Shroot:
Lyro:
Shroot:
Lyro:
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Lyro:
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Lyro:
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Lyro:
Shroot:
Lyro:
“Gyaah!” I tripped and landed on my face, but picked myself up and continued to run. “No!” I gasped as I realised that I had backed myself up into a corner. With a panic stricken face, I turned around to face my attacker, a masked figure in black. In his hand was a knife “Don’t do this. We had a deal…” I said as I inched away from him. There was no response from him, but he walked closer, taking his own time. I shut my eyes and looked away as he raised his hands to strike.
“Aaaand cut!” The director called out. “Well, that’s a wrap on this shot. Pack up everyone, we’ll need to get to the next location before sun-down.”
“Gosh, someone get me some wipes,” I shuddered, dusting away the dirt on my hands, and the kimono costume that I was wearing “Ugh, I swear I stepped on poo. And Daniel, you call that acting?” I shot a blank look at the masked figure.
“Wha- But I didn’t do anything wro-“
“Exactly. You didn’t do anything.” I rolled my eyes as I walked off to my trailer. “Heather!” My manager called after me, “Honey you were wonderful-“
“Save it. I need a break,” I groaned as I opened the door, “I’m sorry. Could you please get me an advil?” I asked with a smile before closing the door on her face and falling onto the tiny bed/sofa.
Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Heather Stars, a rising star and talented actress. Daddy helped me get into this business long long ago, and I did really well. That is until one of my projects ended in a huge disaster. None of it was my fault, but the press wanted a scandal. And what better than to attack the actors? So anyway, I recovered from the incident (barely) and started acting again. But I tell you, it doesn’t feel as good as I did. It’s almost as if nobody cares to create real masterpieces anymore. Like the current project I was working on. It was a horror thriller set in Japan. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so too, but the director decided it was his original masterpiece. Anyways, I liked the theme and decided that I needed a change from the regular scripts. And that is how I ended up in the middle of a forest, somewhere in Japan.
“Aaaand cut!” The director called out. “Well, that’s a wrap on this shot. Pack up everyone, we’ll need to get to the next location before sun-down.”
“Gosh, someone get me some wipes,” I shuddered, dusting away the dirt on my hands, and the kimono costume that I was wearing “Ugh, I swear I stepped on poo. And Daniel, you call that acting?” I shot a blank look at the masked figure.
“Wha- But I didn’t do anything wro-“
“Exactly. You didn’t do anything.” I rolled my eyes as I walked off to my trailer. “Heather!” My manager called after me, “Honey you were wonderful-“
“Save it. I need a break,” I groaned as I opened the door, “I’m sorry. Could you please get me an advil?” I asked with a smile before closing the door on her face and falling onto the tiny bed/sofa.
Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Heather Stars, a rising star and talented actress. Daddy helped me get into this business long long ago, and I did really well. That is until one of my projects ended in a huge disaster. None of it was my fault, but the press wanted a scandal. And what better than to attack the actors? So anyway, I recovered from the incident (barely) and started acting again. But I tell you, it doesn’t feel as good as I did. It’s almost as if nobody cares to create real masterpieces anymore. Like the current project I was working on. It was a horror thriller set in Japan. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so too, but the director decided it was his original masterpiece. Anyways, I liked the theme and decided that I needed a change from the regular scripts. And that is how I ended up in the middle of a forest, somewhere in Japan.
Lyro:
"somewhere in Japan" Hmm. Would that be good enough? Maybe I should have narrowed it down a bit more, that'll sound like I haven't researched the setting. Which... I haven't. Too late now, anyway. I can always drop some random location's name some time later; just need to remember to check out an atlas from the library on my way home. I sigh and sit back in my chair, pondering Heather's next move.
A fiction author. How could I have sunk so low? I had dreams once, you know, ambitions. The whole world would come to know the name of Vincent Trebile, writer extraordinaire. Columnist, critic, biographer, poet, artist, I would be all of these things and more. Alas, fast-forward several years, and here I am, just another drone in a cubicle churning out some drivel nobody will ever read. Could there be any greater injustice? At least this one will be the last. This one. Definitely. Just one more book and I'm out of here, for good this time. It's not too late, it's never too late.
Another sigh. Yeah, right. That's what I told myself last time. And the time before that. Just face it, Vince. Your big break's not coming. You'll finish writing Stars's story, and then move on to the next character, and then the next, and you'll keep doing so until... You'll keep doing it for a long time. That's the one upside of this place - job security. There'll always be somebody's story to tell. And I might as well be the one telling it.
I roll back to my desk and pull the typewriter's return lever. The carriage starts sliding back, and then becomes stuck.
A fiction author. How could I have sunk so low? I had dreams once, you know, ambitions. The whole world would come to know the name of Vincent Trebile, writer extraordinaire. Columnist, critic, biographer, poet, artist, I would be all of these things and more. Alas, fast-forward several years, and here I am, just another drone in a cubicle churning out some drivel nobody will ever read. Could there be any greater injustice? At least this one will be the last. This one. Definitely. Just one more book and I'm out of here, for good this time. It's not too late, it's never too late.
Another sigh. Yeah, right. That's what I told myself last time. And the time before that. Just face it, Vince. Your big break's not coming. You'll finish writing Stars's story, and then move on to the next character, and then the next, and you'll keep doing so until... You'll keep doing it for a long time. That's the one upside of this place - job security. There'll always be somebody's story to tell. And I might as well be the one telling it.
I roll back to my desk and pull the typewriter's return lever. The carriage starts sliding back, and then becomes stuck.
Shroot:
A loud bang on my door startled me awake… At least, I think it was someone knocking on my door. I jolted upright and looked around in a disoriented manner. ”Hnnng, I must have dozed off,” I stifled a yawn as I stood up and stretched. “I’m coming,” I said, soliciting no reply. Looking outside the window, it seemed about the same time as when I had walked in here. Yet, I felt as if I was in deep sleep. Strange.
I opened the door and jumped back in surprise. My manager stood in front of it with her hand posed to knock. What was odd was, she was still posing. “Uhh, hello?” I called, crossing my arms and giving her an annoyed look. But nothing. “Ooookay then,” I crept past her and left my trailer and the first thing I noticed was silence. It was unnervingly quiet. My eyes darted around and I noticed the second thing. Everything was still. People were frozen in mid-conversations. There was someone who reached out to catch their sheets which hung suspended in midair. The trees seemed to be windless too. Suffice to say, I was freaked out for a moment. Okay, I get it. This is a joke.
“Okay guys. You got me. Suspended action? Very good. You can come out now.” I said as I looked around. Again, nothing. Not a single thing moved out of it’s place. I strode up to one of the frozen crew members, “Seriously, stop.” I said, nudging his shoulder. To my horrid surprise, nothing happened. Not even a crease where I had touched him. It was almost as if I didn’t touch him.
“This isn’t funny anymore!”
I opened the door and jumped back in surprise. My manager stood in front of it with her hand posed to knock. What was odd was, she was still posing. “Uhh, hello?” I called, crossing my arms and giving her an annoyed look. But nothing. “Ooookay then,” I crept past her and left my trailer and the first thing I noticed was silence. It was unnervingly quiet. My eyes darted around and I noticed the second thing. Everything was still. People were frozen in mid-conversations. There was someone who reached out to catch their sheets which hung suspended in midair. The trees seemed to be windless too. Suffice to say, I was freaked out for a moment. Okay, I get it. This is a joke.
“Okay guys. You got me. Suspended action? Very good. You can come out now.” I said as I looked around. Again, nothing. Not a single thing moved out of it’s place. I strode up to one of the frozen crew members, “Seriously, stop.” I said, nudging his shoulder. To my horrid surprise, nothing happened. Not even a crease where I had touched him. It was almost as if I didn’t touch him.
“This isn’t funny anymore!”
Lyro:
Broken. The damn typewriter is broken. I try to push the carriage manually, but it seems to be stuck. Even the paper seems to have jammed somehow - I give it a few tugs and only manage to tear off a small part of it. I pick up the machine and start shaking it, hoping to dislodge whatever is causing its malfunction, to no effect. And now the keys won't even move when I press them. Brilliant, just brilliant. What a way to start the day.
I get up and look over the edge of my cubicle at my neighbor. I struggle to remember his name for a few seconds; company policy is that social interaction takes time away from writing, and so should always be kept at a minimum. "Heeeey..." I finally say as he looks up from his notes and spots me. His blank expression doesn't change, but one of his fingers begins to tap impatiently against his desk. "Jim. James. John. J-man. I need your help. You wouldn't happen to have a spare typewriter you're not using right now, would you?"
He adjusts his glasses as I finish my sentence, then pointedly removes them, takes out a cleaning cloth and starts to wipe off non-existent dust particles. "My name is Phillip, Trebile. As you would know if you had bothered to look at my name plaque." He points to an ornate metal rectangle hanging on the wall behind him, polished to a mirror sheen. Freak. "Right, right, Phil!" I reply with a nervous chuckle. "Sorry about that, you know how--" "Company policy is very clear on this," he continues, pausing only to breathe on his glasses before resuming his cleaning. "Every writer gets one and precisely one standard set of tools. Therefore, to answer your question..." He marks another pause, raises his glasses, looks at them in the light, then puts them back on before turning to look at me with a predatory smile. "No, I do not have anything to spare for you. Good luck dealing with management." On that note, he swivels his chair around and goes back to typing on his perfectly functional machine.
Ugh. Smug, self-satisfied little... he'll see, one day, they'll all see. I turn my back to him and walk back to my typewriter. Out of frustration, I give it another shake, only to hear a small metallic clang as something becomes loose within the mechanism and starts rolling around. Alright, take it easy, don't make it any worse than it already is. This must have happened before, considering how many people work here. Someone must know how to repair these contraptions. No need to get management involved. I pick up the typewriter and start walking down the hallway, trying my best to ignore the odd looks everyone is giving me. Isn't there a maintenance department somewhere around here? I'm pretty sure I've seen a sign for it before. I just need to find it.
Everything will be fine.
I get up and look over the edge of my cubicle at my neighbor. I struggle to remember his name for a few seconds; company policy is that social interaction takes time away from writing, and so should always be kept at a minimum. "Heeeey..." I finally say as he looks up from his notes and spots me. His blank expression doesn't change, but one of his fingers begins to tap impatiently against his desk. "Jim. James. John. J-man. I need your help. You wouldn't happen to have a spare typewriter you're not using right now, would you?"
He adjusts his glasses as I finish my sentence, then pointedly removes them, takes out a cleaning cloth and starts to wipe off non-existent dust particles. "My name is Phillip, Trebile. As you would know if you had bothered to look at my name plaque." He points to an ornate metal rectangle hanging on the wall behind him, polished to a mirror sheen. Freak. "Right, right, Phil!" I reply with a nervous chuckle. "Sorry about that, you know how--" "Company policy is very clear on this," he continues, pausing only to breathe on his glasses before resuming his cleaning. "Every writer gets one and precisely one standard set of tools. Therefore, to answer your question..." He marks another pause, raises his glasses, looks at them in the light, then puts them back on before turning to look at me with a predatory smile. "No, I do not have anything to spare for you. Good luck dealing with management." On that note, he swivels his chair around and goes back to typing on his perfectly functional machine.
Ugh. Smug, self-satisfied little... he'll see, one day, they'll all see. I turn my back to him and walk back to my typewriter. Out of frustration, I give it another shake, only to hear a small metallic clang as something becomes loose within the mechanism and starts rolling around. Alright, take it easy, don't make it any worse than it already is. This must have happened before, considering how many people work here. Someone must know how to repair these contraptions. No need to get management involved. I pick up the typewriter and start walking down the hallway, trying my best to ignore the odd looks everyone is giving me. Isn't there a maintenance department somewhere around here? I'm pretty sure I've seen a sign for it before. I just need to find it.
Everything will be fine.
Shroot:
I spent a good… I don’t know how long; I spent a WHOLE LOT of time walking around trying to understand what was going on. “Okay Heather. You’re probably just imagining all of this up. This is all just a dr- EEEEKKK!!!” I shrieked loudly as a deafening rip penetrated the sky. And since it was awfully quiet till then, it was terrifying. I looked up, only to see a clear blue sky. No sign of clouds whatsoever. So why was there thunder?
“OKAY. This. Is just a dream. Now get a grip and WAKE UP!” I said, willing myself to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw everything just as it was… Just as it was a second ago. “Gah!” I groaned and walked away from the rest of the crew.
Thump… Thump…
I stopped walking a while later, straining to hear a soft thumping. I didn’t know where it came from, but I could still hear it. “H-hello?” I asked, cursing myself for walking away empty handed.
This is crazy. Did someone possibly drug me or something?
The noise stopped and I sighed in relief. Everything was hushed once again, so my sense of relief didn’t last very long. “Okay. Now I’m just going to walk through this place and see if I can find help somewhere…” I was still convinced that I was dreaming though.
“OKAY. This. Is just a dream. Now get a grip and WAKE UP!” I said, willing myself to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw everything just as it was… Just as it was a second ago. “Gah!” I groaned and walked away from the rest of the crew.
Thump… Thump…
I stopped walking a while later, straining to hear a soft thumping. I didn’t know where it came from, but I could still hear it. “H-hello?” I asked, cursing myself for walking away empty handed.
This is crazy. Did someone possibly drug me or something?
The noise stopped and I sighed in relief. Everything was hushed once again, so my sense of relief didn’t last very long. “Okay. Now I’m just going to walk through this place and see if I can find help somewhere…” I was still convinced that I was dreaming though.
Lyro:
"What do you mean, that's not your job?!"
I slam my fist down on the counter in anger and point to the sign labeled "Technical Support" above the woman's head. "My work tools are broken. They have a technical issue. I can't fix it on my own and need some support. And therefore..."
Unperturbed by my outburst, the woman seated in front of me just flips another page of her magazine and carries on in the same monotone. "Yes, as previously stated, this is clearly an issue for Internal Supplies. If you believe you have been issued defective supplies, please file a ticket with them."
"I. Did." I growl through clenched teeth. "They told me the machine was fine when they supplied me with it, and sent me back to you, saying maintenance was your responsibility. So do your job, and let me get back to work."
The woman looks up at me for the first time, a brief glance away from her magazine. "Try opening the ink cartridge's cage. Thank you for your time. Next." Before I can respond, the man waiting in line behind me shoves me aside and starts loudly complaining about a burnt-out light bulb. Sounds like he's having just as bad a time as I am with this. This is just unacceptable. I make a note to submit a formal note of complaint about the service here. Just need to find the complaints department first. But first, I might as well try out her only useful suggestion.
I sit down on a nearby waiting chair in the hallway. Navigating this place is a nightmare - every hallway looks exactly the same, and the signs often don't make any sense. Which would explain all the chairs and benches strewn about the building in every location, often with people sleeping on them. The only reason I found this help desk in the first place was because a broken elevator had an emergency stop at this very floor. Getting back to my cubicle is going to be equally harrowing, and I'm certainly not looking forward to it. But first things first.
I flip over the typewriter and pull at a small latch on the back. I've done this before, whenever I needed to change the ink cartridge. It's a finnicky process, but at least it's pretty straightforward once you get the hang of it. Usually. This time, the moment I pull the latch, the cage's cover flies away and ink spills out all over my fingers and I drop the machine in surprise and rage.
I slam my fist down on the counter in anger and point to the sign labeled "Technical Support" above the woman's head. "My work tools are broken. They have a technical issue. I can't fix it on my own and need some support. And therefore..."
Unperturbed by my outburst, the woman seated in front of me just flips another page of her magazine and carries on in the same monotone. "Yes, as previously stated, this is clearly an issue for Internal Supplies. If you believe you have been issued defective supplies, please file a ticket with them."
"I. Did." I growl through clenched teeth. "They told me the machine was fine when they supplied me with it, and sent me back to you, saying maintenance was your responsibility. So do your job, and let me get back to work."
The woman looks up at me for the first time, a brief glance away from her magazine. "Try opening the ink cartridge's cage. Thank you for your time. Next." Before I can respond, the man waiting in line behind me shoves me aside and starts loudly complaining about a burnt-out light bulb. Sounds like he's having just as bad a time as I am with this. This is just unacceptable. I make a note to submit a formal note of complaint about the service here. Just need to find the complaints department first. But first, I might as well try out her only useful suggestion.
I sit down on a nearby waiting chair in the hallway. Navigating this place is a nightmare - every hallway looks exactly the same, and the signs often don't make any sense. Which would explain all the chairs and benches strewn about the building in every location, often with people sleeping on them. The only reason I found this help desk in the first place was because a broken elevator had an emergency stop at this very floor. Getting back to my cubicle is going to be equally harrowing, and I'm certainly not looking forward to it. But first things first.
I flip over the typewriter and pull at a small latch on the back. I've done this before, whenever I needed to change the ink cartridge. It's a finnicky process, but at least it's pretty straightforward once you get the hang of it. Usually. This time, the moment I pull the latch, the cage's cover flies away and ink spills out all over my fingers and I drop the machine in surprise and rage.
Shroot:
The world around me disappeared in darkness and I yelped in surprise. With every passing moment, I grew increasingly afraid. I jumped at everything and I HATED being like this. Wait! This was a horror-thriller. What if the director wanted to shoot a candid scene of me? “THIS IS NOT FUNNY OKAY?” I yelled on top of my voice, now trying to navigate in complete darkness.
I tripped multiple times and this time, I had no one to hand me wipes when I needed them the most. After many failed attempts at getting nowhere, I decided to trip all the way back where I came from. “It could take a while,” I mumbled to myself, “But hey. It looks like I’ve got all the time in the wo-”
SMACK!
I cursed and held my face. It felt like I walked into something. LITERALLY! My nose buzzed with pain and I was closer to losing it than ever before. “What now?” I sighed as I felt the area in front of me. To my surprise, it felt flat and felt like… a door. Was I back at my trailer? It felt different than a metal door. I groped around in the darkness for the handle. “Come on… There!” I held onto it and twisted it open. At this point, I was too dazed to care about the consequences.
I tripped multiple times and this time, I had no one to hand me wipes when I needed them the most. After many failed attempts at getting nowhere, I decided to trip all the way back where I came from. “It could take a while,” I mumbled to myself, “But hey. It looks like I’ve got all the time in the wo-”
SMACK!
I cursed and held my face. It felt like I walked into something. LITERALLY! My nose buzzed with pain and I was closer to losing it than ever before. “What now?” I sighed as I felt the area in front of me. To my surprise, it felt flat and felt like… a door. Was I back at my trailer? It felt different than a metal door. I groped around in the darkness for the handle. “Come on… There!” I held onto it and twisted it open. At this point, I was too dazed to care about the consequences.
Lyro:
I finish washing up my hands in a nearby washroom. It feels like the entire cartridge was just emptied. There wasn't any doubt in my mind now that I would get the one responsible for this mess fired. "Try opening the ink cartridge's cage," I mutter angrily to myself. "Great idea." Now what, though? My prolonged absence was certain to be reported sooner or later, I had to think of something. Maybe I could try finding another typewriter? Surely there must be some lying somewhere around here, they couldn't all be in active use.
Bending down, I pick up my increasingly battered-looking typewriter. My arms are starting to feel the strain of holding on to it while going up and down winding staircases. I'm not too sure of my next destination, so I'm about to start just wandering down hallways looking for people who can help me when one of the bathroom stall doors opens right in front of me.
Bending down, I pick up my increasingly battered-looking typewriter. My arms are starting to feel the strain of holding on to it while going up and down winding staircases. I'm not too sure of my next destination, so I'm about to start just wandering down hallways looking for people who can help me when one of the bathroom stall doors opens right in front of me.
Shroot:
“Tch!” I shielded my eyes from the sudden wave of light. I opened the door wider and took a step forward. Once I was sure my eyes had adjusted, I opened them. “Oh,” I found a man standing infront of me. Oh shoot… Did I just intrude into someone’s home?
“Sorry, I-” Without wasting a moment, I took a couple of steps back— only to feel something cold against the back of my knee. Ugh, I really wish I didn’t turn around at that point. I gasped in horror when I did. “EW EW EW EW EW,” I gasped and shuddered in disgust as I moved away from the vile thing. How did it even get there?
Seriously. WHAT IS GOING ON?!?
“Sorry, I-” Without wasting a moment, I took a couple of steps back— only to feel something cold against the back of my knee. Ugh, I really wish I didn’t turn around at that point. I gasped in horror when I did. “EW EW EW EW EW,” I gasped and shuddered in disgust as I moved away from the vile thing. How did it even get there?
Seriously. WHAT IS GOING ON?!?
Lyro:
A woman in the men's restroom? At this point, I couldn't care less. With a shrug of my shoulders, I turn my back to her and start walking out only to stop as something clicks in my mind. I turn around and take a good look at her. Something about her seems familiar, but I'm pretty sure I have never seen this woman before in my life. The kimono actually looks a lot like...
"Oh god," I groan to myself as I put the pieces together. "How did you...? Well, never mind that." Holding on to the typewriter with my other arm I reach out and grab her arm. "We need to get you back home, and fast."
"Oh god," I groan to myself as I put the pieces together. "How did you...? Well, never mind that." Holding on to the typewriter with my other arm I reach out and grab her arm. "We need to get you back home, and fast."
Shroot:
"H-hey!" I glared as this stranger grabs onto my arm. "We need to get you back home, and fast." He said. I stared at him feeling utterly confused and lost. Where was I? How did I end up in what seemed like a guy's restroom? And what did he mean?
I tugged my arm free from his grasp, crossed them and gave him a stern look. For all I knew, he could be trying to take advantage of me. "First of all mister..." I trailed off. None of the questions I wanted to ask made any sense. I noticed that this guy had a typewriter in his hand. A typewriter. Didn't those things go extinct like a million years ago?
I stumbled for words, finally finding them, "I'm not moving from this spot until you explain whatever you meant."
... Even if that meant standing next to a disgusting cubic- No. I just couldn't. I took a few steps away so that I was standing far enough from it.
I tugged my arm free from his grasp, crossed them and gave him a stern look. For all I knew, he could be trying to take advantage of me. "First of all mister..." I trailed off. None of the questions I wanted to ask made any sense. I noticed that this guy had a typewriter in his hand. A typewriter. Didn't those things go extinct like a million years ago?
I stumbled for words, finally finding them, "I'm not moving from this spot until you explain whatever you meant."
... Even if that meant standing next to a disgusting cubic- No. I just couldn't. I took a few steps away so that I was standing far enough from it.
Lyro:
I fidget nervously with my sleeves, finding it hard to meet her gaze. "You shouldn't be here," I mumble uncomfortably. "Characters should stay in their books, corporate doesn't approve of..." I wave my hand vaguely in the air, unsure of how to describe the current situation. "Exits."
I quickly dart my head out of the room, looking from side to side in fear. If we were to be discovered here... "Look," I add in hushed tones. "I can explain on the way, but we really, really need to move for now. At least to find you some new clothes. You... you kind of stand out right now." I gesture helplessly at her elaborate and colorful attire, a sharp contrast to my drab, ill-fitting shirt and pants. "Please, Heather."
I quickly dart my head out of the room, looking from side to side in fear. If we were to be discovered here... "Look," I add in hushed tones. "I can explain on the way, but we really, really need to move for now. At least to find you some new clothes. You... you kind of stand out right now." I gesture helplessly at her elaborate and colorful attire, a sharp contrast to my drab, ill-fitting shirt and pants. "Please, Heather."