The Silver Screen Wars

1- Unscripted

“No way.”

“Yes, way. The audition's an open casting.”

“Bullshit. The Bishop doesn't do that. What, you're telling me that we're getting lumped in with all the nobodies who come crawling off the streets -"

“We are nobodies, Michael. You thought we got in because our agents pulled strings for us? We're new. We wouldn't have a chance of trying out if it weren't open to begin with, idiot.”

Just outside the glass doors of the building, two young men were bickering between themselves. Impeccably dressed in expensive polo shirts and slacks and every strand of hair combed into place with meticulous care, it was clear they had come prepared to impress...

...in stark contrast with the young woman who slowly ambled up to stand behind them. She wore little more than a plain gray sweatshirt and faded jeans, and her dark hair was almost entirely nestled away under her hood. Her dirty white sneakers had certainly seen better days before tramping around the damp grass that had left stray broken blades all over the soles.

“Hey, excuse me,” she said. “Trying to get through.”

Both men simultaneously whipped around, their eyes widening in instant recognition upon hearing her voice. “Kodiak?”

“It’s Kodi.”

“Oh, yeah - um, Kodi, I mean.” The young man on the left suddenly raised a nervous hand to card his fingers through his groomed hair, and then seemed to remember that he shouldn’t, just in time. He gave the back of his head a careful, delicate pat instead. “Long time no see.”

One corner of the woman’s mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “We’ve met?”

An awkward stillness descended between them for several beats.

“Uh. Sort of, I guess,” he stammered finally. “But it was about a month ago at the, um, Riot Theatre. I was there when you were doing the improvisations with Monlavia. Hey, that was incredible, by the way. Going toe-to-toe with a veteran, I’ve never seen anything like it. Just insane. You’re a born actress, I swear.”

She c****d her head slightly and squinted at him. “I don’t know why I can’t remember your face.”

“It’s - no, you wouldn’t remember me,” he said hastily. “I was just...in the crowd. I’m Michael, and this is Dale.” He pointed at his friend. “Nice to meet you. Again. Well, sort of, since we didn’t officially...meet...”

Kodi gave him a casual nod, graciously ignoring his painful awkwardness. “Same. You guys look sharp. Good luck in there, both of you.”

“Yeah, same.”

They continued to stand motionless for another few seconds, and then the woman gestured at the two of them with a slow, vertical chopping motion of the hand down the narrow space between their bodies.

“So...just going to slide on through, if that’s okay,” she said, and both men hurried to part the way.

“Yeah, sorry, my bad. Good luck, by the way. Not saying you’ll need it, just…you know. Good luck.”

The woman gave them a quick farewell salute in answer before pulling open the glass door to trudge inside. Two pairs of gawking stares followed her progress through the lobby until she disappeared down a corridor, and then Dale spoke for the first time since the woman’s interruption to break the extended silence.

“Good job,” he snorted. “So smooth.”

Michael punched him in the arm none too gently, his mouth set in a bitter scowl. “Yeah, because you definitely weren’t standing there completely shell-shocked and mute the entire time. At least I was able to talk.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They fell silent again.

“s**t,” Dale lamented in a quiet voice. “I didn’t know the Kodiak was going to show up for this.”

Michael shook his head and dragged a weary hand down his face. “Yeah, well, surprise to both of us. So...I guess that's it.”

“They might be casting for more than one role. Just go in, we’re fine.”

“Yeah. We’re fine.”

And then with simultaneous defeated sighs, they entered the building.

-------

“Bishop, please don’t do this. You’ve got nothing to prove. They already know you’re the best. You know you’re the best. And you know that they know you’re the best.”

Two men sat behind a long table. The pleading speaker looked ordinary enough to blend into a wall of dull furniture, but perhaps that was simply because the man he sat next to nearly glowed with a domineering, magnetic presence that filled the entire auditorium. There was simply no comparison:

A pair of aviator sunglasses framed an angular, aristocratic face. Ash blond hair, tousled just right so that it bled classic bedhead s*x appeal, and yet wild enough to pass for an accidental arrangement. The man’s white dress shirt, too, bore a half-dozen casual wrinkles that might or might not have been there by design. The top three buttons were popped open as well, carelessly revealing more than just a tantalizing hint of bronzed, cut pectorals.

Bishop Cassius. The Bishop. The very same Bishop who owned the most successful film production company in the United States, and soon, if he had his way, the whole world. Perfect Storm was such a fitting name, honestly. Coming up with fantastic names, just another skill that came along with his already massive repertoire.

“Hurry up,” he said. He leaned back in the metal folding chair, sending the back legs squeaking slightly across the auditorium floor. “We’re not leaving until I’m done.”

“Bishop -”

“Boyd, try me one more time.” He slowly turned his head to stare at his companion, who shrank back when he came face to face with the dark lenses of the aviators. “Go ahead. Try me.”

The other man averted his nervous eyes before Bishop even had the chance to draw another breath after his threat. “S-sorry. I’m just -”

“Then stop wasting my f*****g time. Bring them all in.”

“A-all of them…at once?”

A sudden silence fell, and Boyd instantly began to sweat through his slacks upon realizing his mistake. He was mumbling the first syllable of another panicked apology when Bishop’s hand abruptly swatted the open thermos of ice water off the table in front of them. Before Boyd could react, the contents splashed all over his clothes, drenching him from collar to thighs.

The man surged up from his chair with a shocked gasp and sent a flurry of frozen cubes spinning away on the floor. The clattering of broken ice echoed around the auditorium for a moment before fading away, leaving only the sound of Boyd’s chattering gasps behind.

Bishop didn’t even turn his head to look at him. “You’re soaked,” he said. “Go dry yourself off.”

Without another word, Boyd weakly tottered away.