I say, “this is a good one.” 6 looks up wearily, and I abruptly realize that she is wearing glasses: thin black frames that make her dark eyes look amazingly sexy. She frowns at me, sitting cross-legged in a sea of paper. “What?” “It’s a sci-fi action thriller. You see, there’s this spaceship crew who pick up some weird, contagious virus and it mutates them into pulsating, yogurtlike—” “Scat,” 6 says testily, “we cannot make a special-effects movie for ten thousand dollars.” “Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Oh yeah.” 6 shoots me a dark look and returns to her script. I toss “The Spreading” into our growing reject pile and pick up “Strafe.” “Hey, a cool action flick,” I say. I snicker. “Man, he actually drives a tank through the White House.” 6 sighs and puts down her script. “Scat, we need to focus.” I blink. “Okay.” “What are we trying to do here?” “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m not even sure if you really want to be doing this.”
