The Silver Screen Wars

2 - Remorse

Bishop was leaning back on the table in front of the stage, where dozens of hopefuls had congregated like a mass of multicolored, nervous pigeons. He surveyed them silently from behind the lenses of his aviators, seemingly composed, but there was no mistaking the twitching grimace that occasionally twisted his lips.

He didn’t like what he was seeing. Not at all. He clicked his tongue against his teeth before pushing his aviators up into his blond hair, revealing a striking pair of icy blue eyes that bore vicious holes into anyone unlucky enough to catch his attention.

“So who here is going to sing, dance, or show me some creative, non-standard talent to impress me? Step forward. Everyone else, to the back.”

He didn’t care how many there were, in truth, but an unconscious head count gave him an approximation of about fifty desperate wannabes on the stage. A flurry of shoes shuffling forward immediately answered his call, but Bishop waited. He knew how insects’ minds worked. They weren’t done, far from it.

Indeed, after the initial wave of enthusiastic, excited young men and women rushing forward, a few others uncertainly trickled along as well. Clearly, they had nothing prepared, but they were simply unwilling to be left behind so soon - before they had even had a chance to prove themselves.

They would think of something on the fly, those second-string hopefuls, Bishop thought. No doubt one of them was going to offer to juggle.

It made him sick.

“Everyone done moving? Better be. Those of you who have nothing creative to show me and went to the back, come down off the stage here.”

He saw several faces glowing in gleeful triumph as the “creatives” watched the few pathetic stragglers begin creeping off the raised platform. Lots of smiles. Gorgeous smiles, too, but that meant nothing to him.

Only a half-dozen despondent men and women began descending the steps off to the sides of the stage, filing down one by one to reach the pit. Ugh, Bishop thought in disgust as he glanced each one over. Absolutely disappointing. They all looked like they had just gotten their organs confiscated.

In the middle of his observation, his head turned when a young woman’s voice sounded from the middle of the stage. He was just in time to see someone squeeze past two of the creatives and pop out in front of them. She gave them only a brief apology before hopping down to the floor, sliding down the three foot drop with a casual grace that made his eyes linger on her.

Sweatshirt? And those jeans looked old, washed maybe a few too many times back in the Stone Age. Not only was it hideous, it wasn’t even revealing - which meant she wasn’t desperate. Bishop narrowed his eyes at her as she crossed the pit to join the tiny group of five standing off to the side. Now six, including her. She shoved her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt and - what was that stance? Was she lounging?

Bishop turned away before she could irritate him any further with her flippant demeanor. He stared up at the stage where the forty-something-strong auditioners stood, waiting eagerly for his next instructions.

“All of you up there. Get the f**k out.”

Silence fell. A handful of seconds passed, and the men and women cast each other nervous, confused glances.

“Sir?” someone asked, their voice shaky and uncertain, but Bishop was already rearing back to deliver another venomous bite:

“You f*****g idiots. I bet one of you brought a f*****g harmonica, too, didn’t you?”

Someone shifted in the crowd, hastily hiding something.

“I don’t have time for idiots who don’t know how this works. So get out.” When no one moved, Bishop turned and reached over the table to grab the metal folding chair on the other side. With a snarl, he heaved it over and hurled it at the rim of the stage, just barely avoiding someone’s shins. By the time the chair bounced off and hit the ground with a ringing crash, the spurned auditioners were already screaming and scrambling to get away from the enraged man.

“And don’t even f*****g think about coming to another one of my calls!” he bellowed, his furious voice ringing through the auditorium and chasing down the last of the fleeing wretches. The sound of someone weeping as they ran away echoed back.

Bishop waited until he had finished tasting the sweet satisfaction of banishing yet another crop of repulsive failures. Beautiful. It was like burning an anthill with a magnifying glass.

When he turned to face the six remaining auditioners, most of them instantly shrank back, sensing his almost homicidal intent. All but one, that is. The young woman in the gray sweatshirt remained lounging, leaning most of her weight on one leg. Both of her hands were still nestled in her pocket. Bishop felt a sting of unadulterated vexation gnaw on his nerves.

“First person to tell me why I did what I did? Gets to try out last. Hurry up.”

The best kind of bait, Bishop sneered. Anyone who came to casting calls always vied for the final spot in order to be the freshest one in the judge’s memory.

But no one answered, and his blood pressure immediately began to climb at breakneck speed as the auditioners all sneaked each other nervous looks out of the corner of their eyes. Holy s**t. Idiots, all of them. He felt an ugly string of curses rise to his throat, but he would give them one last chance. Maybe they were f*****g deaf and hadn’t heard him the first time.

“None of you?” he demanded. “None of you know the answer?”

“I do.”

Bishop whipped his head around to look at the speaker, and then narrowed his eyes.

That woman again. The one in the ratty clothes.

“So why didn’t you say anything?” he hissed, his anger boiling forth despite getting an unexpectedly positive response. The hapless men and women began inching away from the unfortunate victim of Bishop’s wrath, giving them a wide, wide berth for the inevitable s*******r.

But Gray Sweatshirt did nothing except shrug at him. “Because I didn’t want to go last,” she said. “Why would I want to stick around and wait until everyone else goes first? Waste of time.”

And for the first time in a very long time, something curious happened: Bishop couldn’t think of anything to say. He stared at her, his gaze a mixture of cold fury and exasperated confusion, until finally he shook his head and made an impatient gesture at her.

“Just f*****g say it, then,” he ordered. “Now.”

She shrugged again. “It’s an acting audition. You’re not looking for pop stars. Or circus performers. Those are cool, but it’s not what we’re here for.”

The plain, unaffected tone of her response nibbled on Bishop’s nerves again. But then again, she wasn’t wrong. It was the answer he had been waiting for, just far less elegantly delivered. God, what exactly was it about her that irritated him so much? It couldn’t be just her nonchalant behavior; that kind of thing didn’t really matter to him so long as it didn’t affect their actual performance. Hell, even the man to the far right on the opposite side was bothering him less, and he had been nervously bobbing up and down for the past minute like a goddamn Oompa Loompa.

Fuck it, he told himself. If she was annoying him so much with her mere existence, then she had no hope of working under him at Perfect Storm Studios. Time to get rid of her before he wasted any more time.

“Fine. All of you pair up. Now.”

While the others scrambled to get into place, Bishop crooked a finger at the woman just before she could turn to greet her chosen partner. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, something displeased when he did so, but he ignored it: it didn’t matter to him.

“You two stand here by me.”

She acquiesced without argument, and he felt something twinge inside him like the gentle snap of a rubber band. No mistake about it. Something about her was really pissing him off, and she wasn’t even doing anything wrong yet. Yet.

“Slates. Now,” he ordered, and he began circling around the three pairs with a predatory gait.

On cue, starting with the man he was currently closest to, the six auditioners introduced themselves in brief, round robin order. Bishop found himself paying special attention when Gray Sweatshirt’s turn came:

“Kodiak Clyde. Just Kodi, though.”

He rolled his eyes, not even bothering to try to hide his contempt. He didn’t want nicknames. He hadn’t asked for them. But whatever.

“Gonna make this one easy. The three of you that are standing on this side, you’re A team. The three of you standing on that side, you’re B team. Understand? Two groups. Whoever you're standing opposite of, that's your boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, whatever, and you're going to show me a little improv." When they all nodded, he continued with his instructions. “Keeping up so far?”

More nods. Bishop glanced at Kodi, his blue eyes lingering on her just long enough to register that she would be on the A team. Excellent.

“B team is dumping their lovers, but A team gets to decide why. I want you to show me that.”

Everyone nodded again for the third time, most of them looking a little more confused but still eager to please. Too bad, because this wasn’t over yet. Bishop grinned; here was the fun part.

“I don’t want to hear a single goddamn word between anyone in this scene, start to finish,” he said. “This is done in silence. No putting your heads together, no chitchat, no whispering. You do this on the fly."

Oh, good. They were already scared. Nothing got his blood pumping like straining the wheat from the chaff with vague, borderline impossible demands.

"A team, you have ten seconds to think of how you're going to pull this off, and then you and your partner have thirty seconds after that to act it out. You can interact during the scene, but one more time in case you're an i***t who needs to be told twice: no talking, no props, and no prepping with each other in advance. Make your partner pick up whatever you're putting down, understand? Read each other's minds.”

Horrified looks of utter confusion bloomed between the auditioners, but there was one last thing:

“When time's up, B team better have figured out the reason they're dumping their lovers, and then I want to hear it. If you and I don't come up with the same answer, you're out. And make every second count, because all of you are doing this at the same time. You don't have time to f**k around with fancy tricks. Ready? A team, your ten seconds of planning starts now. Ten...nine…”

When Bishop snapped his fingers eight seconds later, everyone was still looking around with panicked expressions, unsure what to do - except one. Just one person:

Normally, he would have screamed at the dolts who failed to follow his instructions, but he found his gaze dragged toward Kodi, who lunged forward at her partner, a handsome young brunet fellow, and kneeled in front of him. Interesting position, Bishop was about to sneer, but the expression on the woman’s face proceeded to wipe the smirk off his face.

Shame. Panic. Terror. 

She crawled up to her partner on her knees, wrapping her hands around his left fist. She brought his knuckles to her lips, kissing them with a fervor that bordered on maniacal - and yet sick, ailing. Weakening and desperate, clinging to a hope that she had already lost.

Kodi’s partner stared down at her in stunned silence, caught in her imploring gaze. There were no tears on her face, but the agony was so stark, so raw, that it made Bishop’s heart thud once in his chest.

She brought her partner’s fist back up to her lips, kissed it again. She clutched at him with all the dread of someone who had just lost everything she ever loved. And then she bowed her forehead to touch it to his knuckles, her shoulders hunched and shaking. Contrition, remorse. She didn’t say a word, but Bishop heard her as clearly as if she had screamed it aloud at the top of her voice.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry -

Bishop didn’t realize how long it had been, until with all the suddenness of a flipped switch, Kodi unfurled and got to her feet. Every pair of eyes in the auditorium was pinned on her, waiting with bated breath for her next words.

“Well, okay,” she said blankly, as if nothing had happened. She looked at Bishop. “That’s thirty seconds, so can I stop there?”

He slowly breathed out the air he hadn’t realized lay trapped in his lungs. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “You can stop there. Kodiak’s B partner, you awake?”

The man gave him a stuttering affirmation.

“Come on, then. Tell me why you’re breaking up with her.”

The brunet swallowed hard and gave Kodi a wide-eyed look. She gave him a helpful smile back and a thumbs up. “She...cheated on me,” he said, and he looked back at Bishop.

“You sure?”

The man nodded. “Yeah. It’s the only thing it could be.”

Bishop gave him a half-nod. “Great. But you stuttered for some reason, even though she made the answer obvious as hell. So, you’re out. And the rest of you couldn’t follow simple directions, either, so all of you except Kodiak Clyde -”

Bishop pointed at the auditorium exit.

“- can get the f**k out, too."