Chapter Text
Vol. 1
It was wrong, all wrong. The person in the mirror was not him.
The face staring back at him was not right.
Which was saying a lot for the sixteen-year-old as his skin and hair were the color of grass in the spring. His unnatural green coloration earned him many wide eyes and frowns from the people of the world.
To them, he was just like the alien in the mirror.
He was wrong.
However, for Garfield, green was his normal, down to even his pointed ears that looked more elfish than round like any normal person’s.
However, he could barely see the remnants of Garfield Logan behind the prosthetics and layers of make-up, which felt like clay baked onto his face. Instead, it was mostly the otherworldly visage of Rak’Tu, the poorly developed background character from the latest season of Space-Trek , who stared back with exhausted eyes. It had been a long week on set.
He hated how he looked. He hated how he felt.
From the crude raised cheekbones protruding like a cheap facelift to the painted scales that looked like a temporary tattoo applied to his neck, or even down to the small horns added about his forehead, he hated the thing in the mirror.
As Ms. Jinean, his assigned stylist, dusted and blended the blush on his cheeks, he counted the hours till he could tear away this mask. He already hid enough of his life.
A sigh hissed from his lips like air escaping from a tire. He even deflated a little in his seat.
In the mirror, Garfield’s eyes connected with Ms. Jinean’s. Before he could even blink, she was back to work, attending to his hair. Her bottle quickly sprayed him damp, and he resisted the urge to shake his head like a wet dog. His godparents had taught him better, but in the privacy of his own home… that was fair game.
Swallowing the urge to move, he took a deep breath, refilling the tire that was his patience. For as much as he hated this role, he wasn’t going to make Ms. Jinean’s life harder. It wasn’t her fault she too had to be stuck doing his hair right now. Hell, reptilians don’t even have hair! Shouldn’t he at least be using a bald cap or something? Not that it really mattered to the producers or showrunners. He was a background character that was lost in the green screen far from the camera’s gaze.
Nobody cared about Rak’Tu and whether he’d have hair.
Didn’t mean he was going to be silent about it, though. After all, he had miraculously gone the last hour or so without saying much. He needed a conversation right now, or else he might just die right there in the chair. Death by silence.
“You know, if lizard people were real, they wouldn’t have hair.”
The stylist hummed in agreement while her hands quickly traced about his head doing whatever it was she did. That was fine. He didn’t need her to respond with some profound insight or the like to his conversation bait. He like her, probably didn’t care for what the other was thinking, but that wasn’t going to stop him from speaking his mind to save himself from dying.
“Am I a diversity cast?”
That got her.
Jinean’s hands stilled, a comb halfway through his hair, forgotten. Her eyes flicked towards his in the mirror. Confusion marred her face causing the slightest of wrinkles at the corner of her lips.
“What?” she squeaked.
He shifted in the chair, leaning forward. “I mean, like, I’m green. Surely, I'm filling out some weird quota of theirs.”
“Because you are green?”
“Well, duh,” he frowned. What was she not understanding? “Name someone more diverse than a green person?”
Her hands fell to her side, his hair now completely forgotten. “I mean, maybe?”
“Like no one, and I do mean no one, has been hiring me no matter what gig I applied for before this show. Then suddenly they pick me up? And if you recall last season, they were getting a lot of flack for who they hired and did not hire, so it makes sense to me.”
“Right….” she brought her arms back up to his hair. “I figured it was more because it would save them money in the long run to make you look like an alien. I mean, you are already halfway there.”
Alien….
His gut twisted at the word.
Despite everything abnormal about him, he was not an alien. The only people that ever would he didn’t even know where they vanished off to. Though, there was his uncle, the man who was too busy to do anything but call in to check on Gar every other blue moon.
Mood killed, he bit his cheek, slouching back into his chair. “Yeah. Probably.”
Perhaps, it would’ve been better if he kept quiet. At least before they may have wanted him for something about himself, even if that was his greenness , but now… was he just a means to cut production costs?
“Sorry,” she mumbled, returning to his hair. “I’m sure it wasn’t any of that…. It’s just been a long week. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He didn’t respond. Not when the only thing that would’ve left his lips would’ve been a growl. Honestly, it was his fault for even opening his mouth. All conversations with strangers led back to him biting his cheek.
Maybe one day he would learn to shut his mouth longer.
Just not yet.
A minute or two passed, and Garfield once more broke the silence. This time, though, it wasn’t for a conversation. He watched her put the finishing touches to his daily routine, and he was ready to leave.
“We almost done?”
“Done.”
She didn’t meet his eye in the mirror as she nodded and turned to stow her equipment. Seemed she didn’t want to stay in his presence any longer, either. He’d have to find a way to bring the mood back up tomorrow. No way was he going to let an awkward silence reign for the next few months of filming.
Until then, he stood from the chair he had spent most of the morning in. He folded the black protective cape that had once adorned him and placed it onto the seat. He brushed his hands down the black and purple outfit his character wore, smoothing out the wrinkles from sitting and adjusting the single gold pin over his heart to be straight again.
Without another word, he made to leave the make-up room. He was half a step out when Ms. Jinean called out to him. He didn’t turn to her, only offering his back.
Clearing her throat to find her voice, she quickly spoke, “Send Mr. Karlo in next…. Please.”
“Cut! Stop rolling. Cut, goddammit,” Whoss Jedon shouted at the film crew of Space-Trek . “Fucking hell,” he mumbled under his breath as he stormed forward onto the set. “This is the last time I do anyone any fucking favors.”
The pudgy man who looked one day away from balding stood between Garfield and the rest of the cast, which naturally formed a half circle around him. The green teen watched as the director stood there, hands on his hips, shaking his head as he turned and looked about the cast.
“What are you doing?” he asked them, huffing, short of breath. “Huh? Are you purposefully sabotaging this show? No wonder they called me in to try and save this shipwreck.” The man covered his face, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes and drawing in deep breaths as if he had spent the last minute drowning. “Where do I even begin on the problems.”
The director met Garfield’s gaze, and instantly a flash of disgust went through the man’s eyes. His nose scrunched upwards as if he had caught wind of a foul smell.
“Green boy,” he called out. “Stop overacting. Your character is a nobody . Your character is a punchline at best. Your character is not the center of attention. Stop acting like it is. I could grab a homeless person off the street and get a better performance out of them. You’re lucky you have connections and that I am not the showrunner.”
Garfield’s lips twitched as he tasted blood on his tongue.
Jedon turned to the next cast member. “Greg, great work standing in the corner. No complaints. Keep being no one.”
Greg, for what it was worth, gave a double thumbs-up as he stood there in the same dark purple and black-sleeved costume that Garfield also wore—the standard crew uniform of the fictional Endeavor. Greg, in Gar’s opinion, seemed to pull it off way better than anyone else.
Jedon then turned to the show lead. “Basil, Basil, Basil…” The shorter man laid his hand on the much taller Mediterranean actor’s shoulder.
The cast and crew watched as the two held a silent conversation before the director pulled away and called for a recess. Everyone quickly broke apart, scattering like birds as they flocked away towards the exits. Nobody said a word in their silent migration, feeling the weight of the director’s ire lingering above them like a storm cloud in the cold of autumn.
Garfield was no exception to this as he exited into a hallway that was quickly crowded with grips and audio techs groaning about having to refilm the three-minute one-take a twelfth time. He didn’t blame any of them as his pointed ears picked up their hushed words of frustration. He had grown tired of today’s shot list an hour ago when they took all the way till lunch to nail one scene.
Pushing past everyone, he exited the building. The setting sun was quick to hug him. Its warmth was a comfort as he took a few steps into its arms and away from the door, where a gaggle of smokers puffed clouds of cancer.
His sensitive nose could do well without that.
It was only a hundred or so steps later that he found himself with his back resting against the base of the studio's blue water tower. His eyes remained closed as his tongue massaged his right cheek, soothing the gentle ache from where his sharper-than-human canine left its second mark of the day.
A breeze blew past him, whistling between the funnels of the warehouse alleys. Some of his hair tickled his forehead as it shifted from its routinely styled look. He would have to have Ms. Jinean touch that up again when he went back inside.
“Hmph,” he huffed, trying to tuck the hair back in place. It held for a moment before falling back down in its stiff-gelled lock. What would they do if he just cut it off? Would they even know if a little bit was missing? Would they care?
“Do not bother trying to fix it, friend.”
Garfield’s emerald eyes snapped up, locking with the older man’s.
“Apologies, Garfield. I did not mean to frighten,” Basil Karlo held his hands up peacefully. “I came only to check on you. Mr. Jedon said many things to both of us. Many opinionated critiques just because we do not conform to his standards.”
“I’m used to it,” Garfield lied, shrugging. “But you? What’s so wrong with you in his eyes?”
Basil smiled, far from genuine. Garfield had seen the same smile many times on set just as it quickly fell away at the call for a cut.
“You know of my previous credits. Our esteemed A-lister does not approve of my career.”
“He doesn’t like spaghetti westerns?”
“Perhaps he has had too many rotten tomatoes to trust the sauce,” Basil chuckled.”Or perhaps he is a cook with no taste?”
Garfield's lips twitched, stretching into a small smile. There was a reason Whoss Jedon was directing this show. After his more recent blockbuster failures, enough studios had veered away from hiring him. Word on the grapevine had been that he was only directing this episode because Jedon struck out everywhere else and someone was desperate enough.
It made sense. Space-Trek had struggled last season. Budgets had been cut, series regulars had been reduced to lesser and lesser roles. Even a writer’s strike took place, pausing production earlier in the year.
The showrunners and execs needed a win, and Whoss Jedon was their last hope.
“I do not favor success,” Basil frowned, staring up at the water tower above even as he seemingly read Garfield’s mind. “Hiring for a job just because you know someone does not prove well if their soul is not into it.”
“Yeah,” Garfield mumbled. “What's the point of doing something if you aren’t in a hundred percent?”
The Italian man met his eye, grinning, “Exactly. Though, I hope you take no offense to my words. I recall hearing about your godmother’s influence for your hiring.”
What? Garfield frowned.
“Rest her soul, Mr. Logan. Rita Farr was a blessing to Hollywood and a dear friend.”
“She isn’t dead,” the teen hissed, eyes narrowed.
“Right….”
“She’s just missing,” Garfield tried to deflect. “Probably hiding from the limelight.” And totally not lost in the Amazon with the rest of the Doom Patrol.
“Of course.” Basil bowed his head. “I did not mean to–”
“It’s fine.”
The older man unsure how to respond simply nodded before he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and quickly lit it.
Garfield’s nose scrunched at the smell of burning chemicals–a putrid smell of death.
“This water tower is iconic, did you know?” Basil looked up, tracing the cracking sky-blue painted metal to its apex, just on par with the nearby roofs. “It prevented this whole lot from going up in smoke decades ago, saving Varner Sisters from falling apart.”
Garfield looked up at the tower. It was old, nothing like the giant ones he would see on the side of the highway, overlooking a city or town. The Varner Sisters’ tower was about two or three car lengths wide at its base. A central pipe ran from the ground upwards in the middle of its chassis to the round bottom of the tower that was topped by a wide-brim cone. The iconic “VS” badge was painted onto the face of the tower, but beyond that, Garfield didn’t know what else to think about it.
It was just a water tower, in the middle of the studio lot. It was standard fire safety as far as he knew.
“Sadly, I heard they drained it of its water years ago, but left it up for its iconography.”
“They drained it?” Garfield asked.
“Cheaper solutions. Cutting costs. You know how studios are.”
Cutting costs….
“Yeah, I’m getting real familiar with the idea today.”
Basil nodded, taking a drag. “I hope you do not hold my words against me. I am sure the studio saw more than just your family when they hired you.”
Gar shrugged. He didn’t know how to reply. He had never considered himself a nepo baby before, but was he? No other show or movie hired him…. Surely that meant he wasn’t?
“Give it a few years, my young friend. I’m sure you’ll be the lead of your own show like me in no time.”
“Even if I am green?”
“Sounds exotic to me,” Basil chuckled as smoke escaped from his open mouth. “A memorable figure, cutting a face the fans will never forget!” Basil waved on hand through the air as if envisioning the path forward before clenching his fist tight. “What more can an actor want? To be a face, to be the perfect actor that no one will ever forget?” He turned to Garfield, a gleam in his eye. “It is even a dream I still find myself reaching for.”
“Think you are close?”
The gleam fell away, and the cigarette in the older man’s mouth dipped along with the corner of his lips. Somehow, in that split second, he looked far older than the man Gar had seen on set every day. He looked tired, almost defeated, as if he knew he had only a few miles left and even less in the tank to get there. “Some think I am close. Others, like our dear director, have pickier words.”
The teen nodded. Was this going to be him one day? Falling short of becoming someone ? He got into acting to carry the torch of his godmother, who had raised him after the death of his parents. What if he never made it past Space-Trek ? What if after everything, he was nobody?
“Can’t please everyone, right?”
“No, Garfield, we cannot,” Basil grimaced, tossing the butt of the cig to the ground. “However, why should we not try?”
The teen felt a genuine smile reach across his face. Perhaps that was the first thing all day he could agree with.
“Everyone deserves to smile.”
“Very true, collega. ” He stomped on the cigarette, grinding it upon the pavement. “I believe our fifteen is up by now. Shall we head back in?”
“Yeah,” Garfield sighed, pushing off the water tower. “Day’s almost done.”
The two silently moved back towards the soundstage they had left. The wind buffeted past them as the shadows of the neighboring warehouse approached closer to their feet. The sun would be gone by the time they left for the day.
“Hopefully, Mr. Jedon is in better spirits,” Basil hummed, idly scratching his chin.
“Honestly,” Garfield huffed as the two passed the group of smokers and reached for the door. “If he complains about how I stand one more time today, I think I’m going to snap.”
“Ha! He will rue to see the day Rak’Tu bear his canines.”
“If only. If I do anything the way Rak’Tu is written, I’m probably going to trip over my own feet and cut myself.”
Next Chapter: 12th December