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To those that don’t know, she’s a gaffer, grip, runner, PA, whatever role is the general dogsbody of that particular set.  She dresses the part, comfortable shoes, worn-out hoodie in her bag, and weaves through the set until she finds whoever it is she’s here to meet.

There are one or two directors, but it’s mostly art directors, a few set decs, a handful of producers who know how to keep their traps shut.

Technically, this is using her powers, a capital crime since she was old enough to laugh at clouds.  But this was Hollywood, the dream factory.  Nothing’s real here, not even death.

This shoot, it’s a producer she knew from way back, when they were both scratching dirt on indies.  She’s still somewhat scratching dirt - the PA act extends to her official paycheque and however much discrete cash can be hidden in the budget - but it was better than before.

There’s security outside the tent that serves as mission control. The dude is impassive, only reacting to raise an eyebrow at the blank business card she hands over.  But security has rules too, and he delivers the message.

Five minutes later, she’s being hustled through and into a caravan.  Her card is propped up on the water mister that looks stolen from makeup.  It’s drying already, in the hot air, and her details are fading as the water evaporates.

In her business, it pays not to advertise.

“It’s a heatwave, in summer, in Cali, in a drought. You sure you can…”

She waves off the concerns.  There’s water, if you know where to look.  Cold air circulating to the north, looking for an excuse to travel.  “Droughts break.”

She’s good at what she does; rain falls, hard as the cameras roll, retreating to a fine mist between takes.  There’s water, but not an endless supply here, she’s not wasting it.

Everything moves with a renewed energy.  She hides behind a clipboard and calls forth the storm on command and hopes that this isn’t the day she gets caught.