Andrew pulled into a McDonald's drive-through. He opened the glove compartment, pulled out a stack of coupons, and selected a Big Mac meal offer. He handed the coupon to the cashier along with a one-dollar bill and change, settling the $1.60 total for the meal that was usually $2.59.
With the paper bag cradling his dinner, Andrew drove back to his apartment. Venice Beach wasn't a wealthy area; most residents were lower-middle-income earners. Its predominantly white demographic meant the area maintained good security.
Andrew ate the Big Mac and drank the Coke immediately upon arriving, his hunger overriding his fatigue. His apartment was a modest one-bedroom, one-living room unit.
Venice was somewhat remote, keeping the rent low—less than $200 a month. The commute to the city was about half an hour each way, but since Andrew owned a car, the distance was a minor inconvenience.
After tossing the packaging in the bin, Andrew grabbed a change of clothes and went to the bathroom to shower. Knowing he had to be up before dawn, he washed quickly.
He wiped the fog from the mirror several times, revealing a handsome face. His deep-set eyes, straight nose, and well-proportioned, athletic body—the result of years of training—made him conventionally attractive from any angle.
He often heard comments that he resembled Christopher Reeve, who had starred as Superman the previous year. The resemblance was primarily in build and height; Andrew was also tall, 6 feet 2 inches (1.88 meters).
However, Superman had black hair, while Andrew's was a dirty blonde, darkening almost to black at the roots and lightening at the ends. His eyes were a striking amber, with a dark brown inner ring near the pupil shifting to a golden outer ring.
He was clearly of mixed ancestry, lacking the strong body odor common among some Caucasians, which spared him the need to use heavy deodorant like his former high school boxing teammates.
Dressed in pajamas, Andrew lay in bed, feeling a wave of familiar longing for his Aunt Karen in New York.
Since his transmigration, Andrew had woken up with no memories of his past life, only latent skills: he knew how to drive, draw comics, and box. Most disturbingly, he initially suffered from a unique form of aphasia—he could only write in English, not speak it.
For months, he had to pretend to be mute. Aunt Karen had been deeply distressed, consulting doctors who diagnosed a rare head injury requiring him to effectively relearn speech from scratch.
After he recovered his voice, he joined the high school boxing team, but a disappointing loss in the inter-school competition meant he missed out on an athletic scholarship for college.
His luck changed when he picked up a teammate's camera. He discovered his most useful skill: photography. He didn't just see a good composition; he instinctively perceived the emotional dialogue between the subject and the setting.
He knew how to meter light, set up complex lighting for psychological effect, and instruct poses for maximum emotional through-line. He possessed an uncanny, internal clock that told him the exact micro-moment to release the shutter, capturing the subject's unspoken truth. Was this residual skill from a past life as a photographer or cinematographer? Regardless, this powerful, multi-layered talent could certainly earn him money.
Aunt Karen had painstakingly saved $200—the traditional middle-class gift for a first car. Andrew used the money instead to buy a used Nikon F2 DSLR camera and film. He began earning money by taking portraits.
Upon graduating, financial constraints forced him to take a year off to save for tuition. With just over $500 in cash, he drove from New York to Los Angeles. On rural Staten Island, clients were skeptical of his young age. But Hollywood was different.
He quickly realized the most efficient way to earn money was shooting audition photos for aspiring actors—simple, lucrative jobs where two A4-sized headshots could easily fetch over $100.
Despite the massive market in L.A., his youth still led clients to lowball him, paying only $30–$50 per set for novice actors.
Andrew realized he needed credibility. He applied for a job at New World Productions, hoping to get his name in the end credits and command higher prices as an "insider."
After months of reading scripts without success, his boss had recently assigned him as an assistant on the Rock 'n' Roll High School set, where his main function was making coffee.
Feeling sleepy, Andrew set his alarm for 4:30 AM.
He slept for an unknown amount of time when he heard a low, mechanical hum—the only sound in the darkness. He pushed open a heavy door that hadn't been there moments ago.
Instead of his apartment, he found himself in a cavernous room that smelled of old celluloid and damp concrete, unmistakably a vast, hidden storage space.
The air was thick with silence. Andrew was completely alone. Ahead of him, a white screen was stretched across a back wall. The beam of a tripod-mounted projector—a powerful, vintage machine—was already slicing the gloom and illuminating the screen.
Andrew scanned the room, a chill running up his spine. "Where... What is this place?"
The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with metal shelving packed with VHS tape cases—familiar titles alongside foreign obscurities. His gaze snagged on films released long before the video boom: The Exorcist (1973), The Godfather (1972), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), and Jaws (1975).
Next to the projector stood a heavy bookcase, every volume technical and analytical: huge tomes on "Mise-en-scène and Psychological Blocking,""The Geometry of Light: Studio Gaffer's Handbook," and "The Rhythmic Cut: Editing for Emotional Impact."
Further back, film history sat frozen on a dedicated shelf of silver and grey film cans. Andrew squinted, reading the elegant cursive script: Citizen Kane (1941), a masterclass in deep focus; Casablanca (1942), renowned for its perfect screenplay; and The Maltese Falcon (1941), the definitive film noir.
A final detail caught his eye: resting on a low, dusty table nearby was a very old, heavy, brass film splicing block, an ancient cutting tool. The initials E.V. were faintly and elegantly carved into the metal.
Suddenly, the screen changed. The title appeared in red capital letters: "FBI WARNING". Below it was the familiar small print detailing the severity of civil and criminal penalties for copyright infringement (Title 17, Sections 501, 506, and 508 of the United States Code)."
This chilling copyright warning played out in the profound silence of the vault.
A dozen seconds later, the screen cleared.
A three-story white building appeared, gently illuminated by sunlight. No one was visible, only the sound of crickets chirping, emphasizing the tranquility.
Then, a line of large red text appeared at the bottom: "A film produced by New World Productions, copyright © 1979, New World Productions."
Huh? Andrew thought. Next year's copyright?
The camera panned to a large sign with yellow and green lettering: "Vince Lombard High School." Below it, a quote: "Winning isn't the most important thing, it's the only thing."
Andrew's mouth dropped open. Vince Lombard High School—that was the fictional location in the script he was working on. This wasn't just a movie. This was the movie they were shooting right now.
The scene cuts to a new student looking at a map, muttering, "Where am I?" before being grabbed by football players.
The camera then focused on a female student with large, black-rimmed glasses, standing by a platform showcasing chemical apparatus next to a sign for the "Science Club."
The scene cuts again to a handsome boy, Tom, whom Kate Lamb tries to engage, but the oblivious boy rejects her.
The scene cuts one last time to a beautiful woman in red putting on a Ramones record. High-energy rock music starts, students begin dancing on the playground, and the red title "Rock 'n' Roll High School" appears.
"Rock 'n' Roll High School" Andrew whispered, his voice echoing in the vast, still room.
Suddenly, a mechanism next to the projector whirred and spat out a black box. On the white label, written in flamboyant red pen: "Rock 'n' Roll High School"
The screen went white.
"Ah!" Andrew screamed, rolling off the bed.