Words: Approx. 2.5k
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The glowing s shimmered, and I tapped the option: [Unlimited Money].
The moment I made my choice, the s flickered, and a new prompt appeared.
[Unlimited Money activated. Withdraw funds at will. Discretion advised. Misma may result in plications. Suggested: Establish a credible source of ine.]
A small box popped up beh the text, beled [Withdraw], with a blinking cursor. Beh that was a warning:
"High-value transas fgged for review. Create a legitimate front to avoid legal scrutiny."
I blinked, staring at the message. Of course, nothing in life—or the afterlife, apparently—was truly free. Even infinite wealth came with strings attached. My first instinct was to ugh at the absurdity of it all. Who would've thought that even in a new life, I'd have to deal with taxes? But the advice made sense. Even with infinite resources, the world had its watchdogs. The IRS didn't take kindly to random stru workers suddenly driving Ferraris.
"Alright, System," I said under my breath, "you wi's do this your way."
Another s materialized, suggestions for credible ine sources. Each option glowed faintly, apanied by short descriptions:
[Business Owner: Start a small, manageable business and grow over time.]
[Freencer: Moize skills in whatever job you want.]
[Ior: Use funds to buy stocks, real estate, or other assets.]
[Eainer: Capitalize oive talents—music, ag, or writing.]
Oion caught my eye almost immediately: [Eainer: Writing.]
It wasn't just the practicality of the idea. It was the opportunity to use something from my past life. If the i was as unfamiliar as I suspected, I could tap into the vast trove of stories and ideas from my previous world. It was the perfebination of creativity and strategy.
"Scriptwriting, huh?" I said, grinning to myself.
I rushed home, my earlier exhaustion fotten. The apartment was still a disaster, but the glimmer of opportunity made it feel less suffog. I dug out the dusty ptop buried under old clothes and tur on. The s flickered to life with an irritating hum, but the e to the i was surprisingly stable.
What I found blew my mind.
The movies, TV shows, and cultural phenomena I had known did. No Star Wars, no Marvel, no Breaking Bad. Even the cssics were absent... The Godfather, Titanic, Pulp Fi. But the celebrities were the same. Tom Hanks, Leonardo DiCaprio, Meryl Streep, they all existed, but their filmographies were barren pared to what I remembered.
"Bingo!" I whispered, my fingers already itg to type.
I had the upper hand now. With my memories of groundbreaking stories, I could create a backlog of spys and scripts that would revolutiohe industry. Every blockbuster, every award-winning drama, every indie masterpieces... I could write them all.
I opened a bnk dot and started typing. The first story that came to mind was a crowd-pleaser: Forrest Gump. A heartwarming tale with universal appeal. Nostalgia filled me as I wrote, the words flowing effortlessly. This was it. My golden ticket.
Hours passed in a blur. By the time I fihe draft, the sun had set, and my body was screaming for rest. But I couldn't stop now. I needed a pn to break into the industry.
The System chimed in as if reading my thoughts:
[To establish credibility, begin by submitting to small petitions or freeforms. Build a reputation before targeting major studios.]
I nodded. Made sense. I couldn't just waltz into Warner Bros. and toss them a script. I o build a name first. A quick searline led me to freeforms and petitions for aspiring writers. The opportunities were endless, but one caught my eye: a scriptwriting test hosted by a local produ house. The prize was modest—10,000 and a ce to pitch to producers but it was a start.
I hit "submit" on my newly polished Forrest Gump script and sat back, a satisfied grin on my face.
"Here's to the first step," I said, raising an imaginary toast to myself.
The days that followed were kinda exhausting. By day, I ehe grueling bor of the stru site. The rhythm of pstering walls, hauling bricks, and dodging the foreman's gruff gres became muscle memory. The work was mind-numbing, but it served its purpose: it kept up appearances. Nobody would suspect a struggling stru worker of moonlighting as a scriptwriting prodigy.
At night, my apartment transformed into a creative workshop. Fueled by instant noodles and newfound ambition, I poured my energy into writing. With the System's unlimited funds, I withdrew just enough to pay my overdue rent and stock the fridge with real food, not moldy leftovers or stale sandwiches, but actual groceries. It was the first time ihat I'd eaten something that didn't make me gag.
I kept my withdrawals modest, careful not to raise suspi. A few hundred dolrs here and there were enough to keep the ndlord off my bad give me a sembnce of stability. I even splurged on a sedhand ergonomic chair and a cheap but funal desk. No more hung over the ptop otress. Oh, I also upgraded my ptop to a cheap and affordable one.
Between shifts at the site, I submitted scripts to every petition, ptform, and freence gig I could find. The System's advice proved invaluable, nudgioward lesser-known tests where the petition wasn't as fierce. My first win came faster than I expected: a short script called Life in a Day, inspired by the mu profouy of everyday life, snagged a 500 prize and an honorable mention.
It wasn't just about the mohough. The reition was a fidence boost, a remihat my memories and creativity could be valuable in this new world. Each success built o. The small produ house that hosted the petition reached out with i in seeing more of my work, and freence ts began to trickle in.
I didn't limit myself to scripts. Armed with my knowledge of movies, shows, and even viral trends from my past life, I posted as much as possible and posted on almost all known ptforms. My pseudonym, "A. Wilson," began to circute in local writing circles.
Despite my growing success, I kept my stru job. It was a hassle, but it provided a vital cover story. I wasn't about to take unnecessary risks. As far as anyone knew, I was just a hard-w kid trying to make ends meet.
"Wilson, you're slow today," the foreman barked oernoon as I hauled a load of bricks. "Move it or lose it!"
I gritted my teeth and increased my speed. The pain was brutal on the body, but it was something that reminded me of what I was w towards stantly. With each ag muscle, I was even more determio escape this life.
By the end of every day, I could hardly think. But once I reached my apartment, my mind sprang to attention. Scripts flowed: edies, dramas, thrillers. Some scripts were passion projects, others were purely for profit, but eae brought me closer to my goal.
A month after I had submitted my Forrest Gump script, I received an email that nearly made me drop my coffee:
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Subject: gratutions!
From: Brightstar Studios
Dear A. Wilson,
We are thrilled to inform you that your script has beeed as one of the top entries in our petition. You are io pitch your work to our producers at an exclusive eve month. Please firm your attenda your earliest venience.
Warm regards,
The Brightstar Team
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My heart pounded as I reread the email. This was it... the ce I'd been waiting for. Winning the petition had been a long shot, but getting io pitch my script to actual producers? That was the stuff of dreams.
I firmed immediately, my firembling with excitement. The pitch session was a month away, giving me just enough time to polish my presentation and prepare for the opportunity of a lifetime.
...
The days before the big presentatio like a never-ending rush of getting ready. After I got my final paycheck from the stru job, I didn't look back. I was finished carrying bricks and dealing with the boss's harsh ands. The money I earned was enough to pay for my basieeds for a month, which gave me the time and space I really o focus pletely on the presentation.
I worked hard every day to make my pitch perfect. I practiced in front of the mirror, improving how I spoke until I felt fident and fortable. I practiced every word, every pause, and every ge in my voice. I wao sound like I truly belonged in the room with Brightstar's producers—not just like someone who got lucky with a good script.
My researed the rest of my time. I dove deep inthtstar Studios, memorizing their past projects, their style, their successes and failures. If I was going to pitch to them, I o show that I uood their brand and how my script fit into their vision. This wasn't just about selling a story; it was about selling myself as a reliable, creative professional.
Then there was the script. Forrest Gump was already i shape, but I went over it carefully once more, adjusting the versations, making the ses more cise, and making sure every part stood out. I didn't want the producers to see a single fw. And then I had to maintain my oearance. I bought a suit for the event. It wasn't that expensive, but good enough for me. Now, I won't look like some broke guy.
The day of the pitch arrived soohan I expected. I woke up early. Truth be told I was excited and nervous as hell. But fuck it! I spped my cheeks. No time to feel nervous. It's time to ge my life. I put my suit on a my apartment.
The event was held at a big building in NY. I went inside and looked around. Other testants were sitting in the lobby while some were walking around, clutg folders and tablets, their faces a mix of determination and ay. I checked in at the front desk and was given a badge with my name or rather, my pseudonym: "A. Wilson."
The waiting area was full of nervous people. Every now and then, someone was called into the meeting room, and I could hear bits of their presentations through the slightly open doors. Some sounded fident, while others struggled, but eae reminded me of how important this was. When my name was finally called, my heart ounding so hard it felt like it might jump out of my chest.
The feren acious but intimidating. A long table stretched before me, occupied by a panel of producers. Their expressied from ral to mildly curious, their sharp eyes sing my every move. I took a deep breath, walked to the front, and began my presentation.
"Good afternoon," I said, trying to sound as fident as possible. "I'm Alex Wilson, and I'm here to talk about Forrest Gump, a story about a man whose kindness and positive attitude ge the lives of everyone around him."
I started my presentation, moving through the story points with energy and care. I highlighted the big ideas, the feelings it would stir, and how the story would stay relevant over time. As I talked, I kept an eye on their reas. A raised eyebrow here, a nod there... it wasn't much, but it made me think I was keeping them ied.
When I fihere was a brief pause. One of the producers, a woman with a strong presend a serious look, leaned forward.
"This is... pelling," she said, her voice thoughtful. "The character is unique, and the story has heart. But tell me, why do you think this script will resonate in today's market?"
I had anticipated this question. "The heart of Forrest Gump is something that will always matter," I said. "In a world that seems more ive and distrustful, people want stories that show how important it is to be kind and never give up. Forrest's story proves that even someone who seems ordinary make a big differen the world."
She nodded, and the others quietly agreed. More questions came up about the pag of the story, the characters, and who might watch it and I did my best to answer eae, using what I knew about storytelling and movies. By the time the meeting ended, I felt tired but excited.
The main producer stood up and held out her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson. We'll tact you soon."
I shook her hand, trying to stay calm as I walked out of the room. Once I was in the hallway, I let out a shaky breath. It was over. All the hard work, all the te nights, had brought me to this point. Now, all I could do was wait.
The few days were excruciating. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart would leap, only to sink when it am call or a random notification. I threw myself into work to keep my mind occupied. A zombie thriller script- Shawn of the Dead or maybe Godfather... I began to write to avoid obsessing over the producers' decision. Surprisingly, I was able to write it as if... How to say it? Natural... I guess the System is helping me by clearing my thoughts. Well, lucky me.
Ohird day, just as I was about to dive into another writing session, my ph. The caller ID was unfamiliar, but my gut told me this was it. I grabbed the phone, my hands trembling.
"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound calm.
"Mr. Wilson?" a familiar voice asked. It was the lead producer frhtstar Studios. "This is Vanessa Harper. I wao personally inform you that we're very impressed with your script."
I gripped the edge of my desk, my heart rag. "Thank you, Ms. Harper. That means a lot."
"We'd like to move forward," she tinued. "We're you a deal to produce Forrest Gump. There's a lot to discuss, including revisions and your involvement in the process. Are you avaible to meet with us week to finalize the details?"
"Yes! Absolutely, I'm avaible," I said, barely able to tain my excitement.
"Excellent. I'll have my assistant email you the specifics. gratutions, Mr. Wilson. Wele thtstar Studios."
The call ended, and I stared at my phohe words repying in my head. They wanted Forrest Gump. My script. My story... Fine, not mine. But hey, in this reality it's mine, right? Hehe. I don't care what anyone says or thinks. And before I k, I was ughing like a madman.
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Support link: .patr eon./UnknownMaster
[10 advance chs] [3 chs/week] [All chs avaible for all tiers]
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AN: 2 more C with fast-paced and time skips. Then starting Ch: 6, we will see 2 Broke Girls.
