Chapter Text
***
Xie Lian was usually in trouble in these sorts of meetings.
Today was no exception.
“Oh well, Jun Wu sir, I…typically put the camera on the stand, and then I kind of duct tape the boom mic to the ceiling of whatever storage unit I’m in at the time-”
“I am aware, Xie Lian, but given most of the fan engagement for Scrap Collector appears to be compilations of the boom falling off and landing on you, that is not quite the engagement we’re aiming to see.”
“There are fans of my show!?”
“Well…there have been two Youtube compilations from your show in the last year. Both of them are just…that.”
“Two!? That’s amazing, I’d love to see them!”
Jun Wu was massaging his forehead in that way that indicated Xie Lian was perhaps not grasping his point. He tried again.
“Okay, would you prefer I work without a boom? I could use a tie-clip microphone but I find I break them easily, it gets dusty in those units and you never know what kind of fluid might get on you out of nowhere-”
“Xianle.”
Xie Lian hesitated. He did not love it when Jun Wu referred to his home city; it brought back only bad memories.
Nonetheless, Jun Wu was the CEO of Heavenly Capital Studios, and Scrap Collector was the show with the lowest numbers, so he could say whatever he wanted.
Lowest numbers by a colossal amount. Xie Lian was once excited to see a spike in viewership stats to three digits, until he found out that a local aged care facility had left his channel playing 24/7 that month by accident. The residents complained.
Everyone knew the only reason he was still on the air was the airtight contract he had signed nine years ago, back when Heavenly Capital Studios was still fledgling but Xie Lian was immensely popular. It promised him ten seasons, or a sizeable severance payout.
Flower Crowned Prince was a once in a generation hit with 80 million viewers per episode, so ten seasons was supposed to be a safe bet. And there was no shortage of content for the premise: ‘common people’ sending ‘prayers’ to Xie Lian to help them with the problems in their lives.
Then…the incident. A quite catastrophic and embarrassingly public fall from grace.
Xie Lian was given the choice: go quietly with the severance money, or be banished to the most obscure cable access channel that the network had actually forgotten they owned. He would be on the air, but he’d have no budget, staff or assistance.
The show wouldn’t appear on the studio’s streaming platform or Youtube channel either. Scheduled television only; truly the most cruel curse. The intellectual property rights for the original show were also off the table, so Xie Lian would have to do something completely different and very, very cheap.
The offer was clearly as close to a joke as the studio could legally get.
At the time, everyone involved with Flower Crowned Prince knew there was only one possible course of action: for Xie Lian to take the money, and leave with whatever tattered shreds of dignity he still had.
Xie Lian had never had much use for dignity.
“Xianle, I must ask…you know this is your last year, yes?”
Xie Lian didn’t let his smile falter. “I know! The ninth season of Scrap Collector! I’m really honoured to have had the opportunity for so long.” He didn’t elaborate on the missing year, they all knew what it was. Nine Seasons of Scrap Collector, and only one of Flower Crowned Prince.
Ling Wen, Head of Legal, cleared her throat awkwardly. They all knew it was not an ‘opportunity’ he’d been given out of generosity or merit; it was merely an embarrassing legal snafu created by her predecessors.
“Yes. Well…we just wanted to reiterate that we will not be ordering more episodes of Scrap Collector. ”
“I know! That’s fine. Thank you again, it’s been incredible! I can’t wait to give the show a proper sendoff, maybe a compilation episode of all the wonderful moments I’ve had.”
“What moments would those be? Didn’t you almost get rabies last season?” said Ling Wen carefully.
“That poor raccoon,” agreed Xie Lian sadly.
“You haven’t sent any files yet? Is that right? You know your first episode is due next week.”
“Oh, I always just send the episode file to Scheduling on the day. I don’t have enough room on my USB for a whole season, and internet cafes are always pretty slow to transfer!”
Ling Wen’s expression flattened even further.
“Anyway,” smiled Jun Wu thinly. “The paperwork is all in order. We just need your signature,” He gestured to the contract in front of him.
Xie Lian peered at it. “Is it alright if I take it away and review it?”
Jun Wu seemed to stifle a sigh. Xie Lian knew they were asking for his signature purely out of kindness; once this season ended they would be well within their rights to simply terminate all contact with him. Still, his father had always said to never sign contracts on the same day.
“That’s fine,” said Ling Wen briskly. “It’s just a formality, indicating that your show will be cancelled, all episodes removed from our back catalogue, and all physical tapes destroyed by fire.”
“That seems a little harsh, but alright,” said Xie Lian weakly.
Jun Wu drummed his fingers on his wide black desk in the manner of a meeting adjourned. “Well. Xianle. Do take your time reading through the fine print. But I don’t see any reason we can’t put out the announcement, it’s just a media formality for our fall lineup. We’ll send you the statement; we don’t need any feedback. It’ll go out today.”
“Very well,” nodded Xie Lian. “Thank you for your time, sir. I know you have much more important places to be.”
“Mmm. All the best, Xianle.”
Jun Wu rose, and swept from the room. Xie Lian stood and stretched, placing the contract carefully in his old worn backpack.
“I appreciate your work, Ling Wen.”
“Get that back to me when you can. And you’ll be emailed when the announcement goes out.”
“Ah, right,” he winced.
Xie Lian couldn’t afford a smartphone, and he wasn’t very good with technology, even though he was only twenty nine. He never checked his emails; there was no point anyway since no one ever sent him any.
He did all his business with the studio by phone, and in fairness, that ‘business’ for the last several years had exclusively involved one annual phone call with Ling Wen, begrudgingly confirming the new season.
He’d not been back to the Capital (as it was known) that entire time; he was always on the road anyway. He left Jun Wu’s office, and wandered through the bright, airy halls of the Capital, now a ten storey building. It had certainly expanded since the days of Flower Crowned Prince.
There were entire wings devoted to different shows, with office administrators, social media publicists, software engineers, advertising liaisons, and casting agents all busily going about their days. And of course, hundreds more staff out on location actually filming the shows.
Everyone scurried past him, absorbed in their tasks. None of them had any idea who he was. After all, ten years was basically eight hundred in the television world. That suited Xie Lian fine; his show costume had thankfully involved a golden mask, so hardly anyone recognised him anymore.
The walls were covered in huge, glossy season posters for their shows. The Capital specialised in reality TV.
They had three big-name shows. Pei Ming: God of Love was a dating show, Martial Palace was a one-on-one fight show, and Wind Master was a travel show.
Wind Master ate up a huge proportion of the budget every year with outlandish episodes devoted to all of the ways one could see the world by air: hot air balloons, vintage planes, paragliding, even a whole season where the host Shi Qingxuan travelled exclusively by blimp.
But Shi Qingxuan was so charming and popular with advertisers that it earned its money easily. Anywhere one looked around the country, one would see products with Shi Qingxuan’s face on it. It also didn’t hurt that their brother Shi Wudu was the CFO for the studio, as well as a close friend of Jun Wu.
A smattering of other small but steady shows completed their roster: Rain and Ox, a homesteading and gentle farming show hosted by the soothing Yushi Huang, Battles of Old, a historical battle reenactment show hosted by the pompous but endearing Lang Qianqiu, and Fight Me or I’ll Beat You Up, a boxing gym show hosted by Quan Yizhen, former winner of Martial Palace.
All of their faces were on the walls as he ambled past. It went without saying that there was no trace of Scrap Collector to be seen.
Unfortunately, he bumped right into someone who did know exactly who he was.
“Ah! Mu Qing!”
***
“What are you doing here,” said Mu Qing slowly, standing stiffly in the hallway with his bluetooth earpiece, giant thermos and baseball cap; the universal uniform of a busy producer.
He looked well. Stressed, and angry, but that was just his face. And older, of course, they’d been practically kids when they’d seen each other last. Xie Lian still marvelled sometimes that he was given a show when he was only 19.
“Ah, you know. Dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s,” grimaced Xie Lian.
“Oh,” he replied awkwardly. “Your show…has it really been-”
“Ten years? I know, I couldn’t believe it either.”
“Mu QING! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CALL THIS- Oh,” stopped Feng Xin awkwardly, mid stomp down the hallway. He had been angrily brandishing a piece of paper which now hung limply at his side. No one even spared them a glance. Apparently the office staff were used to that kind of language.
Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He should have prepared himself for the possibility of seeing these two.
“It’s good to see you both!” he said earnestly. “I’m glad for you that Martial Palace is doing well.”
They shared a guilty look.
“Yes. Uh…long time,” said Feng Xin, shifting on his feet. His normal scowl had disappeared, replaced by something cautious and wary.
Xie Lian nodded. Everyone was silent.
“Well, I’d best be off! Need to start filming, episode plans, you know how it is!”
“Yeah,” grunted Feng Xin. “Is this, um-”
“The last season? Yes. I’ll be sorry to see it go, but all banquets come to an end.”
Mu Qing was staring at the ground, a little frown between his eyes.
“Right. Yeah. Well.”
They all stood stiffly. Xie Lian made the move first, readjusting his backpack straps. “Well. Bye, you two! Good luck this year.”
He walked away. Their eyes followed him all the way out the door.
***
Xie Lian went to an internet cafe, and prayed as he typed that he remembered his password. The alternative was another grumpy encounter with the IT guy, He Xuan. Thankfully, it worked. He saw the single email he’d been sent in the entire last year, which was a link from Ling Wen to the media statement now live on their website, confirming his cancellation.
He noted they’d filed it after five pm, to make sure it was as uninteresting to journalists as possible. Not that it wasn’t already uninteresting.
Xie Lian was reading over the rest of the paperwork when he spotted it.
He wasn't sure why he called; everything was already in motion. But still.
She answered, sounding impatient. “Legal, Heavenly Capital Studios.”
“Oh, hi! Ling Wen? It’s me, um, Xie Lian? From before? Scrap Collec -?”
“I know who you are, Xie Lian.”
“Right! Excellent, just making sure, um…I just noticed something about the contract-”
“Yes?”
“It says here if I get eighty million viewers that I can keep going? Is that right?”
Ling Wen coughed politely. “Ah, yes. That’s really just a boilerplate that goes into most of our pre-cancellation paperwork, based on the recipient’s previous average. In your case…”
Xie Lian hummed, unfazed. He wouldn’t be getting eighty million views. “I know. I was just surprised it’s in there. It’s very nice of you to allow me some wiggle room!”
Ling Wen paused. “Yes,” she said faintly.
“Well, anyway, thank you for taking my call.”
“That is alright. You are still an employee. You may call anytime.”
“Right! Yes, of course.”
Xie Lian hung up and stared at the papers for a while.
Once, eighty million views was just another Tuesday. Now, reaching even a thousand views was obviously impossible. This was his last season.
But strangely, his heart felt soothed seeing the number there in black and white. He wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye to Scrap Collector, but knowing it would be cancelled on the same terms as any other show was comforting. He would try his best until the end.
He shuffled the papers, and put them back into his backpack. He would sign and courier them in the morning, then get out of this city as quickly as he could. He disliked it here immensely.
In the meantime, he needed to find a place to sleep. And even if he didn't hate motels, he didn’t have enough for the cheapest place in this expensive city, so…
He found his way to a storage unit business on the outskirts, and slipped around the back where they usually had the unoccupied ones. Sure enough, one of the pin codes was still set to 0000.
Xie Lian had a certain honour code with these things. He always left a unit exactly as he found it, and any place that harboured him for a night’s sleep would receive an episode of his show for free advertising, such as it was. Most declined, so he’d just offer some free work. He’d go to the reception in the morning.
He shook open the thin mat he always kept rolled up in his bag, and the sleeping bag. It was quite a cold spring night tonight, but he was used to cold seeping through the metal. He hadn’t frozen to death yet, these nine years.
It was very strange to feel fondness for something so cold and uniform as a plain, grey metal locker, identical to the three hundred others like it in this lot and the thousands like it across the country.
But somewhere in the past nine years, to him storage units had gone from monotonous to…unwavering. A comforting constant. Finding himself alone and cold in a unit just like this was the birth of the concept for Scrap Collector, and all of the ups and downs of his life since.
He shut the door, and lay down to rest in the pitch dark. He stroked the metal of the walls absent-mindedly, as he always did to stave off the pang of loneliness he felt when the door closed and the dark descended. He reminded himself to stay positive.
Things weren’t so bad, in the end. He’d figure it out; he always did.
***
In the morning, Xie Lian cracked the door open to allow for some light as he completed his morning stretches.
He had life on the road down to an art. He brushed his teeth and did his best to comb his hair, which was getting too long. He dressed in his simple uniform of a plain, long sleeved white t-shirt and jeans, with a white infinity scarf around his neck (essential for sudden dust or unexpected smells). Lastly, his hat, through which his messy bun poked through. A slightly dirty white cap with the logo from the very first business he filmed at. It was his favourite possession.
“Alright! Season nine, time to begin,” he murmured to himself with a smile.
He creaked the door open, and noted the gloomy skies and rain coursing off the red sign for ‘Yujun Mountain Lockers.’ He dodged the raindrops all the way to reception, and asked if there were any lockers which had passed the statutory period for abandonment.
Storage reality shows with bigger budgets than his could afford to bid for unopened lockers, but he couldn’t, so he generally went for the lockers which had already been picked over for the best things and needed to be finally cleared out. It was surprising how much he and other storage hunters differed on what they considered ‘best.’
The embittered woman at the front desk, name tag Xuan Ji, shrugged and told him he could do whatever he wanted, because nothing mattered anyway. He thanked her happily, and began to set up inside Unit 283.
Once he was done with this, he would sign the documents, courier them, and move on to somewhere new. He’d always wanted to go south, to the desert, even though it was hard to get to.
He unfurled his collapsible tripod and small camera.
He didn’t have the money, help or muscles to lug something big around with him every day, so as with all things he owned, his camera was small and portable. It was also definitely on its last legs; the battery was so shot it typically only gave him around seventeen minute takes before he had to charge it again.
He didn’t edit. He hadn’t the resources, and he felt it was honest work to simply send the files to be uploaded exactly as they were. An unfiltered approach, which suited his show just fine.
He began his take with his usual opening lines.
“Welcome, my friends!” he said enthusiastically. “Today, we’re at locker 283 at Yujun Mountain Storage. I wonder what wonders we’ll wonder about today!”
Most strangely, this unit seemed to be filled with no fewer than sixteen different wedding dresses. He felt the thrum of satisfaction at an interesting find, and began to talk to the camera, exclaiming at the dresses and musing on how they all came to be in one place.
Many were clearly of different eras from one another, which made this one of the most fascinating lockers Xie Lian had found in some time. His enthusiasm brimmed over as he exclaimed over the history the dresses must hold.
And love stories, of course! Not that he knew anything about that.
He was just finishing up putting the dresses in boxes to deliver to charity when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Xie Lian took it out: Ling Wen. How strange.
“Xie Lian, The Scrap Collector!”
She paused only briefly at his greeting. “Uh, yes. Good morning, Xie Lian. I was wondering…have you couriered those documents yet?”
“Nope!” he said cheerfully. “I was going to do that just now. Why?”
“Ah,” she said, voice strange. “Well…there have just been a few unexpected developments since the cancellation statement went live, it’s really best you come in to discuss-”
Xie Lian heard a knock at the metal door. He turned in surprise, clutching a wedding dress to his collar instinctively, before remembering that unlike many previous knocks at his lockers in the early morning, he was not naked.
A man stood outside. He was tall. Xie Lian couldn’t see his face underneath his red umbrella, but he had a lean, lithe figure. He was clothed in a dark red sweater and black jeans, with expensive looking black boots.
Strangely, though, there was a large, sleek black camera bag over his shoulder. The waterproof, professional kind that held camera models that Xie Lian couldn’t possibly dream of affording.
“Am I late, boss?” came the teasing voice.
Xie Lian’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I- I’m sorry?” This person clearly had the wrong locker.
He took a step forward to try to see the stranger’s face, and promptly tripped over the long train of the wedding dress still in his hands.
The stranger lurched forward to grab him, and held him up as Xie Lian gasped apologies. Xie Lian’s eyes adjusted, and he found himself going quite pink and frozen.
It wasn’t the handsomeness, he firmly decided. Falling was the explanation for his blush, not this stranger’s face, with its proud brows and high cheekbones and the long wisps of black hair escaping from his braid as he looked down at him in amused concern. Xie Lian was just very unused to anyone catching him when he fell.
He realised with a start that the stranger’s arms were still around him, and he was gawping up at him underneath a dripping umbrella, being stared at because he had been asked a question and hadn’t heard a word of it.
“Eh?” he gulped.
“I said, are you alright, boss?”
“Boss?” he breathed. “I- I’m afraid you must be looking for someone else-”
“You are filming Scrap Collector, yes?”
Xie Lian quite liked the man’s voice. It was playful, even though the words were very confusing to him.
“Well…yes!” he said, more baffled by the second. “But…who are you? Why are you calling me boss?”
The man’s eyes searched his. His gaze was very direct. It made him a little intimidating, despite the smile that seemed permanently etched at the corners of his lips.
“Ah. I see. You have not been informed? I sent an email.”
Emails, winced Xie Lian. “Ah I’m, um- not great with emails,” he said, growing warmer still upon realising he had still made no effort to extricate himself. In his defence, the wedding dress was twisted around his legs, forming a sort of lower half straightjacket.
“I see. Well then,” replied the man, eyes twinkling. He let Xie Lian go and closed the umbrella smoothly, propping it against the unit wall. He then knelt down to carefully untangle his legs from the dress, as Xie Lian stood too open-mouthed to protest.
Chore done, he rose to his full height again, and straightened more formally. He stretched out his hand in an offer of a handshake.
“I called you boss because you are my boss. It really is my most sincere pleasure to meet you,” he said, cocking his head with a smile. “You can call me San Lang. I’m your new producer.”
Xie Lian’s mouth fell open.
“My what?!”
A muffled sigh emanated from the phone speaker, clutched against his chest in his increasingly white-knuckled hand.
“I’m still on the line, by the way. But yes- he’s right.”
***