Chapter Text
Leon needs to finish his work. All eight hours of grueling shooting, an entire crew of people, the insane electricity bill…All of it will be useless if he doesn't finish in the next ten minutes.
The problem is, Leon usually performs flawlessly. He's one of the few in the industry who does all his own stunts. There isn't even a stunt cock on set to step in for the money shot. If he'd admitted an hour ago that something was off, it could've been fixed. But he's used to being perfect at everything.
Twenty people sit around the set, bored, waiting for his cue. The lights have already been dimmed to save on the bill. Jill, his scene partner, is almost falling asleep. Only the director, Chris, is watching him intently.
"Alright, let's do a facial!" Chris snaps, and Leon flinches. The set jolts out of its stupor. "Claire, get the Cetaphil! Touch up Jill's makeup and reset the lights!"
"What?" Jill props herself up on her elbows. "That wasn't in the script!"
"Jill, come on. It'll be faster this way." Chris steps onto the set while the studio rearranges itself for the new shot. Leon retreats to the side of the fake laboratory. Claire passes him a towel to cover himself. No one meet his eyes.
"I'm in, if some of the takes go on my OnlyFans." Jill tilts her face toward Claire for a touch-up. The camera operator nearly bumps into Leon with the new close-up rig, waiting for direction on where to set it. Everyone is tired, wants to go home, and everyone, surely, is disappointed in Leon.
Chris exhales sharply. A vein always pops up at his temple when he hears the word OnlyFans. "It's my mortal enemy, Jill. OnlyFans is killing my business."
"It's mutually enriching, don't be a hypocrite. You're just bitter it didn't work out for you."
Chris waves her off and walks away. Leon thinks he should follow him, but he's pinned in place by guilt. And he's not needed on set anymore anyway. He's a malfunction to be fixed, not someone whose apologies anyone wants to hear.
"I'm sorry, Jill," he says, not daring to lift his eyes.
"Don't be," she laughs. "This happens all the time. Worse things happen on set, trust me."
He knows. Of course he knows, and he doesn't dare forget it. Resident Pleasure, Chris's studio, is an exception in the industry. If this had happened to Leon at a bigger studio, he'd be fined, or by tomorrow he'd be out of work entirely. This industry doesn't forgive a man's body for failing.
He rocks back on his heels, not knowing what to do. People move around him, busy fixing his mistake, and he feels like dead weight. The guilt is so sharp that he's almost ready to start moving lights and cameras himself. Anything to stop being useless.
"My manager keeps asking about you," Jill starts from across the set. Claire pauses her makeup work to glance at Leon. "Still not interested in setting up an account?"
"No. Still not."
"Shame. You're turning down big money. Very big money. By the end of the year I could buy this studio," she jokes, lowering her voice so Chris won't hear. No one is ever going to buy Resident Pleasure from Chris, of course, out of respect alone. A veteran of the industry himself, he moved behind the camera like many do. He promised himself he wouldn't repeat the mistakes that had happened to him. People joke that Resident Pleasure is almost a family-run studio.
"You could do podcasts," Claire chimes in, smiling at him. "I'm thinking of starting one. I'm so sick of bloggers who invite performers on, stare at their tits, and ask how they did in high school."
Jill laughs. "Oh god. I've been invited to those. Why can't they come up with new questions?"
"Exactly. That's why I want to do my own. So I can show that this is a normal job."
Leon huffs out a quiet laugh. Normal job? Familiar job, maybe. Normal is a word reserved for people inside the industry, not outside it.
"By the way, Ada was on a podcast recently," Claire says, more carefully, brushing mascara onto Jill's lashes. "Did you watch it? It was huge."
This day really is trying to kill him. Leon wants to lean against the wall, then remembers it's cardboard.
"No. I didn't watch." Then he adds, "Did you?"
"Mm. Skimmed it." He understands immediately that Claire is probably sparing his feelings. All this talk about OnlyFans and podcasts is just a gentle form of pity. A reminder that Leon could make money differently. "They asked her about Raccoon City."
"Of course they fucking did. Raccoon City." He exhales, almost grateful for the flash of anger, it pulls him out of the stupor of guilt. He adjusts the towel, picks up his water. By now, Claire has already brought out the Cetaphil.
"She didn't name any names, by the way!" Claire tilts the bottle, trying to figure out the angle to Jill's face — careful not to get it in her eyes. "She just mentioned it."
"She never name me." And Leon should be grateful, but knowing Ada, this is just another manipulative move. She pretends that he doesn’t exist.
"You don't have an NDA with her?" Jill cuts in. Their industry is small, and few people want to be linked to it publicly. Success is built on collaboration, so rumors travel fast. "You don't? God, Leon, you sweet naive thing. I don't understand how you've worked here this long without a scandal. It's actually impressive."
He smiles, lost, and shrugs. The small praise feels painful against the backdrop of guilt. Chris still isn't looking at him. Leon tells himself it's just because Chris is busy.
"Come on my podcast," Claire calls. "You can control the narrative yourself."
"Thanks, but I'll pass." It's hard for him to turn Claire down. They're almost family. "How's Sherry?"
"Oh, she asked about you! But her mother is such a bitch, I'd love to call CPS on them — the kid is constantly alone. I take her in whenever I can, but still. Her parents are too busy with their jobs at Umbrella."
"God, does anyone not work for Umbrella?" Jill marvels. "Half my tips on OnlyFans come from their employees."
Claire high-fives Jill.
"Yeah! Fighting the corporation however we can," she laughs.
Chris calls out for non-essentials to clear the set, and Leon has to go. He goes through the usual procedure. Shower, removing his makeup (himself this time, Claire is needed on set to cover Jill’s phace in fake cum), signing the paperwork. He decides not to go to Chris for his payment. Too ashamed.
Someone says goodbye to him. He barely hears it. He gets in his car, turns on music, drives off immediately. The focus of the shoot drains out of him like a switch was flipped, and all the pain blooms in his body. Skin scorched from the lights, dry from makeup, eyes like sandpaper. A dull ache in his temples, and of course…another bodyparts. Typical performer aches. And this is him working without medication. He's heard too much about side effects and sometimes ambulances.
He doesn't trust himself, so he avoids silence and pauses. Sometimes exhaustion is pleasant, sedative, almost. Other times it's monotonous and torturous. The first kind quiets your thoughts, the apathy is kind. The second kind makes every thought painful and catastrophic. Today is the second kind.
"Maybe I need a shrink," he chuckles to himself, but pulls into a health food store instead. Inside it's pleasantly cold and green; everyone is dressed in expensive athleisure with healthy faces and healthy smiles. The economy in this country has started sorting supermarkets by social class. The upper class used to gather in castles. Now they gather over the berry display. Berries. How can something so small cost so much?
Leon walks through familiar aisles, picks up his familiar set of groceries. Routine is supposed to comfort, the green labels are supposed to convince him he's a normal person. Maybe even a real member of society. He always visits fancy supermarkets afters set. It helps to dull the images from the shoot. Beige, yellow, white. A blur of skin and lights and fake cum.
He turns around. He always notices when someone looks at him too long, trying to place where they've seen him. But the aisle only has two teenage girls with their mother. Pilates outfit, picking out almonds. Girls are giggling. There's no way they could know him.
"Mom, take a picture of us?" That can't be for him. Leon returns to picking out his soy protein. "Excuse me, can we get a photo? My classmates won't believe me. Someone thinks you are AI."
Leon freezes. The girl is looking directly at him, no shame, clearly addressing him. The mother already has her phone ready, and nothing about this seems to faze her. This is Los Angeles. Photos with celebrities are part of the routine.
"With me?" Leon flushes deeply and tries to figure out what exactly is happening. Sure, everyone on the internet warns about Gen Alpha, but not this much. The girl is maybe twelve, in bright clothes with a fistful of beaded bracelets. She is absolutely not his audience.
"Yes! Please!" The girl steps in next to him. "It's for TikTok!"
He stalls again and silently stands beside her. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. That this is a mistake. A prank. Or — maybe even a crime?
The camera flashes; the mother smiles at the two of them, and the girl runs off, beaming.
"Thanks, Special Guy!" she calls over her shoulder, disappearing toward the register.
The supermarket suddenly goes empty. Like everyone left for bingo.
"What the hell..." Leon mutters, not yet knowing that in the last hour, his life has changed considerably.