Jones was buried outside the Foundation, lying alone in another era, destined to disappear with the passage of time.
Since then, Bette has spent many days alone. Though, at least now, having joined the Foundation, she has endless tasks to distract her.
But in her free moments, Bette still finds herself standing in that hallway, looking out the same window where she first glimpsed the new era.
Foundation Staff Member I: Bette?
Bette: Hmm? What is it, Megan?
The two colleagues stand together while observing the changing times.
Foundation Staff Member I: What were you filming?
Megan eyes the new camera in Bette's hands, something she bought with her newfound salary.
Bette: Nothing ... just carrying it around ...
How long has she been trying to use up that roll of film? She could never find the right moment to open the lens.
Bette: I don't think inventorying a warehouse would count as riveting cinema.
Foundation Staff Member I: If your daily work is just repetitive mechanical tasks, then yeah, it's not much fun.
Megan leans back against the railing and looks up idly at the ceiling.
Their moment of peace is shattered by a ripple of conversation that surges through the hallway like a wave.
Hurried Woman: Countdown to the "Storm"! Countdown to the "Storm"!
Foundation Staff Member I: Oh?
Megan straightens up and pats Bette.
Foundation Staff Member I: We've got work to do.
Bette: What do you mean?
Foundation Staff Member I: A "Storm" countdown means that in 24 hours, a "Storm" event will occur.
Foundation Staff Member I: You should get back too. Things are going to be rough.
Megan hurriedly heads back to her station.
Bette: ...
Bette: So this new era is going to be archived like before?
Bette: Inventorying era relics ... Checking historical records ...
Accepting her pre-"Storm" preparation tasks in a daze, Bette sits in the cluttered storage room, verifying numbers and items.
Bette: A Turkish kebab machine that uses light bulbs to cook meat ...
Bette checks a box on the form.
Bette: A super mini TV ... What are they even inventing?
The work is tedious and dull, but somehow Bette's hand cannot help but shake. The "Storm" countdown has brought with it a grip on her heart.
Because far beyond the walls of the Foundation, another upheaval is coming—nothing will remain the same—not even Jones's grave.
Bette: Next ...
Bette: Bubble oxygen machine. Ha, guess it's the arcanists' turn now.
Bette: Crunchy fortune cookie shoes ... I feel like this is wasting food.
She mumbles to herself as she continues the inventory, moving on to another shelf, trying to keep her mind steady.
Bette: Dance of the Moonlit Night ... Premiered on February 23rd ...
Bette: Hm?
She glances up and takes a shocked step back. The shelf is filled with reels of film.
She has been avoiding this shelf since she started working here—avoiding Jones's death.
Bette: 1940 ... 1939 ...
Bette: So that means ... could it be ...
She found herself pulled to the section holding films from the 1930s. The reels were neatly arranged.
Bette: Ones I worked as a stunt double for ... ones Jones starred in ...
She scans over the meticulously organized reels, the thought building like a flood behind a dam.
Bette: But Jones will disappear soon. Like a fossil, buried under the layers of time beyond my reach.
Jones: "You look wonderful on camera, and you look best when you're wearing your own face."
Bette: Jones ...
She didn't star in her film. She didn't touch the film at all. When she buried Jones, she had buried that part of her in the same grave.
Bette: What should I film?
Bette: "Yes!"
Bette: "No!"
Bette: "Ah—"
Bette: ...
Memories flash through her mind. Bette eventually finds her answer.
Bette: Jones, I won't leave you alone. Not in these last moments.
Bette: Where is that script?
She rummages through her room like a bear in search of honey, scattering items all over the floor.
Bette: Where is it?!
After several more agonizing minutes, she finds her handwritten script wedged in the gap between her bed and the wall.
Bette: I know what will do.
She flips directly to the page she's after. Even during Jones's bedridden final days, she never stopped reading it; the page had visible creases from overuse.
Bette sets up the camera, checks the film and lighting, then steps in front of the lens.
Bette: Yes!
Bette: No!
Bette: Ah—
Bette: For the first time, she isn't just rehearsing. The lines are captured; they're real.
Bette: Just as they were written in the script, then Bette collapses back onto the bed.
Just three simple lines, no real acting required—a minor role in a film that would never be screened.
Bette rolls off the bed, turns off the camera, then takes the reel of film and rushes out the door.
The cemetery is empty. Those who rest here no longer need to care what is about to happen to the world.
Bette holds a delicate box with a clumsy ribbon tied in a lopsided bow.
Bette: This is for you, Jones.
She places the box on the tombstone, and then, after a time, she shakes her head and opens it.
Bette: It's our film. I finished it.
Bette: But that isn't all.
She pulls a blank film strip from her pocket, encased in a transparent glass frame. It is bleached in the sunlight, rendering it totally unusable.
Bette: I kept some for myself because I still don't know what I should be filming.
Bette: If we meet again, I'll bring it to show you.
Bette: But for now ...
The cold gravestone offers no response. It lies unspeaking, unknowingly awaiting the impending "Storm."
Bette: I finally understand now—the world won't wait for me to say "I'm ready" before it begins.
Bette: So I can't stay in the past. I'll move forward, because that's the only choice.
The "Storm" countdown alarm echoes in the air as Bette gently wipes the tombstone.
Bette: We'll meet again.
She holds her stare at the engraved letters, the carved marks flowing like rippling waves, tracing the life of Jones like a river.
Bette: And when I see you ...
Bette shakes the film strip in her hand.
Bette: I promise—it will be spectacular.
The last film of the 1930s.
