Disclaimer: I own nothing except the unfortunate girl in the brown cargo pants. May God have mercy on her poor fictional soul.
Rated: for language and violence.
AN: I have officially committed a cardinal sin in the fanfiction world. I created a 'verse altering OC purely because it was fun (and the little toerag just wouldn't leave me alone). I'm going to foist some of the blame onto Diet Coke Chic, who wrote the remarkable 'The Barista' series over in the Stargate 'verse, which partly inspired the creation of my girl. I'm not asking you to like it, or even review it. I just wanted to give her a chance, so hopefully you guys will too.
1 – The Hazing
So here's me, quietly flipping out.
Oh, don't worry, I plan to flip out loudly later on, but at this point it's probably not a great idea. This is a film set, after all; the only people allowed to rant and scream and carry on like hysterical children are the important people. I'm a PA. It's just not gonna happen.
The reason I'm quietly flipping out? My boss is dead. As in, hung himself through the ceiling of a movie set dead. I would know, I saw it happen.
Now, I know it sounds bad, but the fact that Brad bit the big one isn't really my greatest concern right now. Well, it is, just not for the reasons you might think.
For one, it could mean I'm out of the job.
See, I'm not a set PA. Technically, I'm not part of the movie crew at all. I worked for Brad directly and did my best to run interference between him (giant arsehole that he was – whoops, shouldn't speak ill of the dead) and the rest of the crew. Mostly the screenwriter, Marty.
You know, this really isn't how I saw this job turning out. I have a BA in English Lit and Creative Writing. I came here for the writing opportunities and instead end up keeping a B grade studio rep from pissing off a B grade writer on the set of an equally B grade horror flick.
Wanna know the thrilling reason Brad hired me? A friend of mine working for his studio recommended me to him as an up and coming writer. Awesome, right?
Epic fail.
Hellhazers II: The Reckoning already had a writer. Only Brad wasn't too sure about Marty. The original manuscript he was rewriting for the movie was formerly a screenplay by a W. Dixon. Brad brought me on to keep Marty from killing the thing entirely.
I'm not sure it worked.
Like I said, B grade. And not even in a fun cult-classic kind of way.
This so isn't going on my CV, I think, heading mindlessly for Brad's trailer. He'd left paperwork in there. The studio would need it back. As his PA, I was going to be the one to have to retrieve it.
The thing is, since this movie started, I've been practically living in this trailer. Brad did a lot of lurking on set, but the moment he didn't have to be there he was gone, leaving me holding the leftovers. In any case, it meant I pretty much had the thing to myself except for, you guessed it, when there was paper work to be done. It's nice, my secret place; no one comes looking for me here…
That's weird.
Ever get that feeling of impending doom in the pit of your stomach? Like something's going to happen and you can't do shitake mushroom about it?
That's happening to me, right the fuck now.
And I must be the biggest dork on the planet, because I still climb the steps, open the trailer's door –
And freeze.
Oh. Fuck. Me.
There are people here.
Here. In my secret place.
Oh, my God, did I just think that?
But wait, it gets worse.
It's a pair of guys. Really freakin' good-looking guys, too.
My face must look like a capsicum right now.
At a glance, I'd have to guess the one with the longer hair is one of the co-stars, or an extra on a rising star buzz. Maybe they're going to give him Brad's trailer? The other guy still has a walkie-talkie pack on his hip and a set of headphones sitting beside him on the coffee table. A set PA, maybe giving the new guy the low down: "Man, you'll never guys who this trailer used to belong too…that guy who hung himself onset? Yeah, creepy huh!"
Wow, this is awkward. You would've thought they would've told me about this, let me get mine and Brad's stuff out of the way.
Although…
Here's a fun twist; these two handsome souls look as alarmed to see me as I am at seeing them. Not surprised, alarmed.
Ooh. There's a thought.
I raise my eyebrows at them speculatively.
I cross my arms.
I give them the look that's been scaring the living daylights out of six brothers and various male cousins for the later half of my life.
"You're not supposed to be here, are you?" I say interrogatively.
It's a minor miracle that the Medusa Face works, but then again, my mother taught me well.
They crumble like cake in a baby's fist.
The rising star darts a look at his companion and goes, "Um –" (awkward throat clearing) "– not – not really…"
I do the last thing they clearly expect.
Grinning, I close the door behind me, step into the trailer proper and say, "that's okay; me neither."
They gawp.
I stroll over to the mini fridge and begin digging for the Marmite sammies I stashed in here this morning.
When I turn round, they're still gawping.
PA guy speaks for the first time. Not much through. He goes, "What?"
I shrug. "This is – was – my boss's trailer."
They look incredulous. "Brad?"
"Yup."
"The studio guy?"
"The very same."
"The dead studio guy?"
"Dean!"
"What?"
Rising Star is giving Dean the PA a censuring glower. Then he raises his eyebrows and flicks a look at me. Its sweet, really, that he's trying to be tactful and sensitive. It's wasted on me at this point though. Really, all I want is to have my comfort food, collect Brad's stuff and…okay, not totally wasted; I still want to have that loud flip-out at some point.
"Its okay," I tell them. "I didn't really know him that well. I'm supposed to be getting his stuff for the studio. What're you two doing in his trailer anyway?"
It should be a relatively easy question to answer. I was expecting some sheepishness, some fidgeting, but not the watchful exchange of looks and more awkward throat clearing.
It's about then that I notice the discs spread out on the coffee table.
And the scene paused on the flat-screen.
They're watching dailies. It's the scene Brad hung himself in. And there's an unfamiliar woman in white standing onset where she clearly shouldn't be.
I'm staring, I know I'm staring, and I also know the guys are staring at me too.
"You know," I say, casually. I feel kind of light headed. "I was there when Brad died. I saw it happen."
You could hear a pin drop. The guys are looking worried now.
"I don't remember seeing her there."
Really worried.
"Care to explain what the fuck is going on?"
"Special effects," blurts Dean.
I look from him to the flat-screen.
Really, I think, cos I've seen the concept work for the ghosts and crap for this flick, and that ain't it.
And at this point in production, they won't be putting CG in, and especially not on dailies where a guy's hung himself.
This is something a PA would know. Therefore, clearly, Dean the PA, is not, in fact, a PA. This means that Rising Star over there is probably not a star of any kind. These two probably shouldn't even be in the studio itself, let alone in Brad's trailer.
It also occurs to me that no one knows I'm here, and that these guys are big guys. Seriously, Not a Rising Star looks about the same size as my eldest brother, and Nick's 6'5" and built like a brick shithouse.
It's a miracle to me, then, that it's at this point I decide to push my luck. I'm loosing my mind.
"Whatever," I say flatly. "Look, I'm going to need you guys to clear out. I need to get Brad's stuff organized."
They do that exchange of looks thing again and hastily pick up the small pile of discs. Dean takes the death scene out of the machine. Rising Star gives me this puppy dog look from under his hair that at any other time would have rendered me useless for the next three hours.
"We're sorry," he says, sounding sincere. "We'll get out of your way."
"Thanks," I say, and shut the door in their faces.
I spend the next hour or so having my loud flip-out. I'm so glad this thing is sound-proofed.
The half an hour after that I spend thinking.
What was that on the daily?
For the record I'd like to point out that I really might be loosing my marbles. I mean, really, my boss just died horribly, I could be out of work and out of pay in a foreign country, and I'm lying around in said late-boss's trailer wondering why there's a phantom woman onset…
Hmm.
I wonder…
Drew Hancock is a pushover.
He's also a ginormous man-slut who can't keep it in his ugly khaki shorts; it's why he and his girlfriend Cindy are so on-and-off. It's also why it only took fifteen minutes of fluttering eyelashes and small talk to get him to burn me a copy of the daily.
That in hand, I swing over to the photography department and visit my good friend Louise. Now, Lou's a little odd. She's been in photography for a while, hopping through various fields and doing a little of everything, and she always says the one constant is the weird crap people catch on camera. She's made a hobby out of collecting some of it. Brad's phantom will be something she'll love to get her teeth into.
We meet up at her office then head out to one of the little cafes near the studio complex. Lou pulls out her laptop and I hand her the DVD. We spin through and find the phantom in the last few seconds.
"Wow," says Lou. "When you said you had something for the collection I didn't think it'd be so…fully formed."
That's fully formed?
"Really? What do you usually get?"
She shrugs and starts adjusting the image. Little by little, it starts to clear up. The phantom's features begin to emerge. "A shadow, a light where there shouldn't be one. Maybe an orb or two."
I'm not going to ask.
"Sometimes a face shape or the outline of a figure. But this is…really, really defined. Wow."
Wow is right. The woman's face is clear now; we can see the shape of her wide set eyes, the dramatic makeup and even her beauty mark.
"Hey, Lou, could I get a print of this?"
"Hey, Tara –"
"Omigod, Peggy!" the actress cries, reaching up to hug me as I slide into the director's chair next to her. "How're you holding up, sweetie?"
"Not bad," I say honestly.
"Oh," she says, keeping one hand on my shoulder, eyes huge with sympathy, "you're being so brave."
Not really, I think.
I smile at her. "Thanks…I'm keeping busy, which is helping. It's why I wanted to talk to you. You know how you've got pictures of everyone on set?"
Delighted by the interest in her hobby, Tara grabs the ever-present album on the low table beside her and opens it on the arms of the chairs between the two of us. "Did you want to replace the one of you?" she asks anxiously, flipping through the pages. "Cos I actually quite like that one."
"No, I just…hang on." I get her to pause on one page. Two familiar faces look back at me from two separate Polaroids.
Dean the not-PA and his buddy the un-Rising Star.
"Who are these two?"
Tara grins. "Cute aren't they?"
"Haven't seen them on set before."
"Oh, they're new. That one's Dean, and that's his friend Sam."
Dean looks happy as a pig in shit. Sam looks awkwardly like he might need to take one. Poor bastard must have been shanghaied.
Tara looks sly. "Should I introduce you?"
"Oh, Tara, that's sweet of you, but I don't know if I could handle right now…"
"No pressure," she says earnestly. "What was it you wanted to look for?"
I pull out the print Lou gave me. "Have you got a picture of this woman in here?"
Tara frowns. "I don't remember…she looks kinda familiar though."
We scan the book, front to back. Nothing. Then Tara remembers.
"Ooh, ooh, I know where I've seen her!"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah! Dean was telling me about her."
"…he was?"
She blushes.
"Of course he was," I say, smiling.
Tara smiles conspiratorially back. She leans forward in full gossip mode. "She's a starlet from back in the thirties, apparently. Oh, and you know what's weird? She hung herself through a set, just like Brad did."
Holy crap.
AN2: I'm not expecting miracles. Poor Peg, she's not even likable at this point. Still, have at it.