Jones's condition remains unstable. Most of the time, Bette just sits in the ward, rewriting the script from memory—the real one had been lost to the "Storm."
Occasionally, Jones awakens for a brief moment.
Jones: Bette, what time is it?
Her voice has lost all trace of its former haughty confident tone. Fragility strips everyone of their dignity.
Bette pauses her writing to glance up at the clock.
Bette: 2 PM.
Jones doesn't seem to respond to the answer one way or another. Bette scrutinizes her frail face, trying to figure out what she is thinking.
Maybe she is wondering how long she has been out. Maybe she is wondering why Bette is there. Or maybe she isn't thinking about anything at all.
On rarer occasions, Jones even gains the strength to ask about the film.
Jones: How far have they gotten?
Bette: Scene 14.
It is the latest scene Bette has rewritten from memory. She's been waiting for Jones to recover so they can pick up where the film reel left off and finish the movie.
Jones: But if I'm not there, what are they shooting?
Bette rubs the corner of the script between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it into a tiny curl.
Bette: They're shooting other scenes first. They'll do the reshoots once you're discharged.
Bette glances up to avoid meeting her eyes. Jones lies back in the glass chamber without a response.
Bette: Everyone misses you. Though the script supervisor is a bit peeved because the shots are getting so scattered, keeping track of the takes is a hassle.
Jones: Bette ...
Bette: Hm?
Jones: I've been lying here too long. I've practically burned a hole in the ceiling with my eyes.
Jones: Could you bring me some pictures of the outside?
Jones: And some photos of the crew. I miss them.
Bette: But the director doesn't allow pictures on set.
Bette wants desperately to find an excuse, but Jones's eyes meet hers through the layers of gauze, saying nothing, waiting ...
Bette: Ugh—
Bette closes the script.
Bette: Alright, I'm sure they'll make an exception for you.
The lake shimmers. Women in light dresses stroll through the grass. Men with fishing rods lie by the shore, releasing their catches back into the water.
Bette: But this isn't the scenery I need ...
Bette hurries past them, carrying a rounded bag on her back.
She finds a quiet spot and sets the bag down.
Bette: This place, at least, doesn't have any strange buildings in the background. You could almost mistake it for the original filming location.
After agreeing to Jones's request, Bette devised this little trick to deceive the Foundation.
Once she settles on a good angle, she pulls out her camera and rummages through the clothes, slipping on a fishing vest and a beret.
Bette: The director was always wearing something like this ... But now ...
Bette hesitates, searching around. She realizes only now that she can't be the director and take the picture at the same time. She needs someone to press the shutter for her.
A young woman sits on the grass not far away, sketching the landscape. Bette takes a deep breath and approaches.
Bette: Excuse me, miss.
Young Woman: Oui, que voulez-vous ?
(Yes, do you need some help?)
The woman lifts her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight and squints up at Bette.
Bette: Ah?!
Bette stares at her lips, fully stunned as fluid, pearl-like words roll out—words she doesn't know in the slightest.
Young Woman: Tu vas bien ?
(Are you okay?)
The sound reaches Bette's ears, this time more familiar, but still indecipherable. She can at least tell from the woman's expression that she meant no harm.
Looking around, Bette doesn't see anyone else who might help. She has no choice but to rely on a more universal "language."
Bette: Can you ... please ...
Bette gestures with her box camera.
Young Woman: Est-ce que vous voulez que je prenne une photo ?
(Do you want me to take a photo for you?)
Bette: Photo! Yes!
Young Woman: Bien sûr.
(Of course.)
The woman gives her a small nod with a shy smile, and Bette thanks her.
Bette: Thank you!
Then, using her arcane skill, she transforms into an almost perfect match for the director's face and shape. She turns her face slightly toward the camera, posing as if shouting directions off-set.
Beforehand, she had practiced many angles in front of a mirror—this one proved the most convincing.
The director's slightly upturned nose and thick, coarse eyebrows were his defining features. As long as they're visible, even he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.
Young Woman: Ouah !
"Click!" The woman presses the shutter, capturing a photo so realistic it could fool anyone.
Young Woman: Épatant !
(Amazing!)
Bette: Hold on, just a moment!
Bette rummages through her bag, pulling out another lead actor's costume. She shifts her form again, then lies down on the grass, covering her face with a magazine, pretending to be asleep.
"Click!" The woman presses the shutter again.
Young Woman: C'est incroyable !
(That's incredible!)
As Bette continues changing outfits and forms, a few curious onlookers begin to gather around. In the distance, more people stop to watch.
Bette doesn't want any unnecessary attention, but it comes all the same.
After switching into a few more outfits, she thanks the woman profusely with awkward "mercies" as she packs up her clothes before hurrying back to the Foundation.
Holding the freshly developed photos, Bette runs to Jones's ward.
Jones: Bette ...
Jones looks up at her with longing eyes. Bette hesitates, holding the photos inward, until finally pressing them against the glass chamber.
Bette: The director said it was alright, so I took plenty of pictures.
Jones's eyes lit up. She gazes at the photos with tearful wonder, seeing familiar faces she hasn't seen in so long—everyone alive and well, moving forward with their lives.
She flips through the images one by one before finally speaking.
Jones: They look ... wonderful.
The bandages near her eyes grow dark with moisture, and her body trembles slightly.
It's as if she could feel the life in those moments through the photos; she seems unwilling to look away for even a second.
Seeing her reaction, Bette's tense nerves ease visibly.
Jones: Thank you, Bette.
The fabric of her bandages absorbs tear after tear. Jones slowly closes her eyes.
Jones: Can you do me one more favor?
Bette: Yeah?
Her wounded friend adopts a determined expression that defies all weakness.
Jones: Would you show me what my face looks like now?
Bette: ...
Bette freezes.
Bette: But ...
She looks into Jones's reddened eyes before averting her gaze again.
Bette: There aren't any mirrors here ...
She scans the room, double-checking her spur-of-the-moment excuse.
Bette: And I don't think you're ready to remove your bandages. What if it pulls at your wounds?
Jones: But you saw me when they changed my dressing, didn't you?
Bette: I ...
Jones: So, use your arcane skill. Show me. I need to know how long until I can get back to filming.
Jones's frail fingers press against the inner glass of the chamber, pleading with Bette, who has the freedom to roam the world outside.
Jones: Just let me see, just for a minute.
Bette: But you know my arcane skill can't make me look exactly like you.
Jones: I know that ... I just need a glimpse.
Bette: Today ... Today, I'm not really feeling up to it ...
Jones's trembling fingers rest against the glass, a reminder that she is trapped inside.
Bette: ...
Bette looks deep into Jones's pleading face, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.
Jones: I hate this place.
Back then, Jones had been untouchable—radiant and dazzling, the kind of star Bette could only admire from afar.
Jones: Come over here, Bette.
Bette trembles in her step. She forces herself to push aside the image of Jones's scarred face burning in her memory, afraid it might color her transformation.
Jones: ...
Jones studies her closely, while Bette anxiously follows her gaze, terrified that Jones might notice some telling flaw, a hint of her scars.
But instead, Jones smiles and laughs weakly.
Jones: You haven't got my eyebrows right at all!
Bette: Huh?
Hearing her chuckle, Bette flushes red and turns away.
Bette: How about this?
Jones: Hmm ... that's better. But the nose isn't quite right either—it should be a little taller.
Bette: Really?
Bette pinches the bridge of her nose, making it appear more defined.
Jones: Now it's too much. That looks ridiculous.
From Bette's perspective, her nose now seems oddly exaggerated. She looks at it, trying to tweak it into something more natural—only to end up cross-eyed.
Bette: Pfft.
Even Bette can't help but laugh.
Jones: Haha ... you're making me look more Vaudeville than Hollywood, Bette.
Bette: Hahahaha—
After a good laugh, Bette falls silent.
She doesn't dare meet Jones's eyes again. Instead, she leans against the glass chamber, staring at the floor.
Sometimes, emotions spread through the air like mist, lingering between words unspoken.
Jones: Why are you crying?
Bette: Why are you crying?
Bette's reply is petulant, like a child throwing a tantrum. A faint shimmer passes over her, and she returns to her own form.
Jones: You just ... look familiar. You remind me of someone ...
Bette: Who?
Jones takes a deep, hoarse breath and slowly exhales.
Jones: I'm too tired now. I'll tell you some other time.
Bette wipes her nose and nods affirmatively.
Bette: Then I'll head back for today. Get some rest.
Bette lets her fingertips rest against the glass chamber, mirroring Jones's hand. She almost thought she could feel her warmth.
Jones: Thank you.
Bette shakes her head, then turns to leave wordlessly.
