Excerpt - The Chronicles of WTF INT. MODERN ESTATE - LIVING ROOM - DAY A cavernous architectural expanse of cast concrete and austere luxury. CHARACTER NOTE: C.C. (played by Meryl Streep) is an ageless deity and primordial mystic disguised in mortal refinement. Across parallel timelines and cosmic shifts she assumes myriad forms, but in this realm she embodies Old Hollywood royalty—silver-screen elegance, supreme poise, and the chilling authority of an ancient power disguised in tailored silk. C.C. sits ensconced behind a sprawling low marble table. She remains entirely absorbed in her manuscripts, pen poised, an imperious sovereign whose authority requires neither volume nor effort. Her ASSISTANT (20s, hyper-attentive, subtly overwhelmed) hovers near the entry. C.C. (without looking up) Go into my glass case. ASSISTANT Which one? C.C. In the den. ASSISTANT The trophy room? C.C. In the den. INT. DEN / TROPHY GALLERY - CONTINUOUS DIRECTOR’S NOTE: The camera tracks slowly behind the Assistant into an intimidating, high-ceilinged rotunda lined with a curved panoramic window overlooking the precipitous canyon drops outside. Opposite the glass horizon stands an immense, built-in vitrine: tier upon tier of polished bronze, silver, crystalline monoliths, engraved medallions, and soaring statuary celebrating an exhaustive lifetime of prestige. The Assistant lingers framed in the threshold, utterly paralyzed by the overwhelming labyrinth of accolades. She blinks, exhales, and pivots back toward the living room. INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS C.C. remains motionless over her documents, pen scratching steadily against parchment. ASSISTANT What did you need? C.C. Oh. Go into my glass case. ASSISTANT Okay? C.C. And get my trophy. The Assistant squints, bewildered by the sheer logistical impossibility. ASSISTANT Which one? C.C. The pretty one. A tense pause. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic scrawl of C.C.'s fountain pen. ASSISTANT Which one? C.C. You’ll know it when you see it. The Assistant swallows hard, nods submissively, and turns back. INT. DEN / TROPHY GALLERY - CONTINUOUS CLOSE UP - SHELVES The Assistant paces slowly down the length of the illuminated glass cases. Gleaming brass wings, faceted quartz prisms, heavy gold wreaths. All of them possess an ornate, detached elegance. She arrives at the farthest alcove. ANGLE ON A LOWER SHELF Tucked between two towering obelisks sits a solid bronze figurine: a sculpted, unclothed MAN. He carries a distinct boyishness—youthful features, an open, unassuming expression, and a magnetic grace. There is no engraved placard. No commemorative laurel. The Assistant slides the glass panel aside. The mechanism glides with a muffled hum. She lifts the figurine. It has noticeable density. She turns it over in her hands, searching for markings. Blank. She glances up at the sweeping glass window overlooking the sunlit abyss of the canyons, then down at the statue again. INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS The Assistant appears in the archway, holding the bronze figurine gingerly with both hands. C.C. lifts her eyes from her papers for the first time. A faint, knowing flicker in her gaze. C.C. Oh good, you’ve got it. The Assistant hesitates, disarmed by the sudden validation. She steps briskly to the low marble table and bends to set the statuette down. C.C. (CONT'D) (firm) No, not there. The Assistant snaps upright as if struck by a current. C.C. studies the space for a fraction of a second, then gestures dismissively toward the kitchen. C.C. (CONT'D) There. On the island. ASSISTANT Mmhmm. The Assistant complies, setting the bronze figure squarely on the pristine quartz island counter. C.C. Could you get me a water? And whatever you want. ASSISTANT Sure. INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS The Assistant pulls open the stainless steel refrigerator door. The heavy door obscures the hallway alcove directly behind it. She retrieves a chilled glass bottle of sparkling water and a mineral water carafe from the interior shelf. REVEAL SHOT She swings the refrigerator door shut. Standing directly where the open door had masked the view is a completely NAKED MAN (early 20s, olive Irish complexion dusted with light freckles, soft pink lips, and dark brown eyes brimming with a wide-eyed, boyish innocence—evoking a young, fresh-faced Jimmy Fallon). The Assistant drops both bottles. They strike the hardwood floor with a deafening rattle; one rolls wildly under the lower cabinets. ASSISTANT Oh! Flushed crimson, the Assistant drops instinctively to her knees, averting her eyes while scrambling to trap the spinning bottle. The naked man remains motionless, standing on the polished floorboards like a recently unpacked museum relic, his face completely serene and unblemished. C.C. (O.S.) (calm, flat, from the other room) There’s a towel. Scrambling on all fours, shielding her peripheral vision with an upturned forearm, the Assistant blindly reaches for a linen dishcloth hanging off the oven handle. Without looking directly at him, she extends the small towel into the air. A youthful hand gently receives it from her grasp. The Assistant retrieves the lost bottle from beneath the toe-kick, scrambles upright, and avoids looking anywhere below his collarbone. The man has neatly knotted the compact kitchen towel around his hips. It barely covers him. His dark brown eyes rest on her with unclouded, gentle innocence. MAN Hello. The Assistant winces, turning an accusatory, wide-eyed stare toward the living room archway. C.C. (O.S.) Bring him here. The man extends an open palm toward the Assistant, maintaining a hold on the towel with the other. She takes his hand. His skin is warm, supple, completely real. INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS The Assistant escorts the Man out of the kitchen, guiding him to the opposite perimeter of the marble coffee table. She releases his fingers instantly. C.C. looks up, conducting a cool, forensic inventory of his silhouette, his freckled features, and his calm disposition. After an agonizing second, she offers a singular, almost imperceptible nod of assent. C.C. Good. Now take him to his room. ASSISTANT His— C.C. snaps her head up. Her gaze turns glacial, chillingly final. The Assistant’s voice catches in her throat. ASSISTANT (CONT'D) Okay. The Man extends his hand again, smiling faintly with docile compliance. INT. NORTH RESIDENTIAL CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS STEADICAM - FOLLOWING A long, minimalist hallway illuminated by recessed baseboard LEDs. The Assistant walks with measured speed, holding the Man’s hand. He trails quietly alongside her, his youthful, freckled face placid and agreeable. They pass three identical walnut doors. The Assistant slows to a halt, realizing she has no frame of reference. She releases his hand, hoping his instincts might guide him. The Man simply stops dead in his tracks. He stands in the center of the runner rug, draped in a dishcloth, hands resting politely at his sides. The Assistant studies the blank walls, exhales through her teeth, and grasps his wrist once more. She pulls him past three more doorways, making a sharp, arbitrary pivot toward a door on the left. She turns the brass handle and pushes it open. INT. GUEST BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS A grand, museum-like suite: a massive circular burgundy carpet dominates the floorboards, matching heavy velvet draperies frame an expansive window overlooking an internal stone courtyard, and an antique rosewood bureau sits quietly in the corner. The Man steps into the center of the rug, motionless. The Assistant takes one deliberate step backward toward the corridor. His dark brown eyes watch her with gentle, boyish detachment. She takes a second step back. The Man pivots gracefully and sits on the edge of the mattress. The Assistant takes a third step backward, crossing the threshold into the hall frame. They exchange a silent, prolonged look through the doorway. The Man reaches out, grasps the inner edge of the heavy door, and pulls it smoothly shut until the latch clicks into place. Through the solid wood, a muffled, soft voice carries out: MAN (O.V.) Bye. INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS LOW ANGLE - ON THE COFFEE TABLE The Assistant marches back into the room, coming to an abrupt halt across from C.C.'s table, radiating unspoken demands for an explanation. C.C. completes a handwritten notation, caps her pen, and raises her chin. C.C. You can go, now. The Assistant maintains her posture, daring the room to supply a rationale. C.C. looks straight through her with impenetrable indifference. The sheer weight of an ironclad NDA and an unwritten rule of survival hangs heavily between them. The Assistant knows better than to break the silence. C.C. (CONT'D) Your check is in the escrutoire drawer. INSERT - ANTIQUE ESCRUTOIRE Against the architectural concrete wall stands an antique mahogany escrutoire—a high-end writing bureau flanked by twin miniature tiered open bookshelves on either side of a centered nest of petite drawers. The Assistant crosses quickly to the bureau. She catches a delicate miniature golden drop-ring pull with her fingertips and draws out the center drawer. Inside rests an unmarked hardcover volume, bound shut with a tailored silk ribbon. Tucked securely beneath the knot is her payroll check. ANGLE ON ASSISTANT She stares down at the spine. The title remains obscured, turned away beneath the fabric. Curiosity pulls at her for half a breath, but a wave of profound, uncanny unease takes hold. She snatches the tied bundle without untying the ribbon, tucks it firmly under her arm, grabs her coat from the rack by the threshold, and practically flees through the heavy front door into the corridor outside. {Enter The Multiverse} L E G E N D S The Complex Collective © [The Festival Project ™ ] ‘An Impromptu Talk With God.’ The Lost Cause Comedy Vault Vol. IV (Preview) Unstoppable.Co
