After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I drifted away from Brad and sought out Tobias—my former assistant, now the credited producer of [Twilight].
"Man, I've gotta say, you've done a fantastic job with this film," I greeted him with a solid, familiar hug.
And I meant it. The story still had its flaws, but this version of the film was leaps ahead of what I remembered. Bella wasn't reduced to a jittery, blank slate. Edward had more emotional range and was less brooding. And the film didn't look like it had been soaked in blue dye. The casting was strong, the direction confident, and the overall polish far exceeded my expectations.
"Thanks, Troy," Tobias said, beaming. "We're doing great right now. [Breaking Bad], our first serialized TV project, just premiered last month on AMC, and the critical response has been incredible. Now [Twilight] is tracking to become a global phenomenon, if the early forecasts are right. And best of all, the writers' strike is officially over. So we can resume work on both of them and [17 Again], the one you picked out for Jaime."
The Writers' Guild of America had been on strike for the past three months and had only just returned to work. As a result, the first season of [Breaking Bad] remained unfinished—only seven episodes had been written so far. Similarly, pre-production on both [Eclipse] and [17 Again] had stalled during the strike.
"So you're mostly free right now," I said, noting the timing.
"For about a month, yeah," Tobias replied. "After that, we'll begin filming [17 Again]."
I nodded in understanding. "Cool. I've got a new task for you. Remember when I asked you to collect manuscripts of unpublished YA novels from major publishers?"
"Yeah," he said, perking up. His eyes lit with interest. "You found something good?"
"I did," I confirmed. "I want you to acquire the adaptation rights to two series—[The Hunger Games] and [The Maze Runner]. They're still unpublished, so the authors should be more flexible with their terms. If they hesitate about selling the entire series, offer them a share of the profits in addition to an upfront buyout."
"Just like we did with [Twilight]," he said with a knowing smile.
"Exactly," I replied.
Just when I thought my day was finally winding down, and I could return to Scarlett—maybe even enjoy a relaxing soak in the hot tub with her—I spotted someone I hadn't expected to see at all.
"Alfonso?" I said, surprised. "It's such a pleasant surprise to see you here."
Alfonso Cuarón, one of my all-time favorite directors, stood before me. He had directed two of the six [Harry Potter] films so far, and other cinematic gems like [Y Tu Mamá También] and my personal favorite, [Children of Men]. I'd attended that last premiere in person, partly out of admiration for the film, but also because I'd wanted to tell him in person how much I adored tht film. We had ended up talking in detail about the craft behind it. The level of precision and passion Alfonso poured into his work had made me an even bigger fan. It was a tragedy that [Children of Men] had underperformed at the box office and was largely snubbed by major award shows, including the Oscars.
"I invited him," my dad said, stepping up beside me. "Alfonso was already in the States, and I wanted to talk to him about returning as director for [Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows]."
My eyes widened at that. I hadn't known Rian wasn't coming back.
"Rian wanted to take a break," Dad said, answering my unspoken question. "He's stepping away from [Harry Potter] and big-budget projects for a while."
Dad turned to Alfonso. "So what do you say? Now that you're done with [Children of Men], would you consider coming back?"
Alfonso looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly. "I would love to, truly. But I'm working on another personal project right now, something I've been wanting to make for a long time. It's important to me that I stay focused on that. Why not ask Chris? He always said he wanted to return one day when I was directing [Prisoner of Azkaban]."
"I asked him before you," Dad admitted. "But that won't work out either. Chris has signed on with Fox to direct another franchise: [Percy Jackson]."
That was one terrible movie adaptation. I hadn't even realized that Chris Columbus had directed it. After the brilliant work he did on [Harry Potter], how could he mess up so badly with [Percy Jackson]? It felt like they'd taken the basic premise of the book and tossed everything else out the window. As a long-time fan of the series, I was deeply disappointed by the mess that was the first movie. If Chris could helm something like that, I wasn't eager to hand him the reins for the climax of the series I cared about so much.
"Can't you shoot that film after [Deathly Hallows]?" Dad asked Alfonso, his tone bordering on pleading. "I'd really appreciate it if you came back for this one, Alfonso."
Alfonso looked torn, clearly wrestling with the decision. I decided to step in and help tip the scale.
"What movie are you working on?" I asked. "Do you have producers attached?"
"I was working on a film called [A Boy and His Shoe]," Alfonso replied. "It was set in Mexico, and I was developing it with my son, Jonas. But we ran out of funding. The producers didn't believe in the project, and no one in Hollywood wanted to back a film set in Mexico, so we shelved it. Right now, Jonas and I are writing a new script—a space-based movie. We're still working through the story, but it should be done in a few weeks."
"What if I produced it?" I offered without hesitation. "You'd have full creative control over the script, direction, everything. We'll make sure you get the budget needed for top-tier VFX. And Dad can co-produce it with me if he wants."
I nodded toward my father. He shot me an unreadable look—stone-faced, unreadable, the way only he could manage in public. I knew he'd have plenty to say about this later.
"Without even knowing what the film's about?" Alfonso asked, genuinely puzzled.
"I trust you," I said simply. "After seeing [Children of Men], I know you're a visionary. You don't just make films for the sake of it. You create art. I'll approve the budget after I read the completed script, but otherwise, yes—I'll greenlight it."
Then I leaned in slightly and added, "But on one condition. You have to direct [Deathly Hallows]. That's non-negotiable. I'd even act in your new film if you have a role for me."
Alfonso chuckled. "That's a big promise."
Of course it was.
My star power was at an all-time high. The back-to-back success of [Disturbia], [Superbad], [The Night Of], and [Half-Blood Prince] had ensured that every major studio wanted a piece of me. Film producers, TV executives, even international distributors—they were all lining up.
HBO had recently offered me a record-breaking $2.5 million per episode for any mini-series I wanted to headline. In film, the highest upfront salary I'd been offered was $40 million. Any project I signed onto became a magnet for talent, funding, and press.
So yes, promising to star in Alfonso's next film wasn't a casual offer. It was a golden ticket for him to greenlight his film on all levels.
Even if I was producing the film, I'd still need distributors. But the moment word got out that I was starring in it, they'd be lining up. That was the whole point. I wasn't just attaching my name to Alfonso's space film out of generosity—I knew exactly what project he was developing.
It was [Gravity].
And I knew the only male role in that story was an experienced astronaut—someone far older than I was. There was no way I could play that part. Offering to play a part without knowing the script would make Alfonso believe in me. It was a calculated move.
"It is big," I agreed. "So what do you say?"
Alfonso thought it over for a moment, then nodded. "I think I can work with that. I'll need a written assurance from you about you producing the space film, but otherwise, yes. I'll direct [Deathly Hallows]."
"Perfect," I said, clapping my hands together. "Before you begin pre-production for that, I think you should come with me to New Zealand. James Cameron is shooting [Avatar] directly in 3D. You should see how he's doing it. Maybe you could use the same tech for [Harry Potter]?"
"He's shooting in 3D?" Alfonso asked, surprised.
"Yup," I nodded. "The test footage he's shot with the 3D cameras looks incredible. What do you think, Dad? Wanna tag along?"
Dad considered it for a beat before nodding. "Wouldn't hurt to see what Cameron's doing. Worst case, we don't use it. But if it works, it could be game-changing."
(Break)
I shifted in the wheelchair the production team had provided. While I'd promised myself I wouldn't go full method anytime soon, not after what I did for the [The Dark Knight], I was bored out of my mind here in New Zealand.
I'd flown in just two days after the [Twilight] premiere. Live-action shooting for [Avatar] was still a week away, but the costume department needed me early for fittings. Scarlett wouldn't be joining me for a few more weeks—she was tied up with promotional events for her new film. That left me here, alone, with absolutely nothing to do.
So I improvised.
I asked the crew to deliver the exact wheelchair I'd be using for the role. And since the day it arrived, I'd stopped walking altogether. I used it everywhere went with the sole exception of the bathroom. That was just to keep my legs moving a little, even if barely.
The experience was eye-opening. The novelty wore off in hours. My arms, unaccustomed to this kind of exertion, became the only part of my body getting a real workout. Stairs turned into the enemy, and honestly? I got a little lazy. If something was in another room, I called Benji instead of wheeling myself to it.
In just a few days, I gained a whole new respect for people who live like this permanently. People in wheelchairs who still move forward with their lives, carrying the same burdens as everyone else, often more, and doing it with quiet strength. It was humbling.
After a week of that suffering, I was finally here, on set, in full costume, ready to shoot my first live-action scene for [Avatar].
"Action!"
"Grace Augustine is a legend," Joel said, his face lit with boyish enthusiasm as he pushed his glasses up. In character as Dr. Norm Spellman, he delivered the line with an eager energy that made it feel completely natural. "She's the head of the Avatar Program. She wrote the book, I mean literally the book, on Pandoran botany."
Beside him, Dileep, playing Dr. Max Patel, glanced my way with a smirk. "That's because she likes plants better than people."
I wheeled myself slowly beside them, maintaining my character's reserved presence. Watching Joel and Dileep, I couldn't help but admire the ease with which they fell into their roles. There was something about seasoned character actors; they were the backbone of scenes like this. Lead actors might get the press and prestige, but character actors were the real deal who had to nail it every time. A few bad takes from a lead might be forgiven. But supporting roles? They were replaceable. Always.
"Here she is, Cinderella back from the ball," Dileep muttered under his breath, just as Sigourney Weaver stepped into frame.
Then, turning to Joel and me, he said more formally, "Grace, I'd like you to meet Norm Spellman and Jake Sully."
"Norm," Sigourney said as she removed her glasses. A trail of smoke drifted upward from the cigarette she'd been holding, curling around her head as she looked Joel up and down. "I've heard good things. How's your Na'vi?"
And just like that, she and Joel slipped into a rapid exchange in the Na'vi language. I looked away, feigning disinterest, but really, I was just acting bored. My character didn't understand a single word of the strange language.
"Grace," Dileep interjected before the conversation went on too long. "This is Jake Sully."
"Ma'am," I said from my chair, offering a polite handshake. She didn't even take a step toward me.
"Yeah, yeah, I know who you are," she snapped. "And I don't need a kid like you. I need your father, the PhD who trained for five years for this mission."
"He's dead," I said coldly. "Your people made sure of that, didn't they?"
Dileep placed a hand on my shoulder. "It was an accident, Jake."
I shook him off. "Look, I know I'm an inconvenience to everyone here. But I'm not here to waste your time. I'm here because my father loved this project. He talked about it all the time when he called home. I just don't want his work to go to waste just because I'm bitter."
Sigourney stared at me for a second longer than necessary, clearly debating whether to push back. But instead of arguing, she switched gears.
"How much lab training have you had?" she asked, her voice clipped.
"I dissected a frog once in Biology," I said, trying to sound helpful.
She narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "You see?" she barked, turning toward Dileep. "They're trying to screw us. Sending kids for this mission."
Then she spun on her heel and marched out.
"This is such bullshit!" she shouted some more complaints as she stormed off the soundstage, cursing the military's decision to assign me to the program.
Dileep sighed. "Here. Tomorrow. 0800. Try to sound out the big words."
"That won't make me twenty years older," I muttered, the irritation creeping into my voice.
Dileep just exhaled and walked away without another word, like everyone else seemed to be doing today.
"Cut!" Jim called out abruptly. "Great job, everyone."
Then his eyes settled on me.
"Troy, I'm not entirely satisfied with your take. Can you be a little more… vulnerable? I need more anger, but not bratty anger. Not a teenager throwing a fit. It has to feel justified, as if the military really wronged him."
I nodded silently, already turning the note over in my head. A lot had changed in this version of [Avatar]. Originally, it was a straightforward film, where characters mostly served the plot. But I'd suggested some tweaks to Jim while he was reworking the script to accommodate a younger Jake Sully. To his credit, he had actually implemented many of them. Lines were more thought out, and character motivations were clearer. Jake's resentment toward the science team, for example, now had personal weight: his father had died in a training accident, something that gave the role a pulse it previously lacked.
Even Jake and Neytiri's dynamic had evolved. The rewritten scenes gave their relationship more space to breathe, more humanity.
"Okay, let's go again," I said, giving Jim a thumbs-up.
Jim turned, this time towards one of the cameramen. "I don't know what you smoked before you came here today, but the angle on that shot was completely fucked up. Listen carefully before you roll. Understand?"
The cameraman gave a terse nod. The Director of Photography quickly stepped in to adjust the setup as Jim re-explained the shot.
I'd noticed something peculiar about Jim Cameron—he never yelled at me. Even when I messed up, even when the scene clearly wasn't working, he always kept his tone level and professional. That wasn't the case with others. His temper could light up a room if someone dropped the ball.
I figured it had to do with my position. Either financially or professionally. It sounded ugly, even a little unfair, but what could I do? Ask him to yell at me like everyone else? That would only make things worse.
I wasn't a producer here, which meant I couldn't shape how things ran on set. And undermining Jim in front of the crew would only add friction we couldn't afford. Best to leave that one alone. Things were clearly working out, so why stir the pot needlessly?
More than anything, I was excited about Scarlett's visit here tomorrow. If only I had known what her presence would mean for me…
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