ALL HAIL THE CHIEF

MARCELO RICO * PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY LEADING PRESS RELATIONS & MARKETING EXECUTIVE FOR PROMETHEUS PRODUCTIONS

[marceloxrico]

List of Marc's Character Tropes

Whitewashed Self-Identity

Conservative Gay

Corporate Kool-Aid Drinker

Sharp-Dresser

Blond Man's Love Interest Lackey

Villain Apologist

"Man of the People First to Die in Revolution"

Sports Analogy Addict

Acronym Whore

Morals Approved by HR

Voted Most Corrupt by the Least Amount of Power

[claudiamcrshall]

MARC!

His hands rise, palms facing her, an instinctual reaction to the outcry that’s spilling out and splashing on his well-tailored tuxedo. Slowly, they draw crescents in the air, a motion that’s instructed as a means to breathe. He even helps her, a gesture of the mouth to remind and to mimic. Positivity in… negativity out… Doesn’t that feel better? It’s all in the demonstration.

“I hear you,” he starts, gradually as he sits down, hands moving to rest on the table that has already been assaulted by her. Cancellable. It’s not the term he’d use, but… “We hear this feedback all the time. It’s actually consistently ranked in our top five….”–he catches something in her eyes and redirects his point; statistics are wasted on the ones in the early stages of post-cancellation, she’ll appreciate the facts later–“we’ll circle back to that. What matters now is our most valuable asset… you.” Look at his face. He cares, and by extension, Prometheus does, too. “H.R. will get in touch with you soon to go over your L.O.A. package option, but we know you earned more than that, Claudia. What do you need from me to help you rebuild?”

“top five concerns? comments? are you fucking serious with this—” she runs out of breath quickly, as though each elaborated syllable is drawing from energy that’s been already tapped. she has already said more , cried more than she should have ever let any of them see. a dam once broken, can hardly find quick repair as she fills in the blanks of circling back to her last relative hitting the staged sand. 

“i don’t even know what an loa is!” the jargan has never made an impact on her, and ow it means even less when in comparison to what she’s found herself up against. “tell me what happened!” her uncle’s points had been untouchable, built up by silent agreement that were things to start to trend downward there was a reserve. that she was prepared to step in the moment there was a notification. after all they had built shutter island from the ground up, for him. it was not a flash in the pan, it was something solid, real. still, here she was in this room. “you’re going to tell me there was a sick fucking mistake, and you’re going to do it soon.” 

she tries to push the last tangible moments from her mind, as though reliving death would do something to cement it. hands hit the table with enough force to shake it, “there’s nothing to rebuild!” asset, as thought she were commutable good and not person, they all were somehow interchangeable with in the eyes of the system. “what do you think i’m supposed to do!”

[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."

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

“no.” her voice is raw and scratched, the untapped emotion is bubbling, threatening to spill over with one more misstep. the one person who might hit it stands in front of her. “don’t call me that.” her hands slam down on the table, violence to be enacted that has not yet made it to the proper target. the trembling last grasp of sanity. 

“why am i here? what the fuck—” her thoughts tangle. why was rick marshall dragged center stage, how could this happen to someone so beloved. they had just worked together, he was fine, he could have asked— the spiral has no end. her have a hard time focusing on her target when the flood starts. “this isn’t the experience you wanted?” torment meets fury, restraints are only physical. “you killed my uncle, and this isn’t want you wanted!” she doesn’t care who the you is, the stand in for whatever mechanisms were in place that made this possible. “what happened! he wasn’t cancellable!” 

His hands rise, palms facing her, an instinctual reaction to the outcry that's spilling out and splashing on his well-tailored tuxedo. Slowly, they draw crescents in the air, a motion that's instructed as a means to breathe. He even helps her, a gesture of the mouth to remind and to mimic. Positivity in... negativity out... Doesn't that feel better? It's all in the demonstration.

"I hear you," he starts, gradually as he sits down, hands moving to rest on the table that has already been assaulted by her. Cancellable. It's not the term he'd use, but... "We hear this feedback all the time. It's actually consistently ranked in our top five...."--he catches something in her eyes and redirects his point; statistics are wasted on the ones in the early stages of post-cancellation, she'll appreciate the facts later--"we'll circle back to that. What matters now is our most valuable asset... you." Look at his face. He cares, and by extension, Prometheus does, too. "H.R. will get in touch with you soon to go over your L.O.A. package option, but we know you earned more than that, Claudia. What do you need from me to help you rebuild?"

[marceloxrico]

sarahkinney​:

there are still some parts of her that buzz with disbelief when she has these conversations. that of all the contracts she could be one of the best, that she could be turning down awards and making executives second guess their words. perhaps it will never wear off, but it is certainly less sharp than it had been prior to this project. not every girl stays nominated in the lead actress category, but she hasn’t done nice things to get there. the buzz turns hotter, something in her veins that will not find its way to cool. 

“it’s just me.” she was only at this table because of her agent, eager to see the switch from scream queen to respected actress. never taking into account that while the points had been much lower, at least there had been sanity. now she has herself to contend with. “i’m the only one opposed.” she hadn’t exactly told anyone, but word found a way out of marc’s mouth regardless she figured. if it were true and there was an offer on the table anyways. “why do i have to be the nominee.” 

"I like that thought pattern. The nominee." And if you don't believe him, he's emphasized his words with a finger, wagging in its praise before it folds up like a Swiss army knife. "That's great! We like to hear that kind of self-empowerment against the odds. It tees up success." The nominee. It's catchy, even with four other nominees on the roster. It's not within his scope to narrow down focus to the single film she's speaking of. Only big ideas for the president.

"Ah, the Academy's meetings are confidential, but I can be transparent with you, Sarah." Why her? He's ready to divulge, ready to open the kimono, all secrets unfolded to her as he moves his chair in a mere inch to pass them over. "You've earned it." Has he said it already? You bet he has. The truth was there all along. It just needed to be rebranded for her, using the same overused ribbon and empty box it came in. "Now, pivoting back to the ceremony itself..." He finds his spot back, appropriate distance. "We like to make sure we maintain a healthy atmosphere for everyone involved, and of course that includes our contracted professionals." He pauses to throw a smile that puts a spotlight on her. Inclusivity is golden. "I want you to know that we've seen the research and recognize that it can be overwhelming for green nominees." The crash and burn that may occur if one doesn't win a small possibility. "What do you need from me in your P.T.P.--path to progress?"

[marceloxrico]

@axelxreeves

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

@marceloxrico​

the ties around her wrists have already left the skin red and raw, a testament to her failure. trying to untie herself again and again as if a childhood of the game hadn’t taught her enough— that she was never going to be able to escape in time. her last fleeting moments with her uncle, spattered with blood and panic. and now in the aftermath there was nothing but a sea of blank faces. guards that could be hit, but they made sure to hit back. 

the room she’s been left in has only a table and two chairs, a holding cell for the bereft and useless. those who cannot be trusted to save their uncle, even when he is right in front of them. she would scream if anyone was listening, she would cry if they gave her a moment alone. instead she has a bruised jaw from where she tried to run across the scattered sand set, and she has been told to wait. danger to herself and others, gunshot still ringing in her ears.

finally a familiar face opens the door. loathed and despised, but known all the same. she’s on the bitter edge of something that she’s not sure she’s going to survive. reality ready to pull her over once the thoughts all align to reveal the obvious. “what the fuck did you do?”

All I could do All I could do was cry All I could do was cry I was losing the man that I love And all I could do was cry

The Audi shuts off, the CD along with it. Prometheus' own executive of press relations and marketing has arrived on scene. On his resume, he will one day add president of The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. For now, he is governor, and in this /very/ moment he is lone savior with mission acquired fresh off the presses of a nearby cocktail party. News spreads for those within the inner-circle, coming to his attention for the sake of one person.

Claudia Marshall, his favorite cinematographer, is somewhere inside (probably room 202, a fantastic boot-up area with water cooler available, plenty of tissues stocked, the grieving amenities at their highest level of standards.) He's led inside, his Prometheus keycard leading the way and appreciative smile making strides. The welcome he receives, however, is anything but charming.

"She's in shock," he whispers discreetly off to the side, the handler in no position to handle these circumstances like he can. "I'll take the lead on this. Tell Rodrigo thank you--oh, and happy birthday." And they are soon left alone, alone in a room that is unfortunately not room 202.

"Claudie..." He sighs out as the button of his tuxedo is undone, readying to sit down. “The team and I want you to know that this was not the experience we wanted you to have, and that all our thoughts are with you during this counter-positive time. We’re in this together."

[marceloxrico]

sarahkinney​:

@marceloxrico​

there is a certain hollowed out feeling to live in the aftermath of disaster. as though her mind is trying to empty her out of all feeling, prevent anything worse from happening. but there are ways to fight this. she’s learned now that the only thing worse than watching a person die in front of her is to surrender to being a ghost herself. she clicks the pen in her hand, resists driving it into the table just to leave the mark. 

“i don’t want an award.” pen clicks again, agitation built up. no awards, not for the beguiled, not for everything they’ve gone through. she wants the film to disappear into the murky fog, never to be talked of again. and she doesn’t need another award nomination for what she should be in jail for. instead she thinks of all the people who were trapped, “it’s an ensemble film anyways.”

The champagne has been ordered. It sits in its ice bucket to the side, the glasses still fizzing from the recent pour. Sarah Kinney is tinted in gold from the short sip he takes, noticing he's drinking alone, unreciprocated from the congratulatory toast he's made to her.

"We'll pencil in a time for us to compare notes on the naysayers who can make you think that way, but the here-and-now is yours. You've earned it, and on behalf of The Academy, we want to extend a personal shoutout to one of our MVPs." His smile guarantees his sincerity, but a homerun is incomplete unless you've crossed all four bases. "We all want to give credit where credit is due, but Barry Bonds didn't tell the B.W.A.A. that his award should go to all of the San Francisco Giants, and he had some to spare."

[marceloxrico]

tomas-visser​:

He casted a look of doubt masked by a bashful smile, polite in everywhere possible, “I’m sure it wasn’t that impressive.” It’s been a few years but the masterchef days were still fresh in his mind, a stark reminder for giving up everything, for family. He’s still deciding if it was the right choice, but his papa still lives, right? It started off with getting as far as he could to get a pro-rated fees, maybe 2nd or 3rd place prize. And now he stood in front another face that may have had a hand in picking him. The analogy felt strange purely because he still can’t be sure if on the same team is accurate here. But he simply bowed his head in thanks, “well- even though we’ve never met, thank you, I guess.. did you ever get to try my cooking?” Tomas asked hesitantly, curious to know, have the judging ever even really considered his skills at all.

“Oh– yes.. yeah, we’re quite a big family,” Tomas laughed it off, big, noisy, suffocating, but still family, still more than ever heightened to alert for his baby sister throwing herself at this. “Yes, that’s close, it’s ai-zer-kookieye,” Tomas slows down the pronunciation, “it’s an ancestral recipe for fishermen, this one, my parents are adamant it gets passed down for generations since well.. Visser, Fishermen.” If he hadn’t heard this same story over and over again since he could comprehend speech as a baby. Pretty sure his mama had to convince his papa not to make a fish pun with their bakery name. He couldn’t help but sneak his own piece and took a bite into it, a piece of home, never changing despite everything else. He paused, taking a second to process what he meant and nodded quickly, “oh- sure-” Tomas fumbled for his phone almost dropping it onto the counter, “let me know, if- if you need anything, for Prometheus or the bakery.”

"Modesty." He wags his finger like he's wine-tasting, detecting that particularly rare note of bashfulness. Don't correct him! He knows it when he sees it. He and the team didn't put in all that effort just for it to be washed away! The cooking element was such a small part of Tomas' potential, his story, that it barely registered to them, but for the sake of humoring him, Marc's smile is as wide as ever. "I'd love to," he nods to mean it. "Thank you for the offer. We all would appreciate you making a lunch out of it at the office. I'll text you all known dietary restrictions before we put this in motion. Jamil's birthday is next Friday. Can we count on you, then?"

Tomas' invite has not gone unappreciated! The power of what a few words will accomplish. Of course, there are more that follow that Marc continues to nod along to. Family. Cookies. Fishermen. All great things that can be summed up in bullet points for the next campaign should it arise. "Tomas, let's earmark this with a selfie together for our Slack channel," he tells him, bestows the honor on him as if there could be nothing better to return to him than pure recognition. The iPhone is already out, screen lit up with their faces like a mirror, even as Marc holds up his Dutch treat that will undoubtedly relate to the hashtag he'll put on it. "Say 'one smart cookie!'"

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

sometimes marc spoke, and it sounded like nothing but nonsense, words pulled together that had no meaning what so ever. some sentences replayed over and over again in her head until she was certain that he didn’t even know what he’d really said. but most of the time it jut left her with a furrowed brow, trying to form a coherent answer to what’d been spouted out. this time it came in the confused form of, “this isn’t steinbeck.” because how could anyone confuse this with of mice, of men. she didn’t wait for there to be a sudden clarity, only for the entire thing to go away like a bad dream. marc’s reality and her’s never again to meet as she turned her back on him to walk away. “get off the set.” 

"That is great to hear," he rewards her, complete with a thumbs up--the universal symbol of a job well-executed. As far as he's concerned, they're on the same wavelength, and the universe has decided that there is enough overlap to share. "You're on the front-line of this project, Claudie. Your input matters." A little reassurance never hurt. After all, he's only here to steer it in the right direction while she's one of the foot soldiers to make it happen. That's something to be recognized for.

"All gas no brakes." He laughs in moderation. Perhaps there is a family in Wisconsin that has voted on the appropriate level for him. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'll ping you and Julian with a calendar request for a synergy lunch next week to tie up the loose ends." He starts to turn, but another point of conversation has reeled him back in with a twist of the head back in her direction. Press-ready smile and soundbite tongue to match. "We need to work on pivoting him to team iPhone. It would streamline the process."

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

she looks at him as though he’s suddenly speaking a language that she doesn’t understand, and has never had any hope to. the kind of hopeless miscommunication that she doesn’t have the time or energy to fix. she has a suspicion that they are very much not on the same page, but at some point one member of the team has to cut their losses. he has his drink, she would like the conversation to be over. they’re half way there. 

there’s more than a beat of hesitation before she takes the paper that’s being offered out to her. taking anything from marc feels like entering into some contract that she knows she’s already unwilling to fulfill. group feedback, a perfect waste of time. her answer is fired back before he has time to elaborate, “we’re not changing the script.” he finishes anyways, and she crumples the paper in her hand. “it’s staying in.” far be it from her to understand the exact why, the precision of reliving trauma over take and take again had started to wear her down early in her career. but she is not the one who had to cover the marks of a taser from the world, she is only ever the one pointing the gun camera at what must be seen. “this is already the shooting script. there’s no room for story edits, marc.” 

Uh oh! Seems like they've encountered another classic miscommunication SNAFU. It's time to decelerate this runaway train before there are casualties involved A.S.A.P. "I hear your feedback," he begins, a natural diplomat, "and I thank you for looping me in on a full 360 of the situation. Let me assure you, though, it's nothing a top-tier editor can't solve for all of us." And he nods. He nods with the full weight of understanding for the predicament she has found herself and the rest of the crew in. Oh, Julian. Good thing you have that added support from his office before things got too out of hand.

"I'll CC you on that," he poses gently, hand folded up above his lips with one finger gesturing to the crumpled paper she abandoned hope on a little too soon. "You've opted-in to go paperless," he jokes before another swig of Redbull goes down. "We'll have another opportunity to become more productive in our next sync-up. I'll schedule you in to have enough time to get a better scope of the research that I'll shoot off to you in the follow-up e-mail, and we'll touch base, then. Let's aim for Jeter and not Stainback, copy?"

[marceloxrico]

tomas-visser​:

The laugh in reply only intensified his confusion, mind running a mile trying to think what might’ve happened with his agent, probably good to text him later.. Or would that spook him? Tomas wanted to ask again for elaboration but the man was quick to move on, completely missing the fist waiting for greeting before coming to his senses. He awkwardly bumped the fist again, hand then hanging weirdly in the air, “oh- sorry..” before finally dropping it and busying both his hands to clean the counter. Not that it really needed cleaning. “My case..- I had a case?” The talk of Masterchef brought back bad and weird and wonderful memories, a mix of bitter sweet, of hope and regret. “I’m.. surprised she had anything to say, I met Cora like once during that whole competition.. I’m so sorry if you might’ve been at the competition as well and we never met, I was– preoccupied with.. yknow..” cooking. Now looking back in retrospect, he couldn’t help start thinking about what they were thinking and talking about him behind the scenes. What made them tried to propose rigging the entire competition for him. What did they even see in him? Did they bet on him to fail for a quick buck?

But while his mind stewed on that another question had raised from Marc, “It’s.. both of theirs, family business really,” a small smile if nostalgia cracked through his lips, doubt papa would’ve survived without mama. “O-oh uh, thank you.. but my brother runs this ship here, I just came back home to help out.” Skylar wouldn’t let Tomas make any drastic changes to the menu no matter how hard he tried. Could’ve at least given him one menu slot to do experimental pastries for having left his life in Paris. “Uh, cookie?” Tomas reached over to the tray of oval cookies that brought a soft comforting waft of warm cinnamon, a Visser traditional as his father would always preach, some ancient fisherman snack that runs deep in their ancestors, “IJzerkoekje, they’ll go well with your coffee, especially this winter.”

We don't use words like naive. We say honest instead. Tomas de Visser. There's that honest boy we want to know more about. He's the type you'd trust with anything, especially a cheese souffle. Oh, were there rounds of laughter that day in the office, pure lightning in that brainstorming session when his file reached the department. There was never a reason to question Cora; it wasn't even an action that was considered. To shed any light on the why was a fool's errand, but he could provide some moral support, at least. "She saw something special in you. We all did, and we still do!" An uplifting turn delivered in a one-two punch before Marc is able to take a drink from his order. "No, no. We never met. You were our Ronaldo on the field while we were stationed at the goalpost. On the same team, but paths never meant to intersect." Sound analogy. He'll recycle it for a wider audience.

"Yes, a brother, thank you for refreshing my memory. Skylar? And... sisters. Twins?" He remembers that in the profile quite distinctly. There's still untapped potential in that family, but their file has not circled back to his desk to do much more. Besides, the offer of a cookie is rude not to acknowledge. "How do you say that again? Ishercookie? That sounds outstanding, thank you..." His eyes drift off of it slowly before popping back to Tomas. "Why don't I airdrop my contact info?"

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

“i don’t bench the star players.” there’s a pointed glare, sharp enough to be considered a dagger if she were willing to put forward the energy or her opponent would understand it as such. neither will happen, leaving her with nothing but the wish that as with all interactions, marc would finally leave her in peace. there was clearly nothing she could say that he was interested in hearing, and she was long past of hearing what he said as thought. 

she’s already verging on exasperated, a feat that marc seems to accomplish in shorter and shorter time frames. as though he can figure out exactly what the project doesn’t need and come by to offer just that. and in return, she refuses to offer marc anything close to what he wants. “i bet your suite is stocked.” and they were a safe walking distance from the studio, he could take all his thoughts of focus groups and new titles away from where they could do anymore harm. “why don’t you go check.”

"That's the spirit! I appreciate the time it took to get us back on the same page," he tells her with a quick glance that is shared between his papers and a sharp gaze. It's enough to make him do a double-take, a wondering and confused look passing by his face before he looks over his shoulder to where it must be chartered to. "Interns," he sighs in sympathy as he redirects his attention to charts and figures. "They get an E in effort."

Before there's anything responded back to about the Redbull, the drink in question arrives and any negative meaning is drowned out by the awaiting caffeine. "I'll reroute while we're still waiting for Julian," he goes on before the can is cracked open loudly, buzzing soon after with carbonation. "Our panelists had some invaluable feedback when it came to some portions in the script we zeroed in for them." The piece of paper is passed onto her while he takes a quick sip before he loses the momentum. "How firm are we on the tasering...?"

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

she’s losing the point of the conversation, opting to let him continue on in his talking circles with silence as her contribution. she’s learned over the years to just delete marc’s emails as they come. none of them have ever held any information that’s swayed a decision. her work has never been completed in an app or over an email thread. there is nothing that cannot be done face to face. perhaps it’s because she’s learned from so many who wouldn’t have responded from anything less than a phone call, or maybe it’s just that she hates the slack notification sound. they’ll never find out. 

“gif.” finally gets her attention back, though not towards the actual point that he’s trying to make. it could be a photo of anything in the world, and it wouldn’t make a difference to her. there’s no motivational poster that’s going to convince her to hand over this production to a focus group of people pretending they know what art is. it is none of their opinion to say, it’s only julian’s. 

“you don’t have any artillery.” finally, what is generally reserved for good natured boredom starts to creep into annoyance. it will turn defensive before she realizes what she’s saying, and if there’s any pattern to go by she will get angry. but not quite yet. “you can’t have anything. it’s a thriller.” regardless of the fact she just doesn’t want to let him win, there’s integrity to deal with. “there’s a mystery, i’m not just giving you pieces of it. that’ll ruin everything.”

There is a laugh that circles back to her, as if it has always been waiting for her right around the corner--one statement enough to send it off in her direction, cc'd to whomever else it may concern. "That's because I am the artillery, or I should say we are." He is inclusive to a fault, spreading it out in the form of words and the smile that births them. "There's a full suite of heavy-hitters ready to give their all to the project. Not using us is a disservice to the end result. Keeping your star players on the bench isn't going to win us the game."

The motivation to continue to follow her has subsided, slowing his pace to a stop. Besides, at the end of the day, she is not the decision maker, and his eyes are still on the look-out for the one who is. Following the scent of coffee and allegations of assault, he would be bound to run into him. "One thing we can all agree on," he started in again, redirecting, the look of a man winding up for some light-humor, "someone must have forgotten to restock the Redbull around here."

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

a scowl deepens on her face, forming at the idea that he’s the one in control around here, and lingering the more he continues to speak. it’s been too long for her sullen expressions to keep him away, a tragedy in her mind as she has to continue to hear about how he’s apparently running a set that he’d barely set foot on. there’s no point in trying to engage with this conversation, they’re not on a race track and she’s not going to pretend like all of their work is created equal.

“panera?” she mutters under her breath, stopping short of saying that the opportunity was for him to leave the set still. it wasn’t going to happen, at least not yet. the references were going in one ear and out the other. she’s moved on from the situation, although it seems it will not leave her. “can you stop bringing up slack. i don’t have it.” she refused to add anything to her phone that would tie her to company software. the creeping suspicion that somehow it would get her into trouble down the line. the only place that company software belonged was on the desktop in her nearly abandoned production office. “and stop using metaphors.”

"There's a phenomenal tutorial on how to install it that I'll shoot over to you," he replies back without a moment of hesitation, an instant process of thought that goes in one linear pattern that is incapable of believing that she would not find use in it. It helps when he's glancing at his watch to catch the notifications popping up, tracking various groups he's leading that require a swipe to the instant response of a thumbs up or fire emoji when pep is applicable. "We have Warrior Wednesday that rallies the team in a forward-thinking direction. It fosters inspiration when we all need it." He looks at Claudia explicitly. "Look at this jif." His iPhone is already pulled out, held out for her without offering it to her, framed by a firm grip to show the low-grade gif. "Alexander the Great, not Alexander the 'that will do.'"

His point is made, and he's gotten a single laugh from it. Patricia is a rockstar with the gif searches, and the iPhone 12 is back in his pocket. Safe and sound. "A warrior is only as good as what's in their artillery," he hammers home. "Which brings us back to a full 360 while I'm here. What stills can you fast-track over to us for the next round of focus groups?"

[marceloxrico]

tomas-visser​:

If Tomas had ever known when to shut his mouth, which should really be all the time, it would’ve especially been now, the red flush rushing to his cheeks and ears from the mistake thinking the customer was actually speaking to him. Of course it would’ve been on the phone, wireless earbuds these days are harder and harder to spot to be quite honest. Tomas gestured an apologetic bow, mouthing a silent sorry before simply keeping his gaze down to stay in his own lane, refilling the freshly baked bread as the man continued his conversation with his invisible counterpart on the line. Maybe he should just go hide in the kitchen– 

Tomas froze having heard his name announced so loudly, “I-..” he wasn’t exactly sure what to say, gaze speaking a thousand questions at once including the panic of not knowing who this man is. And more importantly, should he know who this man is. He knew he was in La La Land, but then again anyone could’ve known right since they made the announcements early on. The press conferences with Jade was like nails on chalkboard. “New agent? Do I.. need one?” The words came out as more of a mutter in confusion, repeating his words to process them himself. “I’m really sorry, I’m not sure.. if I ever had the pleasure Mr..”

Tomas Visser! The poster-child for Prometheus' proven track-record of success, the shining example of how hard-work and a heavy sprinkling of public relations could turn your boy-next-door into A-list material. Why he had taken a break was incomprehensible, and when the question boomeranged back, Marc had to laugh. No agent that had their head in the game would have ever let it occur, but the humor came in the delivery. He remembered that naive charm all too well, perfectly encapsulating the Visser brand he helped construct once upon a time.

"Oh, no. There are no misters on this team," he told him, feeling the weight of his floating fist that had not been touched before presenting it again, enough to actually bump into Tomas'. "There we go. No worries; we got it in the end before the buzzer," he joked before the smile was given, the one publicly registered under Marc Rico Ltd. "Call me Marc. I'm proud to say that I took the lead on your case during your Masterchef days. I knew from square one there was a reason Cora forwarded her recommendation to my team." Eyes welled with self-congratulation, the nod of approval to a job well done to both of them before eyes were flicking down and then up. A moment of pause. "Is this your..." his eyes squinted for a second, pointer poised at him to warn Tomas not to tell him, "...mother's.... no father's bakery! I remember. Wow..." The nods continued, each one softer than the last, the consolation that they spoke to unrivaled. "I'm going to have to give you a shoutout for taking it to the next level when I get back in the office."

[marceloxrico]

claudiamcrshall​:

by the next time she says “don’t say that.” she’s walking away from the charts that are being presented, the situation has already become too annoying for her to try and pretend it might be worth their time. if there were charts and graphs involved then it wasn’t a conversation that she was interested in. there was nothing that a statistic could tell he about the film she was making. still the catchphrases follow her as though she’s wearing some bad cheap perfume— or was it cologne attached to a suit that was too tailored to seem comfortable. “you know, you should turn around.”

she only stops when she’s at the rig that she needs to actually be working with, not wasting her time on marc once again. “there’s no target demographic. it’s not for your focus group.” her voice is annoyed, reaching new heights of exasperation, but still she knows it’s for the best that she’s the one on the frontlines of this conversation. it’s the least she can do. “and if you call something a growth chart again i’m—” she thinks of all the insults that are waiting to be spilled out between them, how they’ll be absorbed by that tailored suit and she’ll be left in the same position. “i’m going to get security.”

"We should turn around, Claudie," he tells her as he stands up from his chair, taking the more fundamental notes with him as he goes to follow up with her. "It's understandable to view me as the one in the driver's seat, but I'm here to empower you, too. The pit crew is equally as important, if not moderately more so," he preaches with reassurance on his tongue, a nod to tie it all together. But she's still having a challenging time connecting the dots. Talking down to her is not the answer. He must lower himself to her level instead to get at the core of the issue.

"You know what I appreciate about this dual-exchange? This is opening up the floodgates to recognize opportunities," he tells her, making sure it sounds as though this is a safe-space for her to speak her mind, to open up her true feelings to him. Security is not precisely the course of action he would have chosen, had it been him. "I brought Phil Panera when I came in. He was voted as the MVP of the day in our Slack channel," he goes on to explain before he begins to slow to a stop, keeping his eyes out for a higher-up. "Though, if you could ask him where Julian is... I don't think he'd mind too much. You could tell him it's coming from me so you're not the one rocking the boat."

[marceloxrico]

tomas-visser​:

“…uh.. –sir, this is a bakery..” Tomas looked up at the man in front of him, hand holding up a large tray of pastries fresh out of the oven to be out on display. He wasn’t sure who it was, definitely not one of their usual customers. Most people ask about sugar and milk, or if they have gluten free options, not.. about paradigm shifts. “Is there.. something wrong with your order? Would you like a change?”

The local bakery was not on Marc's routine stops. His go-to was the Starbucks down the street, but if the sign on the drive-thru speaker was any indicator, it seemed that the only team decision that ever had been made there was to quit all at once. The Visser bakery just happened to be the closest replacement, complete with the barista checking on him, words buzzing beyond the airpods in his ears before he signaled that they were indeed working with a smile and a finger circling around their existence. Unusually persistent, though, he made a more pressing look over, then took a double. "We'll sync up A.S.A.P., Tamara. Shoot me an e-mail." The conversation was traded out, ending one to begin another. "Tomas Visser, hello, hello. Aren't you a busy-bee!" His tone ended in a breathing laugh, fist held out to bump. "La La Land to La La Latte. Time to look for a new agent! Isn’t that right?"