Jerry Bruckheimer came to find Raphael personally and thanked him for reacting so fast. "If you hadn't jumped in, we could've had a real disaster on our hands."
Gore Verbinski showed up right after. "From now on, all night shoots move inside the studio. No more open water."
Later that evening Keira knocked on Raphael's door.
She stood there for a long moment, clearly working up the nerve, then finally spoke.
"Raphael… about yesterday… thank you."
Raphael leaned against the doorframe. "You already said that."
Keira looked at him, and something in her eyes had shifted. "I heard you're kind of a player."
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And…" A small smile tugged at her lips. "When you pulled me out of the water, you didn't act like one."
Raphael asked casually, "What did I act like?"
Keira thought for a second. "Like a normal guy."
They held each other's gaze and both smiled.
After that, Keira's whole attitude toward him changed. The cool distance disappeared. She treated him like a real friend.
Some nights after wrap they'd sit on the beach with a couple of beers, talking about anything and nothing.
Depp caught them once and gave Raphael the most shit-eating grin. "Little blacksmith, you finally closed?"
Raphael glared. "Just friends."
Depp snorted. "Friends? That kind of friends? How many times have I heard that line now…"
Raphael ignored him.
Depp kept going. "If you actually like her, just go for it. I'm rooting for you."
Raphael looked at him and suddenly remembered all those courtroom clips from his past life—Depp marrying Amber Heard, the woman who allegedly took massive shits in their bed.
He sighed. "Depp, if you ever decide to get married again, do yourself a favor and skip the kind of woman who likes to shit in bed."
Depp froze. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Raphael kept a straight face. "You know—the shiny-on-the-outside, pure-evil-on-the-inside type."
Depp burst out laughing. "You're joking, right? Me? Fall for someone like that? Never."
Raphael gave him a tight smile and didn't push it. Some warnings only make sense after the damage is done.
December brought the big action sequences.
Bruckheimer and Verbinski camped out behind the monitors every day, watching every frame like hawks.
Depp was still the resident chaos goblin, pulling harmless pranks that had the whole crew crying with laughter.
One afternoon they were shooting a tongue-twister line. Depp flubbed it seven or eight times in a row. Every take got worse. The entire set was biting their lips to keep from laughing.
Finally Depp lost it, turned to the camera and yelled, "Where's the writer? I'm gonna kill him!"
The crew lost it.
Raphael laughed the loudest.
Another day they were filming a scene with a fake parrot on Raphael's shoulder that was supposed to deliver lines to Keira. The parrot kept making her break character. Three takes in a row she cracked up.
Raphael only found out later that the parrot was all CGI. The guy actually standing behind him reading the lines was writer Terry Rossio doing the voice deadpan.
Hearing Terry recite pirate dialogue with total sincerity almost made Raphael corpse too.
Shooting wasn't all smooth.
December 27th the main soundstage caught fire. Nobody got hurt, but they lost $350,000 in equipment.
Bruckheimer's face went purple, but there was nothing he could do. Insurance covered part of it; the rest came out of the production budget.
Raphael heard the news while eating with Depp.
Depp shook his head. "When this movie's over, somebody should write a book about it."
Raphael nodded. "Call it The Pirates of the Caribbean Blood, Sweat, and Tears Files."
They both cracked up.
On the last day of December, Ari called.
"Rafe, got something for you."
Raphael leaned back in his chair. "Shoot."
"A low-budget movie sent over a contract. No audition needed—just sign."
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "Which movie?"
Ari sounded like he was trying not to laugh. "Underworld."
Raphael paused. He'd never heard a peep about this project before. He'd assumed going through the Underworld world would've triggered an early offer, but nothing had come.
"How'd they find me?"
Ari finally let the laugh slip. "The original male lead thought the script sucked and bailed for a promising TV show. Plus the director Len Wiseman and supporting actor Michael Sheen got into a screaming match and both ended up in the hospital."
Raphael rubbed his forehead. Classic system universe meddling.
"So who actually sent the contract?"
Ari was still chuckling. "Kate Beckinsale pushed hard for you with the producers."
Raphael's stomach did a little flip.
Kate Beckinsale?
He kept his voice even. "Ari, I'll fly back to L.A. in a couple days. We'll talk about it then."
"Got it."
Raphael hung up and stared out at the sea.
Underworld…
He hadn't planned on taking another B-movie. The original had okay box office but lived on DVD sales, and the male lead was basically eye candy to prop up the female star.
But Kate Beckinsale…
They'd never even met in this life. Why the hell was she recommending him?
He thought back to the last look the Vampire Goddess had given him before he left that world and felt a quiet suspicion settle in his gut.
Depp wandered over out of nowhere. "Whose call?"
"Work stuff."
Depp's grin turned sly. "Another woman hunting you down?"
Raphael shot back, "You've got women on the brain 24/7. Why don't you just tattoo a pair of tits on your palm so you always have something to look at when you jerk off?"
Depp's eyes lit up like he was actually considering it. "Huh… not a terrible idea."
Raphael just shook his head. The man was beyond saving.
---
To settle the question burning in his mind, Raphael decided to use the Force on set one more time.
He picked the perfect window—4 a.m. the next morning, sky still black, only a couple of night watchmen dozing in their chairs.
He stood at his window, closed his eyes, and let the Force flow.
Master-level control let him reach every single person with surgical precision.
Director Gore Verbinski was asleep three hundred meters away. Raphael gave his subconscious a gentle push—tomorrow he would wake up with an urgent feeling that the schedule was falling behind and they needed to move faster.
Producer Jerry Bruckheimer's room was farther out. Raphael tweaked his sense of time so the production felt dangerously behind schedule.
Cinematographer, lighting crew, grips, props, makeup, every actor—one by one Raphael gave each of them a tiny subconscious nudge.
By the time he finished, dawn was breaking.
Raphael opened his eyes, drenched in sweat.
Master-level control was precise, but micro-managing over a hundred people at once still drained him more than he'd expected.
He leaned on the windowsill, caught his breath, then collapsed back into bed.
He'd slept less than three hours when someone pounded on the door.
"Raphael! Wake up! Early call today!"
Raphael opened his eyes. He actually felt refreshed.
Quick combat shower, then he stepped outside.
The set was already buzzing.
Verbinski sat behind the monitors looking laser-focused.
He spotted Raphael and waved him over. "Raphael, we're pushing the schedule today. Let's knock out the back half of the script early."
Raphael nodded. "No problem."
First scene: Will Turner's conversation with Jack Sparrow in the blacksmith shop.
They'd budgeted the whole morning. They finished in two hours.
Verbinski stared at the monitor like he couldn't believe it. "That's a wrap. Next setup!"
Second scene. Third. Fourth.
By the end of the day they'd shot three days' worth of material in one.
Everyone was exhausted when they wrapped, but nobody complained. The pace was unreal.
Depp collapsed in a chair. "What the hell happened today? Did the whole crew drop acid?"
Raphael sat beside him and took a long drink of water. "Isn't it good? Finish early, go home early."
Depp side-eyed him. "You look suspiciously fresh. Why aren't you dead like the rest of us?"
Raphael grinned. "I'm young, remember? Daddy Depp?"
Depp flipped him off.
The next day. The day after. The day after that.
The schedule kept rocketing forward.
Verbinski sat behind the monitors looking more and more stunned, then confused, then just numb.
He pulled Bruckheimer aside one afternoon. "Jerry, don't you think things are going way too smoothly lately?"
Bruckheimer was buried in budget spreadsheets and didn't even look up. "Smooth is bad?"
Verbinski thought about it, then shrugged. "Fair point."
Only Raphael knew what it was costing him.
Every night after wrap he spent two hours fine-tuning the entire crew's subconscious so they'd stay in that hyper-efficient zone the next day.
During the day he still had to deliver full performances in front of the camera.
After ten straight days he'd dropped a few pounds and looked a little hollow-eyed.
But the results were insane—they'd finished an entire month of shooting in ten days.
On the tenth night Raphael knocked on Bruckheimer's office door.
"Jerry, I need three days off."
Bruckheimer looked up, surprised. "Now?"
Raphael nodded. "Personal thing. Three days max."
Bruckheimer checked the revised schedule. Raphael's scenes were already ahead of plan; the rest of the cast still had pickups.
He thought for a second, then nodded. "Three days is fine."
He stood and clapped Raphael on the shoulder. "Go handle it. Everybody's burned out anyway. We'll take a short break."
Raphael smiled. "Thanks, Jerry."