The post-production for Static was a seven-day blur.
The in-house editing suite at Wald Pictures became a bunker, smelling of hot electronics, stale coffee, and the metallic tang of sleep deprivation. Zane, his director, and the editor worked in a state of controlled chaos. It was a blistering, brutal pace, but at the end of one week, it was done.
Zane sat back in the small screening room, the final credits rolling in the dark. He was exhausted. It was a deep, physical ache that settled in his bones. The stress of his first production—managing the schedule, pinching every penny, massaging the fragile, massive egos of the crew and actors—had been immense.
Never again, he thought, rubbing his temples. Absolutely never again.
From now on, he'd hire the best and let them do their jobs. He'd be the architect, the one who supplied the (stolen) blueprints and the money. He would not be the construction worker getting his hands dirty. The experience had solidified it. He was a financier, a strategist. Not a manager.
He was just contemplating this new future of quiet, ruthless efficiency when his phone rang, the sound making him jump in the dark.
"Mr. Blackwood." It was his lawyer. The man's voice was crisp, professional, and utterly devoid of the exhaustion Zane was feeling. "I have some good news."
Zane sat up straight, the weariness evaporating, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. "Tell me."
"The tax-sheltering strategy we discussed is ready for your approval," the lawyer said. "And more importantly, the U.S. Copyright Office has officially registered your claims. SpongeBob SquarePants and Teletubbies are now your exclusive intellectual properties."
A slow, wide, triumphant grin spread across Zane's face. "Excellent. I'm free right now. Come to my office."
He hung up, the "click" of the phone echoing in the small room. He stood up, and a single, victorious shout punched the air. Mine. They were no longer just ideas. They were assets. Certified, government-stamped, ironclad gold mines that would, if he played this right, generate billions for decades. His future wasn't just secure. It was legendary.
Half an hour later, that high crashed into the grim reality of the American tax code.
"As it stands," the attorney explained, his face impassive as he laid out the grim report, "your tax liability on your recent capital gains is just over five million dollars."
Zane winced. The number was a physical gut punch. Five million.
"So what's the plan?" he said, his voice tight.
"Given the April tax deadline is fast approaching, our most effective legal strategy is... aggressive investment and consumption." The lawyer adjusted his tie. "We need to convert as much of your taxable liquid cash into non-liquid assets and business expenses as possible. The goal is simple: reduce your on-paper funds, thereby reducing your tax burden."
As a former analyst, Zane got it instantly. It was a shell game. A race against time to spend money to... save money.
The very next day, he started spending.
His first purchase was a magnificent, two-story villa in Burbank. It was the epitome of California luxury: 3,500 square feet of airy, open-plan living, a 4,000-square-foot yard, and a pristine, blue swimming pool. It cost $4.6 million. The move was practical—it was a ten-minute drive from Wald Pictures—and strategic. He leveraged the purchase with a bank loan, knowing with absolute certainty that the U.S. dollar was on a long, slow path to depreciation.
His next move was even bigger. He turned his attention north, to the booming tech hub of Silicon Valley.
For $6 million, he acquired an eight-story office building on the edge of the valley, not far from Apple's headquarters. It was a prime piece of commercial real estate in what he knew would one day become the most valuable commercial district on the planet.
He stood on the sidewalk in front of it, a sense of immense, solid satisfaction washing over him. This was real. This was an empire.
"From now on," he declared to the slightly confused real estate agent, "this is the Wald Building."
That evening, as he was sitting in his new, empty villa, reviewing the deeds to his new properties, a familiar, electric jolt chimed in his mind for the first time in months.
[Ding!]
[New future information fragment acquired.]
He closed his eyes, his focus narrowing as the information downloaded, clean and perfect, into his thoughts.
[EVENT: In June 1996, MGM Studios and Sony's Columbia Pictures will enter a bidding war for the exclusive film and television rights to Marvel Comics' character: Spider-Man.]
Zane's blood ran cold.
Then, just as quickly, it ran hot.
Spider-Man.
It wasn't just a comic book character. It was a crown jewel. A multi-generational, globally recognized icon. His mind exploded, a high-speed calculation of profits—the Sam Raimi trilogy, the merchandising, the reboots, the eventual integration into the MCU. It was a cultural and financial juggernaut that would, he knew, single-handedly keep Sony Pictures afloat for years. The box office, the video games, the backpacks, the bedsheets... it was a market worth tens of billions of dollars.
The retailers had been angry when he'd cornered Toy Story. This... this was on another level entirely.
The system had just handed him a three-month head start to seize the cornerstone of his future.
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