Chapter Text
The vast, merciless ocean stretched into eternity, its surface silvered beneath the cold, unblinking gaze of a full moon. Across the swells, light shimmered in fleeting ribbons that vanished as swiftly as they appeared, swallowed by the shifting waves. Where sea met land, black volcanic cliffs rose like jagged blades from the shore, hammered endlessly by the surf as if the ocean itself was trying to wear them down.
Far beyond the breakers, a ship loomed against the tapestry of stars. Its shadowed sails hungrily catching in the wind, while the Jolly Roger stood tall on the mast, snapping menacingly in the night air. From its rigging hung oil lanterns, casting a scatter of amber light that flickered across the dark, glassy sea, marking the vessel’s steady, unstoppable passage.
On the beach, a solitary figure emerged from the tree line. His silhouette unmistakable against the moonlight—medium height, athletic build, black skin kissed by silver moonbeams that traced the contours of his close-cropped hair. He moved with the distinctive gait of someone who had once danced through life with the carefree confidence of youth but now carried the weight of experience in each measured step. He paused at the edge of the forest, shoulders rising and falling as his chest heaved, catching his breath against the night air.
His eyes flicked from the looming pirate ship to the shadowed jungle behind. His clothes—once pristine white linen—were now torn and stained with mud and sweat, bearing witness to his desperate flight. A fresh scrape marked his forearm, and though fatigue lined his face, his gaze burned with a sharp edge of determination as he searched for an escape.
He held something close to his chest—a bundle wrapped in oilskin and bound tight with twine, his fierce grip betraying its importance. Though the night air was cool, sweat sheened his dark skin, catching the moonlight like polished stone.
For a moment, he stood frozen, caught between the dangers of the sea and whatever horrors had pursued him through the jungle. Then came the sharp snap of a twig behind him, loud as a gunshot in the silence. The decision had been made for him. He bolted across the open beach, sand exploding beneath his feet as he raced parallel to the shoreline.
At that moment, three figures stepped out from the trees—pirates in weathered leather coats and salt-crusted boots, cutlasses gleaming in the moonlight. The largest, a towering brute with tar-black dreadlocks bound in frayed cord, raised a hand in silent command.
The hunt was now on.
Glancing over his shoulder and seeing the gap closing, the man veered towards a maze of tide pools and jagged rock. The terrain was perilous, but he moved with a dancer’s poise—leaping from stone to stone, twisting mid-air when his footing slipped.
He risked another look behind—his pursuers were losing ground. He was pulling ahead. For a fleeting moment escape felt possible.
Suddenly, a fourth pirate stepped out from behind a large boulder, cutting off the path ahead. In one hand he carried a boarding axe, its blade dark with age. Perched atop his head sat a tricorn hat adorned with exotic feathers and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear, giving him a permanent half-smile. The chased man skidded to a halt, nearly losing his precious package in the process.
Surrounded now, he backed towards the water's edge. The hunters closed in slowly, cruel grins playing across their faces as they savoured the moment. The cornered man glanced at the cliffs on his right—far too steep to climb—then to the deep water to his left. Whatever decision he might have made was interrupted by the distant boom of a cannon.
A plume of water erupted twenty yards offshore as the ship fired a warning shot. The message was clear: there would be no escape by sea.
The pirates circled their prey, moving with the confidence of predators who knew their quarry had nowhere left to run. The bearded leader stepped forward, hand extended, clearly demanding the package. In response, the hunted man clutched it tighter to his chest, shaking his head defiantly.
Moonlight illuminated his face fully for the first time—young but weathered, with cunning eyes that darted between his attackers, calculating odds that seemed increasingly impossible. His expression was tense but focused, a perfect balance of fear and determination. Despite his predicament, there was something in his bearing that spoke of resilience and resourcefulness.
The scarred pirate lunged without warning, his blade flashing in the moonlight. The man twisted to evade, but not quickly enough. The cutlass sliced across his side, tearing through shirt and skin. He stumbled but remained upright, one hand pressed against the fresh wound while the other protected his mysterious cargo.
Blood seeped between his fingers, yet his expression remained defiant, chin raised as if daring the pirates to finish what they'd started. The bearded leader barked a laugh, clearly impressed by such bravado in the face of near certain doom.
The wounded man's gaze shifted momentarily to something beyond his pursuers—a flicker of movement among the palm trees. Hope flashed briefly across his features before being carefully masked. The leader noticed the glance and began to turn, but the man chose that moment to make his move.
He feinted left, then darted right, attempting to break through the circle. The smallest pirate reacted quickly, swinging a belaying pin that connected with the man's shoulder. He staggered, nearly falling to one knee before forcing himself back upright. The package almost slipped from his grasp, and he fumbled to secure it, momentarily taking his attention away from his attackers.
It was all the opening they needed.
The bearded leader stepped forward and delivered a vicious kick to the man's wounded side. Pain twisted his features as he crumpled to the sand, curling protectively around the bundle. A boot pressed down on his wrist, pinning his arm as someone bent to pry the treasure from his grasp. But, with his free hand, the man snatched a fistful of sand and flung it into his assailant's eyes. The pirate roared in rage, staggering backwards and clawing at his face. The momentary distraction allowed the wounded man to roll away and scramble to his feet, though he moved with significantly less agility now; his injuries clearly taking their toll.
He managed three desperate steps before the scarred pirate tackled him from behind. They crashed to the ground, the man twisting to protect both his wound and his cargo. He kicked out, catching his opponent in the stomach, buying himself enough space to stand once more.
But the effort cost him. Blood now soaked his entire side, leaving a dark trail in the sand. His skin had dulled to an ashen hue, his movements growing sluggish and uncoordinated. Yet, still he refused to yield. Staggering back, he positioned himself in a narrow gap between two large rocks—a natural bottleneck that would force his pursuers to come at him one at a time.
The pirates understood his tactic and paused, exchanging wary glances. Sensing their hesitation, a flicker of hope returned to the man’s eyes. But before it could take root, a sharp crack echoed through the night air and a whip lashed out and coiled around his ankle. The sharp pull that followed yanked him off his feet, and he felt the package slip from his grasp. He lunged after it. Desperately, he stretched out his hand, fingertips grazing the oilskin wrapping—but it was too late; he’d finally lost possession.
Still, impossibly, he fought on. Rolling onto his stomach, he crawled on all fours towards the bundle, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. The pirates watched with a mixture of amusement and grudging respect, allowing him this final, futile effort.
He had almost reached it when the bearded leader unholstered an ornate flintlock pistol. The weapon gleamed silver in the moonlight, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The leader cocked the hammer with deliberate slowness.
The wounded man's fingers had just brushed against the package when the shot rang out.
His body jerked violently, blood blooming across his back, spreading outward from between his shoulder blades. For several seconds, he remained frozen, arm still extended towards the package. Then, with agonising slowness, he collapsed face-first into the sand.
The leader holstered his smoking pistol and claimed his prize, weighing the package in his hands with a satisfied expression before tucking in into his coat.
For a brief moment, the four pirates studied the motionless figure before them, their expressions ranging from respect to indifference. Then, without a word, the leader signalled to his crew and turned and strode back towards the waiting boat.
As they walked away, leaving the body where it had fallen, the tide began its slow ascent. Gentle waves crept up the beach, reaching for the fallen man with foamy fingers. The first wavelet touched his boots before pulling back. The next reached his knees. Soon, the sea would claim him entirely, washing away all evidence of the night's brutality.
"CUT!"
Abed's voice cracked like a whip, shattering the illusion of mortal peril that had hung in the air just moments before.
The man face down in the sand—supposedly dead from a pirate's bullet—let out a tired groan before propping himself up on his elbows. Travis Jackson, a performer whose raw talent and dedication deserved far better than the roles he landed, spat out a mouthful of gritty sand and winced as he peeled himself from the ground. The artificial blood covering his costume had already begun to dry, creating a tacky, uncomfortable second skin that pulled with every movement.
"You okay, Travis?" Abed asked, extending a hand.
The actor accepted the help, grimacing as he rose to his feet. "That depends. Are we finally done? Because two days of being shot, falling face-first into sand, and washing fake blood out of places I didn't even know I had has been... let's just say not the highlight of my acting career."
Abed's lips quirked into a sympathetic half-smile. His exhaustion was evident in his posture—shoulders hunched forward, spine curved slightly as if carrying an invisible weight. Dark shadows underlined his eyes, giving him the haunted look of someone who hadn't seen a proper night's sleep in days.
"I don't think any of us have enjoyed it much," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I really wish Michael hadn't insisted on doing the opening scene in a single take. Sam Mendes and ‘1917’ have a lot to answer for."
For a moment, Abed's gaze drifted across the elaborate set—the carefully positioned rocks, the artfully scattered debris, the meticulous footprints in the sand—all arranged to create the perfect illusion of a desperate chase. Then, a flash of satisfaction broke through his exhaustion, though the light still didn't quite reach his eyes.
"But," he said, turning back to Travis, "you'll be happy to hear that take seemed perfect to me. All the blood, sweat, and sand was worth it. We're done here."
He raised his voice to address the entire crew scattered across the fake beach. "That's it for today, everyone. Great work. Really great work."
Around them, the tense set immediately dissolved into relieved chatter and activity as crew members began breaking down equipment. Abed's gaze swept across the scene with quiet satisfaction. Now approaching his late thirties, his features had sharpened, the softness of youth giving way to more defined angles, and his hair had receded slightly at the temples, creating a widow's peak that somehow made him look more distinguished.
"The director wants dailies before you leave tonight," said Jessica, the second unit’s assistant director, approaching with a tablet in hand.
"He'll have them," Abed replied, his tone professional but distant.
Jessica studied him for a moment. "You know, for someone who just captured a flawless one-take action sequence, you don't seem particularly happy."
Abed shrugged. "Pirate films aren’t really my thing."
"Yet here you are, the second unit director on a fifty-million-dollar pirate epic," she observed with a raised eyebrow.
"Everyone's got to make a living." Abed said impassively. "My rent has nearly doubled since I moved to Hollywood. When I first got here, I thought every job would feel like making my very own Citizen Kane. But like everyone who sticks around, I learned it's more of a spectrum."
He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Some projects are genuinely inspiring and led by directors I admire, and I’ve had the opportunity to do loads of cool stuff I could never have imagined—not even in my wildest dreams. Had dinner with Spielberg at the end of 2023. Crashed the Oscars afterparty last year and finally got to tell George Lucas exactly how I felt about midi-chlorians and him allowing Disney to destroy his own cinematic legacy." He paused. "That man really has a temper."
His wistful smile faded as he turned back to the set. "Then there are projects like this—jobs that pay the bills, stock the fridge, and fund my independent work." He let out a breath. "This one’s definitely on the practical end of the spectrum. But hey—at least no one’s asking me to add a CGI Jar Jar Binks."
Jessica studied Abed's tired expression, then gestured toward the pirate ship with a wry smile. "Well, better pirate movies than pirated movies, eh boss?" she quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.
The corner of Abed's mouth twitched slightly in acknowledgment of the wordplay, but the joke didn't quite reach his eyes. His thoughts seemed elsewhere.
"You know," Abed said thoughtfully, "it's absurd to think 21st-century piracy has anything in common with what we’re doing here." He stared at the Jolly Roger hanging limply from its mast, its skull and crossbones rendered in precise detail that somehow made the whole enterprise seem even more hollow.
"I've never understood our cultural obsession with romanticising what were essentially floating crime syndicates," he continued, his voice taking on the careful, measured cadence it always did when discussing something that really mattered to him. "I actually have a friend who was kidnapped by pirates in the Bay of Campeche. He said the reality was nothing like this fantasy—no swashbuckling, no sword fights, no roguish antiheroes with hearts of gold." Abed's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Just assault rifles, speedboats, and the ever-present threat of extreme violence."
"Wait, seriously?" Jessica's eyes widened. "Your friend was actually kidnapped by real-life pirates?
"Yep, I tried to interest Michael in doing a Zoom call with him," Abed continued, his voice calm but his eyes suddenly more engaged than they'd been all day. "I thought it might add some authenticity—some actual human experience—to all this. But he declined." He paused. "How can a director be so lacking in curiosity about his subject matter? It's like making a film about the ocean without ever having seen water."
"You know Michael," Jessica remarked with a sigh. "He thinks 'authenticity' is when the prop master distresses a shirt exactly right or when the fake blood has the correct viscosity."
"Exactly," Abed said, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the real ocean met the sky. "Exactly."
They began walking towards the production trailers. The California sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and pink—the kind of lighting that cinematographers dream about but rarely capture.
"Oh, Abed," Jessica said suddenly, "Mia from HR has been looking for you. Something about a form you haven’t filled in?"
Abed's pace slowed almost imperceptibly. "Right."
As if summoned by her name, a young woman in smart business casual attire materialised from between two production vehicles, clipboard in hand. "Abed," she called, her tone professional but with an undercurrent of exasperation. "I've been trying to reach you all week."
"Sorry, Mia," Abed replied, glancing back towards the set where his crew was packing away. "Been a little busy turning Michael’s fever dreams into reality."
"You still haven't completed your medical information form," she said, tapping the clipboard. "It's mandatory for insurance purposes."
"Sorry, I think I’ve lost my copy," Abed said flatly.
"I anticipated that," Mia replied, producing a pristine sheet from her clipboard with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd played this particular game before. "That's why I brought a replacement." She paused meaningfully. "For the third time."
Abed accepted the paper with a nod, a flicker of guilt crossing his usually impassive features. "Thanks. I'll get this done tonight," he promised, his tone carrying a rare note of contrition.
"Make sure you do," Mia emphasised, tucking her clipboard under her arm. "You should have filled it in weeks ago. Technically, with your incomplete paperwork, the studio has been breaking labour regulations every day you've been working here." She straightened her posture slightly. "It's 2025, Abed. Film sets aren't run like the Wild West anymore," she said firmly. "If we let important crew members get away with minor infractions, where will it end? It's that kind of attitude that allowed people like Weinstein to get away with what they did for so long."
Abed's head tilted slightly to one side, his expression shifting from neutral to nonplussed. "Did you just compare me to a sex offender for not filling out a form?" he asked slowly.
Mia's professional demeanour crumbled instantly. "No! That's not—" Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "That's not what I meant at all," she stammered, clearly mortified by her own comparison.
"I'll go and do it now," Abed said distractedly, flicking his phone off silent as he spoke.
Mia gave him a curt nod and turned away, her shoulders rigid with lingering embarrassment as she moved on to chase down her next regulatory fugitive.
Inside his trailer, Abed lowered himself into his chair and placed Mia’s form on his desk. Unlike the chaotic creative spaces of most of his peers, Abed's trailer was meticulously ordered. No movie posters adorned the walls, no personal photographs cluttered the surfaces. Instead, a carefully curated selection of filmmaking books stood in perfect alignment on a single shelf: Tarkovsky's "Sculpting in Time," Murch's "In the Blink of an Eye," and Lumet's "Making Movies" among them.
For the fourth time, Abed ticked his way through the form with mechanical efficiency, his handwriting precise and angular. Name. Date of birth. Address. He paused briefly before continuing. Blood type. Allergies. He completed each field with increasing reluctance, like a man walking the final steps towards an inevitable cliff edge. In the current medications section, he marked "None" with the same care a bomb technician might use to cut a wire, deliberately keeping his focus narrow, contained, safely away from what waited below. When he finally reached the dreaded line labelled "Emergency Contact," his pen hovered motionless above the paper, just as it had on his previous three attempts. The question he'd been avoiding all along had finally arrived.
The ballpoint hovered a millimetre above the paper, trembling almost imperceptibly. For someone who moved through creative decisions with such certainty—adjusting camera angles by fractions of degrees, specifying exact frame counts for edits—this simple administrative task had rendered him paralysed.
As he sat frozen in this moment of uncharacteristic indecision, his newly unsilenced phone came to life on the desk beside him. The screen illuminated with a notification, casting a blue glow across the incomplete form. Grateful for the distraction, Abed's eyes locked on the message. As he read, they widened in unmistakeable shock.