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Foundation Staff Member II: The "Storm" is a temporal anomaly of unknown origin. Before it arrives, the world enters a state known as the Storm Syndrome ...
A Foundation staff member sits at the speaker's table, delivering a monotonous, rigid explanation of concepts far beyond Bette's imagination.
The white-tiered conference hall is filled with other people—all survivors of the "Storm."
Foundation Staff Member II: Raindrops will be observed rising from the ground into the sky, and then almost simultaneously the entire era is replaced.
Bette finds herself drawn away from the lecture and onto the faces around her; few seem as lost as she feels, as though they had known this disaster was coming, and now this lecture is merely filling in the details.
Foundation Staff Member II: And the St. Pavlov Foundation provides ...
Bette begins analyzing each person's attire, trying to piece together the lives they had once led.
Bette: Cornflower blue wool suit, perfectly tailored. Gold-striped brown tie, gold watch on the left wrist ... A stockbroker?
Bette: Champagne dress with a white fur shawl, pearl necklace ... A wealthy housewife?
Bette continues.
Bette: Beret, fishing vest ... Maybe even a red clown nose, just like the director ...
Bette: ...
Bette: If only it really were the director ...
This is not a good time to be alive.
The streets at night feel like a jungle, the few remaining lights flickering like fireflies in the darkness.
A man walks past one dimly lit alley after another.
With the economy in ruins, people go to bed early—not just to save on lighting, but to sleep through their hunger.
Man: Hunger ... won't matter soon. This will all be over.
The metal buttons on his top hat occasionally catch stray beams of light, and the tip of his cane scrapes against the walls as he walks.
He pays no mind to the homeless huddling near the alley's entrance, striding toward a dimly lit restaurant.
The door is locked. Through the fogged-up glass, a faint silhouette moves inside.
A flickering streetlight casts an uneven glow onto the asphalt, and the shadow beneath it grows and then swallows up the last slivers of light.
Click. The restaurant's sign goes dark.
Man: Wait!
The man hurries forward, reaching the door.
Man: It's me!
The shadow inside hesitates, then thick wooden boards are pulled aside, iron chains unwind, and finally, a lock is undone.
Restaurant Owner: Bette?
The apparent man grins and removes his hat, a thick, neatly braided plait falling out over his shoulder.
Man: Got any meat left?
The shape beneath the man's clothes begins to shift. In a moment, his silhouette transforms into that of a familiar woman.
Bette: I could do for a steak if you've got any.
Restaurant Owner: Steak? What, you think this is the Ritz?
The owner turns and walks toward the kitchen, waving Bette inside.
Restaurant Owner: All I've got is a bit of Hoover stew.
Bette: Make mine with a bit of meat, then!
Bette beams; the fake mustache on her upper lip shifts awkwardly with her smile.
She slaps a handful of bills onto the counter and spreads her arms wide.
Bette: I landed a speaking role!
Bette: Must've been thanks to that stew from last time ...
Bette: Meat really does make everything better ...
The owner doesn't turn from his task as he stirs a pot of congealing stew.
Restaurant Owner: Is that right?
The fire crackles beneath the pot, melting the hardened fats and releasing a thin but enticing aroma.
Bette: Mhm!
She grips the edge of the counter with a wide, almost childlike smile, anticipating the coming meal.
The owner scrapes the pot's sides to pull up a portion of stew, placing it in front of her with care.
*Thud*
The weight of the plate makes a satisfying sound as it falls on the counter.
Restaurant Owner: It's on the house. For all the scripts you memorized but never got to perform. You've earned it.
Bette: Thanks.
Bette picks up her spoon, taking one bite after another of the hearty stew. Tomato sauce splatters on her white shirt as its warmth hits her empty stomach.
Her eyes readjust, falling on a figure in the front row as she tightens her grip on her pen.
Bette: If only I had finished filming my scene before the "Storm" hit. Just three lines, and I would have been a star.
"Yes!"
1/3
"No!"
2/3
"Ah—"
3/3
Bette replays the moment in her mind, recalling the lines she had rehearsed a hundred times, hoping they would bring up the same feeling of pride they did before.
Foundation Staff Member II: Now, if everyone could leave their completed forms here ...
The staff member's voice yanks Bette out from her thoughts.
One by one, the people in the hall stand, forming a quiet, orderly line to hand in their forms. The staff member at the desk sorts through them efficiently.
Bette: ...
Bette: So each time there's a "Storm," does the St. Pavlov Foundation take in people like us—those who are out of their era?
Bette: It feels like ... a bedside drawer for time itself. And right now, my era is what's being stored away.
Bette: What about the ones who don't join? Will my era ever return?
More and more people leave the hall, as a sudden sense of abandonment crashes over Bette.
Bette: I can't fall behind.
With that thought, she fills out her form in a rush, hands it to the staff member, and follows the others out.
Bette: ...
Standing in the hallway, Bette looks toward both ends of the corridor.
It dawns on her that people in this era seem not to be the sort to linger; Bette watches as their backs disappear into the distance, step by step, swallowed up by the corner where two walls meet.
Her fear of falling behind might have been shared, but it gives her no sense of belonging.
Bette touches her stomach, neither hungry nor full.
There are no more films to shoot; what then is she supposed to do?
Restaurant Owner: You're sure to be a Hollywood star, Bette.
As the lights go out and the restaurant door is locked again, the owner turns and reassures her.
Restaurant Owner: You're going to wake up every day to a champagne tower.
Bette: I guess I should go see Jones, because ...
I never had a champagne tower to begin with.
