I considered waiting a little while to see if the foreman came back. Maybe I could argue my way into getting at least a little something for my troubles. As time passed, however, I couldn’t even come up with what I was going to say. With the backlot blown to bits, I didn’t want to have to explain myself. Slowly, with an awkward whistle, I made my way back to the call board, hoping for a miracle.

Nothing doing.

Even the Piano Catcher job was gone.

The central note had changed, too.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

Studio Management: Tomorrow’s another day!

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“But this one ain’t even halfway over yet! What am I supposed to do for star power points—”

Ding-a-ling-a-ting!

Someone far off was ringing a metal triangle with a spoon.

“Lunchtime!”

“Finally!” I said with a sigh of relief. “Time to eat!”

I found a white tent outside one of the long buildings, housing a long table with platters of food stacked high. A velvet rope connected the two open entrance flaps. As I reached for it, two eyes popped into existence along its threads.

“Rank 2 and above only, sweetheart,” the rope informed me with newly formed lips.

“I beg your pardon?”

The rope tapped a sign I hadn’t noticed with a free tassel.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

Catering for Rank 2: Supporting Cast and Above only.

Studio Management: There’s no such thing as a free lunch!

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“Is that so?” I said to the sign as I reached for the rope anyway.

“And how,” it growled back as it lashed in front of me, baring its teeth.

Yipe!

After pulling my hand away, I glanced longingly over the rope’s top edge. “But… Don’t tell me you’re going to let all that food go to waste! I’m hungry, and no one else is even here—”

I regretted it the moment I said it.

It was as if I summoned every rank-eligible employee on the lot. They came in a great stampede of limbs from every which way, whooping and hollering about the spread. I flattened myself against a nearby wall so I wouldn’t get caught in the rush just as the rope untied itself. They flew on past; cats, dogs, a fox here and there, on a seemingly unending loop. There were more than enough to split the seams of the tent, but that didn’t stop them from cramming in.

When the last cast member crossed, a tiny turtle doing its best and failing to keep up, I finally thought the coast was clear. Three steps out, I was trampled under by a swift, gigantic bird that came from nowhere, stage right.

He wasn’t just tall; he was intentionally gigantic with his presence. A visage that blocked out the sun. His dark suit went up for miles. A single-starred triangle kerchief sat stiffly in his breast pocket. His head tilted down, and his long, hooked beak clicked as one wide, piercing eye peered down at me trapped under his talons.

“Didn’t see you down there,” the bird rumbled through me.

He carefully lifted his foot, shook out some of my ink that he had picked up so it filled me back in, then set it on the ground with a loud thump.

“Good snap, kid,” he said as he poked me right between the eyes with a single, pointed feather. “You just need to work on your timing.”

I sprang back into shape without even activating ELASTIC RECOVERY [BASIC], though I was still lying on the ground for full support. When I finally managed to get my upside facing up, I looked around, catching his tail disappearing into the catering tent.

“Who was that…?” I asked, rubbing my head. “And why does he hit like a delivery truck?”

“That had to have been Mr. Eagle,” Mr. Narrator replied in whispered awe. “The Face of This Great Nation.”

“Eagle I can see, but the rest needs some clarification, cousin,” I mumbled.

“No relation,” he quipped back, “But back to Mr. Eagle. He’s Miracle’s miracle, a man about town, the sublime star of—”

“He didn’t say sorry.”

“Well now, Sally, I’m sure he meant no harm—”

“Woulda been much worse if he had. But what would an apology have cost him anything?”

Mr. Narrator paused, and I could hear his gears turning. Once again, he came back with his customary conspiratorial whisper. “I wouldn’t advise picking a fight with him, Sally. He has top billing in his own series watched across the nation.”

“And that elephant right there. What nation?”

“This Great Nation,” Mr. Narrator said firmly.

“What’s its name?”

“This Great Nation.”

“Yeah. This one. What’s its name?”

“This Great Nation.”

“Don’t be daffy. I’m asking you the name of—”

“And I’m telling you the name, Sally. This Great Nation is the name of this great nation.”

“I don’t know if that’s brilliant or screwy,” I muttered after a few beats. “Naming it what you want to be makes it impossible to say it’s anything otherwise without being labeled one of them... subversives.”

Mr. Narrator knew better than to reply to that.

From inside the tent came the sound of laughter; raucous and reverberating, the kind that comes from characters who have had enough to eat.

“Grr… I can smell the butter from here…!”

The velvet rope snaked its length through the tent loops again and pulled itself tight so the flaps closed, in case I was getting any ideas about trying to sneak in.

“You win this round, rope.”

Then my stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm, and another card appeared next to me.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

STATUS EFFECT ACQUIRED: THE GRUMBLIES

Description: Your stomach will grumble routinely, bringing down your mood.

Duration: Until resolved.

System Says: Cartoon characters can’t starve, but once you start thinking about food…

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“Further notice?!” I shouted, grabbing the card. “Nothing doing!”

I ripped it in half, and it disappeared, but apparently it was an informational effect and not a function I could fight. My stomach rumbled again, louder this time.

“Hmmmmmm…” Mr. Narrator mumbled. “Say, why don’t we go fishing for lunch?”

“Fishing?” I asked. “Where?”

“There’s a little creek down the way. And right over there—” I felt my head being tugged by a force unseen. “I see just what we need.”

A wooden fishing pole was leaning against the side of the nearest soundstage, casual as you please.

“See? The lot provides,” Mr. Narrator advised cheerfully.

The necessity and opportunity to commit petty theft, maybe.

“Sally…”

“Don’t worry, I’m taking it anyway,” I mumbled, skittering over as if trying to dodge the eyes of the law.

“And I won’t rat you out,” he promised.

I placed the rod over my shoulder and set off down the path with cautious optimism. With an imaginary hat tip to Mack the Bulldog, I danced out the gate with a little heel-toe shuffle. My antics distracted him from the fact that I didn’t walk in with any fishing equipment, but going so far as to say he was amused at my performance would be stretching a lie to its seams.

Mr. Narrator congratulated me. “He didn’t even look twice!”

Yeah, once was enough.

I started whistling louder, my thoughts on securing a real meal.

Grumble.

My stomach joined in on the downbeat.

I looked down at my tummy, paused, and then I whistled a little louder.

Grumble-grumble.

“Is your stomach—” Mr. Narrator started.

“Keeping time?” I paused. “It’s not bad, actually.”

Grumble.

“Pitch perfect!” I said with an encouraging arm swing. “Let’s go find this creek!”

As long as I keep my mood up, I should be fine until I find some food.

The path was less filled the farther we strayed from the studio. Sure, the dormitory was there, a few other buildings, but solid objects gave way to sketchy surroundings, literally. Buildings became simpler with fewer details, like fewer windows and squatter roofs. Grass thinned out to a single line, and the tune I was whistling went low-def.

Grumble.

“I know, I know.”

Even the trees got sketchier, with some having less than six leaves. A park bench appeared, really just a rectangle with gumption.

“So the farther out we go from the studio, the less detail This Great Nation has?”

Mr. Narrator didn’t answer right away. “It appears so… Almost as if it’s a rough draft—Look, Sally!”

A sign.

“This Great Nation Is Under Construction,” I read aloud. “Your Labor Paves the Way For a Better Community?”

I frowned and read it a second and third time to myself.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it—” I started to say before Mr. Narrator replied.

“Sure you can, Sally. You can do almost anything if you put your mind to it. Just reach out and touch the sign!”

Pal, I appreciate ya, but you’re trying too hard.

“Ah, sorry, Sally. I knew what you meant. But food first, and philosophy later.”

“Philosophy? I wasn’t philosophiz—er—philsophical—no—I wasn’t thinking philosophy, was I?”

“Why no, not all,” he replied with an unseen smirk. “You had a good three-second lead on that action.”

Grumble.

“Right. Food first. Where’s the creek?”

“The system says it’s straight ahead.”

“The system talks to you?!”

Mr. Narrator chuckled a little awkwardly. “At times, yes. But it’s not talking like you talk. It’s…”

“Mechanical?”

“That’s one way to put it, so let’s leave it at that.” He dropped into a whisper. “I don’t want to scare it off again.”

Grumble-grumble-grumble.

I started marching forward, making a mental note that the conversation wasn’t over.

Cause after all, I already had plenty of notes for the system.