Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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****

”Well?”

”Grandpa.” Marvin sank into the chair, feeling the leather conform to his shoulders. ”Did you watch it?”

A laugh rumbled through the line—deep, textured, the sound of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to command a room.

”I did. Is this another performance? Calling to admire yourself?”

”I wouldn’t call it that.”

”No?”

”I merely granted you the privilege of witnessing something that shouldn’t exist.”

Irving chuckled. ”The confidence of youth.”

”No.” Marvin’s voice remained level, almost gentle. ”The confidence of accuracy.”

”Hah.”

Static whispered between them, the secure line clicking softly as protocols shifted. Then Irving spoke again, and the amusement had drained from his tone.

”I’ll admit... even after everything you’ve accomplished, I wasn’t prepared for that.”

”Neither was the camera director.”

”They’ve replayed that horseback stunt on every network for a week. Seven moving targets, one after another...” Irving exhaled slowly. ”Most people assume it’s digital manipulation.”

”It isn’t.”

”I know.”

Marvin could picture his grandfather in the penthouse, staring out at the city that had been bent, shaped, and financed by three generations of Meyers influence. Railroads. Steel. Property. Governments had risen and fallen while the family accumulated quiet power, the kind that didn’t announce itself in headlines but manifested in boardrooms and back rooms where decisions became reality.

”I had one of my security consultants analyze it frame by frame,” Irving continued. ”No cuts. No compositing. No wires.”

”It was Thursday afternoon. I was bored.”

Irving laughed despite himself, the sound warm and sudden. ”There it is. That impossible arrogance.”

”It isn’t arrogance.”

”What then?”

”Perspective.”

Silence settled again, heavier now. Outside, the mist thickened against the tall windows, obscuring the gardens.

”I’ve funded Olympic programs for forty years,” Irving said quietly. ”Military charities. Conservation foundations. I’ve had dinner with men who designed the weapons that won wars, and with athletes who devoted twenty years to drawing a single bow.” He paused. ”I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that.”

Marvin said nothing.

”Which brings us,” Irving continued, ”to why you’re really calling.”

Marvin shifted, the leather creaking beneath him. ”I am sure now I want to do it.”

”I assumed.”

”Not in venues where the outcome is negotiated in advance.”

The line grew quiet. When Irving spoke again, his voice had dropped to something almost grave.

”...You’re serious.”

”I don’t joke about trajectory.”

”You understand what you’re asking. You’ve spent three years building a mythology—America’s boy genius, the prodigy who succeeds at everything he touches. The films, the songs, the books, the companies, the interviews, the prophecies. You’ve constructed a halo, Marvin. A perfect, luminous halo that keeps the public mesmerized.”

”I know.”

”And now you want to place that halo in a venue where it can be shattered.”

”If it can break,” Marvin said, ”then it was never worth wearing.”

Irving was silent for nearly half a minute. When he resumed, his tone carried the weight of 150 years of accumulated influence, the careful calculus of a family that had learned to wield power without ostentation.

”Our family has been part of this country’s establishment since your great-great-grandfather laid rail across the territories. I still have relationships in places most people don’t know exist. I can make calls. I can persuade certain committees to look at footage they would otherwise ignore.” He paused. ”But understand this—I can get someone to watch. I cannot make them select you.”

”I wouldn’t ask you to.”

”They’ll test you in ways that have nothing to do with your name or your net worth. They’ll want to see if the celebrity can survive without his audience. If you stumble—when you stumble, because everyone stumbles—the same columnists who call you a genius today will spend months dissecting your failure. They’ll say the boy wonder finally found something he couldn’t purchase. They’ll enjoy it, Marvin. They’ll enjoy it immensely.”

”Let them.”

Irving laughed softly, a sound of resignation and something else—pride, perhaps, or recognition.

”Your mother had that same stubbornness,” he said.

”I’ve heard.”

”No.” Irving’s voice grew warmer. ”You’re worse.”

Another pause, filled with the distant click of the secure line and the rain’s soft percussion against glass.

”So,” Irving finally said. ”What exactly do you need?”

”I need a door opened.”

”I can’t open every door.”

”I don’t need every door. Only one.”

”The selection process for Sydney is—” Irving caught himself, the name slipping out before he could restrain it. He continued smoothly, ”—is notoriously insulated. The trials are closed. Invitation only. They don’t care about Hollywood grosses or magazine covers.”

”Then they’ll care about the archery.”

”They might. If they see it.”

”That’s all I’m asking.”

Irving stood, Marvin could tell—the change in acoustics, the subtle shift as the old man moved to the window overlooking the city. ”You realize that if this works—if I make these calls and arrange these viewings—you’re stepping onto a stage where reputation buys remarkably little. No director will yell ’cut.’ No editor will fix the lighting. No publicist will spin a missed target into a heroic narrative.”

”I know.”

”And you’re prepared to risk the myth? The perfect, untouchable image you’ve constructed?”

Marvin’s gaze settled on the compound bow hanging quietly on the wall. It wasn’t the weapon that held his attention. It was the people.

Months earlier, while watching an NBA game with his uncles, something had caught his eye that had nothing to do with basketball. Twenty thousand fans packed into an arena had moved as one—cheering, chanting, singing, celebrating every play with an intensity that felt almost tangible. Beyond the arena, millions more were watching from their living rooms, pouring the same excitement through television screens.

He had felt it. Not the noise. The emotion.

Joy. Anticipation. Admiration. Envy. Obsession. Even resentment. Countless hearts focused on a single moment, a single stage, a handful of people.

It had planted a question in his mind. What would happen if those emotions were directed at him instead?

And after experiencing growth in his mana pool, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought since.

There were stages in this world far larger than a packed basketball arena. Places where hundreds of millions fixed their eyes on the same target at the same time.

If his theory was correct...

Marvin’s lips curled into a faint smile.

For this...

...he wouldn’t need to do very much at all.

Marvin reached up and lifted the bow from its mount, turning it slowly in his hands.

The more he thought about it, the more the connections multiplied. Peter. The leopard incident. Archery.

His gaze lingered on the polished limbs of the bow.

If everything unfolded the way he envisioned, this wouldn’t just make him more popular. It would strengthen everything attached to his name.

His thoughts drifted to Peter Jackson’s dream project. An Elven prince. A master archer.

A character whose identity revolved around impossible precision with a bow.

Marvin’s lips curled upward. The public loved authenticity. They wanted to believe the hero on screen could actually do what they were watching.

If, by the time those films reached cinemas, he had already become known worldwide for extraordinary archery, audiences would carry that reputation into the theater with them. Every draw of the bow, every impossible shot, every fluid movement would feel just a little more believable.

The illusion would reinforce reality. Reality would reinforce the illusion.

Interviewers would ask about his training. Entertainment reporters would revisit old footage. Sports magazines would write about the actor who had reached the pinnacle of competitive archery before stepping onto one of the biggest fantasy productions ever made.

The headlines would practically write themselves.

One achievement feeding another. One audience becoming two.

One name spreading through entirely different worlds until, eventually, people stopped separating them.

Marvin smiled to himself.

Interesting.

There were far more uses for a bow than simply putting an arrow into the center of a target. ”I’m prepared to find out if it’s real.”

Irving sighed, the sound of a man who had seen empires built and destroyed, who recognized the particular hunger in his grandson’s voice—the hunger not for victory, but for verification.

”Very well.” The words carried the finality of old money committing its resources. ”I’ll contact some friends. People who still remember when the Games meant something beyond television contracts. I can arrange for the right eyes to see what you’ve shown me. After that...” He let the sentence hang.

”They’ll judge me on the merit of the shot,” Marvin finished.

”They will.”

”Good.”

Irving laughed again, richer this time. ”God help them. They’re about to discover that the arrogant movie star wasn’t exaggerating.”

Marvin’s smile widened. ”I rarely do.”

”...Fine. I’ll make the calls tonight.”

”Thank you, Grandpa.”

”Don’t thank me yet.” Irving’s voice carried a premonition of chaos, of headlines yet unwritten. ”Because if this works—if they let you through that door, if you stand among those athletes in September—the entire country is going to lose its collective mind.”

”Let them.”

”You’re sure?”

Marvin looked out at the mist, the gardens slowly fading into grey. His thoughts drifted to seven perfect bullseyes, and to the soft, familiar thunk of an arrow burying itself in the center of the target.

”I’m sure.”

”Then I’ll see what can be done.” Irving paused. ”One condition.”

”Name it.”

”When you stand there—whatever happens—you remember who you are. Not the actor. Not the billionaire. The archer.”

”I remember everything, Grandpa. That’s rather the point.”

The line clicked dead.

Marvin set the phone on the desk and reached for the bow hanging on the wall. His fingers closed around the grip, familiar and reassuring. Outside, the morning mist was beginning to lift..

Somewhere across the ocean, decisions were already being made. Names would be added to lists. Others would quietly disappear.

Marvin rolled the bow once in his hand.

....

...

..

.

Next, Marvin dialed Tom Cruise.

”Tom, it’s Marvin.”

”Hey, Marvin. What’s up?”

”The final soundtrack for *The Others* has been delivered to the studio.”

”That’s great.”

”I’ve been trying to reach Harvey, but he’s impossible to find.”

Tom laughed. ”That doesn’t surprise me.”

”If you run into him,” Marvin continued, ”tell him to answer his phone. I need him to sign the approvals before the weekend. I’d rather not delay post-production over paperwork.”

”I’ll track him down,” Tom said. ”He’ll get the message.”

”Thanks. I appreciate it.”

....

...

..

.

A few minutes later, Marvin made another call.

”John, it’s Marvin.”

”Marvin! Good timing.”

”The final soundtrack for *Hide and Seek* should’ve reached the editing bay by now.”

”It did,” John replied. ”We’ve already started going through it.”

”Good.”

There was a brief pause.

”We’ve found a couple of places that could use another dubbing pass,” John continued. ”Mostly for ambient silence. A few scenes will breathe better if we clean up the background sound.”

Marvin nodded, already making a mental note. ”Alright. Mark every scene that needs work.”

”I’ve already made a list.”

”Perfect.”

”When do you think you can get back?”

”As soon as I wrap things up here in New Zealand,” Marvin replied. ”I’ll head straight to Los Angeles, and we’ll finish the ADR before locking the final cut.”

”Sounds good.”

”I’ll see you soon.”

The call ended. Marvin crossed another item off his schedule before reaching for the next phone number.

....

...

..

.

Marvin ended the call and set the phone down on the desk. He rubbed his temples with two fingers and let out a long sigh.

”Damn,” he muttered to the empty room. ”I should’ve ignored Peter. So much for a long vacation.”

A knock came from the door.

”Sir?” one of the bodyguards called from outside. ”Mr. Jackson is here to see you.”

Marvin exhaled through his nose and pushed himself to his feet.

”Alright,” he called back. ”Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

Marvin stepped into the foyer and immediately spotted Peter Jackson pacing across the hardwood floor.

The director looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His hair pointed in every direction, and his eyes burned with restless excitement.

The moment he saw Marvin, he broke into a grin.

”Marvin!” Peter called. ”I’ve got good news.”

Marvin smiled faintly. ”Sounds promising.”

”I got Harvey on board.” Peter rubbed his hands together. ”He’s agreed to finance the picture.”

”Harvey?”

”Weinstein,” Peter said quickly. ”Harvey Weinstein. Miramax.”

Marvin raised an eyebrow. ”You were pitching it to Harvey?”

Peter frowned. ”...Yes.”

”You should’ve mentioned that sooner,” Marvin said. ”Harvey and I know each other fairly well.”

”Oh?” Peter blinked, momentarily thrown off. Peter blinked. ”...You do?”

Marvin nodded, then changed the subject.

”So... how’s the script coming along?”

Peter’s excitement disappeared almost instantly. His shoulders sagged. ”Honestly?”

Marvin waited.

”It’s been a nightmare.” He let out a weary sigh. ”My original plan was three films.”

****

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