The elation from the sudden influx of cash lasted for three glorious days. The set of "Aethelgard's Echo" was buzzing with renewed energy.
Crew members who had been packing their toolkits were now storyboarding complex sequences. Alistair Finch walked with a bounce in his step, his face alight with creative passion.
Xavier Thorne, though still outwardly composed, felt a profound sense of relief. The weight that had been crushing his chest had lifted, replaced by a quiet, determined focus.
He poured all his energy into his character, a renegade pilot navigating a galaxy torn by war, finding parallels in the character's resilience and his own recent professional reprieve.
They were scheduled to begin filming at the abandoned Hyperion Power Plant, a sprawling brutalist structure on the outskirts of the city that was the perfect stand-in for a desolate alien fortress. The permits had been secured months in advance.
It was the cornerstone of their shooting schedule. On the morning of the shoot, as the first trucks began to roll out, Alistair's phone rang.
It was the city film commissioner's office. The voice on the other end was apologetic but firm. "There's been an issue with the environmental impact report for the Hyperion site,"
the clerk said. "A complaint was filed by a local citizens' group. All permits for filming at that location have been indefinitely revoked pending a full review."
Alistair's blood ran cold. "What citizens' group? We had full clearance! A review could take months!"
"The 'Concerned Citizens for Urban Preservation'," the clerk read off the form. "I'm sorry, Mr. Finch. Our hands are tied."
Alistair slammed the phone down. "Damian Blackwood," he spat. The name of the citizens' group was so blandly generic it screamed 'shell organization'.
Blackwood hadn't been able to kill the project with money, so now he was using bureaucracy, a death by a thousand paper cuts.
Despair washed over the set like a physical wave. The crew stood in stunned silence.
Xavier, in full costume, clenched his jaw. The whiplash from hope to hopelessness was nauseating.
Every day they were delayed cost them tens of thousands of dollars, money even their mysterious benefactor couldn't endlessly supply.
Leila Vance was in a board meeting, dissecting a quarterly earnings report with precision, when a notification pinged on her tablet.
It was from the private investigator she had tasked with monitoring all things related to "Aethelgard's Echo."
The message was simple: `Filming permit for Hyperion Plant revoked.
Source: Shell group linked to Blackwood's cousin.`
Leila didn't miss a beat in her presentation. "…and if we reallocate the R&D budget from Project Alpha to Project IL , we can accelerate the launch timeline by six months,"
she continued smoothly. But inside, her mind was already moving. Blackwood was predictable. Petty. This was a move she had anticipated.
She excused herself for a moment, stepping into her private anteroom. She scrolled through her contacts, past senators and tech billionaires, until she found the name she was looking for: 'Robert Chen - Mayor's Office'.
She had made a significant donation to the mayor's pet project, a city-wide tech literacy program, a year ago. It was time to call in the favor.
"Leila! To what do I owe the pleasure?" the mayor's chief of staff answered warmly.
"Robert, I need a small issue resolved," Leila said, her tone light but with an underlying edge of steel.
"There's a film production, 'Aethelgard's Echo,' that just had its permit for the Hyperion Plant pulled over a frivolous complaint from a group called 'Concerned Citizens for Urban Preservation'."
There was a pause, then the sound of typing. "Ah, yes. I see it. Filed this morning."
"I'm sure you'll find," Leila continued, "that this group was incorporated yesterday and has no actual members. And that the complaint is baseless. The production is a significant source of local jobs and revenue. It would be a shame for the city to lose it over a piece of malicious paperwork. A real shame."
She used the exact same words Blackwood had used at the gala, savoring the irony.
Robert Chen was no fool. He understood the unspoken language of power. "I see. Let me look into this personally, Leila. I'm sure it's just a clerical error that can be rectified immediately."
"I was sure you'd see it that way," Leila said.
"Thank you, Robert."
She hung up and walked back into her board meeting. The entire exchange had taken less than ninety seconds.
An hour later, as Alistair Finch was frantically trying to scout new locations, his phone rang again. It was the film commissioner herself this time, her voice flustered and profusely apologetic. "Mr. Finch, there has been a terrible misunderstanding.
A junior clerk filed the wrong paperwork. Your permit was never in jeopardy. In fact, the mayor's office has personally called to express their enthusiasm for your project and has offered a police escort to facilitate your equipment transport.
Please accept our deepest apologies for the confusion."
Alistair stood speechless, the phone pressed to his ear. On the other side of the set, Xavier's agent relayed the news to him.
Xavier looked up at the sky, a frown creasing his brow. First the money, now this. It wasn't luck. It was too precise, too powerful. It felt like the hand of God.
Or something very much like it. He didn't know who this guardian angel was, but they were playing chess while everyone else was playing checker.