Rage against the heavens (PJO SI as a human with the inspired Forge)

I woke up with the sound of stars falling, falling with whispers of ideas, of the secrets of the universe, of more. I woke up feeling as if I had lived a thousand life yet was unable to remember them properly, only able to remember whisps, impressions of things that were, maybe that will be but that probably would never be. Two new colourless stars were burning in my mind.
I honestly forgot how we came back from the park.
The memory of the drive home—or if I had even been the one to drive—was as blank as a polished mirror. My mind offered nothing to me, save maybe fragments of my sister's voice. Even those were hazy, like echoes trapped in water. The rest was a void I couldn't confront, unravel no matter how much I wanted to. I woke up in my bed, the sheets twisted around me like a straitjacket.
A glance at the corner of the room showed the clock glaring back at me: 9:15 A.M. The red digits burned through the haze of my exhaustion, reminding me that yeah, I had fallen asleep/unconscious because I had abused the fuck out of the stars in my mind. I would not do that shit again if I can help it
The last clear memory I had was when Beryl and I had buried the boy. That had been... what? It had robably been 7 P.M. at best? I tried to piece together the hours between then and now, but my mind was seriously stubbornly uncooperative.
Turning my head, I caught sight of Beryl. She sat on the couch near the bed. Her form slouched but it didn't mean that she was not tense. She had one leg crossed over the other. A book was balanced in her hands, and she was thumbing through its pages with absent, jerky movements. It was one of my books—The Silmarillion, Tolkien's geatest according to some of my friends that I had in my past life.
I had never read it in my first life. With the way people talked about it, I always had thought that reading it would be like reading a giant Karmic Acumen fanfic without the badassery and I didn't how to exactly say, the let's say way things were connected, structured.
Not sure if it made sense but this had been my reason why I had hesitated for a long time before trying to read the Silmarillion. After the end of my first life, a part of me had wanted to do a lot of the things I hadn't and reading The Silmarillion was one of those things. I tried to enjoy and honestly, I found it hard to.
I had tried to read it once, but the sheer density of its prose had felt like dragging my feet through quicksand.
Beryl's expression told me she wasn't faring much better. Her face was taut, her brows furrowed in what I could only describe as reluctant endurance. She wasn't relaxed with it, that much was clear.
Still, I could not help but think that the book was likely just a distraction—a task her hands and her brain were probably trying to manage so that her mind would not wander, focus on the fact that hours ago, we buried the corpse of a child. I honestly hoped that it was the case but deep down, I knew it probably was not working the way that was intended.
Her eyes lifted from the page, locking onto mine. A flicker of something passed between us—fatigue, recognition, shared understanding maybe.
"Good morning, Beryl," I said, my voice rougher than I expected. Probably needed to hydrate.
She lowered the book, a faint snort escaping her. "Morning, Alex."
"I... I don't remember much after what happened," I admitted Us being in my home meant that nothing weird happened while I was unconscious hopefully.
Her lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I was right. The second you got in the car, you passed out. You didn't even close the door yourself. I had to drive us back, and then I carried your dead weight upstairs. You're welcome."
"Sorry," I murmured, the apology slipping out before I could stop it.
"Don't be," she replied quickly, her tone softening. "I get it. You didn't plan it. I wanted to talk to you last night—about you overlooking yourself, about everything—but..." She paused, her fingers tightening around the book. "After what I saw... after yesterday... it's hard to blame you for anything."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Yesterday. She had seen one of the smaller horrors hidden behind the Mist—the fragments of reality most mortals were blind to.
How could you reprimand someone for overworking themselves, for being too zealous in their actions, when you'd stood over the remnants of a child half-eaten by a monster? When you'd held that child's broken body, your hands stained with blood, bile, and fragments of flesh, just to give him a burial he didn't deserve but desperately needed? How could you when you knew that child could have been your daughter?
I saw it in her eyes now, the weight of it. It was as if some fragile part of her had cracked under the strain. Something had been lost—a spark, a sliver of light—and what replaced it was harder, darker. I would not say that she wasn't broken or at least more than she already was when she knocked at my door yesterday but she wasn't whole either. I could see faint shadows beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped slightly forward... These weren't signs of someone who had slept. And though I hoped that I was wrong, I knew I wasn't.
"You didn't sleep, did you?" My voice was quieter than I intended, but it didn't waver.
"What makes you think that, lil' bro?" she shot back, her words tumbling out in rapid deflection. "Unlike you—better-than-Einstein-Houdini-fused-into-one over here—I had absolutely nothing to keep me up. Do you see me? This," she gestured dramatically to herself, "is peak perfection. Perfection needs beauty sleep."
I let her ramble, watching her closely. Beneath the bravado, she hadn't answered me. Not really. Her humor was forced, her tone brittle, and every word cracked under the strain of holding something heavier at bay.
"Yeah, I know what you mean." My words were deliberate, quiet. "Beryl, what happened was horrible. Ishorrible. And it should never be forgotten."
And it wouldn't. This wasn't something I could file away into the darker corners of my mind. That child's face—or what was left of it—was etched into my thoughts like a brand. In a way, that child would never die because I would never forget him.
"But," I continued, "we can't let it affect us. We shouldn't let it affect us. We have to keep moving forward—for Thalia, for ourselves, for any other child who might suffer the same fate. This should only make us more determined to bring her back, to fight so no one else ever has to go through this. Not here, not anywhere."
She scoffed lightly, shaking her head. "Getting repetitive there, Alex. Don't be sorry, be better. Yeah, I get it."
Her voice wavered then. I felt it, heard it, cracking like ice under too much weight. She looked away, biting her lip hard enough that I thought she might draw blood. When she spoke again, it was softer, rawer.
"Alex... I wish I'd never met Lance. I wish I'd listened to you. I knew things were bad, but not like this. Not this bad. This feels like some kind of nightmare and it's all my fault."
I barely had time to react before she crumpled, her face buried in her hands as the first sobs tore free. "I never wanted any of this. None of this was supposed to happen," she choked out. "You, Thalia—you're the ones who always help me. Even when I didn't deserve it, when it should have been the inverse. I just... I wanted to help you at least one time. I wanted to do the right thing."
I didn't know at which moment I began to move. With two strides, I was beside her, pulling her into my arms. She didn't resist. Instead, she melted against me, clutching the fabric of my shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her sobs were quiet but relentless, each one carving fissures into the air.
I held her tightly, my chin resting lightly on her head. "It's okay," I murmured, my voice low but firm. "It's okay, Beryl. You're better than you think you are. And you're going to prove it. To yourself, to me, to everyone. I know you will. You'll show them all."
Her breathing hitched, but she didn't pull away. For a moment, there was only silence between us, broken only by the muffled sound of her tears.
scene
Beryl had fallen asleep with tears staining her cheeks, her breathing ragged at first, then settling into an uneasy rhythm. She lay curled on my bed, clutching the pillow as though it might anchor her soul. I stood there for a few moments, watching her, feeling an ache that was neither clean nor well-defined—just a dull weight behind my sternum.
It would have been simpler if she hadn't seen what I did yesterday. I had told her to go and she had not listened. She had helped me bury that child, and that fact would follow her now, haunting the corners of her mind.
After gently lifting her and placing her under the blankets—fingers careful not to wake her—I left the room. My home felt quieter than it should. The sunlight leaking through the windows carried a hollow stillness. Yesterday's events lingered like an uninvited guest in every shadow. I had no illusions about how human minds processed horrors.
Good books and grand epics often show heroes shrugging off nightmares, continuing their quests as if terrible sights were just passing scenery because honestly who the fuck wanted to read about a traumatised hero instead of badass stoic one who flexed over the bad guys and got the girls or the guys.
Unfortunately reality never grants such mercy. Trauma imprints itself. It alters who you are, whether you embrace it or flee from it. It reshapes the way you blink, the way you move, the tone you adopt when speaking to someone you love. No matter the resilience one claims, these scars remain. They might fade over time, but they rarely vanish due to the nature of the human's psyche.
I recalled a period in my past existence—before this second chance at life—when I had found psychology fascinating. I dove into theories, read about trauma, devoured case studies. After a while, I grew bored, my attention drifting elsewhere like it always happened with something I once found interesting but some fragments of knowledge lodged in my memory.
Trauma's effects vary wildly, but no one emerges unchanged. Most ordinary people would break down, at least for a while, after seeing something so vile as the corpse of a mutilated child. They would blame themselves or the world, feeling sick to the core, struggling to sleep, racked by intrusive visions. They might lash out at loved ones, or withdraw silently, wearing their grief like heavy chains around their necks. Over time, if fortune smiled upon them, they might rebuild themselves. Sometimes stronger, sometimes more compassionate, sometimes colder. But never quite the same.
All of that to say that Beryl would more than likely need time and understanding. She might deny her pain at first, mask it with sarcasm or forced smiles. Perhaps she would wake up pretending it was all a nightmare. But I knew the truth. She would remember the blood, the small body that should never have been broken in such a way. And I would too.
Buy that was life I guess. Whatever happens happens. Being human is knowing that you have to keep moving, that you have to keep pushing forward. Thalia was out there. My niece, a child who had needed me and received empty promises in return. If I allowed myself to crumble now, what good would I be?
A sigh left my lips as I stepped into the living area. Everything looked too normal—furniture in place, a cup left on the table, a half-open magazine, all meaningless trinkets of ordinary life.
I grabbed my keys and stepped outside, locking the door quietly. There were things I needed to start doing, plans too grand to delay. Yesterday's horror had lit a fire under me. I could not just react; I would shape the world in subtle ways. Humanity would not cower before gods and monsters. I would make sure of that. I would try to influence the narrative itself, ensure that people started unconsciously doubting the divine, and cultivating pride in their own mortal potential so that when the time was right, when I would reveal the masquerade to the masses, reveal the world behind the mist, it would be to gain millions of comrades, of people, of human fighting at my side.
To begin this quiet rebellion, I needed tools. Media, stories, entertainment. Humanity is swayed by what it consumes—films, shows, cartoons. These shape collective dreams. If I could lay my hands on a production house, if I could invest and guide its vision, I might slowly alter how people perceive gods and monsters. I had discussed something with Beryl, a hint of an idea about controlling communication channels. This would be one of my first steps: acquiring or investing in a struggling animation studio that could become my instrument. A seed planted in fertile ground, from which new myths might grow, literally.
I got into my car, started the engine, and pulled out of my neighborhood. The sky was bright, the streets calm, the world oblivious to my inner turmoil. I headed toward Culver City.
If I remembered it well, Culver City was a if not the haven for smaller studios and production houses. It was a place where aspiring filmmakers and animators tried their luck. Hollywood had star power, Burbank had established giants, but Culver City offered lower rents and a chance for smaller fish to survive in the big pond, at least for a while.
I once had watched multiple documentaries about the rise of Disney during the pandemic because honestly, what else was to do than watching useless but time consuming stuff?
If I recalled correctly and I was not tripping, a certain studio—Amblimation—had tried to stand against giants long ago. In this world, it seemed they had set up a presence here in LA when they had not in my first life perhaps clinging to relevance, hoping for a miracle.
Amblimation if I wasn't wrong had Spielberg's old dream, yes, that Spielberg born in the late eighties, intended to challenge Disney. They had talented animators, visions of greatness they never truly soared, overshadowed by Disney's steady march or golden era like many liked to called it.
They had produced only three films: An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, We're Back! A Dinosaur's Story, and Balto. None of them broke through like Disney's blockbusters. More than that, the best movie they in my opinion made was Balto and even there were some problems with it.
Their timing was also very poor: facing Disney in its renaissance years was like wrestling a tidal wave. Location didn't help either. Founded in London, far from Hollywood's core, they struggled to establish a brand.
Perhaps they realized belatedly that London was too remote.
Maybe now they tried to survive in Culver City, where they might still produce something. Still, It seems that even a branch in LA didn't change much because Disney was still dominating. By the mid-nineties, the rise of CGI left or more appropriately would leave them behind. Eventually, Amblimation would shutter, the employees scattered.
It is only then that Spielberg would pivot toward DreamWorks Animation. This is what I was trying to change. Ambination was in a bad spot but let's say someone, a believer came to propose to invest just for the first time 15 million dollars, of course against a majority of the shares but still in the direction of Spielberg. Let's say again that the older sister of said believer is an A-tier class actress who even though not in the eye of the public like before is still known. Still got connections and all of this is without the inspired inventor. You do that and you possibly create something that could be bigger than Disney, something that I could use discreetly against Olympus.
The building I found was modest at best: a small, functional structure wedged between more modern offices. They must have chosen Culver City to cut costs, to hold onto a foothold in the industry without bleeding money dry in Hollywood's expensive neighbourhoods.
As I parked the car, I noticed the building's simple sign: Amblimation Studios. Nothing fancy, no gleaming logo or architectural statement. Just words on a board. The street itself had passing cars, pedestrians in casual attire, and a vibe that suggested modest dreams rather than red-carpet aspirations. I liked it. Humble beginnings or hard times depending on how you saw it. I could work with that.
Stepping out of the car, I felt a slight stiffness in my shoulders. The morning air carried the scent of distant traffic and freshly watered plants. I crossed the sidewalk, pushed through the front door, and entered a small lobby. Inside, the décor was as simple as the exterior promised. Posters from their past works decorated the walls: Fievel Goes West, We're Back! A Dinosaur's Story.
I could see that they were trying to show their work. I found it…admirable. Doing such even though it might have been a legacy of noble failures rather than triumphs.
A receptionist sat behind a plain desk. She was a woman in her mid-thirties, perhaps. Her expression said she wanted to be anywhere else. The slump of her shoulders, the dullness in her eyes hinted that this morning brought her no joy.
I forced a polite smile onto my face. I never liked these social dances. You greet with kindness, you show no rough edges, because stepping on the delicate mosaic of human interactions risked breaking something. People were often too sensitive, too eager to misinterpret tone or intentions. One wrong word, one misjudged inflection, and they'd label you rude or arrogant. Sometimes I thought it ridiculous. But this was the world we lived in. If I wanted her cooperation, I had to slip into the mask of cordiality. More than that, having the objective I had meant that I had ta act exactly the way my mother taught me when doing business with people. Was it too late to kill myself?
"Good morning," I said, keeping my voice warm and steady. Warm so that she would feel at ease but steady so that she would not feel too much like hearing my voice. I needed her to like me. "My name is Alexander. I'd like to speak with whoever is in charge here, if possible. I'm interested in this studio's work and… well, I believe an investment might do us both good."
She looked up, met my gaze. For a second, suspicion flickered in her eyes. But then her gaze drifted downward, noticing the chain around my neck. The chain I wor, the one I had shaped and made by using the stars in my mind.
One good thing that I originally hadn't intended but that I was not complaining against at all was that it looked like loops of diamond, shimmering under the indoor lighting. Real or not, it gave an impression of wealth. I saw her expression shift, her previous disinterest melting into something more attentive. Money. Influence. People respond to signals. Clothing, jewelry, posture. All part of a silent language that shapes how we treat one another.
I remembered once my mom had wanted to meet the president of a particular country I would not specify for Business.
She was new to the country which mean she didn't have contacts or knew people that would help her realize what she wanted without having to enter in debt in some way.
So, what she did was that she went full glam. Yellow diamonds and platinum. Clothes that were hella expensive but that you would have to know they were by looking at them, without any sort of gaudy branding etc.
She went with the sport car that was offered to her by her oldest brother that she hated, that had been more mine than hers to be honest, that she had never driven before.
It had been true that there had been no meeting scheduled. It had been true that she had been a complete stranger but all those things with politeness toward the workers, the help, the staff added on top made sure that when she came back that night, it was with the deal she wanted.
One thing she always liked to say that I hated but that I could not deny was true that Wealth wherever you were, whatever you do called more wealth, that wealth in a way was universal, that it was a language spoken everywhere in the world, one that transcanded barrier and culture.
In other words, life, opportunity, all that stuff when you have money wherever you are doesn't change.
"Yes, sir," she said after clearing her throat. "Usually, appointments are scheduled in advance. But I'm sure we can make an exception." Her entire demeanor changed. The stiffness in her posture remained, but now it was from eagerness rather than reluctance. She stood up, movements brisk, as if anxious to please. "If you'd like to sit for a moment, I'll let the appropriate person know you're here."
"Thank you," I replied. I took a seat on one of the lobby's chairs. You had to be polite so that they will like but not too polite that they think you are a sucker that they possibly could use themselves.
Behind me, the poster for Fievel Goes West depicted that courageous little mouse dreaming of a better future in the American frontier. Looking at it, plastered in this building that seemed on the verge of being destitute felt ironic in some way.
The receptionist disappeared down a hallway. Her footsteps echoed briefly before fading away. I was left alone with my thoughts.
I remembered my mother's words from my first life, something along the lines of, "Clothes don't make the monk, but even monks wear robes." A reminder that appearances no matter the veneer human beings like to hide themselves behind count, that people often judge by what they see before they listen to what you say. It was a bitter truth, but a useful one.
That's why I hated doing any form of business because sooner or later it made me think of her, make me think like her.
Here I sat, in a modest building belonging to a once-ambitious studio that had never truly bloomed. I was about to attempt something radical: to steer a fragment of the animation world toward my own agenda. That might sound twisted, but if the gods manipulated fate, if monsters roamed freely, if innocents died for no reason, why shouldn't I try to shape the narrative? Why shouldn't I arm humanity with stories and symbols that could fortify their hearts against the divine pantheon's lies?
And so I waited, quietly, posture relaxed, smile still lingering at the corners of my mouth. I would speak with whoever ran this place. I would offer them something they couldn't refuse—a lifeline for their studio, a chance to make something memorable again. In exchange, I'd gain a subtle means to influence minds. Stories could plant seeds that might flourish into defiance or pride. With careful planning, those seeds would help humanity stand taller.
Stories, myths affected gods so why could it not be the same with humans? Weren't the gods in some way in our image?
Outside, cars passed, and the morning moved along. Inside these walls, posters and empty chairs bore silent witness. I adjusted the chain around my neck.
Power would come from many sources, not just brute strength or cunning runes. Power could arise from controlling narratives, from feeding people's imagination with heroes who didn't need gods to stand strong, who proved that mortal courage could surpass divinity's hollow grandeur.
My mind lingered on Beryl, still sleeping back home. She had fallen apart earlier, but I couldn't blame her. I hoped that when she woke, she would find some measure of calm. I hoped that I had not fucked up in trusting her again.
There were too many tasks ahead, and I needed her to have resolve, to have strength so that she would not fail me again, for Thalia's sake, for our family's sake.
If I could reshape the world's stories, someday Thalia and Jason would not have to live in a society beholden to fickle immortals, a place where a child could roam freely without fear of lurking horrors.
Footsteps approached, and I readied myself.
The world danced to the tune of perception. Ijust had to conduct the music in my favour. It was not the age of the gods. It was the age of manipulation and man was who made God tricksters.
scene
Steven Spielberg awaited me. There was like an air of guarded pride around him and honestly that was deserve in my opinion. He was and will be the man behind some of the world's greatest cinematic achievements, yet here he looked weighed down, as though the promise, the state of Amblimation had settled like a burden on his shoulders. He looked vulnerable. He looked exploitable.
The room was quiet, the overhead lighting gentle, casting no illusions. He studied me, and I returned the favor, taking in his cautious gaze, his subtle tension. He was on edge, as if he fearing an empty promise or a soulless businessman which in that case wasn't wrong.
"Mr. Spielberg," I began softly, extending my hand. I made sure that voice rolled out smoothly, each syllable designed to reassure without coddling. "I appreciate your time. I know appearing unannounced is unusual, but I believe you'll understand my motives soon enough."
He clasped my hand, examining me. I sensed his attempts to read something beyond my clothes, beyond my calm demeanor.
I offered a faint smile and took a seat when he gestured. Without rushing, I let the silence stretch just enough to let him feel my presence—solid, confident, interested.
"I'm told you're interested in supporting our efforts," he said, voice measured. "Here at Amblimation."
"Very much so," I replied, leaning forward slightly. "I've followed your ventures in animation, your daring attempts to stand against Disney's towering shadow. The 'Disney Renaissance,' if we may call it that, saw them unleash one hit after another—The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin—each a masterpiece seizing the world's heart. Meanwhile, you tried to carve your own path. An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, We're Back! A Dinosaur's Story… charming films with strong visuals and memorable touches yet, they never quite broke free from Disney's overshadowing presence didn't they? They didn't achieve the emotional resonance to truly rival the giants."
I paused, watching his eyes narrow slightly. He knew these truths. He had lived them. There was no point pretending otherwise. Still, it was not change the fact that in a way, I was downplaying, mocking his efforts, his work. No matter how right I was, I knew I had vexed him, that a part of him was angry which was good. It would be vexation I knew not big enough for him to throw me out of building at the moment but good enough that he wasn't perfectly calm, perfectly analytic of my words.
"But I'm not here to mock you," I continued smoothly. Now was time for the carrot "Far from it. I admire your ambition. You ventured into a domain Disney had all but been monopolizing. I could see it in your work. You wanted heartfelt stories, unforgettable characters, something fresh, something that couldn't be dismissed as mere clones of the old masters yet the market showed no mercy, and Amblimation struggled—hampered by a lack of strong branding, burdened by financial constraints, and hindered by an ill-timed entry when the world craved Disney's fairy tales over any rival's offerings."
Spielberg's shoulders tensed at my frankness. I made sure to give him a sympathetic look, one that would seem to say that I am on your side.
"I understand the struggle, Steven. Which brings me to my purpose today. I want to invest in Amblimation. Not a trivial sum, mind you. Fifteen million dollars, to start. Enough to buy you room to breathe, to experiment, to chase that elusive spark you first envisioned."
A spark of surprise lit his eyes. He tried to mask it, but I caught it. Fifteen million was no small number, especially from a stranger walking in on an ordinary day. Did I also mention that 15 millions dollars in the beginning of the 90s was very different than the same amount in 2020s?
"That's… generous," he said, careful. "But why? Why Amblimation, specifically? Why animation at all, when Disney and others are overshadowing newcomers?"
I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, letting a thoughtful moment pass. If this was a choice-based game, it would be the last but most important quick time event
"Because I long to see greatness forged from human passion and ingenuity. Disney thrives on a legacy built over decades. They have their style, their formulas. You, however, dared to fight that tide, to bring forth something shaped by human hands, not bound by centuries of tradition. I find it… captivating. I want to witness what happens when mortals—craftsmen, artists, storytellers—are given the means to manifest their purest visions with the weight of preordained success. I want to see something human-built that would surpass the divine itself."
One thing with words was that lying didn't mean you were not telling the truth. Double entendre for the win I guess.
He blinked, uncertain how to parse my words. I offered a small, reassuring smile and pressed on. "Consider this: By all logic, Amblimation should have perished by now. The failures, the overshadowing successes of Disney, the lack of strong branding. Any lesser endeavor would have closed its doors yet it persists. It holds on, clinging to existence with a ferocity that's almost heroic. That tells me something about you and your people, about the fire they carry within. You've survived not because luck favors you, but because you refuse to surrender. That, Steven, your dream is worth nurturing."
The truth was that Steven Spielberg didn't need me at all. In my past life when Ambinatiin failed, he went on to work with dreamwork to make masterpieces in the animation world. He was already successful. He would be even more. He didn't need him. I needed him but I needed to think the opposite.
He inhaled slowly, weighing my statements. "You must realize we're not in a position of strength," he said. "Another mediocre release would end us. Fifteen million is a monumental sum. I'm wary. Investors usually come expecting immediate returns or creative control. You're offering a fortune and talking about human greatness and passion. What do you truly want? What do you gain?"
I allowed myself a slight laugh, low and genuine. "I gain the pleasure of seeing something truly human take shape. I find a certain beauty in mortal resilience and creativity. Let's say I delight in the idea that, with the right support, your studio could produce works that show mankind's soul shining in ways Disney's carefully honed fables never quite allow. In other words, I appreciate a challenge to the status quo. It's entertaining, enlightening—and if we're honest, it pleases me to see human talent flourish where logic insists it should fail. I dream of a world made even greater for humanity, changed even more through our work and I think you can give me this with Ambination."
Spielberg watched me closely. I could almost taste his uncertainty. Part of him must think this smacks of a devil's bargain. Too convenient, too large an offer. Another part knows he cannot find such lifelines easily. "If I refuse?" he ventured, voice low.
I unfolded my hands and shrugged, my tone sympathetic rather than offended, acting as if him doing so would not be more a problem for me than for him.
"If you refuse, I'll depart. I won't twist your arm. But consider: who else is knocking at your door with such an offer? Without my investment, you know as well as I do that Amblimation is on borrowed time. Another film, maybe two, but never enough to break from the shadows. With these funds, you could reinvent yourselves—perhaps hire fresh talent, set release dates that don't pit you head-on against Disney's next masterpiece. You could craft something that stands out. Something that claims its own identity, resonates with audiences, and proves that human effort alone can carve a place among giants."
He clenched his jaw, clearly conflicted. "This sounds too good. Like some story where a man in a fine suit walks in and hands you the key to your dreams. I'm not a fool."
"Firstly, I am not in a suit." I met his gaze. "Secondly I know you're not. That's why I respect you enough to state the facts plainly. Your next film, if produced without resources or changes, will likely underperform once more. You'll produce it, you'll hope, you'll dream… and then it will fade. History would note Amblimation as a noble but doomed attempt. With my investment, you gain a fighting chance—no guarantees, of course. You must still produce something of genuine quality and emotional depth. You must redefine your brand and prove your worth but I remove the noose from around your neck. Instead of drowning, you'll swim."
Spielberg pressed his lips together. Outside, traffic murmured distantly, and inside, the silence between us felt thick with what almost tasted with possibility. He looked at me and I saw the reflections of old ambitions and fresh fears dancing in his eyes. "I'll need time," he finally managed, voice subdued. "I can't just say yes here and now."
I stood. "Of course. Take all the time you need. Just recall that time is not your ally. Every passing month drains your studio's lifeblood. Every failed negotiation chips away at morale. I'm not forcing your hand, but I am reminding you of reality's harsh arithmetic."
He swallowed, and I could sense the battle in his mind. "If I agree, what strings come attached?"
I repressed the feral smile I knew wanted to bloom on my face. I had won. Instead, I forced myself to give a small smile, to let some warmth in my eyes to soften the edge of my words. "I desire no puppet show. I have no interest in stifling your creativity with mindless demands. I want to see you forge something extraordinary from the fires of adversity. I may offer advice, but I will not chain your vision. My reward is in witnessing artistry emerge from struggle. That is enough for me."
Spielberg nodded slowly, a flicker of determination igniting behind his weariness. He wanted this. He needed this. He understood the risk, but also the necessity. "I will consider your offer. You'll hear from me soon," he said, voice steady.
I moved toward the door with smooth grace, pausing as I reached it. "I shall return for your decision in a week. By then, I trust you will have weighed your options. Perhaps you will realize that without my hand, you stand before a chasm with no bridge. With my investment, you gain a path—narrow and treacherous, mayhaps, but a path nonetheless."
A quiet settled between us, charged with the weight of future decisions. I dipped my head in a respectful farewell and left him alone with his thoughts.
Spielberg understood he hovered on the brink of obscurity. I had shown him a different horizon—one where backed by resource and daring, he might yet be able to shape a legacy to rival the old juggernauts.
As I stepped outside into the Culver City air, I could almost sense the tension rising behind me. He would wrestle with doubts and dreams, but in the end, I knew what he would choose. He needed me and I, for my own reasons, needed to see what he could create once unshackled from any chains well except mine of course.
A deal with the devil? Perhaps that was how one might describe it. I wanted to go against the gods so wasn't already in a sense the devil? Devilish because of humanity. I already had Spielberg in my pocket. When I would walk next week, it would be to him accepting my offers because there is nothing a human would not do for a dream.
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