the dreamer.

“She did WHAT?! Nothing! What are you saying! Mierda!” She was close to tears while his voice was thick with bitter bile, self-constructed venom, dousing her face. There was not enough him to contain what was brewing inside, flammable, willing to leave cinders in its wake. It only took Claudia to be mentioned, not even by name, for his entire physiology to change, for his skin to tear at the edges of his restraints, to threaten the breaking of his own bones if it meant he’d be free to protect who wasn’t there. All useless. He remained where he was with all the struggle in the world, only to wind up slamming his back into the chair, the fight not extinguishing but pausing, rebuilding the strength, reformulating the strategy, refilling the lungs.

“For /me?/” The muscles in the back of his neck coiled, snatching the edges of his jaw to a rigid line, enough to cut her on if she came closer. “You drugged me? You tied me? You shocked me? For what?! For me?! How?! How is this for me?! Que te den por culo! Answer me!”

A rawness began forming at the back of his throat, flesh in shreds, a taste of iron settling in the pit. Even swallowing the implication that returned from one glance at her hand, the weapon meant for defense weighing in her palm watched before flickering back to her face. His lips were pursing, chewing at the surroundings, fuming at how little sense all of it made, the lack of control to change it. He was not dealing with someone that was of this reality; he was dealing with someone of the one he constructed. It was enough to have his nails dig into the arms of the chair as he steeled himself from exploding again.

“You think we’re in a dream?” He couldn’t help his tone from seething, teeth still clenched, fingers still moving as if he could wave his hands around as he talked. “Prove it. Show me!”

of course he would react, as though she’d activated a tripwire in his thoughts. any thought of claudia must have felt like burning from the inside out. it shorted her own breath and she was merely the one trapped, not even the full consciousness. he pulled against the zip ties while she watched in blinking calm. this was what she had expected after all, signs pointing towards her being right, that he would try and reject the truth of the situation. “you’re not you!”

his voice rises with each question, she has no choice but to meet him halfway, to make sure that she has been heard above all the chaotic thoughts he’s trying to project towards her. there is no real world where she would do this all to another person, but they will awake unscathed. tears are blinked back, he will thank her when he realizes the lengths she was willing to go. unbending and unbroken. “you’re not going to like it.” she knows what his brain will tell him, that anything she tries is certain death, that there is nothing for him on the other side. it is a ruse, the traps that have been set. “but you can choose.”

the taser snaps just once as warning, if it ricochets off her own skin she can’t feel it. that is just option one. she points; there is a tub of water in the corner, already filled. he’d suggested it himself really, though she is not so strong to have set it up so he could tip into the tub. but she can hold his head under, she can shock his system all the same. “i’m tired.” and she is, the brittleness of her words, the dark circles painted under her eyes. “i can’t let you continue this. it’s fantasy.”

He should have felt fear, overcome by the emotion to be paralyzed in resignation to being in the chair he was bound to. He was not. Blood flooded his constricted veins, heart pounding not in anxiety but boiling temper, scorching temperature enough to practically set the constraints on fire. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that his body’s defense mechanisms were built up from childhood, to let the anger take over, a reflection of a father’s wrath, to be under its aegis, to understand that you couldn’t feel as much pain that way if you didn’t allow the time for it to hurt.

“You know what is true?” he hissed, teeth baring as the body leaned forward, any single trigger away from snapping off her head from the base of her neck. “I am going to fucking kill you.” Yanked back by the wrists, a burning dig that he would come to find later, impressions of the hold dying to be permanent in his flesh.

Joder! Fists balled up as the lungs clutched in acrimony, turning white at the knuckles, turning red in the organ from the popping blood vessels. He needed to be free to grab a hold of her arms, swing her into the nearest wall, pin her to it if it meant breaking her jaw.

That was before she mentioned someone else.

The muscles halted, eyes turning to narrow slits to focus solely on her face, the tearing that he felt nothing towards, only threatened confusion. “Who?” The heart knew, stuttering beat a punch to the ribs. There was no one else to let into the mind so willingly, so freely, let her wander every corner. Touch her and lose your hands. There was no room for lenience, and he had the track record to back it, but these were not the circumstances in those moments before.

His jaw clenched, burning gaze on her, forced to listen, the only reason he had caught his own concept slapping him in the face. The world stopped spinning, something in the gravity was broken, physics disintegrating right down to the molecules in his bones that had kept his head held straight, now on a tilted axis. Couldn’t be.

“You are doing this… All of this?” Breath absorbed in his chest until it sparked, lit match to a broken gas pipe. “FOR WHAT? THE FILM?!”

his threats fell on deaf ears as she watched him with wide hollow eyes, if anything they only furthered what she already knew. this was the mind’s defense. it was ingrained in him to push back against any possibility of freedom, how else would he have been stuck here so long. it had been years, her bones aching with the weight of time. the gravity of what had been done to them. and if course, it would be the mere mention of a she that stilled him all the same, choreographed actions. letting her slip in while he was sleeping and never let up. he could say he was going to kill her a thousand times, it didn’t make it true. it didn’t even make it possible 

“you know.” voice near tears, the unshed ones that had been building from the moment she realized her window of opportunity was closing. that if she did not succeed now, this moment when they were completely alone, then that was it.  “you know, you know. you let her do this.” she didn’t need to say a name, there would be an obvious answer, nearly programmed to think of her first before any other logical answers. his own answer enough to keep on proving her right. 

“not for the film.” it had only been the sign, the warning shot. she wasn’t even sure he’d gotten all the rules of their reality right. but it was close, it was so close and it had been there when she’d needed it. the world off balance, atmosphere itching hot against her skin, it all made sense now. the world was not real, it was rejecting her, it was going to reject both of them now. “for you.” and for herself selfishly enough, that she might finally one day reemerge where everything made sense. 

“you don’t need to shout. i’m the only one here.” taser was still in hand, although there would be preferable methods. if only he didn’t look as though he would bolt from the chair the moment that she loosened a single restraint. “you don’t need to keep protecting yourself, i’ve got you now.” was it reassuring to hear such a thing, or was the wary voice still a threat to poisoned ears. she hoped that it would soften but there was little to do but slowly wear him down. “we’re going to fix this. there’s more than one way to wake up.”

It wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were closed, but he was not in his bed. The familiar weight of another was not on his chest, but his side was pressed into the carpet, ribs against the floor, cheek laying over the crushed fibers. As little reference as he had to compare to, this was not peace. This was stolen consciousness. This was someone’s nails digging into his scalp, tearing open his skull, clawing its way through his brain. This was someone crashing another in the head with a baseball bat. This was a bullet in the head. This was being forced against his will, minus a live audience.

And this was not a dream.

It was many things it wasn’t, and everything it shouldn’t be. Distorted calling of a name. An echo. A reverberation. A neon sign that flickered in the distance, spelling it out, each letter flashing in its own concert. The crackling symphony that came when the light went bright, bursting beyond its limits, showers of sparks enough to blind, catching him on fire.

Julian.

His own name felt like it was being branded on his arm. Air in his lungs like a freight-train. The smell of ozone stabbing through, sight of orange flames in his eyes until clearing to see her. The distortion returned. Struggle against the zipties to his wrists behind his back didn’t help, the immediate jerk against them to introduce them, the imprint of them finally felt when the buzzing numbness started to recede. And then what was left? What was left between sharp pain and cursory paralysis? Words. Words caught with clenched teeth and eyes that narrowed in their focus, barely above drowning in confusion.

“Que te den,” he spat back, immediate default kicking in when nothing else could make sense. “Listen? To what?” The muscles were forced to work, sitting up to level with her, the mind feeling as though it was washing from one side to the other as though the blood that trickled had leaked inside instead of just on the carpet. “Your bullshit?”

she took a reeling step back at the venom that had been spewed towards her the moment he regained full consciousness. he could struggle all he wanted, it didn’t change that he was still tied to the chair, that the room had one exit with a locked door, that he wasn’t going anywhere. they weren’t leaving this room, not until he understood, not until she finally had put an end to this nightmare. “don’t say that.” her voice was still the frayed tired she’d always held onto on set, a warning that she was always barely there, trying to hang on. she had been playing the rules of this delusional game and where had it gotten them. he was going to propose? he was so lost, so dizzingly far gone. “it’s not true.” 

a shaking inhale, the cusp of tears watering around her eyes while she tried to regain control of herself. that was the problem with this world, when it sensed you were losing control it pounced, it tried to tear you apart limb from limb. tried to remove the disbelief and replace it with the same blind faith that guided him now. “you just— you let her get in your head.” word by word her calm returned. speaking the truth kept her grounded. hearing it echoed aloud was all the reminder she needed. her sure voice, her sure truth. 

“you were the one who told me. you don’t have to pretend.” unless this was not an act, then there would be much more work to. please let him remember. “remember? your world is not real.”

the hotel room had no exit, except for the faux door, to which she had the only key. she was sure she had been shown every inch of it, though even now it was a haze. what she might use, what help wake him up. she was standing in a room of traps she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. he just had to understand, he just had to see what had been done to him. here is the church, here is the steeple, open the door and there was— just the one. just the single person. finally hers alone, pried away from work and duty and the biggest mistake of his life. she’d seen the jewelry store, the secret phone calls. he’d meant to lock them all in this world forever. and it just couldn’t happen. she was so tired, she wanted to go home. she couldn’t stay trapped here. not for the sake of his delusional happiness. 

“julian.” she said, held the taser to his skin, electrodes digging into his arm where she gave one sharp shock. she hadn’t meant to hit him so hard it drew blood, but she couldn’t have had him conscious could she. she had to get him here some how, the headache would just have to serve as reminder. and this was the same, just enough to wake him. pain was in the mind, once he realized that, he could transcend it. this body was nothing. he could finally do something more. “julian.” 

once there was recognition on his face, she nodded, pulled away the taser. “you didn’t listen, you wouldn’t.” there was no note of hysteria in her voice, not yet. just a wary calm. had she endured so long for it to all to come down to this. a combination of words that might unlock his truth. no distractions. “you won’t see what she’s done. so now i have to make you.”

“Bandaid?” How could he have known what she meant? A random word flung into the air, vaguely tethered to a construct already in place, what was she expecting besides what he gave? “What are you talking about? What is it? You are needing one? You are giving one? What fucking answer is this?” Impatience edged his voice, the rasp in it sharpened, like the eyes that drew against her. The outline of them tightened, the more words that came from her, the more striking the gaze. He was not a fan of codes. Not with her. Dreamlike talk was what Samson would bring; the reminder enough to shift the jaw subtly before his hand waved her on, as if it would draw sense out of her. Life line. “It is a bakery. Not a hospital. Call it. Talk to Tomas. Get the coffee. You need it to be written down? Or? Can you do your job?”

He was wasting time. There were more important things to do than this, spinning in circles with a girl who would not last the day at the current pace. She talked again, but his attention had already slipped through her fingers, shifting to catch Claudia across the way over her shoulder, walking with Killgrave. Safe. Small smile on her face to prove it. Good. He could turn his back, hearing the assistant’s questions from behind with the faintest sense of appeal from him. “Joder,” he muttered with a shake of his head as he flipped through the annotated version of his personal script, the list of shots outlined, what would be accomplished for the day. “Ask me about coffee again? I will get it myself. Then? There will be no point to you.”

“tomas. right.” she knew exactly the number to call, the name of the bakery, that at this time of day it would not be tomas de visser who answered but his older brother. she had done her research., her see see see, her months of waiting for the moment and she wasn’t going to lose it over coffee no matter how much importance he placed on the issue. she didn’t answer with a chipper yes sir, just pulled out her phone with shaking hands to make the call so that it was believed in time for the first take. the sand shifted, she felt imperceptible. unreal. that she might just blow away with all the rest of the grains by virtue of never having been there in the first place. 

“it’s important. i know.” she said once she stepped back, eyes flitting from face to script before landing heavily on the words written in the margins. how else could you stay in the present reality if you didn’t force yourself into it. the body would fight such intrusions after this long. she felt complicit in her own destruction, but she couldn’t just disobey on the first attempt. she would never get so close again. “i can ask about other, other things. do you want a windscreen, for the pages.” 

“Well- that depends on the roast and the brew,” Tomas started to explain but meeting her gaze it seemed like it wasn’t a topic to be discussed at the current point in time. He didn’t know how else to describe other than she looked tired, gazes even too heavy to drag around the scene from the cups to his blues. But if it’s only the bitterness of a coffee that steers her away, perhaps she just haven’t found the right one yet. Perhaps it could help with the boost she needs.

She seemed a little hollow, in her eyes and her words even as she conversed with him and Tomas tries to keep it going, “oh- black is fine but I think we usually don’t care what form you take it in,” cream, sugar, frap, whatever you desired for what works for you. “But yeah, we– drink a lot of coffee.” His family’s methods of cold drip weren’t as traditional as in the Netherlands itself, most likely the reason for the move. “You sure.. you don’t want to sit down? The shoot hasn’t really started yet..”

“hm?” the talk about coffee mostly passed right through her, as though she were barely tethered to the reality around them, let alone the concept of what she might put in the drink. but of course such a loyal projection would have information about something julian liked so much. if all of the knowledge for coffee had to have an outlet, she assumed the closer she got to the cource the more obvious it would be. for that it was worth— she was thus happy to let tomas ramble on, though it did little to stick with her. 

“everyone here drinks a lot of coffee.” she supposed it was a caveat. when you’re led by a man who’s rarely seen without a cup in his hand, how could you not be. except for her, who sometimes took it iced. the mark that she was different, that she didn’t belong at all. 

“i don’t need to sit.” she said finally, feet already heavy in the sand before the thought of movement possessed them. “i’m okay where i am.” it was best to stay on the fringes after all, to be only seen from a distance. she would bring coffee when it was asked for and she would go back to observing the intricacies of their day. the only way to disrupt a patter was to know it, the only way to wake up was to understand that you were dreaming in the first place. “once the shoot starts, then we sit. would you know?”

She might’ve said she’s fine but nothing else about her screamed fine. With the shaky hands, distant gaze, distant tone, the poor girl needed a break. “I’m sure you deserve a cup too..” Tomas softly nudged, but now looking at both their cups, perhaps both meant for Julian, ahh he should’ve known, that they’d get more runners to help on the bigger projects, maybe they didn’t need Tomas stopping by anymore, he’ll ask Julian about it later. “Sure– if you see him,” if she insisted, he didn’t mind, as long as the cup got to him. It was such a busy crew and vast set it was hard to look for the director or the cinematographer. 

“Is that.. for Julian too? I think you can have that cup, since we got two,” he tried to laugh the awkwardness away, now it seemed like he was trying too hard on a set that he didn’t even belong in. Perhaps it was rubbing people off the wrong way. “Um– you can give him this one..” He pulled out the marker to underline Julian’s name to differentiate, “he’ll drink this cup at least, trust me,” a short laugh, having witness the short fuse Julian had with his coffee. “Mm, most of the time, yeah, the Dutch just really like coffee somehow,” Tomas had to think about it, not starting the day without coffee or tea felt wrong. “Not much of a coffee person maybe?” Tomas asked her as he handed her Julian’s cup.

she took the second cup, staring at the two in her hand waiting to see if anything changed. it had become second nature. when handed something from a projection, to see if it changed, flickered, twisted and turned into something different— so that she might finally point and say it was exactly as she knew. and look at the proof. but instead she was just staring at two cups of coffee before her eyes dragged their way back up to tomas. “it’s— bitter.” which was netiher negative or positive, more the description of someone who could not think of words that might describe the drink. picked the first that made sense. 

she’d made the coffee herself so it must have been safe to drink, but she didn’t know if she wanted it. she didn’t know if she trusted anything on this set, the closer one got to the center of a black hole, the more danger they were in to be sucked in. a guard must have been kept up at all times. “the dutch like coffee. okay.” it was noted. a fact of the world that could be repeated when it was needed as a conversation. or some kind of pass were she in such a situation. the dutch like coffee. an interesting caveat to the world. “just black coffee?”

When the new cycle of seasons started it felt.. almost like same shit different projects. With just a few curve balls. But at least this, this was something he was used to doing, ingrained into his morning routine only made easier when all the projects are still being shot in house. Though his schedule might look a little bit worse trying to working out True Grit at the same time to work in their morning routine of caffeine. Tomas gingerly stepped onto the set of True Grit, feeling like he still definitely did not belong here, sticking out like a sore thumb in a well oiled machinery. Yet here he was, coffee in hand, having given out some that the crew asked for, trying to look out for the last person to pass him his coffee - black, too hot, wouldn’t take it from anyone else.

So he didn’t expect to bump into another crew, dead tired, offering a similar cup to him, perhaps.. mistaking him for the director. Tomas paused at the question, ironically holding a similar cup in hand, so he looked around just to make sure no one else was nearby for her to be talking to. “Uh– me?” he points to himself quizzically but in bigger concerns, she look like she was going to fall over, not needing to handle something like that again. “Would you.. like some coffee instead? Or maybe a sit down? Or- or some food?” He quietly asked, gesturing his cup to hers, he Would be offered her his cup if it didn’t already have Julian’s name on it, figuratively and literally. “Are you okay..?”

“i’m fine.” cup trembled but it didn’t spill, see. see. “it’s only for me if no one takes it.” tomas de visser brings the coffee to set, as well as a spread of breakfast which he may have prepared fresh. he wanted to comfort and spread happiness and he valued his cooking above his life or he would have already been on set for his own movie. how the brain defends itself when it knows there is an intrusion. “i can bring it to him.” she said finally, trying to negotiate boundaries with these tangled membranes. she wanted to push tomas out of the way, it would matter little one way or a other. but she only held fast to her own cup, how it looked identical to his. 

“or i can keep this.” ease the defenses. she was no harm to him after all. coffee trembled, didn’t spill. she looked past him into some airy space in which the conversation might already be over, the time in which she was on to the next task, but it didn’t reach out. time chose to be linear, to flow slow, to not collapse on itself. “i’m okay. i am” neither food nor sitting would repair her state. she was looking for more permanent remedies across the true grit set, for which he would offer none. what was food and drink in a dream, why then might the body feel so aching tired and betray. “i’ll just keep the cup.” her coffee, the caffeine boost that the brain swore by because were they not part of the same well oiled machine. run by the love of the coffee from the de visser’s family bakery. “does coffee work for you?”

It was rare for Tomas not to make an appearance, some gravitational pull in Julian’s orbit that had been long expected now after having him linger on three separate projects before. Norah, Identity, The Boy Venus. It only seemed natural for True Grit to retain him, even if it wasn’t in the form of cast. He looked at her with the thoughts bubbling just beneath the surface, a certain glint to them that his cinematographer would grab in an instance, but what of this P.A.? What did she know of him to grasp the silent language in the form of narrowed eyes, the pair that seemingly searched through her.

“Why not you? You are offering this?”–the head twisted, a sharp pinpointing shift to the coffee corroded by the sand–“But not what is good? Why are you fucking here?” The look was not mitigated by her words, her voice giving him the impression of distraction or exhaustion, somewhere along those lines if he was willing to care enough to tell the difference. To him, there was none if the result was going to be the same. This was not the role for her if she could not manage the work hours, impatience striking him as quickly as his fingers snapped before her.

“Wake up.” His jaw shifted, clenching, the feather-light thought of sickness brushing at his thoughts, remnants of a life long gone. She wasn’t sick. Julian knew sickness. Knew his own flesh and blood. There was none of it here. “If you’re tired? Already? This will not last.”

his words echoed in her head. they rattled, they made great big clanging sounds. why was she here— that was the age old question. he got it one, without even trying. he knew he knew he knew. deep down it was already leaking out. “bandaid.” she said finally, tired eyes blinking slowly before focusing on his face once more. the word flashed in front of them both, what was all of this but a bandaid against a grievous wound. pull it away and she was still bleeding. the coffee was just keeping them awake. the world was still shifting sand unreal. “it will take time to call the bakery. it was your life line.” dumped in the sand, being stared right at. would he understand such a code. 

wake up. the words scald her, eyes wider as they’re processed. she wondered if she spit the sentence back across the sand it would come with the same self realization. she wondered if she could risk it with the antidote to such an awareness hovering so close. “i will.” did she mean that she would wake up, that she would last, that she would be the one to conquer all and enter the city of splendor. might she do all the above and finally be free of the curse that he had unknowingly wrapped her in. the thought was heady with such face to face potential. 

wake up. she pulled herself from the thoughts that were threatening to finally be voiced. she refused to do such a thing. she knew better. it would be better.  breath in out. the pulsing vein against his temple. “do you want a carafe. for the day.” round back to easy solution before she might spill over into topics that should not yet be discussed. there might be time yet to grab him by the shoulders and yell don’t you see. such an action required trust. she had to gain trust. “i can get it. if you want.”

@malransom​

“i thought.. celebration may be in order.” the words felt awkward in his mouth, rigid, sharp. he went so far as to pause and run his tongue around his gums to check that they hadn’t actually been torn up. arthur held the bouquet of flowers out unsure if mal would take them–if she’d even noticed them. he knew that today was a very big day and for better or worse things were going to be different now that mal was working so closely with julian santiago. what he didn’t know, was why he suddenly felt so unsure of his footing. claudia marshall and julian santiago had been the center of their shared universe for some time, so why could he speak about it with ease some days and not others? 

arthur sucked in a breath, unable to stop himself from directing the conversation to claudia. “did you see her?” and more importantly… did mal not see her? was she finally able to play witness to arthur’s accusations? did she notice how everything was wrong? she would’ve–of course, mal would’ve noticed. mal was observant. 

he sat himself on the edge of their coffee table, pulling mal in front of him. she’d only just walked into the door when he’d ambushed her, unable to wait longer than that for the details of her day. a hand sat on her waist keeping her close as arthur spoke to the ground. his leg was bouncing with anticipation. or fear. he wasn’t sure which. “tell me everything. everything–nothing is inconsequential.” they’d dissect every moment, every gesture, every breath. they’d gotten quite good at it over the months they’d spent together. 

despite every unravelling little detail of the world around her, against all odds of best interest and self preservation, she had found calamity arthur marshall. she knew better, really she did, but sometimes she was just so tired, sometimes it was near impossible to not give into the dream around her. and arthur listened, he sat patient quiet and let her explain, she had found the part of the world that might acknowledge she shouldn’t be there. but it wasn’t sounding any alarms. she couldn’t figure out whether it might be julian trying to reach out to her, or claudia stopping her in her tracks.

he held the bouquet up and she forgot which she’d preferred. the bright colors kaleidoscoped out in front of her, distracting her from her weary thoughts. she took them, letting him pull her closer despite the fact she hadn’t taken her coat or shoes off. despite the fact that she stumbled, balance thrown off from the shifting terrain of the set, still trying to adjust to the smoothness of the floor now. “he didn’t realize. he didn’t know i was— he thought i belonged.” she said finally. sign both positive and negative. sign that she had work to do. 

his hand resting firmly against her skin, the most solid she ever felt. she turned the flowers in her hand. “she didn’t talk to me.” there was nothing to say yet. hazel eyes staring through her as if she didn’t exist, as if she could be willed away. curse, ghost, little lost soul that might fade. “they were together the whole time. they were so close.” she was not yet allowed into the conversations between crew heads. she had to work on it. she had to remember the coffee order and the shot list and she had to watch some movie called high plains drifter that she’d missed in her own research. “it’s it’s so much worse than i thought.”

she twirled the flowers. hand on her waist. his foot tapping a code she couldn’t understand. “we thought.” did they think? could he think? most days she liked to say so, but it was only hope. if she could convince herself all would be well. “they’re inseparable.” joined at the hip, at the waist. all that tapping. “i thought she was independent. i thought you said—” but what could she really trust, what did she know. “you wouldn’t lie to me.”

It had become the trademark: Santiago projects chewed up assistants and spat them back out to the world, newly formed into either something stronger than steel or disastrously weak and crumbling. Either way, Julian couldn’t remember having an assistant that had been used on more than one film, never caring for the why only the result that he could gather from them. In the end, their contribution meant little, always another replacement right around the corner, where he would not settle for incompetency.

True Grit’s first day of shooting meant the set had been constructed, ready to be put to use, every member of the crew in their rightful place, actors finishing with hair and make-up. Claudia would soon take up the chair beside his, eyes glued to the screen to capture what was working and what wasn’t, but before then, as if by tradition, the director was on his feet, another meticulous review to the work that surrounded him.

No thanks came, not even a look, a hand wrapping around the peripheral vision’s take on a cup of coffee before bringing it to his lips. One sip was all it took before the mouth pursed, unused liquid poured out into the desert sand in audible disgust, tangling with his voice.

“Mierda.” Comment and criticism, finally earning the newest addition his attention. A beat of a pause fell, a flicker of hesitation, railroaded as quickly as it came, shuttling back any specter that had come with it. “What is this shit?” he told her, a return of strengthened normalcy, the emptied cup handed back to her. “Where is Tomas’?”

eyes followed the stream of coffee as it splashed over the already hot sand, inevitability of its descent, sinking into the ground, darkening the terrain. immaculate, so flowing and natural. she stared at the puddle long after he was done with his display, watching how it all shifted, pooling into a strange design of waves and dots. it had been too long in the dream, he’d gotten down all the details of his world into perfection. they operated without any conscious effort, they were exactly as they should be. she took a breath, long and labored, before looking back up at him. 

“he’s not here.” tomas de visser. a list. chef. delusion. meant to comfort, and little more. to soothe oneself with your own subconscious, to manifest something to take care of. “sent apologies.” and finally, shaking hand reached out and took the cup from him, action delayed as though the thought hadn’t yet connected that it might be given back to her so soon. she hadn’t thought to touch anything he had before. whether it made the objects more solid or weaker. the cup only felt lighter. it was not more or less real than anything else. it was not real at all. she stared at the cup in her hands, waiting for it to shift, to changed, for molecules to repattern themselves in some strange way. but they did not. he was too far gone to notice such a change even if it did occur.

“i can send someone down— down to the bakery.” she could not herself leave the set, and risk missing anything. she was here to observe, never before had she been so close to both dreamer and extractor. never before had she looked him in the eyes and been able to say your world is not real. but she didn’t, not yet. because off to the side there was the extractor in question. “two cups. or one.” or a whole carafe. or she could scoop up the sand and let the coffee sift and sink and refill the cup. “or—” nothing.

she had been mailed the worn and ducted taped binder for production assistants, memorized every one of the golden rules. they weren’t so terrible, they slotted into the gaps in her guesses quite easily, not so much filling in blanks as illuminating what had always been there. forty seven hours. had she ever been asleep before. 

coffee black, too hot, supposed ask if the cinematographer wanted one too. pretend to nod when she answered yes or no, stare through with hollow tired eyes as if she wasn’t the one doing all of this in the first place. it must have been nice, to be so at ease in the wrong. existing in the problem. “for you.” she offered out what she’d been holding. black coffee, hot too. “if you’d like.”

full name: molly cassandra rançon, pga. mallory ransom

birthday: september 10th

age: 25

zodiac sign: virgo

religion: not applicable

religious level (1-10): 0

birthplace: paris, france

current residence: los angeles, california

height: 5′5″

hair color: brown, occasionally dyed blonde

eye color: blue

sexuality: pansexual

romantic preference: demiromantic

relationship status: single

languages known: english, french, german, spanish 

DETAILS—

car: black 2020 kia sorento

phone: blackberry key 2

music genres: classical, instrumental, meditation 

wardrobe: peter pan collars, oxfords, knit tights, block coloring, 

estimated net worth: unknown

ransom value: mallory aha get it

CONNECTIONS—

mother, awake.

father, awake.

julian santiago, target, asleep

claudia marshall, extractor, asleep

LEVELS (1-10)—

drinking: 2; socially. would prefer to stay in control.

swearing: 1; no.

smoking status: 1; if asked.

drugs: 0; no.

cooking proficiency: 6; as directed.

intelligence: 7; but she is crazy.

emotional/social intelligence: 4; confused.

creativity: 5; average.

temper: 3; hard to provoke. 

FILMOGRAPHY—

inception

inception