Jones hasn't moved from the capsule-like bed; her face still hidden under layers of bandages. Right now, she is more suited to play a mummy than a princess.
Bette catches the thought before letting it hit her.
A thin white sheet covers Jones's frail frame, the folds rising and falling like mountain ridges between her body and the bed.
As Bette enters and approaches, the once-princess opens her eyes.
Jones: It's you ...
Jones: Tearful Leading Lady: It's you ...
On screen, she is stunning and lovely; even lying on thick, soft pillows, her wavy, short hair remains smooth and neat.
Her dark brows furrow slightly as she gazes tearfully at her lover.
Jones: Tearful Leading Lady: I swore I would never see you again.
But now, she clings to life in this strange glass coffin.
Jones: You saved me ... otherwise ...
Jones: I would have broken my neck long ago ...
Bette freezes in place; she has no memory of what happened after the fall.
Jones: Come closer ...
Her voice, devoid of vitality, drifts out like a spirit and dissolves into the air, leaving Bette to guess at the words from her weathered lips.
She moves closer until she reaches the glass barrier, remarking that she has never been this near to Jones before.
Jones: What about the others?
The radiance has faded from her eyes. They're two glass beads that look around and seem to find some refuge when they meet Bette's own.
Bette: The others ...
She means the film crew, back in the unfinished past that Bette and Jones left behind in the 1930s.
Bette opens her mouth, looking at Jones's frail state. She can't bear to part with the obvious truth that hangs on her lips—a lie slips out instead.
Bette: They're outside.
Outside the Foundation.
Outside the era.
Bette: Don't worry about them.
Bette stammers out in fear that Jones will press further. Outside? Where? Doing what?
But Jones only nods before asking her next question.
Jones: What about the camera?
Her eyes search the room weakly.
Jones: I had the camera with me.
Bette notices the red veins cascading over the whites of Jones's eyes, making them seem almost translucent.
Jones: Where is it?
Bette: ...
Jones falls into a seizure. Bette isn't even sure how their conversation ended—maybe someone else had stopped it.
At some point, a nurse rushes in with a syringe in her hand.
???: Chlorpromazine, watch the dosage.
A clear liquid flows through the milky-white tube and into Jones's body.
???: Initiate emergency measures. Clear the room.
Bette trembles, unwilling to recall what had just happened in that ward. Jones had been like a thread-thin wire strung around her own neck, and Bette was holding the other end.
Bette: It felt like if I moved my finger, Jones would fall away right before my eyes ...
Bette: A fragile safety line.
A "safety line"—a term among stunt actors for the harness that ensured their survival.
???: Looks like the "Storm" really did a number on her.
A hand lands on Bette's shoulder from behind. She turns to see the nurse who had just attended to Jones greeting her.
???: And you lied to her.
Bette shoots a questioning stare at the nurse, who tilts her chin toward a storage room.
???: Let's talk.
The window is wide open in the otherwise cramped and narrow room. But outside, there is nothing to see—just the face of another wall, pockmarked with bumps and ridges so close that one could almost reach out and touch it.
The nurse introduces herself as Laura as she stands by the window, leaning outside with a cigarette in hand.
Laura: You're not even her little sidekick, are you?
Bette reveals the details of their story, and Laura turns back, exhaling a puff of smoke like a dragon's fire into Bette's face.
Bette: cough ... cough! Hey! What the hell?!
She waves her hand in disgust to disperse the smoke; Laura only laughs.
Laura: Go on, wave faster. This thing's sensitive as hell. If it detects me smoking, it'll spray and drench us both.
Bette: You shouldn't be smoking here in the first place!
Laura: Yeah, so what? The world's gone insane; you really think rules matter anymore?
Laura stubs out the cigarette on the window frame, already covered in blackened marks.
Laura: You're just not used to it yet.
Bette doesn't respond, brushing off the smoke clinging to her clothes.
Laura: You're from the 1930s, right? Huh ... hmm ...
Laura studies Bette with a cocked head and a breezy, if unfriendly, smile.
Laura: So, what's your arcane skill?
Bette: I can alter my physique and appearance temporarily. It's useful for my line of work.
Bette: Though I can never get my face to be perfectly identical to someone else, so close-ups aren't really a thing for me.
Laura: Oh ... that's all?
Bette: Not all of it, no. If I shift into a stronger form, my strength increases with it too. Maybe that's not the flashiest arcane skill, but it's been good enough for me.
Laura shakes her head, thoroughly unimpressed.
Laura: You can make muscles on command and change your face, but not by much. Seems like all you are is a bad actor with a fake mustache. So, what else have you got?
Bette: What?
Laura: Y'know, something interesting, maybe a collectible, like Jones's camera.
Laura: I know a buyer. He collects interesting stuff. I'd take a cut, of course.
Laura: Doesn't have to be expensive. Any old thing can still sell for a good price.
Laura: I once sold a broken copper pendant. Looked like junk, but it had a picture of the original owner's daughter inside. Someone paid a fortune for it just because of that sentimentality.
Bette stares at the nurse in shock.
Bette: Is that all you dragged me in here for? You want Jones's camera?
Laura: Collectors are crazy about stuff like that. You get to name the price on stuff like that.
Laura: I'm just saying, if you want some cash, reach out. Oh, and here's the process for reclaiming lost items.
Laura pats Bette's shoulder as she leaves.
