EXT. MOONLIT SEA - NIGHT
The Fertile Croissant
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The ocean swells.
A tiny dot flickering on the horizon — getting bigger, closer — blooming into a sleek and pointy nose — its crystalline exterior — its semi-transparent aerogel sections — fully integrated into a hydrodynamic, biomimetic hull — reflecting the churning waters and the starry sky like sequined camo, its red and green sidelights blinking, the yellow-white glow of The Fertile Croissant — neatly lacquered in an ancient script along its bow, cutting across the frame from right-to-left, skating atop the open sea, the soft electric hum of its zero-wake propulsion system: a continuous dissonant note against the music creeping in from the back of this passing mega-yacht: the blaring horns and bass and thumping drums, drowning out the rhythm of the waves, punctuated by the whooping clamor of late night partying—
And then you see it:
A fucking conga line, some two dozen people — very drunk, snaking around the warm pools and mesh loungers dotting the photochromatic silver-weathered ipe decking — a tall, middle-aged white guy leading the way.
The camera pounces forward — just enough shake to make it feel like a cat: targeting the guy in front — the familiar grammar of our letterboxing, biting down on the frame as the lens burrows into his face, the post-processing: woozy; the music: swimming in reverb — pulsing in time with the haptic controls, grinding urgently all of a sudden as you almost eat shit — as the giggling young woman latched to your back steadies you, leaning across your shoulder and whispering for you to watch out, resting her chin there for a second, her nose and lips nicking your ear as you realize actually: you’re driving this guy now — the controls, gooey and dull as you steer past the humoring applause of a crew member posted up vigilantly beside the hot tub — winding around the end of a row of low-profile, aerodynamic sun loungers wrapped in a hand-stitched microfiber pile and doubling back, so that you can see, for once, the whole of the conga line snaking across the sundeck—
The two at the back, faded and seemingly bowing out as soon as you look at them, readjust their glasses, clapping along autonomically as they stumble away together—
You hiccup. You aim for the yellow particles shimmering like bees around the sliding glass doors up ahead, the haptics revving as you focus in front of you — fizzling out as you step inside the upper deck lounge, as the music intensifies, reinjected through the speakers, reflecting off the sculpted resin panels and geometric coffered ceiling as you brush along the recessed cocktail bar, the breathy motion blur and cranked bloom, deadening the falling stuff you just knocked over, swaying along as you almost spill over a cluster of sculpted ultrasuede low-slung biomorphic pod chairs with hand-rubbed bronze frames—
Guffaw—
As the girl behind you yanks you back on track again, her face smooshing into your cheek as you both narrowly avoid piling onto two people making out on a grain-matched walnut chaise along the panoramic window gazing out onto the starry black horizon—
You make for the crystalline circular staircase — swarming, on the other side of the room, with those effervescent yellow particles — the eight or so people left, still hooting and hollering as you lead the group down the spiral steps — as the music dampens and the group just belts out the melody — until you spill out, one by one, onto the airy main deck, cutting through it briefly in the direction of a pair of highlighted doors, the waypoint dissolving away as you enter the formal dining room — catching the crew setting up for breakfast a little off guard as they politely cheer along the waning revelers, as someone’s glass shatters, forcing the attention of the crew as the guilty party steps out of line, hovering apologetically as you head for the main salon, lumbering along its hand-tufted silk carpet, past a garish volume of swirling, colorful motion-triggered holographic art.
By the time you hit the aft deck, it’s just you and that girl, singing and laughing alongside you, catching her breath — her late-night doe eyes: glistening and bloodshot as she bites her lip expectantly.
You lean in. Your eyes close. Only a few smacks of kissing before a haptic ping has you peeking:
You tilt your wrist enough to frost over the watch’s skeletonized face, the tourbillons hidden by the now-opaque electrochromic glass, rendering the push notification:
C-Suite:
[CLO]
:)
[4:13] You try kissing and reading along to the flurry of incoming dings—
C-Suite:
[CFO]
signed/sealed/delivered
[3:13]
------
[CLO]
inked
[3:13]
------
[CFO]
shit you beat me!
[3:13]
------
[CLO]
jajajaja!
[3:13] CUTSCENE:
“Yoooooooooooo!” screams the man, brushing the girl off ecstatically—
She hits the deck with a damp thud as they both crack up and he apologizes, crouching down to lift her back up off the polished photochromatic planking, yelling: “heyoooooooo!”
She looks confused, a little self-conscious, smiling and brushing back her hair behind her ears and swallowing, rubbing her lips with her fingers, her glazed eyes twinkling with reflected stars as the man raises his arms and goes: “Wooooooooooo! Ya baby! You ok? You good?”
She nods, brushing her palms as he removes his jacket and places it around her bare shoulders—
“Call Archie,” he says into the air, smiling at her and sniffling as the two stand there waiting in the full electric hum of the ship—
There’s no answer. He goes:
“Did he go to bed?”
She shrugs. He cups his hands and bellows: “ARCHIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!”
He clamps her cheeks and plants a firm tongue kiss on her lips then pulls away.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, holding her hands, guiding her down onto a steamer chair. “Wait right here. I’m gonna go get my brother. He needs to drink with us. Then maybe we can all celebrate together, ya?”
She smiles. “Ya. Wait, wait wait. What’s happening?” she slurs. “Is it done?” she burps, sitting on the edge of the chair, her face drooping in her lap. She pops back up. “Paul? It’s done aleady?”
“Yep!” he says, already walking to the doorway.
“Paul!” she yells, drifting off a little: “are you still my boss?”
He stops and turns abruptly, but she’s already passed out. He brushes it off and turns back inside, the letterboxing sliding back in as the camera settles back into first person and hands over the reigns: the next yellow waypoint, up ahead a little, swirling around the uncorked tip of a champagne bottle sticking out of an ice bucket resting on the castellated crystal counter of the main salon’s wraparound bar, triggering a proximity-based additive upper-body animation where you grab the bottle and open the cabinet, removing two crystal flutes as you say again: “call Archie.”
A new waypoint materializes on the other side of the room. The call rings as you walk. No answer. “God damnit Archie you fuckin—” You pass beneath the subtle glint of a ceiling-mounted cctv lens and turn a corner, “don’t wanna hear me rub it in, is that what it is? Well guess what? I am gonna rub it in! Ya! So who’s the idiot now, huh? Oh, this idiot? Me idiot? The one who saved the fucking company — who actually got us acquired, even though you said they’d never go for it?” Your voice trails off into a fit of nasal snickering, capped off by a loud reprisal of the conga line melody as you make for the next waypoint, until finally, at end of a long narrow passageway, you see a large set of double-doors teeming with yellow vfx that fades away as you stagger up to the door, triggering another animation as you tuck the bottle into your armpit, freeing up a hand to bang loudly on the thick red tortoiseshell of Archie’s stateroom entrance.
“Fucking wake up, bitch!”
You wait. You place your ear against the door. You hear:
Nothing—
You bang a few more times, “ARCHIEEE!”
You grab the bottle and start filling the glasses, kicking the door.
“Archie!” You kick it again. “Bro! Come on! Get up!”
You wait. You sigh.
“Well shit,” you snort. “He’s passed the fuck out.”
You watch yourself crouch down, placing the flute at the base of the door, wobbling and spilling enough to warrant topping it off again, the glass foaming and overflowing as you stand back up, hiccupping—
You point your glass at the door and go:
“To you. To me, we,” you hiccup, “fucking made it happen, my friend.”
“ARCHIE!” You bang again a few more times and wait, raising your glass again.
You hear a voice behind you at the other end of the hall—
“Mr. Knight?”
CUTSCENE:
Paul turns: a crew member, walking down the hall, adds: “Everything ok, sir?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine; I’m just trying to wake this sack of shit up.”
“Very well, sir. Can I offer you any assistance?”
Paul knocks back his drink, snickering: “that’s all right.” Immediately he pours another glass. “I just need this motherfucker to wake up so he can drink with me.”
“Would you like me to get somebody?”
Paul’s eyes are droopy and he grumbles something unintelligible, followed by “no, no it’s all good Thor; go to bed. I’m good, thank you.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Knight, I’ll leave you to it.”
Paul refills his drink again as Thor disappears back down the passageway. He glances up, catching his own reflection in a hallway mirror and raising a toast to himself, smirking: “to Castle, then. In-laws by marriage, parents by trade.”
He touches the crystal flute to the mirror then downs the champagne with a long, satisfying “ahhhhhhhhh,” before turning once again to his brother’s stateroom door.
“Sweet dreams then—” he belches, “you fucking lightweight.” He walks away, down the hall, cutting through an empty room, refilling his glass in stride and making his way down another long passageway, identical to his brother’s but with a blue color motif, the double-doors beeping twice and clicking as he turns the handle, stumbling into the expansive stateroom, its high ceiling, anchored by a loose array of dramatic crystal pendant lights automatically fading in, hung at varying heights around the room like an exploded chandelier, each node terminating in the soft warm glow of a teardrop-shaped Edison bulb, out of which a long stem of fresh orchids curl — reflected in the underwater viewing ports and wraparound window, half-below the waterline, half-starry sky, reflecting the stateroom’s backlit onyx and book-matched paneling, the chamfered millwork, the inlaid Calacatta marble and the mirror-polished nickel—
He holds out his drink, staring drunkenly into the streams of tiny bubbles. He sips, gazing out the window with a look of stoned satisfaction, letting out a triumphant sigh and kicking off his shoes and leaning in the direction of his hand-stitched leather headboard — the cashmere throws of his emperor-size bed, rack-focusing all of a sudden into a deep blur on account of the tiny fizzling bead of blue light hovering in front of his nose all of a sudden, illuminating his face with its crystalizing sparks — his bleary eyes: crossed, transfixed, reflecting the undulating floating goo—
His mouth: increasingly agape; his body: stooping, hypnotized by the ferrofluid-like bristling of the glowing little orb, zipping abruptly into his open mouth with a sharp, deep breath and a firm swallow.
The glass falls, shattering as his face relaxes into a flush of totalizing bliss.
There’s a blinding flash of light.
His clothes drop, crumpling onto the leached teak flooring, shrouding the broken stemware, sending little vortices of thin vapor twirling out and dissipating into the high ceiling of the empty cabin.