December 1927.
Snow swept across Park Avenue, blurring the bright gold letters of the Waldorf Astoria into a haze of white. Flurries slapped against the tall glass windows and melted into thin, glistening streams that traced down the panes like veins of mercury.
Inside the hotel's private dining room, warmth and wealth wrapped around everything — the hum of central heating, the heavy scent of roasted beef, and the full-bodied perfume of aged Bordeaux.
Louis B. Mayer's Oxford shoes sank noiselessly into the thick Persian carpet as he crossed the room. That familiar, commanding smile — equal parts charm and threat — rested on his lips.
Then his eyes stopped on the small, silver film reel lying beside a basket of steaming bread rolls.
Pioneer Optics — Three-Color Band Test Film.
The canister gleamed beneath the chandelier, scattering tiny rainbows across the white tablecloth. For the briefest second, Mayer felt something cold tighten around his throat. He reached up, tugging once at his velvet tie.
The only sound in the room was the delicate rhythm of silver utensils cutting into steak. Red juices seeped from the meat and pooled across the gold-rimmed plate like slow-moving ink.
Mayer chewed deliberately, every gesture rehearsed and perfect. When he finally swallowed, he lifted a white linen napkin and dabbed at his mouth before speaking.
"Pioneer Optics' work," he began smoothly, setting the napkin aside, "is… impressive."
He tapped the edge of his plate with the tip of his knife, producing a sharp metallic clink.
"Gentlemen, here's what I propose. We establish a new joint venture — MGM-Pioneer Laboratories. You'll contribute your patents and hold thirty percent. MGM invests seven hundred thousand dollars for seventy percent and takes charge of all commercial applications."
He turned first to Henry James Hill, the Wall Street investor seated opposite him, then to the quiet young man beside him — Shane Cassidy, just seventeen, with the reserved poise of someone far older.
"This way," Mayer continued, "your technology reaches a global audience, and MGM ensures its success."
His gaze sharpened suddenly, fixing on Shane.
"Before we move forward, though — how much overlap is there between your Three-Color Band system and Technicolor's patents? MGM can't risk years of litigation."
Shane's calm gray eyes lifted from his plate.
"Mr. Mayer, we've retained the best patent attorneys in New York. Every search has been completed. But regarding your offer — the thirty-percent share in the structure you propose—"
Mayer's soft chuckle cut him off. He leaned forward, folding the napkin once more.
"Henry, you've brought me a prodigy," he said, turning toward Hill with calculated warmth. "And believe me, I don't say that often."
The firelight flickered against the crystal stemware as Mayer swirled his glass, the amber liquid rippling gently.
"Because of that," he went on, "I'm prepared to make an exception. A better offer. MGM invests half a million — sixty percent equity. You retain forty, and full control over the core technology. That's the best deal innovators ever get in this town."
Henry tilted his whiskey glass, the ice clinking lazily inside. After a long pause, he gave a dry, quiet laugh — the kind of sound only a Wall Street man could make.
"Louis," he said, his voice smooth and cool, "do you think this is a movie set? You don't buy a revolution like you buy extras for ten bucks a day."
He reached for his briefcase, pulled out a thick document, and slid it across the table. The paper glided to a stop beside Mayer's plate.
It was a valuation report — stamped with Goldman & Sachs — and the figure at the top shimmered in the candlelight: $8,200,000.
Mayer's practiced smile faltered for half a breath before it returned, polished and cold. He dabbed his mouth again with the napkin — though there was nothing to clean.
"I came here in good faith," he said evenly, leaning in with quiet authority. "Six hundred thousand. Final offer. The rest stands."
For a moment, silence. Then Shane lifted his head fully, his youthful face unreadable.
"Mr. Mayer," he said softly, "you call that sincerity? You're trying to buy the entire future of color cinema for less than the price of a Manhattan penthouse."
The older man's fingers tightened slightly around the rim of his glass. His eyes flicked toward the snow outside.
"There's a long-standing agreement between MGM and Technicolor," he said, his tone calm but pointed. "And as far as I know… your Three-Color Band system hasn't yet received official patent authorization, has it?"
The air seemed to still. Even the fireplace crackled quieter, the sound of the storm outside pressing closer to the glass.
A waiter approached to clear dessert; a silver fork slipped from the plate and landed softly in the carpet — a sharp, metallic echo in the silence.
Mayer's gaze drifted toward The Wall Street Journal folded beside him. The front-page headline blazed beneath the chandelier's glow:
"A New Era of Color Film Dawns."
He looked to the brass mantel clock — 9:15 sharp.
The negotiation ended at that exact moment.
December 17, 1927 – Technicolor Research Lab, Los Angeles
Fluorescent lights buzzed above like angry hornets, their cold white glare bleaching every face in the room.
Dr. Daniel F. Comstock, chief engineer, rubbed his temples hard enough to leave marks. On the screen before him, the test footage from Pioneer Optics burst with impossible color — a blonde woman in a blue silk dress, standing among roses so red they looked alive.
"This… this can't be," Comstock whispered, stepping closer until the glow painted his trembling hands. "No color bleed, no gamma break… not a single line of interference. How—?"
The projector's gears clicked, the looping film mocking him with every turn.
Louis Mayer stood nearby, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, ash dangling perilously close to falling. His voice came low and even — colder than the winter outside.
"Last year, Daniel, your department's final report called the Three-Color Band theory 'fatally flawed and commercially unviable.' Those were your exact words."
The ash finally broke and dropped, scattering across the metal table like gray snow.
"That was true under the old optical system!" Comstock shouted, slamming the projector. The machine rattled violently. "Unless that damned Cassidy discovered an entirely new dye-transfer process! Or—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his voice strangled. In the corner stood Edwin Foster, Technicolor's corporate counsel, silent and expressionless.
"The patents," Comstock rasped. "What's the search say?"
Without a word, Foster slid a stack of documents across the bench. The paper scraped harshly against the steel.
At the top, in bold black print:
US Patent 3,654,327 – Applicant: Shane D. Cassidy / Pioneer Optics.
A paragraph circled in red read:
"By introducing a nonlinear gamma compensation algorithm (see Appendix Z-137)…"
Comstock's face drained of color. "Z-137? That was the Air Force's classified research from 1922 — how the hell did he—"
Mayer froze, the cigar halfway to his lips.
Foster spoke finally, voice steady.
"Our lawyers say the Z-137 they're using is no longer the same matrix — legally distinct. But the irony, gentlemen…" He tapped another folder. "Their so-called breakthrough builds directly upon fifteen of Technicolor's correction patents from 1922 through 1925."
At the bottom of the page was Pioneer Optics' logo — a pair of wings encircling a prism — and beneath it, the name:
Chief Technology Officer: Reinhardt L. Krause.
Technicolor's president, Herbert Kalmus, slammed his fist onto the table.
"Enough! Tomorrow morning we file for an injunction in federal court. Patent infringement — and antitrust under the Sherman Act. We'll bury them before this spreads."
Outside the reinforced glass, Los Angeles lay under rare, heavy snow — a blurred chaos of light and motion.
Mayer exhaled slowly. The smoke curled upward in a perfect ring, drifting beneath the sterile fluorescent light before dissolving into nothing — like power itself, fleeting and devoured by the next storm.