(Eric Roosevelt POV)
October 10th. The day has finally arrived. "The Demonfather," the film I acquired from the Ferland Film Festival, is set to be screened across Empirica. My heart's racing with anticipation.
I can't help but feel excited. If this film does well, it could mean a promotion for me. The thought makes my palms sweat.
Working for Bryan Brothers has its challenges, especially when it comes to the executives. They were skeptical at first when I pushed to acquire the film for 1.5 million dollars, not to mention agreeing to share a significant portion of the box office with Hellfire Studios. But their tune changed after I showed them the film.
I still remember the conversation from a few days ago. One of them said, "You know, this film actually has a chance to turn a profit. It's the best I've watched in a while. Never expected this from a demon picture."
Another chimed in, "I agree. It's just a shame we won't profit as much because Eric gave away too much to that Hellfire Studios."
I had to defend my decision. "If I hadn't made that offer, that ex-prince wouldn't have agreed to the deal," I argued.
At the time, the executives seemed to believe the film would profit, but they still thought we'd given too much to a fledgling demon studio.
But then everything changed. News broke that "The Demonfather" was performing exceptionally well at the box office in the demon realm. Suddenly, the executives were just as excited as I was about the film's potential here in Empirica.
Later that day, as "The Demonfather" finally screened nationwide across Empirica, the studio and I were on pins and needles. We had high hopes, but the reality of the first day's box office hit us like a bucket of cold water.
576 thousand dollars. That's all we managed to pull in.
I stared at the numbers, my heart sinking. "This can't be right," I muttered.
One of my colleagues, Lara, peered over my shoulder. "It's... not terrible," she offered weakly.
I shook my head. "It's average at best. We were expecting so much more." I couldn't help but think of the film's performance in the Morningstar Kingdom - 4 million on its first day. This was a far cry from that success.
"Damn it," I growled, slamming my fist on the desk. "It's those blasted newspapers and magazines. Their criticism is killing us."
As if to prove my point, the second day brought a flood of smug articles celebrating the film's mediocre performance. I could practically hear the critics gloating.
Pacing in my office, I couldn't shake my frustration. "This film is brilliant," I said to no one in particular. "Every Empirican should see it. They just don't understand what they're missing."
A knock at my door interrupted my brooding. It was Robert, one of the executives.
"Eric," he said, his face unreadable. "We need to talk about these numbers."
I swallowed hard. This was it. My career was over. "Sir, I can explain-"
He held up a hand, silencing me. "Let's wait for the second day's numbers before we make any decisions."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As he left, I slumped into my chair. I'd staked everything on this film. If it didn't turn around, I was done for.
The next day, I dragged myself to the office, bracing for the worst. I expected the numbers to drop even further, maybe to 400k or less.
But when I saw the figures, I had to do a double-take. 6 million dollars? I blinked, sure I was seeing things.
"This... this can't be right," I stammered.
Lara burst into my office, her eyes wide. "Eric! Have you seen-"
"The numbers? Yeah," I nodded, still in shock. "How is this possible? How did we jump from 500k to 6 million in a day?"
***
(Random Empirican POV)
I'm just your average Empirican, really. Sure, I'm a mage, but my job's nothing fancy - just message and item delivery. I hop in my car, summon my spirit pet (an owl, if you're curious), and send it off to deliver messages or items through tower windows. Once the job's done, my feathered friend flies back, and that's that.
After work, I like to unwind. Sometimes that means catching a film at the local theater. Today, a new title caught my eye - a demon film called "The Demonfather". I'll admit, I was intrigued.
Not because I thought it'd be good, mind you. It was more about the buzz I'd been hearing. The newspapers have been going wild about it lately. A few sang its praises, but most tore it to shreds, calling it the worst film ever made. That alone was enough to pique my interest. How bad could it really be?
But then I saw something that really got me thinking. Dianne James, that notoriously hard-to-please critic, gave it a full 5 stars. Now that was puzzling. This is the same critic known for being stingier with stars than a miser with gold coins. How in the name of all that's magical could a demon film earn top marks from her?
If it was so awful that most critics were ready to retch, why did James rate it so highly? And let's not forget, it shattered box office records in the Morningstar Kingdom. Something didn't add up, and I was determined to find out what.
So here I am on opening day, settling into my seat. Looks like I'm not the only curious one - the theater's packed. As the lights dim, there's a palpable sense of anticipation in the air.
What followed was... unexpected, to say the least. From the moment the film started, I was pulled into the story. The characters felt real, their struggles visceral. I found myself invested in Sonny's hot-headed antics, Don Vito's quiet power, and Michael's transformation.
The highs were exhilarating - I cheered along with everyone else when Michael took out his enemies. The lows hit hard - Sonny's death left a pit in my stomach. And don't even get me started on Carlo. When he finally got his comeuppance, the whole theater erupted in applause. It was cathartic, to say the least.
But it wasn't all action and revenge. There were moments that chilled me to the bone. Like when Michael spoke to Kay, his words dripping with cold certainty: "Don't ask me about my business, Kay." Or that line that's still echoing in my head: "Don't tell me you're innocent, because it insults my intelligence."
As I left the theater, my mind was reeling. I couldn't wait to tell my friends and family about it. Whatever those critics were thinking, they clearly missed the mark. "The Demonfather" isn't just a film - it's an experience, one that I won't soon forget.
***
(Arthur POV)
I've lost track of how many days George and I have been cooped up in this makeshift lab, tinkering with our computer prototype. The floor is littered with discarded film strips, and the air is thick with the smell of burnt celluloid and coffee. But today, all those sleepless nights finally paid off.
"George!" I called out, my voice cracking with excitement. "Get over here! I think we've got it!"
George lumbered over, his beard stained with what I hoped was just coffee. "What's all the fuss about, Arthur? Did you set something on fire again?"
I rolled my eyes. "That was one time, and it was your fault for leaving that potion so close to the light sensor." I gestured towards our contraption. "Look, I think we've finally got it working."
Our computer was a sight to behold - a Frankenstein's monster of film projectors, light sensors, and enough gears to make a clockmaker weep. The light sensor, similar to those photomultiplier tubes that already exist, was the key to detecting the encoded film strips.
"Okay, here goes nothing," I muttered, feeding a strip of film into the machine. On it, I'd encoded a simple math problem: 2x2. The black portions represented 0, the white 1 - a rudimentary binary code.
George leaned in, his breath hot on my neck. "You really think this contraption can do math?"
"If I'm right, it should. The film strip allows for higher density data storage than punch cards. We can encode more information in a smaller space."
The machine whirred to life, the film strip zipping past the light sensor faster than the eye could follow. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my chest.
Suddenly, the connected projector flickered. Numbers appeared on the wall, glowing ethereally in the dim lab.
2 x 2 = 4
I let out a whoop of joy, grabbing George in a bear hug. "We did it! It works!"
George laughed, his initial skepticism melting away. "Well, I'll be a goblin's uncle. It actually works!"
We stood there for a moment, grinning like idiots at the simple equation projected on the wall. It wasn't much - just a basic calculation - but it represented so much more. It was proof of concept, a glimpse into a future where machines could think, could calculate, could maybe even create.