She had grown. The actress playing Madelaine, the actress Brendan had known for almost two years now, his five foot three inch tall actress, had grown. Scott had to be almost six feet tall, and she was staring directly into his eyes. Everything about her had grown. Her legs had stretched beyond the bottoms of her pants, and Brendan could now see her naked ankles. And her gray sweater now stopped midriff. Even her arms had grown, making her long sleeves short. Brendan could not see her chest, but he was sure from Scott's reaction that Madelaine's breasts had increased in size as well.

  Her height rise continued. The script called for Madelaine to reach eight feet, and his actress was ready, willing, and able to do it. Her sneakers groaned in protest, but with a loud ripping noise, their battle ended and Madelaine's now bare feet triumphed. Her jeans seams split open in several places along her calves and thighs and rear as the bottom cuff climbed up closer and closer to her knees. The top button snapped open. Then something else snapped: her glasses; the two pieces fell to the floor. Her sweater, oversized and bulky, remained pretty much intact, although everyone in the studio now had ample view of Madelaine's increasingly very ample breasts, as they curved out in full roundness underneath the bottom of the sweater, which barely covered her nipples. Brendan did not have to guess what would happen if she decided to take a deep breath -- the sweater was made of sturdy material, but the material had reached it limit.

  Towering over Scott, Madelaine grabbed him by the shirt, lifted him a good two feet off the ground, and tossed him ten feet away, off the set and into the breakfast table. Then she looked down at her amazing body with mock-shock.

  "Cut," Brendan whispered.

  Everyone WAS looking at him, with one question on their lips: "How did you do that?"

  But Brendan did not stick around to reply. He retreated to Madelaine's empty dressing room, closed the door, and lit two cigarettes. What had just happened? What in the name of God had just happened? He put his head between his knees.

  A knock at the door. "Hey, Brendan, you okay?" It was Marty.

  "How's Madelaine?"

  "Madelaine? Oh, she's fine. You know, back to normal, since you turned off the fx. Although we think Scott may have broken something. By the way, the way you kept us all in the dark about this? Beautiful, man. Just beautiful. We don't know how you did it, but you're going to famous for it. We'll set up for the next shot."

  "Thanks, Marty," Brendan replied weakly, clawing at his goatee.

  Then came another knock at the door.

  "Marty, go set up. I'll be there soon."

  The door opened. Madelaine entered. And she looked exactly like the actress he knew and loved. Her clothing had been stretched and torn in her...transformation...but other than that, she looked perfectly normal.

  "Were you pleased?" she asked. Her tone was even, and foggy.

  Brendan took a drag. "How did you do that?"

  "You're not paying for the cause, Brendan," she replied cooly. "You're paying for the effect. I need to get ready for my next scene. Please leave."

  Quietly, Brendan rose and left her.

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7. THE UNJUSTIFIABLE

  It was soft music. Irish New Age. One of Brendan's ex-girlfriends had given him the c.d. for some Christmas or maybe for his own birthday. He had never listened to it in his life, and really was not listening to it now. But it seemed to block out his thoughts, and that was enough. He did not want to think. Thinking meant confronting ideas that were not normal. Thinking meant he might awaken that voice inside of him -- that long suppressed voice -- that voice which sounded just like his mother and told him, in even tones, that he was doing a bad thing. He had been making "erotic feature-length fantasy videos -- made to order -- only $300 each" for two years now, and had long buried his conscience under the bonds in his safety deposit box. But he could feel it coming back and coming back strong and coming back with a vengeance.

  He was making a terrible mistake.

  He had been able to justify everything else because, one way or another, he was in control of it all. He was the director. He was the god of erotic fantasies. But now...how could he justify something he was not even in control of? His actresses had grown, right in front of him, right in front of the camera and over a dozen crew members. They had increased in size, in mass, in whatever. And the only ones even remotely concerned were the wardrobe people, who were getting tired of repairing torn clothing.

  Brendan went over the film in his mind. The transformations. Madelaine had been the first, but she hadn't been a fluke. They had shot the other major transformation scene the next day, where Madelaine shares her new chemical with Debra and Kara. The crew just stood back and watched with grinning expectation as the two actresses became living special effects. Kara's field hockey skirt crept up her stretching legs. Debra's dress split open tantalizing holes. Bras creaked and snapped to pieces. After Brendan had muttered "cut," the crew had applauded the new giantesses. And then they applauded Brendan, the "fx genius."

  The actresses, for their part, kept their mouths shut. In fact, they rarely said anything unscripted. And they had stopped answering Brendan's inquiries altogether. Whatever was going on was going on in secret. They had two days left of shooting, and Brendan had asked Marty to follow Madelaine home. He was going to solve this mystery. That was six hours ago.

  The Irish music wafted, but Brendan's mind was becoming a lead weight. Outside, a full moon, like a solitary white eye, stared down at him from the black velvet sky. It was accusing him of something, and Brendan was feeling very guilty.

  His computer beeped. Brendan clicked on the new message.

Mr. Dorsey:

  We regret to inform you that your associate Marty Palinas will no longer be working for you. A replacement will be arriving shortly.

Sincerely,

  N.

  Brendan stared at the message for twenty minutes. The music ended, the silence began, and Brendan was still staring at the message. He and Marty had been working together ever since the film school days. In addition to Marty's salary, he received 10% of all of F.G.S. Productions' profits; in a usual week -- in a week where they did not spend eight days on a picture, like "Growing Passions" -- that amounted to a $1500-a-week paycheck for him. And Marty had not had a conscience since 1976.

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8. THE REPLACEMENT

   There was a knock at his door.

  "Who is it?" Brendan asked, clawing at his goatee.

  "Your new assistant," a woman replied.

  Brendan opened the door. She was young, light-haired woman. Smartly dressed. She carried a briefcase identical to N's.

  "My name is Thea." Her voice had the same distant quality as N's, and his actresses. She sat down opposite his desk. In Marty's chair.

  "Where's Marty?" Brendan lit a cigarette and closed the door. "I want to know where Marty is."

  "Marty is no longer under your employ. I will be your new assistant. My name is Thea."

  "Yeah, thanks, I heard you the first time." He sat on his desk. Her eyes were so...vacant. "Where's Marty?"

  "Marty is no longer--"

  "I got to know: are you some kind of a broken android? Because, you know, with everything that's been going on the past couple days, it wouldn't surprise me one fucking bit."

  Thea rose. "I will be at the studio at ten o'clock tomorrow morning for our shooting. If you need to contact me from now until then, you can reach me at this number."

  She handed him a piece of yellowed paper.

  "Lady, I want to know where my friend is."

  She looked up into his eyes and Brendan felt a chill scamper across his bones. Thea's eyes were no longer vacant. There was something there, and it was something dark. Something huge. It was something Brendan was not sure he could handle.

  "Mr. Dorsey," she whispered, "your friend is no longer working with you. I am." She walked to the door, opened it, and turned around one last time. "Have pleasant dreams." Then she closed the door behind her.

  Brendan could not call the police. The last thing he wanted was the L.A.P.D. sniffing around his operation. But there was nothing they would be able to do anyway. Marty was gone. Marty had followed Madelaine and was now gone. So Brendan dialed Madelaine. She was not home. Neither were Debra or Kara.

  He sat down at his computer. There was one alternative left and he was now more than eager to do it.

Dear N.,

  I regret to inform you that F.G.S. Productions will no longer be working with you.

Sincerely,

  Brendan Dorsey, Director

  Sending the message released a tremendous pressure on him, and Brendan left out a long, wonderful sigh. He felt free. He felt in control. He felt ready to move on to better projects. He would wrap up production on "Growing Passions" tomorrow, whether they finished his script or not. They had enough film for him to piece together a video Solomon will be very happy with. And if, before he sent it, he forgot to edit in an advertisement at the beginning of the video? Accidents happened. As if N. would ever find out anyway.

  Then came another knock at his door. Had Thea forgotten something? Or maybe N. had paged her to beg for their job back. Brendan leaned back in his chair, lit another cigarette, forcibly suppressed a smile, and called out: "Enter!"

  Three more knocks. Louder.

  "Come on in!"

  Four more knocks. Evenly spaced. Very loud. Almost like gunshots.

  "Hello?" Brendan asked. He leaned forward.

  BANG. BANG. BANG. The door shook with each knock.

  Brendan scratched his goatee. "Um..."

  BANG! BANG! BANG -- a crack split open down the center of the wood.

  "Holy shit."

  BANG!! The crack splintered inward, forming a small hill on the door. BANG!! The hill throbbed forward, at Brendan. He slowly stood up from his chair and backed into the window. BANG!! Shards of wood splattered across the office as a huge arm thrust through the new hole in his door. And the hole had appeared near the top of the door, almost eight feet off the ground.

  Then there was a pause, and then the arm disappeared, and then the door exploded into the office. Standing there in the open space was an enormous, light-haired woman, nearly naked save for strings of tattered, once-smart clothing hanging off her body. This was Thea. Her darkness had manifested itself, and Brendan bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

  "Do you need me to deliver N's response to your message, Mr. Dorsey, or have you already figured it out?"

  Brendan silently nodded.

  "Good. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, since you probably will not be able to have those pleasant dreams, we suggest you spend tonight writing."

  "Writing what?" Brendan murmured.

  "A sequel, of course," she replied, and left. She did not close the door behind her this time.

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