"Good news? What's that supposed to mean?"
Uncle Martin's voice came through the phone, half-curious, half-worried.
Blake froze. His mouth opened—but nothing came out at first.
"Eh—ah—yeah. I'm… I'm writing a script," he finally blurted. "I'll let you know when it's done."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." Blake rubbed his neck, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt.
Unlike most small-time agencies trying to stay afloat in Los Angeles, RCA—the Robert Cannon Agency—was still a recognizable name. Not a powerhouse, but not irrelevant either. They'd taken some hits in recent years: a messy leadership change, big clients jumping ship, including their biggest name, Dennis Murphy, who left for UCM. People whispered that RCA was dying. But they hadn't folded. Not yet.
Howard Martin, though, had stuck around. He wasn't just some mid-tier agent. He was one of the few still respected in the industry—and more importantly, he had been Blake's father's best friend since college. Since the funeral, he'd called Blake every week.
"I was calling to check on you," Uncle Martin said. "Have you moved out of your dorm yet?"
"Yeah, just today."
"Good. Then swing by my office tomorrow."
"Your office?" Blake blinked. The memory came back: the other Blake—this world's version—had asked Martin for help finding work. Something on a film set.
"Yeah," Martin continued. "There's a crew I can introduce you to. Nothing big, but you'll learn a lot if you want to direct someday."
That had been the plan—originally. Learn on set. Start at the bottom. Climb.
But Blake now had something else: the System.
He hesitated, then said carefully, "Actually… I'm in the middle of writing a script. Once I finish it, I'll come by. Maybe then you can help me get on set."
There was a pause. "You want to be a scriptwriter?"
"Yeah. And… I've got a favor to ask, Uncle."
"What kind of favor?"
Blake inhaled. "Once I finish, could you read it? Just tell me if it's good enough to sell."
There was a beat of silence on the line, then Martin sighed.
"Blake, even if you're family, I can't just buy a script off you. RCA has rules—"
"I'm not asking you to buy it. Just look at it. If it sucks, tell me so. That's all."
Another pause. Then, softer: "Alright. Saturday. Come by my office with the script."
"Thanks, Uncle."
The call ended.
Blake set the phone down and leaned back. His heart was racing—but this time, not from anxiety. From adrenaline.
He had a chance.
If he had time and money, maybe he would've gone out to celebrate just for getting a system. But he had neither. Only four days—and two scripts he was determined to finish.
Blake cracked his knuckles and opened his laptop. The Word document stared back at him—blank, expectant.
He selected The Spectacular Now.
The memories the system had given him were vivid—he knew the plot, the emotional beats, the essence. But they weren't scripts. There were no exact lines, no formatting. He had to write it from scratch, like everyone else.
And the world he was in now? It wasn't the same. References, brands, even cultural attitudes—different. Some things simply didn't exist here.
So Blake rewrote. Recontextualized. Reimagined.
The core stayed the same: a high school senior, charming but broken, drifting through life. And the quiet girl who slowly made him face the truth about himself.
He poured everything into it. Working nonstop, he barely slept, surviving on cereal and coffee. He referenced other indie movies from this world to adjust tone and language. He rewrote entire scenes three, four times.
And in the moments he needed a break, he started outlining another script from the system: Safety Not Guaranteed. Smaller in scope, but full of heart and weirdness. He couldn't resist.
By Saturday morning, he had them both.
One finished, polished script: The Spectacular Now.
One rough draft: Safety Not Guaranteed.
His eyes were bloodshot. His fingers ached. But he was done.
Blake walked out into the bright Los Angeles sun, clutching two printed scripts in a document envelope. First stop: the Writers Guild of America office.
He wasn't naïve. If he handed Martin a script without copyright protection, he'd look like an amateur. Or worse—like someone waiting to get ripped off.
Fortunately, the WGA had a fast-track copyright system: $100 for a one-hour turnaround. You'd need to renew every few years, but for now, it was perfect.
He spent two hours waiting at the office, filling out forms, drinking cheap coffee from the vending machine. Finally, they handed him a registration slip.
The Spectacular Now and Safety Not Guaranteed were officially his.
At 2:30 PM, he arrived at RCA Headquarters, located on Carberry Road, one of the more upscale areas of this version of L.A. The building wasn't flashy, but it had the weight of reputation. There were posters on the walls from past successes—movies Blake recognized, even if this version of Earth had slightly different names and faces.
He waited in the lobby, legs bouncing nervously. At 3 PM sharp, Howard's assistant appeared and called his name.
"This way. Mr. Martin is expecting you."
Blake stood up, script folder in hand, and followed.
His stomach twisted. He took a breath. And then another.
This was it.
The script. The pitch. The first step forward.
And maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.
Author's Note:
So What you guys think? Let me know in the comments