Multiverse Studios casting couch

Chapter 1: pre-lewd

Lot A had the kind of atmosphere that only existed in places where impossible things had become routine. The warehouse was enormous, its vaulted ceiling lost in a maze of steel trusses, dangling rigging chains, and suspended catwalks where maintenance lights blinked like sleepy stars. Half-finished set walls stood shoulder to shoulder with carved fantasy pillars, chrome spaceship bulkheads, velvet chaise lounges, fake stone altars, and entire racks of costumes organized by era, genre, and questionable level of practicality. Coils of cable snaked across the polished concrete floor, marked over with hazard tape in bright yellows and reds, while the immense circular platform of the S.T.A.R. Rift dominated the far end of the building like a mechanical moon shrine built by a collaboration between engineers and sorcerers.

One by one, the talent judges arrived.

The first through the giant sliding bay doors came a tall woman in a sharply tailored emerald pantsuit whose satin lapels shimmered every time she passed beneath the overhead lights. Her skin was a rich bronze, her jawline elegant and decisive, and her dark curls were pinned up with the sort of deliberate care that suggested she liked control in every possible situation.

Not long after her came a broad-shouldered man in a charcoal turtleneck and long tan coat, the coat left open just enough to show the easy confidence in his stance. He had silver-threaded black hair slicked back from a handsome face marked by laugh lines and an expression that hovered somewhere between amused and quietly predatory—the expression of a man who had seen enough auditions to know exactly when a room was about to get interesting. A paper cup of black coffee steamed in one hand. As he approached the seating area, he nodded his head toward the woman in emerald.

Then came a pair together: a compact, stylish judge with honey-blonde hair in a blunt bob and oversized glasses with translucent peach frames, alongside a taller woman wearing a cream trench over a fitted black dress, her stride graceful and unhurried. The blonde carried three color-coded folders, a stylus between her teeth, and an energy that was practically vibrating. Her cheeks were a touch pink from excitement, and every few steps she glanced toward the distant Rift platform as though hoping to catch it already doing something dramatic. "Tell me they recalibrated the glamour lattice," she said around the stylus, pulling it free just in time. "If we get another summon whose made of fire or explodes in our atmosphere, I'm filing a complaint in blood."

Her companion lifted a lidded cup and took a calm sip before answering. She had almond-shaped eyes lined with impeccable precision, warm brown skin, and a serene face that seemed impossible to rattle. "You say that every quarter."

"And every quarter I mean it."

Around them, more judges trickled in. A heavily accessorized producer in deep violet silk with rings on nearly every finger. A younger acquisitions specialist with tousled auburn hair, expensive sneakers, and the expression of a man who'd stayed up too late reviewing previous screen tests. A poised older woman with silver braids wound into a crown and a cane that looked ornamental until she used it to rap an inattentive assistant smartly on the ankle without even breaking stride. Small greetings rose and fell in the space—weekend chatter, weather complaints, muttered speculation about this cycle's talent pool, and the occasional joking bet about whether the first summon would emerge clothed, armored, or catastrophically overconfident.

At the center front of the judges' crescent seating arrangement, a reserved space awaited User The placard gleamed beneath the lights, positioned with careful symmetry among the others, a subtle reminder that even in a room full of experts, each judge's taste had the power to shape the stories that survived the draft.

The seating platform itself was half auditorium, half command deck. Plush chairs with built-in monitors faced the summoning floor, each station equipped with voting keys, scripting slates, biometric scanners, and emergency shield toggles hidden beneath sleek armrests. As the judges settled in, crossing legs, adjusting sleeves, setting tablets and drinks into holders, the background hum of Lot A shifted. Casual conversation softened. Crew members in dark utility uniforms moved with increasing purpose between marked lanes. The ritual of preparation had begun.

Above the Rift, suspended conductor rings awakened one by one.

At first it was only a low thrumming vibration, almost too deep to hear, felt more in the ribs than in the ears. Then bands of light kindled along the circular summoning dais—thin geometric sigils layered atop machine-cut channels of silver alloy, magic and circuitry interlocking so tightly that distinguishing one from the other became impossible. Blue-white current snapped between crystalline relay towers. A column of transparent shielding descended around the platform with a shimmering hex-pattern flicker. The air changed immediately, charged and dry, lifting loose hairs and tugging at fabric hems.

Technicians at the control bank called readings to one another in clipped voices.

"Flux stabilizing."

"Anchor runes synchronized."

"Dimensional bleed within acceptable variance."

The S.T.A.R. Rift answered with a brighter surge. Arcs of power danced from ring to ring overhead, threading in spirals through a rotating lattice of holographic coordinates and glowing magical formulae. Symbols from dead languages spun alongside mathematical strings too advanced to belong to any ordinary film studio. It was beautiful in the same way a thunderstorm over open water was beautiful—mesmerizing, elegant, and full of very real danger.

Then the head safety officer stepped forward.

He was a thick-built man with a shaved head, a square beard edged in iron gray, and a reflective longcoat reinforced at the shoulders and chest with impact plating disguised beneath studio insignia. He carried no visible weapon, which somehow made him seem more dangerous rather than less. Climbing onto the marked briefing strip just ahead of the judges, he glanced once across the seating rows, making sure all eyes were forward before speaking.

"Good morning, judges."

His voice rolled across the warehouse with trained authority.

"As of this moment, Lot A is under active summoning protocol. Personal shielding stations are armed and responsive. If a red alarm sounds, remain seated unless directed otherwise by security command. Do not approach the barrier, do not make contact with unscreened summons, and do not attempt speaking to them before clearance." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly at a few familiar faces who looked exactly like the kind of people who would attempt verbal bargaining before clearance. "That last instruction is not decorative."

A few scattered smirks appeared among the judges.

The safety officer continued, "Today's calibration window allows for stable adult extra-dimensional retrievals only. Biological hazard teams are on standby. Arcane containment teams are on standby. Tactical response is in position. If summoned talent presents with hostile capabilities, the barrier will hold until neutralization or return cycle. If summoned talent presents with environmental instability—radiation, curse bloom, memetic hazard, temporal drift—the screening team will intervene before assessment proceeds. In simple language: let the professionals do their jobs."

He lifted one hand, and from the shadows near the perimeter, security teams became easier to notice all at once. Armored personnel took their designated positions at the warehouse edges, some carrying sleek stun-carbines lined with rune filigree, others equipped with shield projectors, restraint cases, and scanning visors whose lenses glowed faintly amber. A pair of anti-magic specialists stood near the control deck with sealed cases clipped to their harnesses. Up in the catwalks, overwatch silhouettes shifted behind reinforced glass. They were prepared for panic, seduction, violence, glamour, mind tricks, spores, plasma, divine wrath, and at least six categories of incident that no one in normal entertainment circles ever had to list on insurance forms.

The officer gave one final nod. "Summoning will commence on my mark. Stay alert."

Silence followed—but only for a heartbeat.

Then the chief Rift operator, standing behind a crescent of impossible controls, lowered both gloved hands onto the console. At once the S.T.A.R. Rift roared brighter. Rings rotated. Crystalline cores flared. Electricity lashed outward in branching forks before being caught and folded inward by the containment field. The center of the platform darkened into a disk of midnight so deep it looked carved from the absence of reality itself, and within that darkness, stars began to appear—distant, swirling, wrong, and beautiful.

Several judges leaned forward despite themselves.

The warehouse lights dimmed automatically to compensate. Shadows stretched long across stacks of props and half-built sets. Metallic surfaces reflected strobing flashes of blue, violet, and silver. The scent of ozone thickened. Somewhere behind the barrier, a wrench left unsecured on a cart trembled, skittered, and spun to the floor with a sharp clatter that made one assistant flinch.

The Rift had awakened.

Security tightened formation. Technicians monitored the surge with white-knuckled concentration. The judges sat poised in expectation, coffee cups forgotten, tablets idle, weekend small talk abandoned at the edge of a moment much larger than any of them cared to admit aloud.

Lot A held its breath.

And the machine opened wider.