"…Shame."
The blonde raked her hair and sighed.
"Real shame."
With one last greedy look at Berry and Judy, Jessica shook her head again, genuinely regretful she couldn't perform gratis.
"Hah, really? I don't see the loss."
Berry stared, stone-faced, at the woman's wistful expression.
The 6th Street Gang girl had some nerve—free fun on set and hoping to bag both director and assistant.
Even low-budget flicks aren't this absurd.
"Contract's for two weeks, on call—sign or leave."
Berry folded her arms, pen tapping: sign or get out.
"Sign? Hell yes."
Unfazed, Jessica scrawled her name on the legally worthless sheet… then came the long wait.
Berry spun her pen like a propeller.
None of the later applicants fit.
Underground films draw only the broke or the jaded.
None gave Berry what she needed.
She hadn't felt that spark.
Whatever the stance on sex, emotion had to be there—love or hate, anything but numb.
Only Jessica had it; the rest were dead inside.
That lifeless acceptance wasn't what Berry sought, so she sent them all away.
Judy agreed; as a Braindance Technician, she knew how to pick talent.
The braindance era demands more from actors.
Every tremor, breath, flicker of the eye is shared with the viewer.
No edit can fake that hormonal empathy.
A great script can't beat a true story—braindance's new creed.
At least until thugs use it to film snuff.
Then, as dusk fell, hope returned.
"Damn it, Berry, we're screwed. One actress won't sell; everyone's got solo vids collecting dust."
Judy's panic slipped into TMI.
Berry pretended not to hear.
"Half an hour more, then we eat and regroup."
She checked her phone—likely a wash.
Still, the pro in her waited it out.
Just as she opened a match-three game, the door creaked.
"Welcome, welcome."
Berry glanced up—and froze.
So did Judy.
Their next applicant was a man.
"Sorry to intrude."
A man in a crisp suit bowed obsequiously as he entered, hunching at the doorway with an ingratiating smile.
"No, sir, we advertised for an actress."
Judy scratched her head, feeling events had slipped outside the bounds of common sense.
She was sure she hadn't misprinted the gender on the casting flyer.
So why were men showing up to audition?
"Ah, not me—I'm Veronica's agent, Mendez. She's the one here for the audition."
The man named Mendez waved his hands hurriedly, all politeness.
His explanation did nothing to clear the women's confusion.
An agent?
Berry and Judy were both intimidated by the lofty title.
They were making a little indie flick—how had they landed a "real" actor?
Could an actual professional really be here to shoot their street-level film?
The two exchanged glances, each seeing the same disbelief in the other's eyes.
Yet their doubts didn't stop things; Mendez simply beckoned toward the door.
"Come on in, Veronica."
At his call, the sharp click of high heels rang out. A woman in dark glasses and a feather-trimmed suit strode in, crossed her long legs, and settled into a chair.
Her skin was pale, the heavy makeup accentuating it, and it formed a striking contrast with the moist crimson lips beneath the oversized shades. A head of crisp violet waves added to her cool, glamorous aura.
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