Archive of Our Own ^beta

“And you’re certain nobody is following us?” Arthur muttered into his collar as he exited the train. The air of Los Angeles was surprisingly cool compared to what he had been expecting. The Pacific breeze most likely had something to do with that.

“Arthur, I saw absolutely no one acting suspicious.” John barreled on before he could cut in with another question. “I didn’t miss anything because you were reminding me to keep an eye out every five minutes. The whole point of coming here is to get away from anyone coming after us, do you think I’d just turn a blind eye to that?”

“No, no, of course not,” Arthur said. John’s hand pressed against his thigh to silently guide him out of the train station. It was a system they worked out once they realized constantly talking to each other made it harder to be aware of their surroundings. Index for forwards, middle and ring for right and left respectively, and the sharp press of the wooden pinky as a warning to stop or step back. When the chatter of the train station faded away, Arthur continued their conversation. 

“Everything just seems to be going swimmingly. Suspiciously so. I guess it’s put me on edge.”

“I… Can’t say I don’t understand the feeling,” John admitted. Arthur snorted, bitter. Their entire time together, the closest they’ve had to normalcy were brief respites from their problems. Of course managing to run away from everything put them off-kilter. 

“But we made it, Arthur,” he continued. “There are no signs of danger, and we’re in Hollywood. Shouldn’t we enjoy it?”

“Technically, we’re not in Hollywood yet,” Arthur said. “Los Angeles is a big city.”

“But we’re close, aren’t we?” John asked, and Arthur had to fight a smile. “You said Hollywood is where they make movies. Why shouldn’t we go see it?”

“I doubt that we’d be able to get inside the studio.”

“It’s still worth a shot, Arthur.” 

“I suppose,” he sighed, playing up his exasperation. Having a plan for the day has put him in a better mood. “Alright, let’s get a taxi. We can at least see the gates outside.”

They manage to get inside the studio.

There was a fortuitous combination of factors on their side. For one, the guard at the main gate waved them in without any questions. His eyes had bags bigger than Arthur’s at their worst, if John hadn’t been exaggerating for effect. They hadn’t bumped into anyone patrolling the grounds while they were walking the streets between the studios, and then they had stumbled upon an open double door, complete with the sounds of a yelling director and violins warming up. John had insisted.

Arthur slipped inside as quietly as he could, and the stuffy, spotlight heated air quickly explained the open door. Someone called out a surprisingly high take number and snapped a clapboard. John jumped in to describe the scene.

“The stage is set up to look like a bar, furnished mostly in old wood. One man—An actor?—stands behind the counter in white shirtsleeves. Another man sits , hand loosely holding a glass, poised as if waiting for—”

“Action!” the director called. 

“—And just like that, I wasn’t allowed back in the kitchen ‘til I was full grown,” the actor said, feigning a full conversation and a country accent. He did a poor job of it, too stuck to the artificial actor’s accent to clip out any of the consonants. “The things y’do for family, y’know?”

“The doors are opening,” John said, just as heeled boots struck the floor. “A woman has entered.”

“Miss May Anne,” said the other actor—Bartender, most likely. “Don’t see you in here when your Pa’s not drinking.”

“Still here on someone else’s behalf,” May Anne replied.

“She’s holding a strange hat, Arthur, with a wide brim and folded crown.”

“We passed through Texas, you should’ve seen a few,” Arthur whispered into his hand. The actress continued as if she hadn’t heard him, thank god. 

“Left your hat, Marlin,” she said coyly. 

“She’s putting the hat on Marlin’s head. He stands. He looks conflicted.” 

“If you’d been by last night, you could’ve let me know,” she continued.

“What kinda gentleman would disturb your beauty sleep?” Marlin responded smoothly.

“You were out that late?” Sharp head on that May Anne’s shoulders.

“That brother of mine dragged me out. Had us running around like a pair of hoodlums,” Marlin explained. 

“I think he’s hiding something, Arthur,” John chimed in.

“You know how Tom gets,” he finished.

“I do. I’d like to know how you get.” Arthur could hear the smirk in her voice. “First off, I’d like to get you to the dance hall on Friday.”

“You’d be bringing two left feet,” Marlin chuckled.

“Arthur!” John’s excitement was palpable. “May Anne is wrapping her arms around Marlin’s shoulders!”

“I’m alright with that, if the two left feet will accept a few lessons.” Somewhere in the studio, a small band began to play. Violin and cello, understated enough to not throw a viewer out of the scene.

“Marlin is bringing one hand to May Anne’s waist, and the other to hold her hand. She’s teaching him to dance, Arthur!” He nodded, silently acknowledging John’s words. The scene brought him an unusual bout of nostalgia, from the years in his youth where nothing of particular note happened. He’d visited speakeasies before, and seen couples dancing time and time again. Then and now were different genres, of course, but the essence was the same.

Those bars were often packed, too, with women in rolled stockings and rakish men without their jackets. Fashion changed so fast in those years—He still remembered his mother’s high-necked gowns, and the inflated sleeves of grandmothers in family portraits. There’d been a case with Parker where one of those photos had been double exposed, they’d figured it out and found what they needed just in the nick of time. And—

Arthur’s mind was racing, he realized, flipping through memories faster than he could remember them. The music had faded to almost nothing beneath the rush of blood in his ears. He pressed himself against the studio wall to brace against the dizziness. His thoughts were slipping through his fingers, like pages of a photo album too slick to hold open. Faroe, Daniel, Bella, Parker, his parents, old clients, all flashing before his mind’s eye almost faster than he could recognize their faces. There was ice crawling up the back of his neck, a last warning sign before fainting. He would have sprawled on the ground if a crash hadn’t brought him rushing back to himself.

“—Arthur! What happened?! I couldn’t see, Arthur!” John sounded panicked. The rest of the room did, too, but almost certainly for different reasons. “Can you hear me, Arthur?”

“I’m with you,” he answered softly. “What’s going on?”

“A light fell. May Anne is on the bar. Everyone else is confused, yelling at each other.” John’s descriptions were uncharacteristically clipped. 

“What is she doing on the bar, of all places?” Arthur was baffled.

“I don’t know!” John snapped. “Some of the truss landed near her, but that’s all I know because I couldn’t fucking see! ”

“Right. Well, I—”

“Cut already!” bellowed someone who could only be the director. “We’ve already wasted enough film on this godforsaken scene. Lindsey! Off the bar. Everyone reset, we’re going again as soon as we’re cleaned up.”

“Hm,” Arthur hummed to himself. What little he heard of the scene seemed to be wonderful. It wasn’t the actors, and after so many takes it shouldn’t be an issue with the camera, lights, or set either. Something was off.

“Stop thinking about the actors and tell me what the FUCK just happened to us!” John demanded. 

“Right, right. I’m not entirely sure myself. One moment, I was thinking about a memory, and the next I couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

“... Which memory?” 

“That’s the thing. I think it was… all of my memories.” With this moment to breathe, the pieces are coming together in Arthur’s mind. He sighs, frustrated.

“I think something was looking through my memories.”

“Dammit. Just when we had gotten away, too.” John’s voice was more bitter than angry, but that robbed it of none of its impact. Arthur sighed, and replied in much the same tone.

“Seems we’re just magnets for this sort of horseshit.” 

“At the very least, it’s something new, not someone following us all the way here. Unless—?”

“No, this is new.” 

“I see. So all our experience won’t be of much help.”

“It’s the Hollywood special,” Arthur joked. He gestured to nothing in the air. “Horrors beyond the average man’s imagination, one night only. Get your tickets now!”

“One night?”

“Our expertise won’t be for naught. I doubt anyone else has an inkling of the nature of the situation, for one. I was banking on investigative work for our finances out here, anyways, and it can’t hurt to get a foothold in the business with the rich and famous.”

“Agreed. Oh, it looks like someone is talking to the director,” John pointed out.

“What are they talking—?”

“FINE!” the director yelled. “Lunchtime, everyone. Actors forty five, everyone else thirty and then clean this mess!”

“That answers that,” Arthur mumbled. 

“Arthur, we need to go. Everyone’s moving, they’re going to notice us here.”

“Oh, right, good call.” As quietly as he had snuck in, Arthur slipped out through the open door. He kept moving once he was outside, running a hand along the studio wall just long enough to know he was sticking close. Acting like he had somewhere to be looked less suspicious, and someone on the shoot could be a lead. 

“Where do you think we should start?” John asked. “Poke around another building? It’d be nice to interview someone who saw what happened, but we don’t even know their real names.”

“Well, no, we know one. Lindsey,” Arthur recalled.

“The actress? Where do you think she’s headed?”

“Her dressing room, most likely. Though that’s probably back inside.”

“I doubt it. We were in a very big room, there shouldn’t be room for anything else in this building.”

“Really? With how hot it was in there— Well, nevermind. Our best bet now is to tail someone to wherever the dressing rooms are.”

“Slow down here, we’re at the corner.” John switched easily from conversing to directing. “Let me check if anyone’s there.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, for John’s benefit. No one behind them. He felt his way to the corner, then stopped. John pulled their new shaving mirror out of their pocket and angled it so see around the corner.

“Arthur! It’s her!”

“Lindsey?” he whispered.

“She’s smoking a cigarette. Very quickly.”

“Stressful job. Is there anyone else around?”

“There’s a few people about a block away. I think most of the people inside—”

“The crew,” Arthur added.

“They stayed behind to clean up. Lindsey is alone. She’s almost done with her cigarette.”

“Let’s let her finish and get a few steps ahead of us. She can show us where the trailers are.”

Tailing Lindsey was simple. They followed a few feet behind, with an easy line of sight from how deserted the street was. Arthur was a bit surprised at how the film buildings were like a small city. John spotted a plaque on the stage they had exited, marking it number 17. Easy to find it again later. Lindsey turned right as soon as there was a gap in the buildings, and shortly afterwards John was describing a little collection of bungalows, their mark slipping through one of their doors.

“Oh, that makes sense,” Arthur said idly. “They can be for the actors or be a film set, depending on what’s being filmed.”

“What are we waiting for, Arthur?” John complained, impatient as ever. “Go in there and ask her what we need to know!” 

“In a minute. We’ll give her a moment to settle her nerves,” Arthur said. “For now, are there plaques on these buildings, too? With the actor’s names, maybe. I’d like to know Lindsey’s surname.”

“Why do we need to know that?”

“Professionalism. I’d wager she’ll be more willing to talk if we’ve already been hired by the studio.”

“Oh!” As usual, John seemed enthused by the prospect of lying. “Okay. Walk closer to the buildings.” In the relative privacy they had, John gave his directions verbally instead of by hand, and it didn’t take long to find that the buildings were indeed labeled by name.

“Lindsey Harper,” he read. “It’s not a plaque. It’s a piece of wood hanging on a wire, with the name painted on it. It matches the aesthetic of the movie set.”

“Leftover pieces from a different accident, maybe,” Arthur half-joked.

“Let’s go in now. The director said this was a short break.”

“Yes, yes, alright.” Arthur climbed up the few steps to the front door and knocked. “Miss Harper?”

“Can’t a girl eat a sandwich in peace?!” came a muffled voice from deeper inside. Without the southern accent for the cameras, Lindsey spoke with the eerie transatlantic accent innate to all film actors. 

“Don’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” Arthur reassured her. “I just want to chat for a bit.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, just a bit softer than before, “Fine. Door’s open!” Arthur turned the handle and let himself in. 

“Lindsey is sitting in a room to your right,” John described. “There’s a sandwich and a small bottle of milk on the table in front of her—She probably just got them out of the ice box in the corner. She’s picking at the crust.”

“What is this about? I’m busy.” Whatever nerves were slipping through in her body language, she did a remarkable job hiding them in her voice.

“Right. I’ll be brief, then,” Arthur began. “I’ve been told there have been some unusual problems with filming lately, and—” 

“By who?” she cut him off. “None of the executives care to get involved, as long as there’s a movie at the end. Would Farrer even have the money to hire someone…?”

“She’s staring intently at her plate. I don’t think she’s buying it, Arthur.”

“I’m here to solve whatever problems are happening on set, Ms. Harper.” He had to think quickly to save this. Be vague on the details, appeal to her sense of fear. Keep her talking. 

“You’ve been working on this project for a while now. Whatever insight you can share will save me the time of looking into it myself—We’re talking days, perhaps even weeks. The more you can help me now, the faster I can make your problems go away.”

“She’s looking at us. Don’t move your head. Eye contact.”

“Are you positive?”

“Absolutely certain,” Arthur assured her. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Well then. I’m not exactly swimming in options here.” She paused, and Arthur thought he heard her drinking her milk. John didn’t elaborate on it.

“There’ve been new rules for what’s allowed to be shown in theaters,” Lindsey began her explanation. “Some Catholics got their panties in a twist.”

“A frequent problem,” Arthur chimed in.

“Yes. But there have been some… internal arguments, over how closely to follow the rules.” She pause again, waiting for a response. No names or specific information given.

“Tell me how that’s been affecting your work.” Keep the focus on Lindsey, instead on what Arthur did and didn’t know. She sighed, and the floodgates opened.

“I don’t have the wost of it, truth be told. All I have to deal with are delays and micromanagement. We keep going back and forth between the scriptwriter’s vision and the director’s. Different versions of the script, only one of them officially approved. There’s just one scene that really changes, but it changes the tone of the whole third act. Different ways they want me to cry in a man’s arms.”

“I’d call that a fair bit more than an internal argument.” Sympathize with her. Move towards more detailed information. “Do you think it had anything to do with the accident today?”

“She’s begun to pick at her nails.”

“I know it was likely just that—an accident. But Farrer is so determined to weasel around the censors, and Bill is so worried about taking any risks… The stakes are high enough to consider the possibility. I think there’s a sabateur.”

“Working for whom?”

“I have no idea. Either would benefit from delaying production; more time to yell at each other to get their way. There’s been rumors of people going into the soundstage at night, staying there for a few hours.”

“A cult meeting?” John guessed.

“Plenty of time to loosen some screws,” Lindsey finished her thought. “The production almost seems cursed, with how often things are going wrong.”

“Cursed? How so?” Arthur prompted.

“Well, it’s Hollywood. We’re all a little superstitious,” Lindsey waffled. He should’ve known better than to hope for a real lead this early on.

“No harm in being cautious,” he replied.

“The same to you. It’s a vicious industry, and you’re diving head first into its ugly side.”

“I’ve dealt with ugly before. Thank you for your time, Ms. Harper.” Lindsey didn’t say goodbye as he left the bungalow.

“So, where to next?” John asked as soon as they were back outside. “Is it worth it to look into a saboteur?”

“Probably not. We know better than to think loose screws made the lights fall.”

“The cultists, then?”

“We don’t know for sure that they’re cultists. Plus, we’d have to wait until night to look into that. On the other hand, looking into those two could give us an actual lead.”

“The writer and the director?”

“Yes.” Arthur walked back towards the main area of the film studio grounds, letting John’s fingers steer him away from any obstacles. “Lindsey is likely right about them being at the center of the conflict, even if she’s wrong about the source.”

“You think they could be the victims here?”

“The main targets, yes. Do you have a different read of it?”

“Not really. I just don’t like the director very much.” The bluntness made Arthur snort.

“You haven’t even met the man.”

“He was in the soundstage! Between his attitude there and what we just heard, there’s plenty to not like about him.” John defended his pettiness valiantly.

“Well, we still have a job to do. For our own sake, and for everyone else involved here.”

“Hmm,” John agreed reluctantly. And then, he suggested, “We should see this movie afterwards.”

“You liked the bit we saw being filmed?”

“I want to see the full story,” he insisted. “Hopefully the version the writer wanted to make.”

“Alright, we can keep an eye out for it,” Arthur agreed. A fond smile colored his words. 

“Did you catch the title?”

“No, but I’m sure we can find it out during our investigation. And if filming resumes soon, the offices should be relatively quiet.”

The offices were inside a large building at the back of the studio’s property, a fair distance from the gates but not hard to reach with the streetgrid lining everything. The front doors were unlocked, and Arthur breezed past reception by acting as stressed and short-tempered as everyone else who worked here. Once inside, the challenge became navigating the bland hallways and the indistinguishable rooms labeled only by number, instead of with anything helpful such as people’s names or their roles. Even the purpose of the room would have been a bigger help. As things stood, they could at least listen at each of the thin plywood doors and avoid barging in on a meeting.

Most of the rooms they checked were surprisingly bland. Arthur had been expecting a handful of old movie posters on the walls, or something of the sort, but all John could see were sterile offices, unoccupied desks covered in papers, and the occasional couch and coffee table. The unattended documents could have been good evidence, but without any way to confirm which office belonged to whom, and with so many rooms to check, they didn’t have the time to comb through them.

As they pushed farther in, the uniform, silent offices gave way to the occasional snatches of chatter. Behind one door, they caught a table read of a movie script, and Arthur lingered for a few moments when John said he wanted to listen to the end of the scene. It gave him a moment to think about how the building was laid out. The business side of things seemed to be clustered around the main entrance, probably to be more convenient for investors and suchlike. The actual movie production, however, appeared to be deeper inside. Perhaps there was a side entrance for the actors and other staff on this side of the building.

The table read broke off into performance notes, and they left the door to continue searching. They turned a few corners, which led them back to the front offices, and there was finally something of interest.

“The door’s open. Inside is—Arthur!” John broke off excitedly. “There’s a movie poster on the desk!”

“And?” he prompted.

“The man on the front of the poster is the actor that played Marlin!”

“Wonderful. Whoever owns this office, they’re connected to the film.” Unless the businessmen were passing posters around to their coworkers, but this didn’t seem to be the sort of workplace that encouraged sharing like that.

“The name on the poster is Far From the Tree ,” John filled him in as he entered the room. 

“Evocative.”

“The desk has the same mess of paper as the others,” he continued his description. “There are two packets at the top of the pile with the film’s name. One has been stamped with the word approved.”

“Both versions of the scripts. Must be Farrer’s office. The director’s name might be on them.” Arthur slid his hand across the desk until he felt a thick, neat stack of paper. He picked up the script.

“Directed by W. McConnel,” John read.

“William,” Arthur concluded.

“How do you get Bill from William?”

“Rhymes with Will.”

“Well that’s stupid,” John scoffed.

“It’s far from the only name that happens with. Many people named Richard actually go by—”

“I can’t!” bellowed someone nearby. Arthur shut his mouth and dropped down behind the desk in a crouch.

“Where—?” Arthur asked in a whisper. John was answering before he could finish the question. 

“There’s another door inside this office. That’s where the voice is coming from.” Arthur stood slowly to walk around the desk, John’s hand guiding him to the door in tense silence.

“I can’t just force them to use the original script,” Farrer continued. “It’s hard enough just getting picked up in this industry, don’t you understand?”

“I don’t care.” The second voice didn’t reach Arthur’s ear. It crawled up his spine and wormed its way into the base of his skull. He shuddered and leaned against the door as the dizziness from earlier reacquainted itself.

“I gave you this ‘career’ you care so much about. Do you think I did it for your sake? Did you earn this by being good?"

“…No."

"That's right. If altruism exists in this world, it's not for you. It's not for people like you. We write about people like you, don't we? Is it time we write about you?"

Ever so faintly through the door, Arthur caught the heavy, smooth scratch of pen on paper. The voice slithered up again as the sound of writing continued.

"Now doesn't that make for a good pitch. How old were you when you did this? Thirty? Not quiet? Maybe that fresh-faced Grant could play you, if he's interested in being a monster for a—"

The paper ripped. It was being shredded.

"That pen was a gift." Farrer's voice had gone flat.

"Ought to have been more careful with it, then." There was a beat.

"Who is he on the phone with?" John asked. It sent an extra stone of dread to settle in Arthur’s stomach. He reached across himself to squeeze John’s hand, hoping he got the message to shut up.

“I know you’ll figure it out,” the voice switched tack. “You’ve done great work with Bill before. You both just want to make this a success, right? You just have to convince him that our way is the right kind of success.”

“I’ll try,” Farrer ground out.

“You’ll try your best,” the voice corrected, saccharine. “And once you pull through here, I have a new quarry in mind I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Arthur felt ice prickle along his back.

“He’s ripe for a full suite of scripts, I imagine. If you don’t mind me leaving, I suspect I can catch him while he’s still in the studio.”

“Shit,” Arthur breathed. He stood up as fast as he could and made a beeline for the door.

“Arthur? Arthur, what happened?!”

“In a minute,” he hissed. His shoulder clipped the doorframe, and he desperately hoped it wasn’t as loud as it felt. He sprinted down the hallway as soon as he was clear.

“Turn left! Arthur, what’s going on?”

“Thing from the film set,” he panted as he ran. “It was talking— With the writer. It knows we’re here.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” John read his mind. “Is it following us?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so.” Arthur slowed to a jog, making sure his footfalls were quieter. Nothing running in pursuit. He looked back. “See anything?”

“No.”

“Then I think we’re safe for now. It was only talking like it knew we were nearby, not like it knew we were listening in.”  

“We’re at the end of the hallway. There’s an open door that leads to a staircase. Stop there and tell me what happened!”

Arthur slipped into the stairwell and leaned against the wall, out of sight of the doorway. He took a moment to steady his breathing before beginning his explanation.

“The thing that was in my head earlier is helping Farrer write his scripts using people’s memories, as far as I could gather. I’m not sure what it gets out of this, but it seemed to be using Farrer’s past as leverage against him.”

“His past? What did he do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?”

“I only know what I heard, John, it’s not as if they were rehashing their entire interpersonal history.”

“It’s just—Frustrating, okay?! I only have your word to go on here.”

“Well how do you think I feel, then?” The argument went dead before it could truly begin. The silence echoed in the empty air above them.

“Sorry,” Arthur apologized quickly. The words had just slipped out. He was too used to John being his eyes to truly be angry about it. “There’s no use arguing over something we can’t control.”

“Right.” 

“Right. So! We have a lead now, at least. We just need to find a way to take care of the problem. There’s an upstairs?”

“And a basement, from the looks of it.”

“Good to know. Let’s start with upstairs then, see what turns up.”

“What are the odds we actually find something useful?”

“Better than our odds in a direct confrontation.”

“Fair point. The stairs up are to your right.”

The hallway of the second floor has a similar layout to the first, but the doors mostly lead to meeting rooms instead of personal offices. The furniture is blander, more economical, implying that these rooms are for people who actually work at the studio to discuss their ongoing projects, instead of those paying to have their names attached. The walls are once again devoid of movie posters, but there is one feature in almost every room that marks the space as belonging to a film studio. They have a projector.

It took several attempts on John’s part to describe the device in a way where Arthur understood what it was. The projectors didn’t have film reels in them, after all. It made sense; a meeting room is not the place to screen a completed film, and incomplete clips would need to be kept safe in the editing room, or wherever else they might be stored. This also meant that they noticed the one projector that had film left in it.

“What do you think is on it?”

“Could be anything. If we’re lucky, it’s part of Far From the Tree. If we’re really lucky, it shows us what’s causing the accidents.”

“The Muse, or something else.”

“Went and combed my memory for some Greek mythology, did you?”

“It’s a fitting name. It serves the same function, in a warped way.”

“I have to agree. Besides, much easier to have something to call it. Now let’s see how this contraption works, shall we?”

The contraption amounted to a light bulb, a hand crank, and a single switch that was damned hard to find. Once John finally tracked it down, the spools whirred as they began to move, and Arthur was incredibly glad they didn't have to bother with threading the film through.

"This seems to be a dead end. All that's on the film is shapes."

"Shapes? What kind of shapes?"

"Just… Shapes…"

"Huh. Something must have ruined the exposure during filming. They must've been in a panic once they noticed, I'll bet that's why they left it here for us." John didn’t respond.

"Oh come on, I've told worse jokes than that, this hardly counts. … John? Is there something on the film?"

The projector behind him rattled softly, like the film spool was shifting on its axel. Then there was a short, crackling burst, like a radio when first turned on. Arthur was positive there was no speaker in this room. 

“It’s so hard being dragged along as you’ve been, isn’t it?” cooed the unseen radio. Its voice buzzed with static, only just comprehensible in its crisp, transatlantic accent. Arthur turned to leave the room, to run, but he instantly ran into something. His own arm—John’s arm—a deathgrip on the edge of the table, holding them both to the spot. 

“John!” he pleaded, painstakingly prying John’s fingers away. Again, after uncountable times, he was thankful his stronger hand had stayed his own.

“There are no rules,” the electronic voice continued. “No plans. You have no control—How horrible!” The rattling continued, and Arthur felt something sliding up his ankle, slick and sharp all at once. The film. He shuffled in place to shake it off before it could coil further up his leg.

“Work with me here, John,” he grumbled. John’s fingers clamped back down as fast as he could wrench them away. He switched tactics, wedging his hand under John’s palm in preparation to tear him away all at once. It was slow work.

“See how he’s fighting you?” That damned radio was still talking. “You should be able to make your own decisions for a change, not have to ask permission to walk somewhere. I can give you that control, that safety. It would be so easy, so sweet, so comfortable a life.”

There was a second strand of film working its way past Arthur’s ankle. He ignored it, focusing instead on John’s hand. Film was delicate enough to rip through, right? His heart was pounding in his ears, just a hair too quiet to drown out the radio’s words.

“If you want that control over yourself,” it cooed, “all I ask is you to share a little with me.”

There. The tips of his fingers just barely wrapped around John’s hand, and he yanked him off the table for all he was worth. The force broke his grip, and Arthur ran with the momentum. The edges of the film cut lines into his shins as he broke free of them. He scrambled to the door and launched himself through it. 

His escape was interrupted by someone’s shoulder. Arthur lacked the breath to apologize for bumping into them. They seemed oblivious to him, walking forward without a word. They entered the meeting room, and before they closed the door, the radio spoke one last time. 

“Welcome back, Bill.”

“Shit,” Arthur hissed. He walked briskly down the hall, reminded now that they were in a busy office and could run into harried film crew at any point. He remembered the hallway being fairly long, which led confidence to his blind stride.

“Whenever you’re ready, John. I’d like to avoid walking straight into a wall,” he encouraged. The sparse minutes it took to walk the hall passed in silence. Arthur worried at his lip. Optimism was a luxury, but he still wanted to believe that John would be alright. Would talking to him help, or was this silence the best thing for him? How long would it take? And what if—?

Arthur’s spiraling thoughts were cut short by a gentle press of the wooden finger on his leg. He stopped. The middle finger. He turned right, and resumed walking when the index pressed into him.

“John?” he asked, on the precipice of relief.

“Arthur.” His voice was quieter than usual. He sounded dazed. It was still miles better than the silence.

“Coming out of it now?”

“I—Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Need a moment? Let’s find a little corner to take a sit.” With a bit more prodding, John steered them to the staircase. Arthur guided himself down the first few steps and eased himself down, perching at the top.

“Starting to feel more yourself?”

“Yes. I think whatever is in that room was using the projector for hypnotism.” He vocalized a shudder.

“That bad?”

“Yes, Arthur, of course it was!” There he was. “But at least this answered a question I had.”

“Oh?”

“The Muse has no reason to interrupt filming. It wouldn’t have made the lights fall.”

“Oh! Oh, God,” Arthur groaned, face in hands. “There’s two of them.”

“There’s two of them,” John echoed.

“Any bright ideas on how to deal with them?”

“We could pit them against each other.”

Arthur’s head jerked up. “How do you mean?”

“They seem to want opposite things,” he explained. “And the writer and director are each arguing for the two positions. We know Farrer is working with the Muse—”

“McConnel walked into the projector room right as we left it,” Arthur cut in.

“Really? Eugh. But that means they each have one person under their thumbs. With the way Lindsey described their argument, and knowing what we know about their circumstances, neither seems likely to budge.”

“Right. So?”

“So the Muse and the other one—”

“Hypnos, maybe.”

“What?”

“Like the word hypnosis, and keeping with the Greek theme and all. Just—Just finish what you were saying.”

“The Muse and Hypnos; they might take matters into their own hands.”

“You think they’ll interfere the next time they talk it over?”

“It’s not unlikely, I think. And if one makes a move, the other will be quick to follow suit.”

"So you're saying we should be there, the next time they're together."

"Right. I feel we don't have the time to continue gathering information."

"Straight into the fray without a plan, then?" Arthur said with half a smile.

"Eavesdropping is at least the start of a plan."

"We've worked with less than—" The door opened behind him. Arthur clamped his mouth shut.

"It's McConnel," John pointed out. "He looks dazed."

The director's slow footsteps echoed in the stairwell as he passed right by Arthur.

"The new edit… That'll convince him…"

"I don't think he noticed us."

Arthur stood up carefully. With one hand on the rail, he began descending the stairs as quietly as he could.

"We're following him? You think he's going to talk to Farrer?" Arthur nodded.

"Okay then, let's see where he takes us."

McConnel kept going past the first floor, heading down into the basement. The sluggishness faded from his gait as they went. Arthur guessed it was the hypnosis wearing off, and fell further back to avoid being caught. The basement itself was cooler than upstairs, with much fewer doors along the hallway. John complained about the dark.

"Stop. He's opening the door here." Arthur held still until he heard the door latch click into place in the jam. With McConnel inside, he hurried to listen at the door.

“…asking to meet here, of all places." Farrer's voice.

"There's a plaque next to the door that says Editing."

“I wanted to show you how the edit’s coming,” McConnel said. “It’s not quite finished, Cindy had to take a day, but that’s no reason we have to wait. It’s great stuff, I think it’ll turn you around on—”

“I don’t wanna see it.”

“Oh c’mon, don’t be that way!”

“It’s not my script. I don’t want to see it.” Sharp footsteps echoed in the room.

“You submitted a script and it got approved, Farrer. It shouldn’t be hard to leave it alone.”

“It’s not hard to keep the tweaks I made,” he countered. “It’s a more interesting story.”

“Interesting? You’re throwing a fit over interesting ?” A thud; heavy fist on table. “Will the board think your changes are interesting!? Oh, and how about the studio? I bet they’ll find getting blacklisted very interesting!”

“It’s one scene.”

“It changes the whole third act!” McConnel roared. “You want Marlin to kill his own father-in-law!”

John gasped.

“The scene itself is fine. I just had some inspiration on how it should play out.” Farrer’s voice was flat, worn down. The only hint of defiance was in the words themselves.

“We both know damn well that’s a lie. You planned this, you greedy weasel, right from the start. You think the actors want to take a risk like that? The DP? The gaffers? You go through with this, and it could ruin the career of everyone in the credits! This is their bread and butter!”

“They seemed fine with my changes.”

“So you admit it, you smug asshole!” Something crashed to the floor. “You’ve been skulking around and filming behind my back!”

“You just tell people what to do. It’s not hard.”

“Not h— Ha!” McConnel barked a laugh. “Not hard! You think you know what my job is after doing one piddly scene? Less than ten people, studio already booked for you. You’re the one with an easy job! Playing games with the board, only worried about step one. Why do you think it’s my name at the top of the credits!? Nothing would get done without me at the wheel!”

Farrer, voice choked, said, “Seems we’re driving pretty far off the road.” There was another thud, softer than the equipment. Both men were breathing heavily. It was hard to keep focus on their real objective.

“Any sign of them?” Arthur asked.

“Any sign of—? Oh. No. Let’s check inside. I doubt we’ll be noticed.” 

“How about I just fire you then?” McConnel continued the argument, proving John’s point. Arthur eased the door open as he kept talking.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth. I let you walk with whatever the studio gave you for the script, and we never have to work on the same project again.”

“You’re bluffing,” Farrer said. Arthur crept into the room, stopping several paces in when his hand found the corner of a table. He turned his head slowly, trying to give John a good look at the situation.

“The writers come to me when they have character questions, not you.”

“Because you guard your scripts like Fort Knox!”

“For job security, as you just proved. And I—”

John jammed the wooden finger into his leg. Hard. Arthur froze.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Wh— You gave me the signal!” Arthur hissed. 

“What sig— Arthur. ” Something else hard pressed into his leg. And another. They were clamping around him. The argument had fallen silent, which left only one sound in the room: the rattle of a roll of film, spinning on the projector from upstairs.

“You needn’t bother with all this,” Hypnos crooned in his ear, voice brittle with mechanics.

“ Arthur , it’s behind us. The projector, and the broken equipment from the floor, and the broken light truss from the sound stage! They’ve taken the form of a massive human, with the projector in place of the head!”

“I have it all.”

The jagged metal joints suddenly coiled down Arthur’s leg like a whip around a fencepost, at points cutting through his pants to his skin.

“Under.”

On the other side of the room, one of the men—Farrer?—scrambled out of the way.

“Control.”

“Arthur, RUN!”

He strained against Hypnos for all he was worth, using what little leverage he could get from the table beside him. It wasn’t much; the table slid away with a horrible scrape, knocking rolls of film to the ground. Arthur stumbled as he lost his grip. Three of his limbs flailed as the fourth was rooted firmly in place. Hypnos was a cage around his leg, so stiff there was no room to even attempt kicking it off.  

“Arthur!” 

“You see how easy this is for me?” Hypnos mocked them. “You see what I could do for you? I’ll be kind to you one last time, I’ll give you one more chance to accept my help.”

“Arthur, Farrer is right beside us! He’s sneaking towards the door!” It was their only shot.

“A little—ngh—help?!” Arthur called out. Farrer stalled. Hypnos also went still, and the little shrieks of unoiled hinges twitching against each other drained from his ears.

“You inconsequential thorn in my side.” The droning voice was just as harsh to hear as Hypnos’s body. “You are dismissed. I’ll be pleased to be rid of you so easily.”

Farrer ran away.  Arthur cursed.

“Arthur, it’s going for our arm!” He put his right arm up to guard the left. The rough joints scraped him as he batted it away. It took all of Arthur’s focus to not be ensnared. He tried to twist away, but Hypnos ever so slightly bent his knee, which lifted his foot from the ground and took all his balance from him. He couldn’t grab at the metal without his hands being held in a pincer. He was bleeding, he was struggling, and he was out of ideas. 

“John…!” Anything, anything at all. Whatever they had at hand, whatever last-ditch effort they could make, it was time.

“Arthur, it’s—!”

A heavy metal clang rang out. Hypnos’s grip on his leg slackened just enough. Arthur ripped himself free, careless of how it deepened his cuts.

“That’s it,” Farrer said, voice familiarly flat.

“It’s Farrer with a fire extinguisher!”

“YOU!” Hypnos’s shrill wail was accompanied by a clatter; Farrer dropped the extinguisher to run. Arthur barreled after him, but could barely put his hand to the door before his leg got the better of him.

“Farrer’s going for the stairs!” 

“I can’t follow,” Arthur huffed out. “Too much open space. My leg—”

“Then we hide,” John cut in. “There’s another room across the hall, to your right—A little more… Here!”

Hypnos was cutting the doorframe to splinters trying to get out of the editing room. Arthur grabbed the doorknob, fumbled it, and then practically fell into the room. He slammed the door behind him and felt for a key in the lock. There was none.

“Arthur I can barely see in here.”

“What did the plaque outside say?”

“Development.”

“Ah, that explains it. Film has to be developed in the dark.”

“How does anyone see what they’re doing, then?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never— That's not important right now!” A cacophony of metal collapsing outside proved his point. Did Hypnos get through the door, or did it have to disassemble itself to get out? Was it after them or Farrer right now? How long did they have?

“What do we have to work with in here?”

“There’s… Oh! A light pull.” A soft click. “The light’s red?”

“What do you see .”

“Right. It’s a small room, with counters on either side. On your left, there are shelves under the counter. There’s a device with a flat plate resting on the counter, and suspended above it is a bulbous metal contraption.”

“Jesus, how many machines does it take to make a movie?”

“Focus, Arthur.” 

“Right.”

“The other side is where the light is. Near the door, a few strips of film are pinned to a clothesline running across the room. There are two faucets, and several rectangular tubs, partially filled. I don’t think it’s water.”

“Chemicals in the tubs, alright. Maybe they’ll work against Hypnos.”

“Would people use dangerous chemicals for film?”

“No, you’re right, they won’t be strong enough to use as weapons. I certainly don’t know enough chemistry to make them into weapons, even if we knew—” 

“Wait. Do you hear that?” Arthur paused. He did hear it; even muffled through the wall, he could make out the words.

“Why'd you have to do it?!” 

“It’s Marlin!”

"The actor?" A second voice, unfamiliar but carrying the accent more naturally, carried on the conversation. John spoke over it.

"Is this the scene they've been arguing over? We should check." Arthur couldn't hear Hypnos thrashing about anymore, or even moving. They had a moment to spare, barely.

"A quick peak. Lay of the land." He turned the knob slowly and pulled the door in just a crack, enough for a single eye to see through. He turned his head back the way they had come until John did what he did best.

" Arthur. Hypnos is stooped down in the hallway. The lighting trusses of its limbs are digging into either wall of the hallway, the pose making it more machine than imitation of the human form. The projector that is its head is running film, and the lens is in the face of Bill McConnel.”

“What? He’s still here?” 

“He must have been hypnotized again. Or maybe it never wore off in the first place.” 

Hypnos said something to McConnel, a soft rumble of static too quiet to make out at that distance. The film reel clunked, and the voice with the better accent said something else.

“I wanna bury the hatchet tonight. Before the wedding.”

“Maybe we could make a run for it,” Arthur thought out loud. “How distracted do they seem?”

“McConnel, very. Hypnos is facing directly towards us.”

Arthur shut the door in a hurry. A gruff voice was replying, “It’s bad enough my daughter is marrying into your family.”

“Daughter? May Anne, maybe? And that could mean the other voice is Tom, the brother.” 

“Focus, John.” Arthur marched back into the room, feeling for the drawers. “Maybe there’s something in here that could serve as a distraction.”

“I ain’t my Pa,” the movie continued outside.

“Where are the damn drawers?”

“Your other left.”

“I know he was in bad business.” Arthur could hardly tell these characters apart anymore, all with the same fake country accent. 

“Wait,” John cautioned. Arthur held still above the tubs. 

“What?”

“Me and my brother, we’re honest men.” That was Marlin, over-enunciating as always—but wasn’t it Tom in this conversation just a minute ago?

“It’s the other version of the scene.”

Without warning, Arthur’s blood ran arctic through him, and something was weighing him down. John’s arm braced on the counter was all that kept him from plunging face first into the mystery chemicals.

“You stole my writer away!” The Muse’s voice had lost all of its slitheriness, now just as shrill as Hypnos. “You pushed him over the edge!”

“We don’t gotta be ugly with one another. You’re the closest thing I got to a father.” The recording was loud and clear in the room with him, so obvious now that this small space was all he was focused on.

“Arthur!” John’s voice was grounding, but it was fading fast among the flood of memories. The tubs sloshed as Arthur convulsed on the table, John fighting against the Muse trying to drown him. Ducks swimming under a footbridge, hands too small for the piano keys, splashing water—No, no, anything but that. 

“No cohesion!” the Muse wailed. “I need him to bring it all together! Penance!”

Arthur reached out for anything to keep his head above the flood of the past: the ammonia stench in his nostrils, more recent memories with John, the half-numb tingle in his hand. He could feel the frayed edge of his left shoulder trembling with effort. 

“Fight it, Arthur!” John sounded like he was underwater. The Muse’s voice blistered in his ears.

“They bring stories to life in this rancid bath. If I soak you in this, when I pull them out of you, I’ll be able to see it.” The dock hitting the back of his head. The forest in the dreamlands. The drive out of Addison, the taxi rides around Arkham, the miles and miles they had traveled together. John guiding him through it all. 

“The lighter, Arthur! Can you reach it?” Why the lighter—? The fire extinguisher in the editing room— What in there would catch? John said there were strips of film on this side of the room.

His hand felt clumsy, but he could shove it in his pocket and find the cool metal of the lighter just fine. His eyes were watering from the fumes. With a final burst of strength, Arthur thrust out his arm and sparked it.

“Yes, Arthur!”

The Muse howled. Arthur could stand up straight again. The movie recording in the room with them warped, stretching out and dropping in pitch as Tom mournfully said, “Why’d you have to do it?”

“The film on the wall is burning! A tongue of golden fire licks its way up, consuming it in mere moments.”

“You would DESTROY it?!” The numbness left Arthur as soon as it had come, and a breeze wafted through the room. “So be it! Desperate measures for the both of us!”

“Are you okay?”

“Well enough. I think it’s left.”

“We need to leave.”

“There’s still Hypnos to take care of. I think I might have a plan. Is there a reel of film in here?”

“The drawers. Are you thinking—?”

“Precisely. It seemed to be effective.” Arthur crossed the narrow width of the room and swiftly found the handle. He pulled it open.

“There are two reels here. The one on the right has more film on it.” 

“Take it. My hand’s full.” John grabbed it and shoved the drawer closed. Arthur went to the door and put his hand on the knob, lighter pinched between forefinger and thumb.

“This will only work if there’s film on Hypnos. Did you see any?”

“We’ll have to check again.”

“Well. Only way out is through, I suppose. Ready?” 

“If you are.” Arthur opened the door. 

“McConnel is slumped against the wall. Hypnos isn’t looking at us. There’s film running through the projector.” Arthur could hear it playing more of the movie now. It must have been running the whole time. 

“A wife almost,” Tom’s crackly voice echoed in the empty hall. “I don’t have—”

“—anything worth staying for,” Marlin’s voice finished the line, softer but free of interference. 

“The Muse is still down here?” 

“Maybe this will take care of them both.”

“Right,” Arthur whispered. “Any more film to aim for?”

“I’m looking.” 

“I don’t even have a brother anymore,” the Muse’s version of Tom said. The spoke of the projector squealed, spinning faster than it was meant to. 

“You got one thing,” Marlin replied, thick with static. “You got a brother.”

“There! There’s loose film inside its guts.”

“Are they using the film to talk to each other?”

“If they were, it sounds like they just made an alli—It’s looking at us!” For the first time all day, Arthur’s blood ran cold for perfectly natural reasons. 

“Now!” He sparked the lighter and held it up for John. The film rustled in the air as John unwound a fuse for their makeshift bomb. Hypnos scraped against all sides of the hallway as it lumbered to its feet. Arthur braced. 

“Take this, asshole!” With eyes on the target, John threw the burning reel of film. Arthur held still for a single inhale, Hypnos yards away and closing in fast, and waited for a sign that the fire caught. 

“The fire has spread to the main coil,” was all John was able to get out in that moment.

In the next, both Hypnos and the Muse shrieked, and a wave of heat rolled over him.

“Run!” While that was a bit beyond him, with his leg in its current state, Arthur turned around and shuffled towards the staircase as quickly as he was able. Hypnos was still stirring behind him, but it wasn’t much. The fire was the greater danger. 

“Do you think the fire will reach any of the film in the editing room?”

“I don’t know. Let me look.”

Arthur slowed and looked over his shoulder. The wind from the blaze was just strong enough to tousle the hair hanging loose on his forehead as John described the scene.

“The film burns pure white. Its many fingers stretch through Hypnos’s still body to scrape against the ceiling. The black metal of the trusses cage the fire in, but in the core of the inferno they are subsumed. The projector has tumbled from its perch, laying in the dying embers of its own reel. Whatever form the Muse may have had is not in sight.”

“McConnel?”

“The same.”

“Maybe he saved himself, then.” It was a slim hope, but it spared his conscience.

“Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“The fire is spreading to the door of the editing room.”

“Right, right, of course.” Arthur refocused on his pursuit of the stairs.

As soon as they were out of the basement and had snuck out the back of the studio, John scouted out the nearest diner. Arthur pushed open the door thinking of only two things: a plate of eggs, and if there were enough bloodstains on his pants to get kicked out. With the idea of other patrons out of mind, he jumped when someone called out to him as the bell above the door jingled.

“Mister investigator, what a surprise! Do come sit with me, I want to hear how things are going.”

“It’s Lindsey,” John pointed out.

“I can hear that,” Arthur didn’t say, because it would have been very obvious he was giving snark to a voice in his head. Instead, he let John silently guide him to Lindsey’s booth seat. He was careful not to press on Arthur’s wounds.

“You seem to be in a better mood than this afternoon,” Arthur commented as he sat.

“Well, the rest of my day was lovely. Those two were so busy bothering each other they forgot all about us.”

“She’s gesturing to the waiter for something.”

“Would you have had something to do with why my bosses never called us back from break?”

“You could say that, I suppose.” A glass landed on the table next to Arthur’s hand. He nodded in the general direction of the waiter and drank gratefully. 

“Do say, then. Don’t spare the gory bits for a lady like me. Were they breaking the editing equipment again?” Arthur almost choked on his water.

“I don’t think she’ll be upset over the movie not being finished.”

But you will, Arthur thought. Oh, well; it’s Hollywood. There will be more movies to see.

“The details are confidential, I’m afraid,” Arthur got out once his windpipe was clear. “But, suffice to say, Farrer and McConnel’s difference will no longer be impeding your work.”

“She’s giving us an odd look, Arthur. I think she’s studying your face.” The silence lasted for several seconds before she broke it with a sigh.

“I suppose I’ll be needing to get home and draft a letter to my agent, then. Can you tell me my odds of getting out of my contract with this studio?”

“Pretty good, I’d wager.”

“There’s always a silver lining, after all.” Lindsey’s shoes shuffled on the linoleum as she stood and slid out of the booth. “Do you have a calling card, or do you only do mysterious appearances at convenient times?”

“You’ll be looking for an Arthur Lester. No card, I’m afraid, my affairs are… in flux at the moment.”

“Ah, I’m familiar with that.” The diner doorbell rang above her.

“She has one hand holding the door open, body half turned away from us. She has half a smile, as if she’s pleased with what she’s about to say.” 

“That’s showbiz, after all."