The Star Maker and His Little Monsters

Chapter 007

The moment Ethan Gray stepped into the Riverport Film Studios the next morning, he was summoned to the main council chamber. Nine of his colleagues, all of them young, ambitious graduates from various film schools, were already seated around the long oval table, their faces taut with the nervous energy of a first-day assignment.

The door swung open, and the Deputy Head of the Writers' Circle, Hector Chase, marched in. He was a man who radiated efficiency, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for a weak link in the chain.

"You’ve all been with the company for varying lengths of time," Hector began, leaning his palms on the table. "Some of you have been here three months, while others—like Ethan Gray and Hector Chase Jr.—have only been here a week. Now, it's time to see what you're actually worth. I'm giving you a theme. You have exactly twenty-four hours to produce a script treatment of no less than five thousand words. I want them on my desk before you clock out tomorrow."

A ripple of excitement and dread moved through the room. This was the first real "filter" of the Animation Division.

"The title is Little Mud’s Great Adventure," Hector continued. "It’s a story about a sentient clay figurine named Little Mud who escapes from a toy factory. He ventures into the outside world, meets a motley crew of other toys, and experiences a series of whimsical, life-altering events. You take that core concept and build a world around it. Dismissed."

As the group filed out, Ethan sat back in his cubicle, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. To the others, this was a daunting creative hurdle. To him, it was a classic "Road Movie" structure. He closed his eyes, visualizing the factory as a sterile, grey purgatory and the world outside as a vibrant, terrifying kaleidoscope. By 4:00 PM that afternoon, while his colleagues were still on their fourth cup of coffee and tearing their hair out over act structures, Ethan was already printing his final draft.

He stapled the pages together—neat, professional, and exactly 5,200 words—and walked it over to Hector’s office.

"That was fast," Hector remarked, barely looking up from his monitor. He took the manuscript paper, checked the word count, and tossed it onto a stack on the right side of his desk. There were only two other folders there. Ethan was the third to finish.

"Quality over speed, Mr. Gray," Hector added as a parting shot.

"I believe you'll find both in there, sir," Ethan replied smoothly before heading for the exit.

That evening, Ethan headed to Director Golding’s home. She had called him earlier, insisting that he join them for dinner. He stopped at a fruit stall in The Old Quarter, picking up a basket of premium Fuji apples and some grapes as a gift.

When he arrived, the smell of home-cooked food hit him like a warm embrace. Old Golding was sitting in the living room, a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

"Come in, Ethan! Sit down," the old man grunted, though his eyes were kind. "Aunt Golding! The boy is here!"

"Just a minute!" she called from the kitchen. "I’m just finishing the glaze on the ribs. Old Golding, talk to Ethan about that soggy, sentimental novel you're trying to write. Maybe he can give you some professional pointers."

Old Golding looked sheepish. "It’s not soggy. It’s a nuanced exploration of mid-century suburban life. She has no appreciation for the arts."

Ethan laughed. "I didn't know you were a writer, Uncle Golding."

"Just a hobby," the man said, waving a hand dismissively. "I hear you're at the Studios now? Working in the Animation Division?"

"I’m still in the training phase," Ethan said modestly. "Is Berry still out of town?"

"Hmph. Her company extended the trip to Southmere by another two days," Old Golding grumbled. "They treat that girl like a pack mule. It’s not right, sending a young woman all over the country for weeks at a time."

Soon, they were seated at the table. Ethan looked at the spread—salt-cured bamboo shoot broth, chilled spiced chicken skewers, and a plate of braised pork belly that looked exactly like the ones his grandmother used to make. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia.

"Thank you, Aunt Golding," he said softly. "This... this is exactly what my grandmother would have made."

The woman paused, her expression softening. She had been like a daughter to Ethan’s grandmother, and the bond between them had been forged in the kitchens of The Old Quarter. "Eat up, then. I want to see those plates clean."

As the meal progressed, the conversation turned to the academy. Director Golding’s mood shifted, her eyes dimming slightly.

"I went to the District Precinct today," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I saw Millie. That poor child has lost so much weight in just a few days. She saw me and started sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. It broke my heart."

"No luck finding the family?" Ethan asked.

"Her registration says they're from Eastmount Province," Director Golding replied. "The local police there are looking, but so far... nothing. It’s like they vanished into thin air."

"It’s disgusting," Old Golding snapped, slamming his chopsticks onto the table. "How can parents be so irresponsible? You don't just discard a human being like a piece of trash."

"I saw the mother once," Director Golding said, ignoring her husband’s outburst. "She was a thin, frail-looking woman. You could see the weight of the world on her shoulders. I think the pressure of surviving in Riverport alone just broke her. I don't think she didn't love Millie; I think she felt like she was drowning."

"Love doesn't abandon," Old Golding countered. "If you love someone, you stay."

The couple began a spirited debate about the nature of parental responsibility, a conversation that clearly held the weight of many years of shared experience. Ethan listened quietly, realizing that in this world, just like his old one, the gap between the haves and the have-nots was a chasm filled with stories like Millie’s.

Finally, Director Golding turned back to Ethan. "The officers at the precinct asked me something today. They want to know if we can take Millie back to the academy temporarily. She’s inconsolable at the station, and they think being back around her friends—especially Blanche—might stabilize her until they find a permanent solution. They’ll even cover the costs. But... it’s your property, Ethan. It’s your decision."

Ethan didn't hesitate. "If it helps the kid, bring her back. We have the space."

Besides, he thought, maybe if Millie is back, Blanche will stop calling me the dark-as-a-barrow villain.

As they walked back to the academy, the night air was filled with a sudden, familiar roar. In the courtyard, a small, red-clad figure was currently pinned to the ground, or rather, was pinning someone else.

Blanche was in the middle of a full-blown wrestling match with a boy nearly twice her size—Roland Rowan. Roland was a chubby five-year-old, known for being a bit of a bully, but he seemed to be losing this particular fight.

"You gourdling! You dunderheaded pile of trash!" Blanche was shouting, her Fourrivers accent thick and venomous.

Ethan watched, fascinated, as Blanche used her lower center of gravity to flip the larger boy over. They rolled in the dirt, a whirlwind of tiny limbs and angry shouts. Roland tried to push her off, but Blanche was like an angry badger, her teeth bared and her hands gripping his shirt.

Miss Willow and Old Ashford rushed over, physically prying the two children apart.

Both children were covered in a layer of grey dust. Blanche’s hair was a chaotic mess, and there was a fresh red scratch across her cheek, making her look like a "war-torn kitten." Her vintage "Great China" tracksuit was missing a zipper, and she was frantically trying to fix it, looking more distressed about the clothing than the blood on her face.

Roland was in much worse shape. His pants were half-pulled down, revealing the back of his legs and a very prominent, red handprint on his thigh where Blanche had evidently pinched him with all her might.

But the most bizarre sight was what was sticking out of the waistband of Roland’s shorts. A brown-and-white patterned plastic snake was shoved down his pants, its mechanical tail twitching rhythmically against his skin. It was an electric toy snake, and the head was wedged firmly against his lower back.

"Waaaaah! Blanche hit me!" Roland wailed, his face smudged with dirt and tears. He was five, but at this moment, he looked like a broken toddler.

"Shut your trap, you fancyfool!" Blanche barked back, looking ready to charge again.

Director Golding stepped into the light, her face a mask of cold authority. She didn't say a word, she just stared.

Slowly, the "wild cat" energy drained out of Blanche. She retracted her claws, tucked her chin into her chest, and suddenly transformed into a docile, misunderstood angel.

"Why were you fighting?" Director Golding asked.

Blanche wiped her face with the back of her hand, only succeeding in smearing more mud across her nose. "That sprite-addled numbskull Roland was using that vile reptile to scare Melody..."

"Speak properly, Blanche!" Director Golding interrupted.

Blanche took a deep breath and switched to a forced, overly polite standard accent. " Roland Rowan used a mechanical toy snake to frighten Melody Aldwin. She was crying very hard. I was merely defending the honor of my friend."

Ethan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The girl was a born actress. She had managed to frame a brutal assault as a chivalrous defense of the weak.

" Miss Willow, take Roland to the clinic and have Young Hale look at that nosebleed," Director Golding commanded. Then she turned back to the mud-stained Blanche. "And you... wash your face. Clean your clothes. And once you're decent, I want both of you in my office."

As Blanche was led away by Miss Willow, she paused, casting a sharp, defiant side-eye at Ethan.

"Don't let the markings on my face fool you, dark-as-a-barrow," she seemed to be saying. "I’m still the boss here."

Ethan watched her go, shaking his head. "She’s going to be a handful, isn't she?"

"She already is," Director Golding sighed. "But she has a good heart. She just doesn't know how to use a shield instead of a sword."

"I should probably tell her that the scar will make her look tougher," Ethan mused. "But then again, she’d probably just bite me again."

He looked up at the stars, the sounds of the city fading into the background. Tomorrow, Millie would be coming home. And tomorrow, he would find out if his first professional script in this world was enough to keep him in the game.