"And CUT!" the director's voice blared in my ear. (And everyone else's, I hoped.) I kept the camera rolling — partly because I didn't want to forget to restart it when Scinti's next "Akshin!" came through my headset, and partly because I figured someone would want some "behind-the-scenes" footage later. Zil was left holding position with his forelimb embedded in the skyscraper down the block while people ran around checking on each other and moving cameras to new positions.
A murmur started up on the Social channel, which I still had active on low volume; I could just make out Zil's characteristic good-natured buzzing, the effect of being digitally pitched up five octaves. (It helped that it was in time with his actual rumbling speech, which I was close enough to feel through the roof under my feet.)
Gus — my backup, though he'd say the same of me — crushed his cigarette under his heel. "... yeah, okay. You win."
I gave my best Cheshire-cat grin. "I win ... what, exactly?" As if I didn't know.
"Oh, shut the —— up," he said, without any real malice. "And how much was ILM asking, anyway? I mean, I know we had the city already, and I know I don't know how much the lab rats charged to make him, but there ain't no way in hell it's gonna cost less than a billion just to keep him fed 'til we're done shootin'. And what're they gonna do afterward? Butcher him and sell 'Zilla dogs at the premiere?"
"... Gus? You're a sick, sad piece of work, you know that?"
He grinned. "Yeah, I'm thinkin'a goin' into management."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment