Chapter Text
1983
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Balthazar Bratt hated production meetings.
He hated the ancient boardroom, the reek of old cigarettes that hung in the air and permeated the hideous shag carpet. He hated the giant window on the far wall, which soaked the room with blinding Los Angeles sun, making everything too hot and too bright and slowly stripping what little color remained from the sparse furniture and ugly wood-panelled walls. He hated the long conference table with its high-backed chairs, which were hard and uncomfortable and sized for fifty-year-old producers, not ten-year-old boys. He hated sitting at this table, hour after hour, listening to the ticking of the clock and the endless drone of indefinable voices as the assembled crew went on and on about budgets and call sheets and sponsor agreements.
He couldn’t stand the people in this room, either. He’d taken to thinking of them as the Suits, because that’s what they were - an endlessly repeating collection of identical suits and ties in one of three colors. They all had long, important titles like “assistant director of photography” and “production coordinator” and “head of sponsor communications”, and not one of them ever paid him a bit of attention - not that he necessarily wanted them to, since they seemed to spend most of their time yelling big words back and forth and writing bigger words on little yellow notepads with expensive-looking pens. The only ones Balthazar ever interacted with were the Director, Producer, and Head Writer - three old, balding men who he’d once learned the names of and almost immediately forgot.
And today, even these three Suits were deep in the annals of a conversation that did not involve him.
Actually, Balthazar thought, picking up the script in front of him and beginning to disinterestedly tear out the staples, what I really hate is Hollywood. The whole stupid, boring thing.
Acting hadn’t been his idea. When his foster mother, a failed community theater actress with a head full of pipe dreams and a purse full of headshots, had started dragging him along to auditions, Balthazar had done everything he could to dissuade her of the notion that her latest ward was meant to be the next Andrew McCarthy. He was purposefully late to call times and never remembered his sides. He spit gum on the audition room floors and insulted his fellow auditioners. He refused to slate properly and performed every half-learned monologue in a whiny, stilted drone that made most casting directors usher him away with a listless “thank you, that will be all” almost as soon as he opened his mouth.
Acting was tedious, repetitive, and boring, and if there was one thing that Balthazar Bratt couldn’t stand, it was boredom.
So it was a surprise to him as much as to anyone when they’d received the call two months ago - the call announcing that Balthazar was the perfect candidate for a new show, one he hadn’t even remembered auditioning for. Something about how his clashing adorable looks and rebellious personality had inspired some director or other; Balthazar didn’t really understand and didn’t really care. Couldn’t have asked for a more perfect star, the casting agent on the other end of the line had enthused his ecstatic state-sanctioned guardian. They want to structure the entire concept around him. ‘Evil Bratt’, got a nice ring to it. The boy’s going to be a star.
Balthazar might have hated acting, but he did like the sound of the “star” part.
Which was exactly why he didn’t understand the point of these meetings. If he was the star, why were the Suits so focused on things like production budgets and air times and marketing arrangements? Why was the namesake of the whole operation sitting on two phonebooks and trying not to fall asleep while the hot California sun leeched away the last of his patience? If he was the star - and judging by the name at the top of the call sheet, he was - why weren’t all eyes on him?
Sighing loudly, Balthazar reached into the pocket of his bright red Members Only jacket and popped a piece of peppermint gum between his teeth. He’d found that the spicy flavor helped keep him awake during these meetings and taken to it like a nicotine addict to tobacco, but today even this small reprieve wasn’t helping to keep him sane.
They just wouldn’t stop talking.
“We need to go over the lighting budget again,” one of the Suits was saying. “I refuse to believe we need this many followspots on a sound stage. This isn’t Broadway.”
“Take it up with Fresnel,” another one interrupted. “What we need to discuss is the commercial sponsors. We’ve only allocated 13.8% of the overall production budget for–”
Balthazar groaned and started kicking the underside of the table. His gum was rapidly losing its flavor.
“These call times can’t be correct, the union says that–”
“Forget the union, we’ve got a whole season to shoot in a month–”
The overlapping voices had coalesced into a ceaseless drone that filled his head with static. Reaching for the script again for something, anything, to do, he remembered that he’d already succeeded in tearing out the staples and now had nothing left to destroy. Groaning again, louder this time, he let his head fall to the table with a dramatic thmp. It hurt, but not as much as the fact that the meeting continued unabated.
Suddenly, the Director’s voice cut above the drone, sharp and irritated.
“Macintosh! You’re late!”
The room went quiet, individual conversations petering away, as Balthazar heard the heavy boardroom door creaking open behind him.
“My apologies, Director Smithee,” a sharp, sarcastic voice replied. “I wasn’t aware that you needed your production designer to finalize your call times for you. Did you need input on the font?”
From his current vantage point, which mostly included the wood table pressed to his forehead, Balthazar couldn’t see who had just entered the room. Their voice was cold, clear, and high, almost squeaky; yet the entire room fell silent when they spoke.
Balthazar slowly raised his head.
At first, he still didn’t see anything - only the identical faces of every Suit in the room turned toward the door, where the tall conference table cut off Balthazar’s view. Then, craning his neck in curiosity, he finally saw the newcomer - and stared.
A very thin, very irritated-looking boy stood in the doorway. Balthazar thought he couldn’t have been older than he was, possibly even younger, but this boy carried himself with the presence of someone far beyond ten years of age. His heavily teased auburn hair (which Balthazar thought looked a lot like Howard Jones’s current ill-advised cut) framed a narrow face and a long, frankly oversized nose. Icy teal eyes scanned the room from behind a massive pair of gold-rimmed glasses, taking in the Suits with a look of cold disdain, as he made his way toward the single empty chair at the end of the table. He looked incredibly out-of-place and, Balthazar thought, incredibly ridiculous.
But it was the kid’s outfit that finally replaced the bored static in his head with the all-consuming urge not to burst out laughing.
The boy was wearing a bright raspberry blazer, shoulders extended by multiple layers of heavy padding in an obvious attempt to widen his narrow silhouette. A too-long leather bolo tie hung loosely around his skinny neck, his ruffled white blouse tucked into wide-legged trousers. Between the hair and the getup, he looked like a Thompson Twins song come to life.
And when Balthazar noticed the thin lock of hair curled into a rattail resting against the boy’s padded shoulder, he lost the battle with his composure completely.
“Oh, wicked!” Balthazar cackled, loud enough to make the Suits snap their heads toward him in shock, as if they’d totally forgotten he was even there. “Who let Limahl in here?!”
The boy kept moving, nose in the air, and didn’t even turn his head to look at him, which only made Balthazar jeer louder.
“I thought casting was over, but I guess they needed someone for the role of total dweeb!”
It wasn’t his best insult work, to be sure - but he couldn’t stop laughing long enough to string anything better together.
The boy had settled into his seat now and was just sitting there, perfectly poised, watching Balthazar laughing uproariously at him with one rough eyebrow sardonically raised. The attempt at unbothered indifference only made Balthazar lose it even more, practically gasping for air now, as the Suits watched in stunned silence.
“You…you look like–” Balthazar choked out, wiping his eyes, “a rat who got lost on its way to a Flock of Seagulls video shoot!”
“And you look like an under-dressed punk with no sense of color theory. I don’t ever want to see you wearing red again.”
Balthazar stopped laughing.
“...what?”
“I said,” the boy repeated coldly, narrowing his sharp eyes behind his oversized frames, “you look terrible in red. I’m banning the color from your wardrobe. Don’t wear it again.”
Balthazar was momentarily struck dumb. The boardroom had gone deathly quiet, all eyes turned toward the boy in the dark pink blazer. He was leaning forward now, thin hands folded, his mannerisms seeming once again too old for his obvious youth. He scanned Balthazar up and down, taking in his scarlet windbreaker and jeans.
“If you want to be taken seriously, then look like it. You’re a mid-to-cool tone and you look positively sickly in that jacket.” His next words were straightforward and invited no debate. “I’m assigning you the color purple. That’s your signature color from now on and you’re not wearing anything other than that.”
A new noise suddenly split the quiet as overpriced pens began scratching all around the room. Balthazar realized with horror that the Suits were taking notes, copying down the boy’s words. They were paying attention to him.
Balthazar felt a hot rage starting to build in his chest. Who was this kid? Who had invited him to come in here and start ordering them around? He couldn’t have been older than Balthazar himself, and yet here he was, controlling the room like he owned the place.
Well, he didn’t own anything.
“You…you can’t tell me what to do,” Balthazar spluttered angrily. “I’m the star. Who are you, anyway?!”
The boy raised his head slightly, looking down his long nose at Balthazar as if he were nothing more than an insect. “I,” he said smugly, “am the genius whose job it is to make talentless hacks like you look good - since, after all, that’s all you have going for you.”
Balthazar nearly choked on his gum.
Just as he was about to throw himself across the table, one of the Suits - Balthazar suspected the Director, but he didn’t know for sure, and he didn’t really care - cleared his throat, interrupting them. “Mr Bratt,” he said, sounding nervous, “I’d like you to meet Mr Cyril Macintosh, head production designer.”
“Also head of visual development and wardrobe,” the boy said importantly, a self-satisfied smirk beginning to spread across his arrogant face. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Bratt.”
Balthazar didn’t appreciate the way Cyril said his name.
Indignant, he sat up taller on the pile of phonebooks, determined not to show just how precariously balanced he was. “How can he be head of anything!?” Balthazar demanded, turning toward the Director and refusing to even look at Cyril. “What is he, like, ten!?” He realized the irony of his outburst, but he was too mad to care. This had to be a joke, some kind of prank from the Suits to make him pay attention during meetings. Balthazar didn’t know exactly what a production designer was, but there was no possible way this bogus little dork was in charge of anything.
“Actually, I’m ten and a half,” Cyril shot back coolly. “And I’d be glad to show you my resume, but I doubt you’d understand any of it. It’s got an awful lot of big words.”
“Cyril here is a prodigy,” the Director said, clearly trying to keep his voice measured. “He’s been working his way through the ranks and he’s finally ready for his first big production. We’re very lucky to have him on board.”
Cyril smirked again, and the rage in Balthazar’s throat burned hotter.
“A prodigy?” Balthazar scoffed. “Of what, hairstyling?”
“Kind of you to notice, but no,” Cyril replied, completely unflappable. “Artistic design and visual conceptualizing, actually.” He sniffed. “Also, advanced computer systems.”
Balthazar barked out a laugh. “So, you’re a nerd.”
“If programming my first advanced security code analysis system at the age of eight makes me a nerd, then sure. I’m a nerd.” Cyril shrugged. “A nerd whose job it is to make you and your pathetic show look memorable to audiences, so you’d better be nice to me.” Another smirk. Did he have any other expressions?
“Now,” Cyril said, gathering up a stack of papers that had been placed in front of his seat. “These are the notes for my team, correct?”
“Yes, Mr Macintosh, and–”
“And you have my instructions for what to communicate to lighting and set design?”
“Yes, but–”
“Then I don’t need to be here.” Tucking the papers under his arm, Cyril suddenly stood from his chair and made to leave.
“Mr Macintosh,” the Director said, sounding slightly exasperated, “you’ve just arrived and this meeting isn’t over–”
“My business is finished. My team is ready. And none of this has anything to do with me, does it?” It didn’t sound like Cyril wanted an answer. “So, I don’t need to be here.” And with that, he started toward the door, but not before glancing sideways at Balthazar. The expression on his face now was even worse than the self-important simper he’d been wearing - it was disinterest. Total and complete disinterest.
Another rush of hatred and indignation cut through Balthazar like a hot knife. “What!? How come he gets to leave?!” he shouted, not caring how whiny he sounded. This outrage was well deserved. “I’ve been here for two hours doing nothing! No one will even talk to me! And he just gets to–”
“Ah, the tortured life of a celebrity,” Cyril sneered as he passed Balthazar’s chair. “So exhausting, doing nothing but looking cute and repeating a predefined set of catchphrases.” Before Balthazar could snarl a reply, the other boy was out the door, closing it behind him with a thud of proud finality.
“Hey!” Furious, Balthazar turned on the Director, who looked surprised, as if he’d forgotten once again that Balthazar was even there. Balthazar picked up the script again and brandished it like a weapon. “I want that little dweeb fired!”
It was his name on the script, his name on the title cards, his name before Cyril’s on the credits. He was the entire reason everyone was even here - including Cyril. It was Balthazar’s big brown eyes and cutely troublesome personality that everyone loved, not Cyril’s big glasses and bad hair. He’d been handpicked for this job, and that had to count for something.
To his abject horror, the Director just chuckled. “Now, Mr Bratt,” he said. His voice was slow and sickeningly deliberate, as if he were speaking to a toddler. “We can’t just fire Mr Macintosh. Cyril is a uniquely gifted member of our team. He may be young, but he’s brilliant. And you’ll be working quite closely together.” He didn’t notice the way Balthazar bristled at this statement, crushing the already suffering script in his fist. “Who knows, you two may even become good friends.”
Balthazar was about to throw the script’s beaten corpse in the Director’s face and let him know exactly what he thought of such an idea when suddenly, the door swung open again.
“Oh, and Bratt…one last thing.” Cyril leaned in the doorway, sneer fixed, trapping Balthazar in his unsettlingly clever gaze. “Lose the peppermint. I’m allergic” - he wrinkled his large nose - “and I can’t stand the smell.”
And with that, he closed the door behind him once again and vanished.
It was the last straw. Growling, Balthazar shoved his chair back from the table as hard as he could - which admittedly wasn’t very hard, considering how heavy both the chair and the table were - and jumped down, throwing the now hopelessly ruined script to the ground and kicking it across the floor. “If he gets to leave, I get to leave!” he insisted, ignoring the stunned faces from the Suits. They hadn’t cared that he was there, anyway; they shouldn’t care that he was leaving.
Checking first to make sure that Cyril Macintosh was well and truly gone, Balthazar stormed out the door, snarling, “And I will never be friends with that megadork little rat!”