[Chapter 78: In The Company of Monsters.]
[Alternative Titles: Of Monsters & Men.
A Hollowed World With Hollowed Principles.]
Last Time on Chapter 077 of From Shadows To The Spotlight —
David, now turned into a zombie, staggered through the mist beside the track. The train's red tail lights faded into the distance. He stopped walking.
His dull grey, lifeless eyes flickered with something almost human — as tears of blood slid down his cheek. He didn't roar. He didn't chase. He just watched.
The final image that the words painted in his mind's eye haunted him.
The closing voiceover, with a glimpse of Lena's diary years later — "Some people died heroes. Some never got the chance. But I remember those who ran towards the danger… and the ones who stayed just long enough to make sure someone else could live" — would linger in theaters, a whisper of hope amid the horror.
Now Continuing —
Guillermo sat back, the binder heavy in his lap, the room's silence broken only by the soft buzz of the air conditioner. This wasn't just a franchise; it was a tapestry of human struggle, woven with monsters and myths.
The Last Train to New Haven stood out to him, not for its scale but for its soul. It was the kind of story he lived for—raw, human and heartbreaking.
The larger Biohazard Saga offered spectacle—Kaiju-sized Bio-weapons, mutants and conspiracies spanning ancient forgotten ruins—but this smaller tale of love and loss was the pulse beneath it all.
He could already imagine in his head how he would make it, using a handheld camera for intense action scenes inside the train. Over all, the colour palette of the movie would be made with muted colors, but contrasted with brief warm tones in flashbacks.
It was a movie in a franchise that had no lack of heroes with plot armour that allowed them to win against impossible odds, but it was a tragic tale of a father making an impossible choice to save his daughter.
Emotional horror is what he would've called it, if someone asked him to classify the movie under a certain genre, where the viewer is left like they had taken a punch to their gut rather than the usual adrenaline rush of watching a horror movie.
It was a quiet, heart-breaking entry into the Resident Evil franchise. One that whispers—not every hero survives.. but some legacies always do.
Gently closing the binder, Guillermo looked at Alex, whose eyes gleamed with quiet confidence, as if he'd known exactly how this story would hit him. "Alex, this…" His voice was thick with unspoken emotions, his hands gesturing to the binder.
"The Biohazard Saga is massive, mythic and terrifying. But the Last Train to New Haven—it's not about monsters. It's about a father, a daughter, and a choice."
"To me it's the heart of this franchise, it puts the stakes front and center of the audience and raises the importance of heroes like Leon, Alice and Chris."
"It's raw, visceral and heartbreaking, it has almost everything I want to tell the audience as a filmmaker."
Alex leaned forward, his pen tapping rhythmically, a faint smile curling his lips. "I knew you'd see it. That one's special. This entire saga—Leon, Jill, the bioweapons, the ancient viruses—it can all yours, if you are willing to lead it that is.."
Guillermo's gaze drifted to the window, the stars outside mirroring the bioluminescent glow of the sketches. He could see it all.
The Nemesis lumbering through a rain-soaked station, its limbs twitching under practical prosthetics; the Mold Leviathan rising from a gothic village, its form a nightmare of CGI and practical effects; David's tear-streaked face as he leapt from the train, the camera lingering on his sacrifice.
Alex and Monarch weren't just offering him projects—they were offering him the opportunity to create a legacy, a chance to shape stories that would outlive him.
He turned back to Alex, his voice steady but brimming with fire. "You're building something bigger than just money-making machines, aren't you? These aren't just popcorn flicks—these worlds that you so painstakingly created, why did you choose me?"
"Don't get me wrong, I know what I am capable of. I just don't understand how you saw the same in me to be able to trust with me such a great responsibility."
"I've only shot two short films and two feature films till now. And none of—"
"You're selling yourself too short my friend, and you aren't the only one. There are many other directors like you that Monarch has invested in, provided they were only hired for solo projects or just told to do their own thing."
"David Fincher, Sofia Coppola, Wes Anderson,–" Guillermo named a few of the successful directors that Monarch had sponsored. But most of them were only brought on for a solo project unlike him whom Alex wanted to lead an entire franchise.
"Last year we collaborated with Steven on Out of Sight and the Wachowski sisters with the Matrix, though you won't see the latter's movie till next summer due to scheduling conflicts and rival studio shenanigans.
"With M. Night we are currently filming The Sixth Sense, and Paul is directing Magnolia." Seeing his confused expression Alex decided to get to the point he was trying to make. "My point being that even I don't know what I see in you. All I know is what my gut tells me."
"And what does it tell you?" Guillermo asked softly, as if afraid of what the answer might be.
"It told me that you're an amazing storyteller and you'll make for a great director. And please don't think I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart or for free."
Alex elaborated causally. "If I want to break the stranglehold that the big six studios have on Hollywood then I will need the best directors on my side as well."
"After all, the customer is king and with the best of the best on my side, my movies will be a cut above theirs. I want to create a gap so big between our movies and theirs that they won't be able to overcome it no matter what underhanded tactics they use—spreading conspiracies, smear campaigns, or buying theatre tickets to pad the box office."
Guillermo nodded and replied acknowledging his goal. "I already saw a glimpse of it through Spider-Man. That film is beyond anything Warner has done with Superman or Batman, I'm not saying they were bad. It's just.."
"—on a whole new level?" Alex finished his sentence for him with a proud smile, it took millions of dollars and the blood, sweat and tears of his best film crew.
"Yeah, it definitely had the spectacle I was expecting it to have, but what took me by surprise was a story at its heart that had me at the edge of my seat the entire time."
"The flashback Peter had at the rooftop after being shot by the police, him remembering Ben's words about what courage truly means made feel emotions I wasn't what I expected from a superhero flick."
"It made me feel proud of Peter like he was my own kid."
Alex couldn't help but smile with pride, because the scene that had impacted Del Toro the most and stayed with him was also the one that Monica claimed would be remembered by all.
And it turns out that she was right after all, it was an improvised scene that came to Tommy at spur of the moment during filming and it added some much needed depth to the story.
This was the reason why he was so adamant about maintaining good relationships with the talents because these are the people who elevate the story with not just their acting but also their ideas and inputs.
"So are you in?"
"I am. You know coming into this meeting, I was curious.. just kind of story would you pitch to me. I knew Monarch was famous for its impeccable storytelling, but I still underestimated you, Alex."
His voice trembled with excitement. He pressed a hand to his chest as if trying to calm the wild rhythm of his heart. "Tell me, Alex, who was it that came up with the idea of Hollow Earth, the portals, the time dilation?"
Alex's lips curled into a knowing, amused smile, the kind that hinted at long hours in smoke-filled rooms, furious brainstorming sessions, arguments, compromises, and those divine moments of creative clarity.
"It was a combined effort," Alex said softly. "Myself and a team of dedicated writers. Loyal people.. visionaries in their own right. They're sworn to secrecy and believe in the stories we're trying to get out to the world."
Del Toro's eyes widened, he let out a low whistle in awe and stood up, walking a few steps away from the table. He paced back and forth, his body language animated and emotive as the creative juices started flowing through his mind.
"It's astonishing. You took two Japanese origin IPs—Godzilla and Resident Evil, both brilliant but—let's be honest—they would've been reduced to being a silly popcorn-flick in western adaptation. But you.. elevated them."
He whirled around, pointing a finger at the binder. "Hollow Earth should've been a throwaway plot device. A B-movie gimmick."
"But here?"
"You added fantasy elements that make sense with Portals! Time dilation! and giant mechs to increase the stakes of humans in this fight for survival. And Monster Within, that is just pure genius, it's also the project that I would love to direct personally."
"The idea that the Kaijus were gods worshipped by ancient civilizations—and that now humans would dare to defile them by crafting BioMechs from their corpses?" His voice cracked slightly, eyes wide with childlike wonder. "That's not just storytelling, Alex. You've crafted a lore that's mythical in scale."
Alex just watched, content, his arms folded for now, letting Guillermo feel every moment of inspiration without interruption.
"And then," Del Toro continued, eyes alight as he returned to the binder and flipped open the "Biohazard Saga" tab with trembling fingers, "you dared to ask—what if the zombies were just merely the beginning, the least terrifying aspect of this viral pantheon?"
"What if we reimagine Nemesis as a Frankenstein nightmare, stitched together from the mutated body parts of human test subjects. Uroboros as a kaiju-sized body horror abomination. The Mold as gothic, creeping corruption born from spores older than humanity itself…"
He shook his head, almost laughing again, filled with giddy disbelief. "These things—they mutate! Not just flesh, but they corrupt the soul. Each story escalates the danger, the grotesquery, the emotional weight of these horrific transformations."
"You've made it about survival and hope, about one's body and soul being forcibly reshaped. It's Kaijus meets Lovecraft meets James Cameron on peyote."
Alex let out a low chuckle, his grin widening. "You really like them."
"I love them," Del Toro said, breathless. "But now you've also cursed me, you bastard.. because now I can't decide."
He looked down at the binder. "I want to work on both of them. I want to build the mechs and titans of Hollow Earth. I want to descend into the jungles and caves of southern america and africa. I want to direct the dreams and the nightmares of both. Which one should I pick.. which one can I have?"
Alex leaned forward, fingers steepled silent for a moment, thinking of what solution he should offer Del Toro. "How about you pick one to lead, Guillermo. Make it yours. The other.. you can still work on, contribute to it—offer notes, direct entries, help guide its tone and direction."
"I'll give you a secondary stake as its creative director. But for one of them, you'll be at the helm. I want you to be running the show."
Del Toro hesitated for a moment, chewing his lip in tortured indecision. Then, at last, he looked back at Alex and whispered, "Then… let me lead Hollow Earth. It speaks to something primal in me. Kaiju mythology, giant BioMechs, humanity's hubris. But I want in on Biohazard too. I want to help shape its monsters and the lore behind their creation."
Alex nodded. "Done."
Del Toro beamed, eyes misting slightly. "So.. when can I start?"
Alex stood and extended a hand across the table. "The contract will be with you in the next few days. First, you'll be working closely with the writing room—fleshing out the narrative spine, the characters, dialogue, and themes for each entry.
We'll build the first film's script together. No half-measures. We'll start with what's most important yet almost always overlooked.. the story."
Del Toro grasped Alex's hand firmly, a little too tightly. "Thank you, Alex. I mean it. You've given me the dream job I didn't even know I had been waiting my whole life for. I promise I won't let you down."
"I know you won't," Alex said with calm certainty.
As the two men released hands, the rain outside intensified—drumming now in rhythm, like distant war drums for the storm that was about to arrive at Hollywood's shores.
---------
~A Few Days Later, 1st September, 1998~
~Grauman's Chinese Theatre, L.A.~
~Through The Lense of a Critic~
Tuesday evening in Hollywood unfurled itself like a velvet drape drawn back for a king's entrance. Beneath the shifting glow of the city's gaudy neon lights, a single black town car slipped through the press of limousines, convertibles, and glitter-dusted models craving a glimpse of fame and power.
Inside, behind the tinted glass, Aymeric Petiaux sat alone with his thoughts, his long fingers drumming lightly against the worn leather armrest.
He looked every inch the critic he had so carefully crafted into becoming — he was French-British by blood, a quick glance at his passport would reveal him to be in his mid-thirties. But he had that ageless weary, inquisitive glimmer of his grey eyes.
He wore a simple charcoal suit, a white shirt unbuttoned just so, with no tie; he didn't want to be perceived as the old coots that look more polished than the stars they disdainfully dissect. His name had begun to carry weight on both sides of the pond, he came from a lineage woven through art galleries, dusty libraries, and old stage curtains —
A Petiaux knew art the way a vintner knows vines: by the taste of its truth.
Yet tonight, that truth was in question. Somewhere back in London, a reckless cousin's passing still tugged at the edges of his mind, but it was another death he pondered now: the death of integrity, should he bend the knee.
A polite threat had come to his door through his magazine's editor just days ago — soft words laced with corporate venom. A discreet sum had already been wired to the magazine's private account, with more to come should he be willing to "apply a more critical lens" to Spider-Man: First Swing.
He was almost certain as to whose purse that money had come from. Michael Eisner, or so Aymeric wagered, though the Disney Studios chairman's name was never uttered aloud.
It didn't have to be as the tyrant of Disney had many sycophants in his employ. Aymeric despised nothing more than being treated as a blade for hire — and tonight, he would prove, once again, that his pen was loyal only to the truth, whatever shape it took.
Outside, the glow of the boulevard thickened, pulsing with camera flashes and the honeyed shouts of paparazzi. The driver, a young man in a stiff borrowed tuxedo, flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror, catching the critic's reflection — a hawk in a cage of leather and chrome wanting out.
"Sir. We've arrived."
Aymeric exhaled, a breath loosening from deep in his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice still carrying that faint Parisian lilt. He pushed the door open and stepped into the roar of premiere night.
Grauman's Chinese Theatre, a cathedral for celluloid dreams, rose before him, its stone lions half-hidden behind a barricade of onlookers and the restless dance of flashbulbs. Reporters lunged forward as if at a signal, microphones thrust like spears.
"Monsieur Petiaux! Aymeric! Over here — your thoughts on Spider-Man! Did you meet with Alex Masters? How does it compare to Fellowship?"
He did not slow, did not offer even the courtesy of a sidelong glance. Opinions before a screening were for fools and sycophants — and Aymeric was neither.
He kept a polite, inscrutable smile on his lips, but inside he cursed softly in his mother's tongue at the brash persistence of cheap questions.
The veteran critic drifted through the chaos like a ghost clad in bespoke wool. Past the velvet ropes, past Drew Barrymore radiant in pale silk, Robert Downey Jr. all charm and glittering teeth, Brooke Shields poised and ageless beneath a wave of camera flashes.
All reborn by Alex Masters' hand — the man whose stories had dragged broken stars back from obscurity and back into the eyes of the public making them stars once more.
Some critics, he knew, would treat that as proof of Masters' StarMaker status, or a reason for suspicion. But Aymeric knew better: he cared only for the story tonight, not the fables that circled it like flies.
Inside, the hush of the lobby fell around him like a blessing. Red velvet, polished brass, the old ghosts of Hollywood still clinging to the drapes and shadows.
An usher barely old enough to shave stammered his name twice before leading him through a side door and up a narrow flight of carpeted stairs to the private balcony box reserved for a few such men and women who still wrote in ink instead of gossip.
Aymeric accepted no free wine, no glossy hamper packed with studio bribes. He never did — never would. He took his seat alone, settling into the plush darkness as the noise below thickened with laughter and eager chatter.
On his lap, a slim leather notepad. Between his fingers, a silver pen, clicked once, twice, a totem against falsehood. He let his gaze slip over the sea of heads beneath him — the fidgeting young actors hoping tonight would cement them, the aging producers whispering promises into each other's ears.
Spider-Man: First Swing. A story about a boy, gaining great powers, and trying desperately to save a city in need. It was a tale so old now that it was either fossil or myth — unless, of course, Alex Masters had found something new in the silk and sinew of it.
Aymeric leaned forward, the faintest smile ghosting his lips.
Let the lights dim. Let the curtain sigh. Let the film, and only the film, speak for itself.
If it soared, he would say so. If it failed, he would carve it to the bone.
Below him, the house lights flickered. A hush swelled, beautiful and fragile.
Aymeric clicked his pen one last time.
The minutes went by as the heroic tale unfolded before him. He watched as the boy made his first swing, stumbling and crashing to the ground.
But the film? It was the complete opposite, while it wasn't a cinematic masterpiece like Shawshank Redemption or Forrest Gump.
But good lord did it come close in its own way and that in itself was an astonishing feat.
His friend always talked about creating movies that would be a seamless marriage of both spectacle and substance. And after watching the Fellowship, John Wick and now Spider-Man: First Swing.
He was happy to say that his friend had finally succeeded in his goal.
He couldn't help but smirk at that thought as he had made up his mind on the film, and Eisner would be especially cross with his decision but he didn't care as he would do what he had always done:
Let truth flow from his pen's ink.
— To be continued…
{3,153 words}
{TRL: This is the new Hollywood story that has been bouncing around in my head. I really need to get this out so here's another chapter.
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