January 2008, Los Angeles, CA
Sometimes, James Cameron regretted his decision to make [Avatar]. The production was turning into a logistical and financial nightmare, primarily due to the ballooning CGI budget. The production hadn't yet reached the chaotic levels of [Titanic], but it was inching closer with each passing month. The film had already been in development for several years, and James still wasn't sure if the gamble would pay off.
What if he followed the triumph of [Titanic] with a box office failure? His legacy, which was built on genre-defining films like [The Terminator], [Terminator 2: Judgment Day], [True Lies] and [Titanic], could take a hit.
That uncertainty had been the biggest reason he agreed to bring Troy Armitage onboard. He even gave up a share of his own profits to secure the star. It was still somewhat surreal to think that a teenager had become the biggest superstar in the world. Every major studio was eager to work with him. Troy was the kind of actor who could get a film greenlit simply by expressing interest.
And yet, despite his towering success, some still questioned his staying power. He was, after all, still just a teenager. But James believed the moment Troy transitioned fully into adult roles, and maintained his momentum, that skepticism would disappear for good.
Troy had already shown the world that he wasn't just another pretty face in Hollywood. He had proven himself to be a genuine prodigy, someone who made billions from the stock market by spotting trends no one else could see.
When the news of Troy's hidden wealth broke in the media, James had been worried. He knew that kind of revelation could change people. And the kind of wealth Troy had amassed? That could distort reality, twist priorities. It could ruin someone.
So when Troy walked onto the [Avatar] set after winter break, suited up in his motion-capture gear, James watched him closely. The boy moved through the set as if nothing had changed. Maybe for him, it hadn't. But James could see the difference in everyone else. Crew members and cast alike were watching him—some discreetly, others openly.
Troy, ever the professional, smiled and greeted nearly everyone he passed on his way to James.
"I hope your holidays were better than mine?" he said with a dry chuckle, the edge of tension barely masked beneath the levity.
James heard it immediately. The kid was putting on a brave face, but the scrutiny had gotten to him.
"How bad is it?" James asked, his voice lowered.
Troy paused, then shrugged slightly. "People who haven't talked to me or my family in years are suddenly calling to make sure we remember they exist. The number of scripts my team was already receiving has gone up tenfold. Most of them are hoping I'll bankroll their projects. Same with entrepreneurs. Everyone wants to pitch me the next big thing. The next YouTube."
He gave a tired laugh before continuing.
"I haven't even stepped outside that much, but I already know it won't be that simple now. I had to double my security team just to handle coming here today."
Then Troy glanced around the set and said quietly, "Then there are the looks. People think I'd change overnight, or treat them differently. As if I had been dirt poor before the news broke out."
James knew he wasn't wrong. It was something even he had been guilty of, if only for a moment.
Annoyed on Troy's behalf, he abruptly turned toward the onlookers. "Don't you guys have any work to do today?" he barked.
The effect was immediate. Everyone dropped their gaze and busied themselves with whatever they could find.
Troy's smile widened, a trace more genuine now. "You didn't have to do that."
"I did," James replied firmly. "Come now, let's talk about today's shoot so you can forget all about the last few days. Billionaire or not, I promise you'll get my full wrath if you mess up."
Troy laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. "I'd be mad if I didn't." Then his expression sobered. "I had some ideas about today's scene that I'd like to run by you."
James gave a small nod, gesturing for him to go ahead.
"Jake's first walk in his Avatar should be emotional," Troy said. "I mean, if I lost my legs years ago and somehow got them back, I'd cry like a baby. That'd be too much, obviously, so I won't go that far, but maybe just enough to make it resonate with the viewers."
James folded his arms, considering. "When I first wrote it, Jake was a marine. I didn't want him to cry here and show weakness. This moment is supposed to be pure exhilaration, like running for the first time as a kid. Logically, you're not wrong, but from a cinematic perspective, I don't want to weigh it down."
Troy nodded in understanding. "Got it. How about this? Let me try it my way once. If it doesn't work, we'll shoot it yours. You decide which feels right."
James agreed without hesitation. "Fine by me." It wasn't worth debating when Troy's instincts had proven themselves again and again. The kid didn't just show up, he transformed scenes.
It didn't take long to go over the blocking and camera movements. As the crew set up the shots, James returned to his monitor and settled in.
"Action!"
The scene opened with Troy lying motionless on the padded medical table, bathed in soft blue light from the lab set. His stillness was almost eerie.
The actress playing the doctor stepped into frame, crouching beside him. "He's in. Jake, can you hear me?" she asked gently, her tone steady and professional.
James leaned in, watching as Troy stayed silent, his chest rising in slow, deliberate breaths. His eyes opened gradually, scanning the room with unfocused disorientation.
Another actor entered the frame as the male doctor and lifted a penlight, sweeping it across Troy's eyes.
"Pupillary reflex is good," he announced.
The woman doctor snapped her fingers beside each of Troy's ears. "Pinna response normal. How're you feeling, Jake?"
Troy murmured, "Hey guys," his voice soft, like someone waking from a long dream.
"Welcome to your new body, Jake," said the male doctor, offering a wide grin.
Troy slowly raised his hands, staring at them in wonder. He wiggled his fingers with careful fascination, like a child rediscovering touch. Then, with guidance from the doctors, he sat upright. His eyes flicked down as he moved his toes, blinking at them with a mix of disbelief and amazement.
Then it happened—Troy's eyes began to water. The disbelief in his expression was raw and unfiltered, the kind of emotion James always hoped for but rarely got in a first take. Troy leaned forward, instinctively trying to wrap his arms around his knees, to curl into himself in a moment of overwhelmed joy. But the web of wires and sensors attached to his body restricted his movement. That was when it hit him where he was. His gaze darted around the sterile lab environment, reality crashing back.
Within seconds, Troy shifted. Determination replaced wonder. He began pulling the wires off his body, ignoring the flurry of instructions from the scientists and doctors in the scene. He stumbled to his feet, disoriented by the unfamiliar coordination of his new limbs. A few props clattered as he bumped into them, but it didn't matter. With a lopsided gait and growing confidence, he bolted forward.
James watched, stunned, as Troy sprinted—an uncontainable grin lighting up his face. Every few steps, the boy glanced down at his legs, as if afraid they might vanish if he stopped looking. That single detail made the entire moment feel real.
"Cut!" James finally called out once the scene wrapped.
He had a thousand things he wanted to say, but none came out. The performance had exceeded even his own vision for the sequence. Usually, James didn't appreciate it when actors strayed from the script or brought in unsolicited interpretation. But watching Troy just now, making choices so instinctive and layered, it was humbling. Maybe he wasn't as much of a hotshot director as everyone makes him out to be when a teenager has better instincts than him about a scene he wrote.
"So?" Troy asked as he approached, breaking James out of his thoughts. "What do you think? Should I do it again, stick to the script this time?"
James didn't hesitate. "No," he said, with more certainty than he'd intended. Heads turned. Even the crew seemed surprised—everyone except Troy.
"That was perfect. Let's move on."
Troy grinned, flashed him a thumbs up, and began prepping for the next scene, the one where Jake exits the compound and sprints across the alien landscape of Pandora.
Josh, the first assistant director, leaned in. "That's new for you, Jim," he said, raising an eyebrow.
James shook his head. "It's not." When Josh didn't look convinced, James asked, "Tell me, what's the difference between a good actor and a great one?"
Josh shrugged. "Enlighten me."
"A good actor does what's expected," James replied. "A great actor takes it one step further. They elevate the material without making life harder for everyone around them." He gestured toward Troy, who was already back in position, getting final touch-ups from the makeup team. "That… is a great actor. Mark my words, if he doesn't retire too early, he's going to go down as one of the greatest in history. Watching him act makes me want to make more movies with him. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only director who feels that way."
(Break)
Today wasn't a good day on set. It should have been. My sister was visiting me for the first time in the States, no less, but the outcome was disappointing.
"That wasn't acting," she said, clearly unimpressed. "All you did was sit on that moving…thing…with someone blowing air in your face. We could have done it at home."
The disappointment in her voice made my stomach sink. Of all the days she could've visited, she had to come on one of the dullest. The scene we shot today was nearly identical to the broomstick sequences I'd filmed for [Harry Potter]. Except this time, instead of a broom, I was flying a Mountain Banshee—an ikran, as the Na'vi call it. I was strapped into a mechanical rig that swayed me back and forth while fans blasted air at my face.
It was cinematic magic on screen. In person, it was just wires, noise, and a lot of green screen.
"She isn't wrong, you know," Scarlett added, holding Helen's small hand. Her smirk was unmistakable. "That wasn't acting."
"See!" Helen said brightly as she looked up at me. "Even big-sis agrees with me."
I made a theatrical face of horror, eliciting a giggle from Helen. "Ganging up on poor old me?" Then I looked at Scarlett with mock offense. "I'll show you real acting tonight. Let's see if you'd like some role-play."
Her cheeks flushed, if only briefly. "Be mindful. We have a child here."
Scarlett was right. I wasn't used to being around kids. While it's unlikely for Helen to catch the innuendo, I should still be cautious with my words. I turned to glance at the little goofball sitting beside Scarlett with an innocent, curious expression. Her father had some business in Los Angeles, and Carla had asked if I could take care of Helen for a few days. Honestly, I suspected it was just an excuse for a short parental break, but I didn't mind. I was grateful for the chance.
Originally, I'd floated the idea of hiring a nanny, considering my work during the day, but Scarlett had shut that down almost instantly.
"I don't have shooting for a few days," she had offered.
I had agreed without much protest. Since then, the two had become inseparable.
"Come on, let's go home," Scarlett said, nodding toward the exit. "You promised us you'd cook for us tonight. And Helen wants spaghetti and meatballs."
"My favorite!" Helen said, lifting her hands in the air like it was the announcement of the year.
Thankfully, it was one of the few dishes I could actually cook well. It had been my fallback when I was younger, something I used to whip up for Carla and myself during our early days together. That dish had once saved her life, or at least, that's how I chose to remember it, and in a way, it led to Helen being in mine.
I raised my hands in mock surrender and bowed dramatically toward Helen. "As my lady commands."
As we walked together to my car, Helen skipping alongside me and Scarlett texting someone a few steps behind, I couldn't shake a lingering thought.
I'd promised Helen something last year that I hadn't delivered yet. None of my current movies were suitable for a kid her age. She deserved something beyond [The Dark Knight] or [Avatar].
Pulling out my phone, I opened the group chat with Benji, Tobias, and Bobby, my three trusted advisors.
Me: I want to star in a kids' movie besides [Harry Potter]. Preferably animated, because I don't have time for a live-action shoot. Dig around to see if there's a role for me.
Bobby: On it.
Benji: Me too.
Tobias: Yeah, you two find out the roles, and I'll judge which one is better.
Unfortunately for Tobias, that's what I would do, not him. He doesn't have my insights. But I didn't correct him of the notion, and simply let the matter be. Having sent the message, I slipped my phone back into my pocket and looked down at the little girl walking between Scarlett and me, who had grabbed both of our hands in hers, and started swinging them as we strolled. There was something grounding about it. Therapeutic, even.
I glanced sideways at Scarlett. She was already looking at me, her smile wide and genuine. I could see how much she enjoyed that simple moment. There was nothing even remotely fancy about it, yet it was everything.
And in that fleeting moment, something clicked.
This ordinary, unremarkable walk through a studio parking lot with a child giggling between us was what I wanted. Not just for now. For always.
As much as my past life had been wrapped in glitz and excess, wild parties, excessive drinking, meaningless sex, endless nights with no consequences, it all felt so far away now. This was different. Better. There was something sacred in knowing you could share everything with someone—joy, pain, insecurity—and be met not with judgment, but understanding.
Someone like Scarlett.
I loved her. It hit me all at once, as if the thought had always been there, quietly waiting for me to acknowledge it. And in that realization came another: I didn't want these two months to end.
We reached the car, where the security team flanked us from every angle. One of them opened the door. I carefully lifted Helen and buckled her into the child seat, then turned to face Scarlett.
For a second, I said nothing. I just looked at her. Her outer beauty was undeniable, but I'd seen her at her most vulnerable and raw, and somehow, that made her even more beautiful.
"What?" she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Why're you looking at me like that?"
I gave a casual shrug. "Can't I look at the girl I love? I'm pretty sure you'd be mad if I looked at other girls instead."
She opened her mouth to respond, then paused. Her eyes shimmered. "You mean it?"
Before I could answer, Helen's small voice piped up from inside the car. "When can we go? I want spaghetti!"
I chuckled, glancing over my shoulder. "Just a minute, sis." Then I turned back to Scarlett and said quietly, "Yes, I mean it. Let's go home and talk some more, okay?"
As much as I wanted to shout it from every rooftop, I'd learned from my time with Rihanna that some things were better kept between two people.
Scarlett slipped into the car beside Helen. With both of them tucked in safely, I walked around to the other side. That's when I heard someone call out.
"Mr. Armitage!"
I turned on instinct. A man was rushing toward me, nondescript, but determined. My security team instantly responded, forming a tight perimeter around me and the car. Paolo stepped forward, raising his hand. "Stop! This is a private parking space. Don't move further."
The man halted but held up a large envelope. "Just wanted to give this to Mr. Armitage. A mutual friend sent me. He said you'd know what this is about. Something about 'Golden Hour'."
Of course. I should've known.
As much as I wanted to pretend I could stay in this quiet bubble forever, just Scarlett, Helen, and me, I knew I couldn't. Some things couldn't be ignored. And this? This was one of them.
Paolo reached to open the envelope, but I raised my voice, firm and clear. "No, don't. Pass it over."
He hesitated for a beat before handing it to me.
I looked at the messenger. "Thanks. Tell our mutual friend it'll be done. He'll understand what I mean."
The man gave a small nod and left just as quickly as he'd appeared.
I slipped into the car. Scarlett's gaze lingered on the retreating figure. "What was that all about?"
I gently brushed a lock of hair from her face. "One day, I'll tell you."
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AN: Visit my personal website to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.
Link: www(dot)fablefic(dot)com