….
June 20, 2014.
Back in Kansas, Regal was dealing with a different kind of challenge.
It was the climax of the second schedule, with only essential personnel remaining on the location, Leo Martinez and his core camera crew, two ADs, the script supervisor, and a handful of grips.
Even the usual bustle of production assistants had been deliberately minimized.
Regal stood near the monitor, arms crossed, watching the empty farmhouse porch where they would shoot in twenty minutes.
His mind was working through calculations that had nothing to do with lighting and camera angles.
Stephen Hawking Sr. was coming to set today.
….
Two Months Ago.
Before Principal Photography
March 1, 2014 - Stephen Hawking Sr.'s Private Residence, Malibu.
The house sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, glass walls offering unobstructed views of the ocean stretching to the horizon.
Stephen Hawking Sr. sat in a leather armchair, a tumbler of whiskey in his weathered hand.
Across from him, Ross Oakley occupied the matching chair, his own drink untouched on the side table between them.
The silence between them was comfortable, born from forty years of friendship and professional rivalry - they had even starred opposite each other seven times.
Yet, they hadn't spoken much in the last half a year - watching [Whiplash] was their final meeting, until Stephen had called two days ago asking to meet.
"So." Ross finally broke the silence. "You have been quiet lately. Even for you."
Stephen took a sip of whiskey, eyes on the ocean. "Enjoying retirement."
"Retirement." Ross let the word hang in the air like an accusation. "Is that what we are calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
"Running away."
Stephen's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "From what?"
"From the fact that you are bored out of your mind." Ross leaned forward. "I have known you since we were twenty-five years old, Stephen.
"You don't retire from cinema. You don't have hobbies. You don't play golf or sail boats or write memoirs. You act. It's the only thing you have ever actually cared about."
"Things change."
"Bullshit."
Stephen finally turned to look at Ross, and something flickered in his eyes, amusement, maybe. "You didn't drive all the way out here to tell me I am bored."
"No." Ross picked up his drink, swirled it once, set it back down. "I came because I heard something interesting. Through the grapevine industry."
"You came to gossip? We are too old for that."
"Regal called you."
Stephen's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened slightly around his glass. "Who told you that?"
"Nobody told me. I figured it out." Ross sat back, studying his friend. "He is casting Superman. Major production needs gravitas for the father figure role. Of course he would think of you."
"Smart kid."
"Is he? Or is he just desperate enough to try reaching out to someone everyone knows won't answer?"
The silence stretched again.
Finally, Stephen spoke. "He called a week ago. Apparently, he has a character for me in his new movie."
Ross went still. Then slowly, his expression shifted - surprise melting into something more complex. Excitement warred with irritation, both giving way to something that looked almost like betrayal.
"So you are finally returning?" Ross's voice was carefully controlled. "That's... good. I always wanted to fight you fair and square one last time. And I intend to win this time."
"I never said I had agreed to return."
Ross's control snapped. "Stop pissing me off. Do you think I didn't notice your greedy eyes whenever I worked with that brat?"
"Every time I mentioned the [Death Note] set, every time I talked about how Regal directed, you were listening. Really listening. You were waiting for this moment, weren't you? You old bastard."
Stephen didn't deny it. "Yeah. I always wanted to return."
"Then why the fuck did you even leave—"
"I had my reasons." Stephen cut him off, voice quiet but firm. "I am not saying I have achieved everything I wanted to. But it's definitely true that I wasn't moving forward anymore. I was making movies. Just making them. Going through the motions."
He set his glass down carefully, as if it were made of something more fragile than crystal.
"I wanted something more. But I didn't even know what that 'more' might be." He looked at Ross directly. "Right now, I am believing that this kid might have it in him to remind me what everything used to mean.
"But I am also reluctant. Because he might be my last hope. So should I let that hope linger a little longer? Or take the chance, only to be disappointed?"
Ross stared at him. "What the fuck are you talking about? I don't understand a single thing."
"Then let me simplify." Stephen's voice was dry. "Should I risk my final chance on a twenty-six-year-old director who might or might not understand what I need from acting? Or should I stay retired and preserve the fantasy that somewhere out there, the perfect role still exists?"
"Just fucking do whatever." Ross finally snapped. "Who cares?"
He stood, pacing to the window, then whirled back. "Let's just say this movie works. Do you think it's going to affect anything? You have already reached the sky. There is no top beyond that."
Ross's voice rose. "And for instance, let's say it doesn't work? Do you really think it will even manage to dent you? You, Stephen Hawking Sr.? Not a chance."
Stephen sat motionless, letting Ross's words settle around them like dust.
Then he spoke, and his voice was different. Colder. Hungrier.
"You think I have reached the sky? And should be satisfied?"
He stood slowly, moving to face Ross by the window. The afternoon light painted both their faces in gold.
"You have gone senile during my absence, Ross."
Ross's eyes narrowed, but Stephen continued.
"I remember you as more of a greedy person than me. Always hungry, always reaching. When did you become the one counseling satisfaction?"
"I'm not—"
"'Be satisfied?'" Stephen's voice was quiet, but it filled the room. "That's just one fancy way of saying 'give up.'"
He moved closer, and Ross saw something in his old friend's face he hadn't seen in years - the pure, undiluted ambition that had driven them both to the top of their profession decades ago.
"I was never satisfied with what I have achieved. And I never will be." Stephen's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You think I have reached the sky? I want more than that. I want beyond the sky. I want something that doesn't have a name yet."
He stared at Ross, and there was something almost predatory in his gaze.
"Are you really settling for land?"
Silence.
Ross didn't look intimidated. Instead, a slow smile spread across his face - the same smile Stephen remembered from forty years ago, when they were two young actors fighting for the same roles, the same recognition, the same immortality.
"You are one hell of a lunatic." Ross said it like a compliment.
Stephen didn't respond. Instead, he pulled his phone from his pocket.
He dialed without looking away from Ross.
One ring. Two.
["Hello?"] Regal's voice came through, slightly distant. Background noise suggested he was with a crowd.
"Regal." Stephen said calmly. "I am free tomorrow. Let's meet."
There was a pause on the other end, just a fraction of a second where Stephen could hear the surprise.
["Of course, Mr. Hawking."] Regal's voice was carefully controlled. ["Where and when?"]
"My place. Three PM.
["I will be there."]
Stephen ended the call and pocketed the phone.
Ross was laughing - a genuine, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the house.
"You magnificent bastard." Ross shook his head. "You just decided, right now. This instant. You weren't planning to say yes until I called you satisfied."
"Maybe." Stephen allowed the smallest smile. "Or maybe I knew I would say yes the moment he called three months ago, and I have just been waiting to see if I could still feel this."
"Feel what?"
"Hungry."
Ross raised his glass in a toast, finally taking that first sip. "Welcome back, old friend. This industry has been boring without you."
"It's about to get interesting again."
They stood by the window, two titans of their profession, watching the sun descend toward the ocean.
Tomorrow, Stephen would meet with Regal.
Tomorrow, he would read the script, see the role, decide if this young director really had what it took to pull one last great performance from an actor who'd already given everything.
But tonight, for the first time in three years, Stephen Hawking Sr. felt alive.
And that was worth more than all the Oscars on his shelf combined.
….
The decision to keep information related to today's shoot had been strategic, maybe even paranoid.
On one hand, having Hawking attached to Superman would be a marketing nuclear weapon, the greatest actor of his generation returning from retirement.
The press would lose their minds. The studio would cream their pants. Ticket sales would spike before they even released a trailer.
On the other hand…
If things went south, if the performance didn't work, if Stephen decided mid-production that this wasn't what he wanted, the fallout would be catastrophic.
The man had the kind of pull that could swallow an entire project whole. One interview expressing disappointment, one carefully worded statement about 'creative differences', and [Superman] would be fighting an uphill battle before it even reached theaters.
So for now, secrecy. A skeleton crew. Non-disclosure agreements signed in triplicate.
They would decide later whether to weaponize this casting or keep it as a surprise.
"Regal." Darren approached quietly. "He is here. Just pulled up."
.
….
[To be continued…]
★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★
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