You Looked Back • •

[laird evander mccormick]

The blood dripped all over Laird’s hands and onto the workbench beneath. He sighed but then licked it from his index finger, savouring the sweet taste. Almost too sweet. He liked to be considerate when he was about to shower other people in thick viscous material. He could at least make it taste bearable just in case some of it did get into their mouth mid-scream or while they were between takes. It was completely harmless, despite looking like it had been violently expelled from someone’s insides. Or at least that was what it was going to look like in the final shot. Right now it was a heavy duty clear plastic bag full of dark red liquid, mixed with some chunks of meat from the throwaway at the butcher’s. The effect would look gruesome and realistic, but in reality, Laird was going to fire it from an adapted machine into a small number of extras to achieve the desired effect of ‘dead guy goes splat’.

Prepping the bag into the hand activated cannon, Laird placed it on the stand he was using, and then asked his assistant to fetch the extra who the director had grabbed to be front and centre for the shot. It was Laird’s opinion that everyone involved in a special effect scene should know exactly how it was going to happen, be them a starring name, or a nobody who was just happy to have five seconds on camera. He knew some of his rigs looked terrifying, almost like he had summoned them from a Saw movie, when in fact the complicated ones were mostly designed to do the simplest of things; like drip blood on a timer, or operate a smoke machine that no one could reach. It was the truly horrifying stuff that was kept simple. Laird found that the simpler the effect was carried out, the more realistic it came to be. He once laid underneath the bed of Harrison Ford and speared a prosthetic shoulder with a machete, unleashing a torrent of blood upon the actor. Simply, and effective enough to see the movie nominated for awards in the department of Special Effects.

Laird picked up his back up bag of horror and turned around just in time to see his assistant leading a girl over like she was fine china. Laird wondered for a second where on earth some of these guys came from, and also made a mental reminder to pick his own team to keep around his workshop. He could select more appropriate weirdos to run errands and do jobs that way. “Hey, I’m Laird, and I’m going to be showering you in blood and guts this evening.” He said with a wicked smile, lifting up the bag to show her. “I’m just going to give you a run down of what’s going to actually happen, so you know what’s coming and don’t get too much of a fright when it hits. One of these is in this, here. When we film, I’m going to launch this. It’ll split on launch and you’ll get sprayed with the contents. Candy sweet fake blood of my own mix, and butcher throwaways. Now you know why they asked if you had a problem with meat when you signed the disclosure.” He remarked, putting everything back down and turning back to the young girl. “Anything you want to ask?” Laird wasn’t like some of the behind the scenes guys who just wanted to do their tasks and get home. He was happy when people asked him about his work. He put in hours to perfect his effects and people wanting to know more only assured him that not everything would eventually end up CGI.

• • •

TAGGED! Mireille Manon Verstraeten
WORDS! 628!
OUTFIT! Sloppy Supervisor!
LYRICS! Punks Don’t Dance - - - Crystalyne
NOTES!

[Mireille Manon Verstraeten]

Mireille would have gone until the trailers for this film started dropping without knowing anything more about it. She'd never actually been interested in the film industry, other than helping out to play their bills when something looked good enough to check out in cinema. She would have been totally happy hearing about what went on around a set from one of her favourite clients and living the supposed dream life vicariously through ET. She loved hearing about all the things ET and her co-workers were doing over at their studio. She also liked helping ET out when she was stuck on a particular character design that was just missing something but would bring everything into focus. It all sounded so incredible but Mireille had never actually been interested in the busy life of it all. She liked being able to take her time wither her pieces, getting them just perfect for her clients. She loved the spark in their eyes when she got it just right. Sure with her work, more often than not, only a few people ever saw it but those people appreciated all the work that went into the piece when it was finished. The same thing could not be said for movies. Some people had particular tastes, others just didn't get how much behind-the-scenes work went into thirty seconds of a film.

She might have been one of the few who really appreciated the work of the effects teams involved but also knew it took a certain kind of person to deal with every little detail and that was not Mireille. Still, when ET mentioned over coffee a movie being filmed locally was looking for extras, Mireille thought, why not? She could see first hand, and not through a friend, what it was all like. She got the contact information from her fellow gore fan and gave them a ring. As it was an open casting call for extras, she was told to just show up and go from there. She arrived early, wanting to get the whole experience. As it turned out, it was probably a good thing since she was shoved into a wardrobe trailer and made to change from her ripped skinny jeans and slouchy sweater to something that no one gave a damn about. She asked a bunch of questions, joking around with the handful of people throwing clothes and accessories around like they meant nothing at all in the search for what they were really after. Her feet were pushed into a pair of shoes that had a bit of a pinch but she could walk in and off she was again. It all seemed like so much work for someone who was supposed to be living scenery but again, Mireille had no idea what to expect. She appreciated the fact they gave her something else to wear because she had donned her favourite oversized sweater not thinking. Next, she was pushed into the makeup trailer though the wonderful women in there just wondered why. Still, they fixed up her hair a bit more, made a show off "fixing" her makeup, adding a bit more eyeliner for the camera and covering up the artwork on her neck and fingers. Apparently, whatever the film, she was supposed to be one of those pretty good girls. The wardrobe department had covered up quite a bit with what they'd picked out for her but not all of it and the rest was left to the man and two women with the concealer and brushes.

Mireille found the crew liked to talk about what was going on and as long as you asked the right questions, they were happy to answer them. So the blonde Belgian got all sorts of insider information about the cast and made a few new friends in the makeup and wardrobe departments. She was standing around with a few other extras, getting to know the people who enjoyed this work when she was asked to go somewhere else. She wasn't sure if it was her current looks or if it was just the man who'd been asked to retrieve her but he kind of irritated her the way he was treating her. She got that when she was in Belgium, with the men in her family especially but not in New York. It left her with an odd feeling that she did not like at all. Mireille smirked at the guy in charge, Laird as he went through his pitch. She was excited about this whole experience. When he asked her if she had any questions, she wanted to return with "how much time you got?" but felt like that was a bit too much. "So what you're saying is that I can't laugh and dance around in it?" She finally asked with a smirk. "Damn. Well, then I guess I should just ask if it's going to be cold or if it'll wash out of my hair alright. And more importantly, what made you decide to get into the wonderful world of special effects?" She continued, curiously. She was probably irritating the man but much like a child, Mireille was a curious person by nature and wanted to know everything.

♦ ♦ ♦

Tag || laird evander mccormick
Words || 872
Clothes || Carrie, Carrie, Carrie
Music || Written in the Sand --Old Dominion
Notes || <3

[laird evander mccormick]

Laird never really looked like he belonged on a movie set. He always made sure to keep his ID card on him in case the security guys were new or just took their job seriously enough to check everyone, even if their faces seemed familiar. Laird was always coming and going, signing for deliveries of strange things that only made sense once they had been combined with other parts. He was always grimy, sticky or wet depending on the effects of the day. He didn’t have the kits of most of the crew members, or the air of urgency that runners held about themselves. He existed almost in his own way, steering his own ship in the armada. He had the unglamorous side of the glamour and he was more than content with that. The nights of award shows and premieres were when he scrubbed up and made sure he had the fake blood out from under his fingernails, but the rest of the time it was as much a part of him as his beard was.

He didn’t envy those who shone in front of the cameras and who were chased by paparazzi. Laird was perfectly content to be the creep hiding in a wardrobe with a pint of blood and some tubing that he had drilled through the perfectly good piece of furniture. No one knew he was even in a scene until the director’s commentary for the DVD releases. Then they were keen to share stories of the hours spent locking him up just for that one perfect shot. It was part of the job, and Laird had albums of photographs from his career where he was doing perfectly normal things in entirely bizarre situations. He had taken a coffee break while playing the role of psychotic murderer, eaten lunch while crouching in rafters to drop a body down at the right moment. It was the kind of material that would have a dawn SWAT raid at his front door if he didn’t do what he did for a profession. It all looked real, but it was fake, often sweet, and sometimes used for on set pranks when time allowed for such silly things. Like when they dressed the corpse dummy up in bed as the director and his wife-to-be when their engagement was announced.

Laird grinned, deciding that the right person had been picked for the job so far. Of course, plenty had seemed that way and then utterly freaked out once the gore was unleashed. They did warn them fully in advance, but sometimes the squeamish were too caught up in the idea of their fifteen minutes of fame to remember that they had a phobia of blood, or actually believed the ‘guts’ weren’t going to be a variation of the real thing. “Not until after the big man declares it a wrap.” He said, nodding towards the director who was talking the camera crew through what he expected from them now. “It’s cool, but not freezing. Think of a face mask when that first touches if you’d like a comparable reference. As for washing out, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, but I always suggest an extra go with the shampoo so I don’t sound like a liar.” His own hair was concealed in a heavy bandana that was smeared with so much grime and other stains that the original lilac shade was now grungier than it ought to be. Still, it kept him from going home with a gunky mane. He shrugged, turning to load the gore bag into the cannon ready for showtime. “I was an AV kid with a dark curiosity. Plus, CGI isn’t the answer for everything.” He mock whispered the last part, as though the tech guys who added in the digital effects would swoop down on him with their coffee and iPads to beat him up for saying technology was not the way of the future. There had been some altercations in the past that left Laird bemused because they thought digitally imposing a knife was better and sleeker than him setting up a blood bag and going in for a stab with a trained actor.

• • •

TAGGED! Mireille Manon Verstraeten
WORDS! 706!
LYRICS! Punks Don’t Dance - - - Crystalyne
NOTES!

[Mireille Manon Verstraeten]

Mireille had fought long and hard to get out of her family home and out from under the thumb of the people who thought they could control her. She was a wild stallion meant to be free and live a life of adventure. She wasn't meant to be stabled and used as a show pony. She was so much more than that but was treated like one simply because of her name and family status. Se was the rebel her mother and grandmother always wanted to be and they were more than happy to take on the added troubles so she could have a life and figure out what she truly wanted from her life. Mireille loved the women in her life more than anything else because they allowed her to, essentially, run away.

The blonde tattoo artist loved her art, loved all art because it showed people how the person creating it was feeling at the time. While movies told a bigger story, sometimes it was the little details that told how someone was feeling the day they'd decided on the colour or the overall theme and narrative. Mireille was just simply fascinated by all artistic mediums and wanted to know everything she could. It was unlikely she would be interested in going into the industry any further than being living scenery now and again but it seemed like a lot of fun and a lot of precise work; which was probably why she was more intrigued by it than other things. She put in so much time and effort into planning and drawing out her pieces so her clients come away with exactly what they were looking for that she could understand the minds of others like her.

"No one has actually said anything about my responses to this. This is quite literally my first time on a film set and I've been carted off this way and that without much more information than "this is Wardrobe, this is Hair and Makeup, you." It's a bit overwhelming." She mentioned, shaking her head. "I was just told to follow that guy. I'm Mireille, by the way." She added with a grin, remembering she hadn't introduced herself yet. She wasn't nervous she was very excited to see everything that was going on. It was busy, much busier than even she'd imagined it to be. Everyone had their job to do to make the machine run smoothly. Some were just standing around waiting to be told where to stand while others were talking into headsets, trying to rearrange or settle on some minute but important detail. "Look at us now. Two weird kids living their dreams." She smirked, reaching up to rub at the unusual feeling on her neck. She stopped just short when she remembered it was thick makeup covering up her tattoos and touching would be retouching and she didn't want to put the makeup artists through that again. Instead, she waved that hand around her face and neck. "I'm not used to wearing this much make-up."

♦ ♦ ♦

Tag || laird evander mccormick
Words || 508
Music || Written in the Sand --Old Dominion
Notes || <3

[laird evander mccormick]

Laird thrived in chaos – which was good since he was typically surrounded by it. Even the quietest moments on set had someone bustling around getting ready for the next change or lining up the next shot. His workshop space was usually a set unto itself. It was necessary for him to borrow things, make copies of props so he could see how they would work when it became his time to shine. It wasn’t like they went to waste. A smart director had them switch out the clean stuff for whatever he had gorified, and then if they needed to do any reshoots there was no need to clean off a prop that had either been claimed as a souvenir by Laird and his team, or had been tossed because it was downright disgusting for anyone and everyone. Not all fake blood aged too well. Laird had managed to shut down production for a day on one movie when a forgotten piece of gore had been left behind one of the beds and had, well, basically started to rot. The stench was unforgiving, but he still found it amusing and would often joke that no one but SFX had the power to cause such a lasting catastrophe.

At least this time there was – in theory – no way he could close down New York any longer than they already had booked with the City. Street cleaners would wash away anything his team didn’t, and his team had become exceptionally thorough since that incident with the bed. No, this was simple enough for Laird. It was a trick he had pulled in almost every movie he worked on, and it wasn’t some secret of his either. Plenty of DVD commentaries would allude to the gore bag fired into shots to get the desired effect. The only time it ever became a problem was when an actor fluffed the scene and they needed to go all the way back to wardrobe for a new outfit and then sit in a chair while several assistants cleaned and preened them again. Laird needed five minutes to get a new bag in the cannon, but typically a reshot took closer to two hours to achieve.

Chuckling, Laird fiddled with the thin, almost flimsy plastic that was used for his gore bags. It was one of the first warnings he issued to anyone new; unless you wanted to wear it, you don’t mess with it. Even with how carefully Laird handled them he had sometimes found himself shaking off bits of his own bloody concoction. They needed to be that way though or there was the risk they wouldn’t split on the execution and then there was just a bag of blood and guts rolling around like someone’s forgotten lunch. “It’s the same for everyone who gets to be in front of the camera. Even Brad Pitt gets shoved from one thing to the next. It’s just what happens when you’re on a schedule.” Laird, thankfully, wasn’t a part of that. Typically, he kept to himself until the brutal scenes and then he stepped in only to explain what would happen and then actually ensure it went to plan. “You should see the make up they cake you in when you’re missing vital parts.” Laird mimicked ripping his jaw off for added definition. Most of it was prosthetics and latex, but that stuff was hot when you spent hours in it. He had done it himself when he needed to evaluate certain ideas and the best method for those scenes. “I’m sure they’ll be back to drag you in place soon enough, but until then feel free to relax and get used to all that.” He gestured to what they had done to her already, knowing it wasn’t something most people woke up expecting to look like before dinner. Laird was the opposite; he considered it a rare and lucky day if he was remotely clean by dinner.

• • •

TAGGED! Mireille Manon Verstraeten
WORDS! 643!
LYRICS! Punks Don’t Dance - - - Crystalyne
NOTES!