I'm fine… — Flora squeaked, barely getting the words out as her aunt helped haul her I just need to sleep. But I seriously don't know how I'm gonna make it back to the trailer… At that exact moment, Campus side- shuffled in like the world's creepiest crab: Heh- heh, sweetheart, we can always ask our buddy Manu for a bed, and I could give you a lil'...
treatment.
Hard pass! Get lost! — She snapped, and the puppet's grin faltered. Defeated, he trudged off toward Peyota, who was already holding court next to two crates of beer (generously provided by a suddenly philanthropic Manu).
The man himself approached Flora with soft tact:
There's a cot here you can use You should rest. We've all got shooting to prep for tomorrow—and you, dear lady, need to recover. I fully second Signore Manu, may his name be praised even outside the glorious borders of this cave! We're not letting you wander off. We're all sleeping here! Right, noble army of art and cinema?! — Lorenzo called out like he was delivering Shakespeare to a stoned music festival.
A scattered chorus of drunken affirmatives rose up, peppered with the burping gurgles of Campus's ventriloquist and the enthusiastic gulps of our favorite gangsta girl. Camillo, of course, had managed to secure a bottle of his own.
I can't sleep… outside my house… and around people… — Flora slurred, and immediately passed out mid- sentence, collapsing into her aunt's arms like a marionette with cut strings.
Lucky for her, she missed out on the exuberant medical diagnosis that followed, courtesy of Vanna, who had apparently switched into ER mode:
Oh no, oh no, this is serious! Flora, you can't keep pushing yourself like this! I don't want you getting That pale tone, the eye bags, finger tremors, and the raspy voice—clear symptoms of… A totally burnt- out She just needs sleep. — Evelyn interrupted, already carrying the girl over to the waiting cot. Oh, but no- no- no! What this means is that our sweet little cinnamon roll Flora just needs a nap, so tomorrow a ray of sunshine can kiss her on the forehead and she'll rise like the glorious pastry queen she is, ready to lead us all to cinematic greatness!
It wasn't clear whether Evelyn groaned out loud… or if the cave itself did. Either way, she took a moment to reflect, and then asked Manu:
You're really sure you want all of them staying here tonight? Quod futurum est, fiet, as Peyota often likes to (What is meant to happen will happen) — The Hawaiian replied with serene finality.
Evelyn hadn't understood a damn word, but nodded solemnly anyway, gently laying her niece down on the stiff, makeshift cot that had exactly zero in common with a princess- worthy mattress.
Episode № 2. Luxury is the Word of the Day.
A face had taken up residence in the camera's lens. It filled the whole frame, pushing everything else out, and two theories sprang to mind:
This face had decided to squat in a piece of moving equipment, Or Flora had switched to (almost) first- person mode and taken total control of the
The second option felt more likely. But lately, Flora wasn't feeling confident about anything. At least she'd finally gotten a solid night's sleep—and woke up surrounded by a field of bodies,
everyone strewn about on blankets and mats. Campus lay off to the side, isolated not by privilege
but punishment. The poor soul (and his puppet) had both been tied up with rope, probably after trying to snuggle someone without permission and paying a well- deserved price.
His costume was gone too. Just... gone. Apparently it had said everything it needed to and vanished like an offended diva. He didn't even show up for the morning briefing for Episode 2, which annoyed Flora. She hated when team members just dipped without warning.
Same with the Copy, who had walked out of the cave yesterday and simply evaporated from the narrative. That loss, though, she could live with. At least it wasn't nagging her at the moment. Flora shoved both disappearances out of her mind and focused on explaining to the future audience where they were and what the hell was going on.
The port of San Pedro was always buzzing with ships of every shape and size, and the place set tourists' imaginations on fire with its sheer grandeur.
Endless rows of piers sliced through the water, all flanked by towering palms, agaves, and yuccas. This whole - Beautiful City of Angels- tableau was tastefully interrupted by industrial accents: massive cranes and shipping containers that somehow didn't ruin the view. The yachts and boats totally stole the spotlight anyway.
There were so many. Differing in countless ways, sure—but as Evelyn had so astutely pointed out, there was only one classification that truly mattered:
Wealth level.
And in this harbor, you could spot both the richest and the rattiest yachts imaginable.
So right now we're standing on… well, I'm not even sure anymore, — said Evelyn behind the camera, filming her — I contradicted my own estimate. I mean, this yacht looks kinda cheap and a little beat up, but the deck is huge. Look how many of us fit up here!
And as our lovely cameraperson just noted, — Flora chimed in, — this is the very boat— borrowed from a friend of Manu's for one day—where a crucial meeting is about to happen.
Very soon, the owners of one of the biggest advertising brands are gonna board this yacht. If everything goes right, they'll sign on to promote our film during its marketing campaign.
Sure, we're not a commercial company, and we're not bankrolled by investors or state money… but
Holy Wood still has to play by market rules. Or rather, it has no choice.
Like any work of art, it needs exposure if it wants to become recognizable to an actual audience.
Her lips kept talking, but her eyes were already scanning the deck, catching every detail. She gave a quick nod to her camerawoman to start shooting the scene around them.
The whole crew was buzzing, prepping full- tilt for the upcoming rendezvous. Everyone was deep in their own personal glam- mission—crafting their own mini- kingdoms of chic, each according to their own questionable definition of style.
Flora's Italian friends, a married couple, had originally volunteered to build a stage. That idea died quickly. Instead, they dragged out a dozen wooden pallets, stacked them, and set up two microphone stands. On a nearby table, a laptop shimmered—ready to play backing tracks. The couple were dead serious about putting on a performance.
Flora had been taken aback at first when they suggested it. But Lorenzo was persistent—and persuasive:
Songbirds shall swallow their own feathers in envy when they hear our duet, oh great Maîtresse of this moving image! The rich adore this whole cabaret vibe, don't they, my love?
Camillo nodded and placed a hand over his heart, silently opening his mouth as if he were singing.
So, we may not promise you Jessica Rabbit in a fancy dress, but who cares! Our outfits will totally outshine that cheeky look!
They weren't lying. The guys were dressed in lavender tuxedos with white ties, their hair slicked back with pomade, and somehow they even found canes. They looked amazing and stylish, but for
some reason, they weren't singing just yet. They were still testing the mic and struggling with a laptop, constantly checking something.
I don't doubt the boys. They'll pull it off. I've always believed in them and always will!- – thought Flora, trying to smother the creeping anxiety. She quickly shifted her gaze to Vanna, who was in the far- left corner of the deck, showering the area with money — fake bills she'd bought at the nearest souvenir shop. The vendor had been stunned when she bought out his entire stock in exchange for real cash.