You’re sitting behind the
counter, humming to yourself as you page through the yellowed parchment of your
potions textbook. The potion shop is empty, giving you peace and quiet to study
for your upcoming Magicks exam.
You wince at the door
squealing open—you make a mental note to oil them later—and bookmark your
page, standing up. The customer, a short, stocky lady dressed in unfamiliar
garb, saunters in and lets the door creak shut behind her. She eyes the posters
on the wall behind you that advertise the latest sales and list the
best-selling potions of the shop.
“Is there anything I can
help you with today?” You give her your sunniest smile.
“Yes,” she replies, curtly.
“I want a custom potion.”
You try not to let her
snappy, authoritative tone bother you. “Alright,” you say, with false
brightness. You reach for your pen and notepad. “What will it be?”
You are an actor in the MCU. You signed a contract, many years ago. Every time you read it, it seems a little longer than before. You can’t remember how many films you thought you were signing on for. You can’t remember how many you’ve already done. The films left before you stretch out for aeons. You think your contract may have been signed in blood.
You walk out of the cinema, having just seen the latest Marvel offering. The walk from the theater takes you past a wall of film posters, advertising upcoming Marvel films. The wall goes on forever, and you keep walking, and you are so tired, in your soul.
You are blonde and your name is Chris. There is another blonde man named Chris beside you, and you have heard tell of more. You walk down studio hallways filled with blonde men called Chris. There are so many of you now, but in the end, there can only be one.
You are in the audience at the cinema, waiting for the new Marvel film to begin. You do not remember entering the cinema, nor do you recall leaving the cinema after the last Marvel film. You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Your bank account is empty and your pockets are full of ticket stubs.
You are a Marvel executive, filling out dates on a calendar. The calendar stretches across the boardroom table and into the void. You are planning each phase of the film cycle, checking them carefully against a chart marked with runes, written in blood. There are so many phases left to complete, so many phases before you can return home.
So, @shadowjack12345 wrote this piece yesterday, and it prompted a prequel? Maybe? I don’t know what this is. Also, it’s surprisingly safe for work.
Gar tried not to think about the strange scent
of silicone and polyester and strawberries
that permeated the shop he was standing in. He tried not to look at all of the
merchandise displayed proudly on the brightly painted walls, or the specials
advertised in bright red letters with little hearts curling around them. He
tried not to think about any of it,
and instead focused on the soft schik
schick of the hanger and Raven flicked through the clothing rack tucked
near the entrance.
“You didn’t have to come with me, you know.”
Her face was completely stoic, looking at the little bits of clothing with a
detached, perfunctory expression. She pulled out something blue and lacy and
held it up, inspecting the quality with a keen, but apathetic eye. Gar
swallowed and looked away, staring at the clean, freshly vacuumed carpet,
instead of imagining her in something so… scandalous.