this fever dream of all the privilege a girl could muster in hollywood. "that's up to you."

her smile has been lit with something she can't explain, though the spark is there everclear, even for her uncle who watches from across the bar with, for anyone who might want to congratulate an award winner. "i think you could use—" she stops herself from any more critique. she still falls under the category of lucky to be here, even if she might be considering more. and whoever he'd been talking to is clearly intrigued enough to start a slow loop back towards them.

"it looks like you're going to celebrate all the same." there's no malice to the words, her thought has already dropped. "you should." before it was an awkward starter, so quickly it's already softened to the truth of her thoughts. "think of the textbooks i'll study."

[knedli]

[msjadebellamy]

@ingridhvwk sent 22. for a celebratory starter

The flash of a camera nearly overtook the iPhone's screen lighting up. It could have been anything; the music of the club drowned out the accompanied noise to really tell. Jade expected to see a message from Ash Hole once she sat down in the VIP section, but it was the vibration a second afterwards that tipped her off, lengthening her stride, quickening to where she could finally separate from the crowd, crossing over to exclusive bottle service and private parties only.

Her eyes washed over the top notifications.

Prometheus: CANCELLATION NOTICE FOR CONTRACT

Axed!: Lauren Gibbs CANCELLED

The screen clicked off, a black mirror to the way Jade's face gradually began to glow. RIP Lauren, you shouldn't have tried to take what was hers, greedy bitch.

"Shots?"

[claudiamcrshall]

she looked at her half empty glass of whiskey, weighing the pros and cons of the sudden ask. she didn't know exactly what had compelled her to accept jade's invitation to the bar, not when there was an open desktop of footage to parse through waiting at home. but there would be time for both, depending on what exactly jade meant. "my tab is open."

[marceloxrico]

Pro Tip: Escalations are to be expected. Remain calm and give a five second ‘condolence buffer’ before addressing any and all negatively-impacted feedback.

Marc remembers the training module in its entirety, following its guidance by internally counting with a sympathetic expression pulled over his face. 1-2-3-4-5. “Know that I am here for when you are ready to ask those questions,” he says while his head slowly nods alongside the paced syllables. He’s about to go into the explanation of her leave of absence option before something more pressing rises to her workload, reaching the top of her list and therefore his. 1-2-3-4-5.

“Richard was a wonderful asset for us, Claudie. His loss is already felt as /our/ loss,” he broaches with a step closer, respectfully, hand to his chest.

Pro Tip: Remember the vowels of emotions to correctly label the post-cancellation response. Anxiety. Embarrassment. Isolation. Outrage. Understanding.

Claudia Marshall is exhibiting signs of outrage. He has decided to take no more additional movements forward for his safety.

“Would you like me to reach out to Melinda for you?” he offers with a tilted head. “She’s one of our rockstars on the counseling side if you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her already.”

“who the fuck is melinda!” her voice hits an octave higher than she thought possible. a cracking pain that had yet to be discovered, the scream of someone who’s lost their last thread to whatever safety had been. “what is she going to do? you already killed him!” the flash of his face, a moment before the audience counted down— an expression that could never be read when compared to the lifeless mimic that followed it. grief wracks her chest, something that simply cannot be contained by decorum or any other rule that marc makes up right now. “what do you know about loss!” 

suddenly she’s standing in her slippers again, just a child, watching what was left of her mother’s body be loaded onto a gurney. she’s staring across the table from the answers that never need be be said aloud. “get me—” a hiccuping sob, unable to be contained, “out of here.” the doors are all locked, the restraints have rubbed her wrists raw against the strains of trying to save the life of someone she loved. “where’s julian?”

[claudiamcrshall]

“who the fuck is melinda!” her voice hits an octave higher than she thought possible. a cracking pain that had yet to be discovered, the scream of someone who’s lost their last thread to whatever safety had been. “what is she going to do? you already killed him!” the flash of his face, a moment before the audience counted down— an expression that could never be read when compared to the lifeless mimic that followed it. grief wracks her chest, something that simply cannot be contained by decorum or any other rule that marc makes up right now. “what do you know about loss!” 

suddenly she’s standing in her slippers again, just a child, watching what was left of her mother’s body be loaded onto a gurney. she’s staring across the table from the answers that never need be be said aloud. “get me—” a hiccuping sob, unable to be contained, “out of here.” the doors are all locked, the restraints have rubbed her wrists raw against the strains of trying to save the life of someone she loved. “where’s julian?”

[julianxsantiago]

Their past smolders, burning in the corner of the room, each of them taking turns in pouring lighter fluid on it. Crackling shouts, third-degree breaths, sparks behind the eyes.

"You want what?" he pushes back. "You want it so much you cannot say what it is?"

Different.

The flames shoot up to the ceiling, roaring as though injured. This isn't working! It swirls, burns brighter, hotter. I don't want it. Smoke fills, overpowers the fire altogether. Scarlet is drowned by gray.

Norah is sent flying from the desk, shoved off by his hand. The papers flutter, scatter, wreck the minimal cleanliness that had been achieved months prior, returns it to a touch of its formal glory of utter disaster. The lowest of the low. A pit that's too deep it's mistaken for a grave.

Despite her best efforts, he refuses to lay down in it, even when he's on the precipice of exsanguination, not one band-aid to his name, nothing available nor offered that he'd accept. Red has always been his color; it will continue until the pigment drains out from him. Candy apple red of his car until it tans from the sun; the red of a tablecloth until it gets bleached; the ruby beads that blister from a split lip until they're washed out with a shot of tequila. Red doesn't last forever, begins to die the moment the air hits it, finished when the last drop is spilled.

"Then? I don't want you." She's met dead in the eyes. Columbus. Pride and Prejudice. She can have them. "Go," he dares, commands, same hand that had sent Norah on the ground now is flung in the direction of where she can take her exit. "Go where you want. Where I'm not."

[claudiamcrshall]

papers fly, hitting her by sheer proximity, always too close to the explosion to discern the true cause of it. but she doesn't flinch away from it, accepting the response for what its always been. there's anger that will never find words to suit it, the only outlet in finding where she's hiding and unleashing it there. the room is carpeted in white, her chest rises and falls, the best she's ever been. it only lasts a moment

"i will!" the only way to take away the sting of rejection so all encompassing is to make it her idea. the only response is that she never wanted any of it at all, how could she have— if it was only going to end as this. a shouting match in a dirty room, the carpet stained and stained again, the oath missing only her own blood. she doesn't want this, can't continue the endless exhausting cycle of keeping herself alive, let alone him. there has to be some moment where there is air enough to breath, that the day doesn't fracture along hairlines of tragedy that she cannot recover from.

the strength of her word falters, just long enough to keep her feet nailed to the floor. she has survived such things once, she could make it through a second time on probability, on sheer force of will. but the pages settle, and she does not have the energy to put them back in order. she does not have the care. "fine! i will." but the spark is gone, whatever caused her fever pitch terror draining away in bits. suddenly there's a looming dread, something split to never be reformed. but she has been through such things before and woken up the next day. so long as there is work. "i will go where i'm wanted. where i've been asked to go." forget that their their own schedule was never made up of something so simple as demands, so superficial as contracts. forget whatever it was that she was throwing away here, in this very room of memories.

she levels her gaze, still unable to take a full breath. everything is unsteady, the hatred that she can feel aimed back at her now but the words come out anyways: "good luck." a stinging sentiment, as though they'd ever needed something like luck to get them through. "don't call me for advice." she's unstuck, turns on her heel and walks out of the office, choked on something far too bitter to be just sadness, just frustration. tears burn hot in her eyes, but they don't fall, at least not until the elevator doors close.

[julianxsantiago]

[julianxsantiago]

A slant angles his lips at the questions, a filter of a challenge overlaying each one. An arm rests over the bar, gradually positioning himself so she becomes the focal point. A centered lens on the girl he's supposed to guess what she'd do after five seconds of runtime. "You saw," he answers, but barely beats, leaves the filter on, transitions it back to her. "You clapped. For no one else?" Animation flickers against his face, the curious and entertained shift of the brows, the sharp but slight twist of the head in tone with his words, spreading to the wave of his hand. "Next? You will tell me you cast the deciding vote?"

[claudiamcrshall]

she smiles, can't help the careless way it spills across her lips, of course she saw it. there wasn't another answer, there wasn't space for her to misunderstand what she was talking about. they might have all been screened in bits and pieces, cobbled together in four am screenings, but she'd seen them all. "it didn't come down to one vote." confidence as though she were in the room, knowledge enough to know best. her elbow casually mirrored on the bartop as though she might belong in a room such as this, that gestures weren't just mimicry of those she could envision one day learning from.

"a few times." she can count the awards she was happy with, but she also knows her uncle. enthusiastically cheering on everyone who had their name read out. how could she sit there and not let some of the energy become her own. "would you prefer a standing ovation next time?"

[julianxsantiago]

"¡Ay bendito!"

Even from this distance, he can hear Luis in the background talking to someone they've never met before. It's intentional, and he knows it. Being the life of the party is not for Julian to concern himself with, even with the most coveted award in his possession, held onto even still purely because there's no other place to put it. By now, there have been enough photos taken of him with it to fill a catalogue; it comes with the territory when you're the youngest to hold the title of best director. An hour later, it finds its place on the bar counter, freeing himself for a moment until he's caught the attention of someone new amongst the sea that surrounds them.

His eyes shoot back, a glance evolving into something closer to amusement.

"The film. You saw? Or?"--his head tilts towards the award--"You say this to everyone who has this?"

[claudiamcrshall]

politeness was never a possibility, the only ringing sentiment of the night was to have the best time. and if there's something glittering in her eyes, then its simply the faux candlelight, the reflection of a gold statue in an appreciative gaze— a hollywood glamour. "what do you think?" she's not quite self-assured, but she's holding her own fine, hair mostly in place, black dress picked out by a stylist who hadn't been told anything but her last name and the academy dress code. but words find their way easily into the conversation, "would you have applauded for anyone else?"

[sebastianxsteele]

Omnipotence is in the atmosphere. It’s as stifling as a Catholic church when confessions unspool. The darkness in the bunker acts as the partition in the booth; the sinner the one who cries for justification the most; the priest is out; only Sebastian remains, filling the gaps mankind said only God could.

LaVey’s shrieks turn unintelligible to unfamiliar ears. There are only a handful of words left in her vocabulary, and they’ve worn their welcome, fraying through her struggles, her desperate and frenetic grapples with Marshall’s body. Face. Hair. Neck. Anything she can rip into that belongs to her is fair; she’s lacked discernment over the years, holding onto one attribution that has kept her together this long.

But the world continues without a self-proclaimed antichrist in it, clearly failing to bring the apocalypse. He’s survived by the two people who knew him best, taken out by the one who knew him least. The circumstances fall short of poetic justice.

“You should focus on what you’ll do here, Marshall,” he interjects over the wailing mother’s fight and the defensive orphan’s plight. Ash scatters beneath him. “Apparently, your talent for evoking guilt has lost its allure.”

“YOU,” scales a ragged pitch. Guttural. Blood-soaked throat. Iron-tarnished tongue. Grief. How pointless.

“You’re familiar with one solution,” he goes on, a gun balancing on his palm. What sound comes first to the mind? Ransom’s body collapsing or a casing exploding a hole through a Stetson. Too slow. The bullets empty out, scattered into mud with a pull of the trigger to Marshall’s face to prove they share a unique sense of non-existent utility. “Find another.”

[claudiamcrshall]

"solution?" she spits back the word with every bit of anger that's left in her, the bullets hitting the ground soundlessly on the dirt floor. free from sarah's grasp she does little but back against the wall, safest only when out of reach ( not safe at all, never never safe ). the gun glints, as useless as one has ever been, the one on her back all but forgotten, strap digging into the canvas of her coat. sarah's howling incessant as the wind. "there's nothing here!" a shell of a woman asking again and again what happened to her son, an animal that's been left to its decay. humanity flickers like the last embers of a fire, conjuring images of sarah walking her to school, setting a plate of food in front of her. she thinks of the endless weeks after sarah left, the purpling patterns on her rib cage every time she'd thought to ask.

"this is not mine." her hands are far from clean, her mind a haze of if and if nots, but that much is clear. he voice trembles though she keeps talking. "this is yours— i am not here for her!" she is here for the stack of papers in her script folder, the ring that is around her neck under layers of protection, the people who still might leave. she is not here for herself, above all she is not here for sarah davis. "you got me! is that what you want me to say?" less and less she is in control, vision darts without being able to settle on the woman she's talking to. "you raised a monster and then you left him." the words have always been there, but rarely have they surfaced with such finality. never have they met the ear. "you live with that." as if staying would have changed what they became, kept the first of the dominos from falling. "that's my solution."

[claudiamcrshall]

"solution?" she spits back the word with every bit of anger that's left in her, the bullets hitting the ground soundlessly on the dirt floor. free from sarah's grasp she does little but back against the wall, safest only when out of reach ( not safe at all, never never safe ). the gun glints, as useless as one has ever been, the one on her back all but forgotten, strap digging into the canvas of her coat. sarah's howling incessant as the wind. "there's nothing here!" a shell of a woman asking again and again what happened to her son, an animal that's been left to its decay. humanity flickers like the last embers of a fire, conjuring images of sarah walking her to school, setting a plate of food in front of her. she thinks of the endless weeks after sarah left, the purpling patterns on her rib cage every time she'd thought to ask.

"this is not mine." her hands are far from clean, her mind a haze of if and if nots, but that much is clear. he voice trembles though she keeps talking. "this is yours— i am not here for her!" she is here for the stack of papers in her script folder, the ring that is around her neck under layers of protection, the people who still might leave. she is not here for herself, above all she is not here for sarah davis. "you got me! is that what you want me to say?" less and less she is in control, vision darts without being able to settle on the woman she's talking to. "you raised a monster and then you left him." the words have always been there, but rarely have they surfaced with such finality. never have they met the ear. "you live with that." as if staying would have changed what they became, kept the first of the dominos from falling. "that's my solution."

[wesleyfairchild]

These southern roots run deep. Virginia may not be Alabama, but these walls around them look an awful lot like they could be surrounded by weeping willows and pitchers of sweet tea; they also look like they’d be in fine company with fluorescent lighting and around the clock surveillance, the only kind of residents who have no choice but to stay. Not a whole many of them could have ever gotten their hands on a knife. His hand is empty, pads of fingertips slick over the palm they’re connected to, not a scrap of metal to break the touch. Looks like he’s lost his privilege, already forgetting it’s been taken from him moments ago.

“No.” There’s movement in his lungs, a vibrato in his throat, a hum to his ears. Words are spoken, but he is only witness to them, not creator, nor author. “You and I,” goes on while fingers continue to work at the broken skin from the slip of the blade, rolling through stripped apart flesh, “never were meant to take our first breaths had our mamas had their say.”

[claudiamcrshall]

the tremble stills, words striking her hard, crashing against the walls that have been so carefully built up around what she called childhood, the definition of mother. her life has never been what she'd thought, there were plenty of years that it hadn't even been what she'd wanted. but wasn't it hers all hers. kimberly fucking marshall had a choice, and she'd made it all the same as any other mother could have. she'd had it better twice-over and she'd only chosen not to raise— had a say in sitting that one out.

"you don't know what you're talking about." she reaches out with her free hand, grabs his wrist hard, trying to twist the hand up, stop the blood and damage before there is nothing left to repair. she is rough, means it so, grips harder, "you don't know a damn thing about my mother." even if he did, piecemealed through drinks and dinners, parceled out as she attempted to make sense of her own life, she wouldn't say that. even better, "it doesn't matter what she wanted," righteous anger and crimson hands, always the little girl of forest grime, words unsensible. "she's dead. i'm here. you're here. fuck! fuck that. why would you say that!"

[claudiamcrshall]

the tremble stills, words striking her hard, crashing against the walls that have been so carefully built up around what she called childhood, the definition of mother. her life has never been what she'd thought, there were plenty of years that it hadn't even been what she'd wanted. but wasn't it hers all hers. kimberly fucking marshall had a choice, and she'd made it all the same as any other mother could have. she'd had it better twice-over and she'd only chosen not to raise— had a say in sitting that one out.

"you don't know what you're talking about." she reaches out with her free hand, grabs his wrist hard, trying to twist the hand up, stop the blood and damage before there is nothing left to repair. she is rough, means it so, grips harder, "you don't know a damn thing about my mother." even if he did, piecemealed through drinks and dinners, parceled out as she attempted to make sense of her own life, she wouldn't say that. even better, "it doesn't matter what she wanted," righteous anger and crimson hands, always the little girl of forest grime, words unsensible. "she's dead. i'm here. you're here. fuck! fuck that. why would you say that!"

[claudiamcrshall]

@julianxsantiago

her elbow is on the bartop, waiting for an acknowledgement from the bartender who seems just a little too busy with the recognizable faces to remember there are other people at the academy awards. but, it's not like she's annoyed at the perch she has, scanning a room of faces that'd she's only ever seen on her basement tv. who knew what reality looked like, how she fit into it so seamlessly without having to try. it was a nice feeling, in no hurry to be replaced by whatever her uncle had planned next.

she almost wished she had a notebook for the moment, the sketch of how the dull mock candles were catching movie stars in their glow. who knew that yellow and red made such a good pair, the crimson curtains crushed against the hue of the room. the sigh that escapes without consciousness, the kind of relief that hasn't been felt since she first stepped on the plane to california. as though she was on the right path for once in her fucking life.

her gaze flickered, just barely, to make sure that it hadn't bothered the person next to her— "congratulations." escaping her lips once she saw which star happened to have found his way to next in line. "well deserved."

[claudiamcrshall]

@julianxsantiago , from california to valenica

[julianxsantiago]

They're used to challenging each other. It comes with the territory that they've cultivated for years, watched it grow from Inception to now, from annoyance to playfulness, but this stretch is being sowed with something new, something that's an off-shoot of square one, but worse; the land is already scorched, the crops diseased, famine imminent.

Julian's eyes hold the flame that lit the match in the first place, flickering in the pupils when her words hit. One script was hard enough to believe, but two puts it over the top, pushes it from scheduling conflict to intentional avoidance without it even having the decency of being labeled as such.

"Two? What two? This and what else?" he demands, an impatience growing in the waves of his hand.

Two in front of Norah means Norah has come in third, come in last, replaced by Indiana and another project that doesn't even rise up until now.

"You want Indiana? Over what is here? For you?" He barely lets the words have breathing room before tearing into the next line. "No. I tell you what you already know! You need me to say it again? This? It's shit! Indiana is worth your time? No. You want to go there? Over Norah? Over Austero? Over--" His fist clenches tightly, tight enough that it reminds his bones how recently the healing process has been completed in his wrist, how it prickles from the threat of sending him back into a cast he couldn't give two shits about in this moment. Because of him. Not over him.

"Why shouldn't you go," he echoes back. "You see nothing? Then? It's nothing."

[claudiamcrshall]

her arms cross over her chest, the defiant gesture of a girl much younger— one who could shout until she was red in the face so long as it meant she was being heard. which did not always equate to being listened to, a distinction she would learn to make much later in life. she says she wants to go, and she's going to go, and there's nothing to settle the paperwork has all been signed. but despite the cleared surfaces and the folded blankets, the layer of grime still sits under. she's not so healed that she doesn't know shouting is the preferred mode of communication when there is no gulf to be crossed.

"worth my time?" precious she, of talent that could not be ignored. sparkling through the harsh lighting and trying in vain to tell actors where to hit their marks, how to deliver their lines just so in editing no one could tell who was standing at the monitor holding a trembling cup of coffee. "i'm a cinematographer. i want—" the syllable catches in her throat, begging to ask, shouldn't she want this. didn't she choose this, pray for this moment when they could work together again. that she would be able to stand on two firm feet and say what she really wanted.

but her stomach clenches, nothing blows through her like a walking over a grave, the chill visible the moment it hits. hollowing her out, waiting for her to throw away everything that's gotten her here. working with eve, working on a neo-noir with all the twists and turns therein. nothing was easier than deception, nothing more old-hat than a dark alleyway scouted after a drink or four. in the perfect world, nothing could be easy.

"i want something different!" she can't look him in the eyes and see anything other than their ever-darkening glare. she can't figure a way out of this maze that doesn't involve sacrifice enough that she can breath. "this isn't working!" finger jabs accusingly at the stack of papers on the desk as though they're just the offending script. just the reason she couldn't stay in the world of the shadows that still occupied the offending imagination. "i don't want it."

finally the words are said, the last threshold crossed, the last bone broken in a fragmented chest covering a still bleeding heart. "i want columbus, i want pride and prejudice." tossing out the project names as though they mean anything in the world— and perhaps they do when the worlds are green and yellow, pitched with natural lighting and quiet monologues. "i don't want this!" shrill in her own ears, fury for fury at the words she can't figure her way through. still, the dam breaks. "there— are you happy? i want to go to indiana!"

if the knife is already out, she might as well drive it in. never do anything half way, never leave something to bleed out. "i don't want to be here!"

[julianxsantiago]

"Now? You want to be my priest?" The look he gives her almost mirrors something from years ago, and in turn he almost sees a reflection from her as well. Those moments prickle, but they don't draw blood, the closest it will ever get. The faintest sense of warmth to his lips melds back to where it was, eyes tightening back on her. Confessions have never been their strong suit. It's not the time to start.

"There's no reason to wait," he corrects. In different words it could pass as consolation. Instead, the words are firm and they're straight-to-the-point as most everything he says is. But the truth is there: he never regretted what he chose and he never will. Going to Wyoming didn't feel like waiting. It felt like the only thing he could ever do in that moment.

"Here. You want to start? Start," he tells her as his phone is handed over to her. If it were to lock, she already knows the code; it hasn't changed since the last time he gave it to her in a kitchen that belonged to neither of them. The screen is lit up with a headshot from Prometheus' internal site with her points beside her, along with the name of Sarah Kinney above that. "The lead."

[claudiamcrshall]

she doesn't want to be a priest. sitting in the pew of church listening to him tell her about a place she's never been. all it'd ever made her wish was that she could be there too. "there's nothing to confess." a dare, a bargain for moving forward in some tentative preliminary way. if she walked in on nothing, then that was that. if it happened a second time, she would deal with it then. just as easily, there's no reason to wait. they are almost whole. if there's something else to say, words that could fix everything, she hasn't found them. she can only stare, mouth opened for a moment as though poised to say something else. what could she even say, that she was just making sure? that she just didn't want to be replaced— as what. but the production doesn't wait. her mouth closes.

she takes the phone, looking at the screen, expecting one picture. but, she's wrong, as though casting has ever been her strength. but she can recognize faces. just enough to see the high plains of a face, where the light should be adjusted just right to catch a tear bathed in red. "you're making it a horror?" because she's fairly certain that's all his lead is known for, which is not to say that's all she can do. "i haven't seen her do subtle yet." again, not a question of if, but when. that there's nothing standing in the way of identity once over. "you'll tell her to stay with light hair?"

[julianxsantiago]

Indiana gets loaded and shot as if it's come straight from a gun. It clenches his shoulders, a piece of shrapnel lodging itself in between the sinews, digging and gouging the longer she stands there. The pen in his hand had practically rubbed a blister into one of his knuckles, and yet Julian's eyes haven't left the assailant responsible. The strength of his teeth biting down on one another could crack a walnut behind his lips.

What is this? He knows already, a feeling trapped beneath an imploding ribcage, one that vaguely resembles hers once before; you could say it might be built in the same vein, the kind that bleeds internally. This is just another word for them. There's a broader sense, but it's all the same. If the work is not the thing they can share, there is no other foundation for them to build on, all of it gone. After months of demolition, what other result could there be?

But there is one thing that is unacceptable. A state somewhere in the middle, most boring part of the country, is one thing, but there is nothing tolerable about blatant bullshit.

"Joder," the word flies out, Julian standing to his feet, the pen almost impaling a page. The nib punctures a portion of Norah's dialogue, aptly the part where she's betrayed leaves a small pool of ink. But who has betrayed who first? Who has taken the first blood? The tension in his bones reminds him who held the knife, and that it belongs solely at his throat. It offers one breath, silent, flaring the nose, but it's the kind of beat not many can say they've been afforded from him while his fist curls and uncurls against his desk.

"Full?" he finally questions. "Full of what? Shit?" Indiana. Who would ever choose Indiana? Who would even waste their time in getting an out-of-state license to film in Indiana? "It's full? Since when? Since today? Since you've had the script?" He could have torn it in half, but he knows that's not why she's making excuses that don't exist. "Don't lie. Say no. Or? Say yes. If you want it? It's yours. If you don't?" His head gives one shake before his shoulders shrug, her position is already known, and worse is he doesn't blame it. "This bullshit? Keep it."

[claudiamcrshall]

the air is thick with everything she should be saying, the words that should have been met with his question. is it that she should stand her ground, or should she just cave and take it all back. never in her life have the right answer been so muddied, the way forward been marred with something she cannot name. his jaw is clenched, she can't find the apology— would never apologize for what she said. not when its been thrown back in her face in a single word.

"it's full!" she spits back, the only combat to the crushing desolation is to meet it with vitriol. it's what he wants at least, she doesn't have to make eye contact to know. as if her word wasn't good enough, that she'd have to justify their actions. how quickly it changes, her own defenses coming up with the simple change in tone, the raised pitch of a voice. "i got two other scripts." it doesn't mean that she doesn't want his script. she doesn't know that she could ever tell him no, just immediately, without any flinch or question. even now, she's still half committed to the dream of norah.

she hasn't so much as packed her bag. there's a ruin of an apartment that's waiting for her to decide, as torn apart as she's ever felt. until he shrugs her off without a fight, as though she's just another wave of the hand from being out of his life. the conflict tears at her, the tremble of her hand before its clenched into a fist, nails driving into the skin of her palm where there are cuts still healing.

"i want to go to indiana." she wants a lot of thing, but only one of them is attainable at the moment. and that's a quiet film with nothing but exterior shots to be captured and sent back. in the face of apathy, she feels a bubble of some unjustified rage, as though she deserved something more. "and you tell me i'm full of shit— why shouldn't i go?"

[julianxsantiago]

"I need your blessing? For that?" Because that is the closest he will get to explaining anything, at least when he's on Prometheus' grounds. A blessing may have been the word he chose, but this is nothing like sacred ground. After a sharp glance is given, he finally makes a noise against the roof of his mouth, the universal sound of a waved-off irritant. "You didn't do enough waiting? You needed more time? More months? For what?" It had already waited years from its original draft. It wasn't going to get derailed from simply having a guest in his house.

He has it on the tip of his tongue to question her hesitation but there's often a memory of House of Games that's not far removed from his consciousness, just lingering in the shadows, raw enough still to tether together enough patience to form silence. It doesn't cloud his expression much, keeping his mouth in a straight line, eyes unable to stray from their dark color, their attentiveness molded from the same intensity she's always witnessed, the focus and clarity rekindled.

Her comment strikes him for a moment. Unexpected. It cuts both ways, no matter how he takes it. Whether they've never deviated from the first topic or if they've shifted to only Identity. His jaw shifts before his lips purse. "What choice is left?" he questions. "When the first choice is gone?"

[claudiamcrshall]

"you need my blessing for everything." the smirk finds its place for a moment, the truth of the sentiment isn't even known to her. why should she care for any reason other than it just meant another person to protect, not to be met with the kind of hostility that she feels still clawing its way into her words. no one did anything wrong, no one did anything at all. "wasn't that obvious?" it feels hollow in her throat, the ghost of something fit for a different conversation where she still might have the right to joke, to know what to expect. she says it anyways, she lets his own words unfold.

the script presses on the conversation, pads each jab with a particular sentimentality that prevents a wince from finding its way into view as he volleys her question back at her. she certainly isn't gone, though it's no longer fair to say she never left in the first place. if the sentence is aimed to wound, it does so, pulling the expression off her face with the question of her own motivations, inabilities.

"you couldn't wait anymore." found the one thing that they had left together, made sure that it was finally going to be finished. clearing the space for something new other than the project that had been hanging over them for five years. the last debt she had to repay and then he could move on. "i won't drag this out then. we can't have it changing on you again— not on my account."

[julianxsantiago]

It's been too long, longer than the usual, longer than he has ever known from her. No call. No text. No visitation. There has been no talk about visiting potential locations, no impromptu visit with coffees in hand to have him tell her the vision the script wouldn't be able to cover. Still, he remains in his office, pen gripped and hanging over the pages of Norah to add any additional notes.

His office is decidedly different from months ago. It still looks horrific; a person diagnosed with OCD would have a panic attack before they were able to cross the threshold. But imagine how it was during a production that was rife with unsettled trauma, a production that was an outlet for an explosive temper, every day a feeling of volatile grief with the potential for another funeral right around the corner. It was in those final days, as filming was finally wrapping up, that Julian began the cleaning process. It was the same day the cast around his wrist was cut off, yet another physical reminder to the bottomless pit of regret.

Molded food that had been untouched was tossed. Cups of coffee that he had no memory of their creation were poured out. A make-shift ashtray from Luis' empty pill bottle found its great reward in the trash. The latter took longer to dispose of than anything else, but it was one reminder that had no place, even in its role as torture device for the sadomasochist.

He kept what was important: paper. Stacks of them became towers, each one with its own place, while others had the luxury of being stashed in drawers or the privilege of being tacked up to walls. The ones on the walls were currently dedicated to Norah, the current project; what remained in the drawers were the things that were much older and had no purpose other than they tied themselves to the past, the kind of past that wasn't hellish to think about and the ones that he didn't have to think about to know they weren't far away from repeating if he let them. One juggled both with ease: the one that held Identity under lock and key.

The last project had made enough of an impact that it didn't need one solitary spot; in spite of the lack of mold or stench of week-old coffee grinds, it had already permeated enough into every nook in cranny. The next project was a reset button, pressed for two instead of one, the closest one could get to an offering of apology without opening your mouth and saying words that were alien to the tongue.

And yet time ticked on until it froze.

She catches him mid-sentence, ink drying at the tip before the brows knit together. He could question her. You're asking? Not taking? It doesn't come forth. His hand waves forward, the gesture that tells her to get in. He doesn't return to the page. Her face keeps his attention more than the script, an expression on it that he's not agreeing with. The brows ease while the jaw doesn't, the fingers rolling the pen between them as the air thickens.

"What is it?"

[claudiamcrshall]

the last time she had to do this, did this to him, she'd run. she'd packed up a suitcase of sweaters, thrown her future away, and sprinted towards the worst opportunity. the idea of a conversation, of trying to ask permission to leave hadn't ever dawned on her. it always seemed like the best option was to slip away before anyone noticed, wait for self-destruction to take its toll. but it hadn't happened then, she'd been found in the frozen wyoming bar— pulled back to functional work. her healing had looked jagged and unsteady, marred by blackout days of sitting through snowstorms. she had yelled, cried, thrown things. she'd healed from superficial wounds, and sat with everything else. along it all he'd been in the room with her. a disappearance had just been a reason for him to find her.

this time she couldn't disappear, she wouldn't fold into herself and ask that he once again find the way to read her mind, to see what she needed most. it wasn't her turn to be the one in pain, it wasn't her grief that was the nonlinear path that they walked. even as her eyes follow the motion of his hand, pulled into the room by habit, she feels the quiver of her rabbit heart. the instinct again to simply leave, to find away to wipe her existence off the face of the earth. it had never worked, not once, it would not work now when she was staring down his question. the door stays open, just enough.

"i'm going to indiana." it's impersonal, it doesn't rely on anything except itself. the rejection of the script that he's offered her almost isn't present at all. as though there was a sudden vacation she had to take. as though they weren't two people alone in the world, no one to visit but the other. she doesn't sit, eyes downcast, focused on the words in the margin of a script, when they should be focused on the writer. she should be asking what the note is, what she can be working on. the conversation dancing from location to location, finding purchase in the realities of los angeles. instead she's talking about a place neither of them have ever seen, she's saying words she doesn't mean. "i can't— this doesn't work."

he deserves at least enough of a reason to make it certain that it's not him. there's nothing that he did or could have done, that it was entirely her own doing to create such a violent split. they'd worked together more times than they hadn't, they'd spent more time as a pair than apart. now was hardly the time to try and blame her inability to commit on anything other than her own cowardice. the words come out less forcefully, "my schedule is full."