FI – (CONT'D)

To the west, in the Republic of Maris' capital of Doveland, a film student by the name of Iurie makes his way to a screening. He gets off of the tram a stop early. There's no rush, he has more than enough time to take a walk.

Despite being well into autumn, it's still warm and unbearably humid. Fog rolls in from the frigid southern waters, obscuring low-lying districts. Just off-shore, the LUNA's Palaco de Paco hums with activity. Its fleet of hydroplanes stand still, their operators tapping their feet impatiently waiting for the fog to clear. Prospective passengers sit around the docks, complaining amongst themselves.

They're discussing something out there, surely. Something small and disproportionately important, as most things the LUNA pays attention to are. Fishing rights, or an obscure off-shore mining dispute. Adding dashed-lines to ever-contested maps. Better to die in a committee than at a front.

Iurie hardly dreamt of those circles. He's more than content where he's at, a trillion kilometers away from anyone who dares mention witch-y things like 'supranational unions' or 'macroeconomics'.

All things considered, Iurie is himself a quite rare sight for the average Dovelander.

The Organ may share a border with Maris, but the visa process has grown complicated and pricey over the years. Tourists still crop up here and there. Usually older couples crossing things off their bucket lists, or those with connections.

Iurie, not exactly the luckiest person out there, doesn't belong to either camp.

Instead, he's the latest golden child belonging to the University of Maris Doveland's Bakiit College of Film and Media. It's a mouthful of a name, that's how you know it's prestigious.

To make up for generations of Old World plantation slavery, the Bakiit family became major donors to UMD, and developed its world-class film school. They made sure to keep their name on it, for the sake of posterity, naturally.

(It also helps to draw attention away from their plantations still operating in Samar.)

The Bakiits set funds aside for a so-called "uplifting grant", a scholarship to the film school provided via lottery to the New World's poorest. In theory, it's meant to allow for impoverished creatives to be brought into the fold of the industry. In reality, it tends to send recipients back to their old lives with a functionally useless piece of paper.

Iurie, the first citizen of the Organ to receive this grant, drew considerable, albeit fleeting, attention from the Marisean press. They love a good bit of benevolence from socialites.

Awfully convenient timing too, it disrupted a news cycle that almost focused on one of the Bakiit children.

(Whew, that was close!)

About a year ago, Iurie had begun kicking around an idea. He'd visit his family in the Organ for part of the summer, but that on its own felt like a waste. See, Iurie has become (or was raise… or has always been…) the type who has to keep himself busy, lest he drive himself crazy. Rest and relaxation is slow torture for him.

And so, he continued to obsess over his idea. Let it consume his idle thoughts until there was something there. A 'spec script', as he had been told to call it, The Midway Felix.

It was a title that he'd pat himself on the back for especially after getting curious, half-approving hmphs from his classmates whenever he'd tell it to them.

What did The Midway Felix mean? Something obscure. Old World, maybe. He'd wait until a review had a guess that he liked enough to steal. That's how auteurs put their titles to work.

After a few calls, he knew who would be home that upcoming summer. They'd have a tight schedule to follow, but he could probably offload some of the work onto his friends. That'd be even better, honestly. Could mention in interviews how the best scenes were improvised. The thought alone had him plugging away at the skeleton of the script with gnawing anticipation.

They had spent a few weeks at the start of the summer working on it. Even went up to the capital for some scenes, most of which Iurie left on the cutting room floor. Wren, who played a semi-fictional version of himself, was a natural. Özbey, who did the same, complained most of the time, especially after Iurie began working with a draft edited, and partially rewritten by Wren. The name had changed during the shoot, one night Wren sat up, searched around for a pen, and struck through the title. It became The Mirror Eater without a single word uttered.

That had all been several months ago now.

And now, Iurie was on his way to a private screening of the film for his classmates. He had sent early copies to the cast. Hopefully they enjoyed the final product. Production had been a nightmare, editing even worse, but he could see the calm seas ahead.

As he walks toward the cinema that he had booked, something still bothered him.

He had heard from Özbey, and Sandu, but Wren didn't write back.

Iurie assumed he was busy, but it had been months now, and still nothing. He had sent a couple more letters in that time. Included some press clippings talking about an upcoming film festival that their movie would be shown in. Still nothing. He figured they had all gone their separate ways that summer on good terms, but maybe he missed something.

He'd have to figure out something to say about why his cast couldn't join him at the festival.

Visas, probably. That's what he'd blame it on. Visas were an easier answer. Better than "the lead vanished after we wrapped", right? Or did that add to the energy surrounding it…

He'd have to think on that a bit longer.