The sun is setting, and Ann is watching it from the deck of the ship.

The trip to Europe had been Jack's idea -- after several months of both of them working steadily (more work than Ann had ever dreamed of having), he suggested a break.

They're on their way back to New York, now, and Ann is trying to get used, once again, to being on a ship.

Table. Ann. Coffee.

Script open in front of her, which can only mean one thing -- she's trying to learn lines.

Christmas Eve in New York City is beautiful, particularly with the light snow falling tonight.

Ann is up in her room, touching up her makeup and nervously primping.

Gunfire splits the air one last time. Kong jerks.

Ann watches every last second.

Things seem to move impossibly slowly. She registers the slight spasm of Kong's body, the buzz of the planes moving off, but all she can see are his eyes, huge and brown.

The black of his pupils bleeds into the brown as he dies.

Ann can only watch.

The ape's grip loosens. He slides backwards. Ann rushes forward, as if she can somehow stop him, and falls to her knees at the edge of the landing as he slides completely off the roof.

The angle of the landing means that the body is out of her sight long before it lands. But then, her vision is already clouded with tears.

She doesn't hear the impact, but she doesn't need to. She's certain she feels it vibrate through every bone in her body.

And then there's no point in holding back the sobs, because she's so cold, and so alone, and he's dead.

Ann has to admit that being on the outside of the top of the Empire State Building is a little nerve-wracking.

But she also has to admit that the view is one she'll remember for the rest of her life.

Kong looks out at the sunrise and, with his free hand, taps his chest a few times. It takes Ann a moment to understand.

When she does, her face lights up.

Softly -- "Beautiful. Yes, yes it is!"



It takes her another moment to notice the buzz of propellers.

When Ann hears screams out on the street, she bolts for the door. Nobody stops her -- in fact, a few of them follow behind her, more slowly.

It doesn't matter that she'll lose her job at the De Luxe. What matters is that Kong has gotten loose -- and Ann knows that, deep in her heart, though she can't explain how -- and that they'll try to hurt him, and he'll kill them, but she can stop it.

So she pauses long enough to figure out from which direction the crashes are loudest, and then runs.

It's December; after a few blocks she realizes that she can see her breath in the air. Not to mention all this running makes her back hurt where it never seemed to quite heal after Skull Island. She slows to a fast walk, still headed for the sound of squealing brakes and crashing masonry.




And then there he is.

"Oh--"

He pauses, and turns, and stops when he sees her.

They take a few steps toward each other -- beauty and the beast -- until Ann can reach out and touch his fur, harsh as she remembers it.

One big hand reaches out and cups gently around her. It's the most natural thing in the world to wrap a balancing arm around his thumb and let him lift her.

As Kong knuckles away from the scene, Ann finds herself smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, for the first time in months. She never really registers the cab with the smashed front end that they leave behind.

The chorus girls at the De Luxe are called forty-five minutes before the curtain goes up, at eight.

Ann's late.

"What took ya so long?" asks Jean as Ann rushes in, shedding her coat.

"I got distracted," Ann mutters as she sits down, already reaching for her hairpins.

Jean starts to say something dry, but Tabitha catches her eye and shakes her head. Tabitha was there in September when Ann was hired, and she recognizes the look in Ann's eyes. It's the same look she had when a few of the blondes came in chattering about auditions for that Driscoll play; it's the same look she had after a few men came to speak quietly to Ann and offered her some kind of contract, and she told them off.

Tabitha's never asked about what happened to Ann before the De Luxe hired her. She just hopes the girl'll get through the show. If one girl messes up, the whole line looks bad.

Ann, meanwhile, brushes on lip color and tries not to think about the Cry Havoc! poster she walked past to get here, nor the crowds filling up Times Square for Denham's show. She can't focus, though -- not on the show, not on her makeup or her costumes.

She makes it through three numbers all right, with a carefully forced smile on her face. A soloist takes the stage, giving the girls time to hurry backstage and change into the spangled dresses for Henry's big number.

No one here can love or understand me, Ann barely hears as she strides for the dressing rooms, Make my bed and light the light, I'll arrive late tonight . . .

Ann's gut twists. It's twenty after eight. Jack will be watching his stage comedy -- It's for you, memory whispers -- and she'll be the furthest thing from his mind, no doubt; and Carl will be well into his spiel, displaying Kong despite her best efforts . . .

Someone grabs her arm and hisses for her to get into place, and she goes, and moves stiffly through the first steps of the choreagraphy.

But when they stand and spin, she finds that she can't move for fear she'll faint.

The spotlight moves over her face and sparkles off the tears in her eyes.

Blackbird, blackbird, blackbird, bye bye.

The sun's out and sparkling off the ocean, and the day is shaping up to be pleasant and warm -- a good day for filming.

Ann's busy fussing with her dress, straightening it unnecessarily. "Is this one all right?"

. . . She can't do this.

She stands at the edge of the sidewalk, looking from the card to the marquee, and can't step forward. Even though it would mean work, and money, and food . . .

She can't do it. She has her pride, and her morals, and -- and she just can't. Shoving the card back into her pocket, she turns and heads down the street.

This is New York. One more woman walking down the streets, head down, goes unnoticed. So does the man following her, curious.


Although not as unnoticed as she would've liked. She's a yard away from the stand, the weight of the apple in her pocket, when the proprietor yells after her.

"Hey!"

A hand grabs her arm and spins her around, and she stares, wide-eyed, at the angry vendor. "You need to pay for this."

"Excuse me, miss?"

They both turn and look at the man holding up a nickel. "I think you dropped this."

Ann stares at him. He stares back. The vendor snatches the nickel and returns to his stall.

Ann wonders, now what?

---

Not much later, the man -- Carl Denham, he introduces himself as -- has her sat down in front of a plate of food, which she's wolfing down. The food from the mysterious benefactor at Milliways seems like months ago.

"So tell me, Ann -- can I call you Ann?" she hears him ask. She nods, barely looking up.

"Are you a size four?"

Her fork freezes in mid-air as all sorts of thoughts start running through her head -- who is this man, what does he want, does he want that, should she be accepting this food--

She looks up at him, plainly shocked, and he frowns. "What? Oh, you think -- no! No no no."

He's a movie producer, he explains hurriedly, and he wants her for his next leading lady. When she wonders why her, he gives her an incredulous look. "Ann! Look at you! You're the saddest girl I've ever met! You'll make them weep."

The offer is tempting -- very tempting, in fact. A chance at stardom, at true acting . . . But she can't shake the feeling that this is yet more charity. Something smells off about the whole thing.

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Denham," she murmurs. "I make people laugh; it's what I do."

She hopes it sounds as final as she intends it. And if it doesn't, well, the standing and collecting her coat ought to be a hint.

"No, wait, Ann -- please--" He follows her, desperate. "Do you want to see a script? Jack Driscoll is writing one--"

The name stops her. "Jack Driscoll?" The Jack Driscoll?

"Sure. You know him?"

"Yes -- I mean, no, I know his work--"

Both she and Carl know that the deal is set then and there. The rest is just gravy.

Ordering a drink at Happy Hour might not have been such a great idea. Ann knows she's been short on cash, but this short--?

She'll talk to Manny tomorrow. It's been two weeks since the troupe was paid. Surely there's something.

---

The next morning, there's something, all right.

There's a padlock on the door to the theater, and men removing the sign over it, and --

"You can't do this!"

Ann runs forward, bangs on the door helplessly, yells at the men, "We work here!"

"Not anymore, lady!"

She turns to Manny, desperate, and the look on his face about breaks her heart.

"I'm going back to Chicago, Ann. Ever since you were small, people been lettin' you down." He sounds old, all of a sudden. "Every time you've got something good, Fate comes along and snatches it away . . ."

There's more, but she barely hears it. Manny's leaving, the theater is closed -- and with no theater, there's no work, and with no work, there's no money, and no food . . .

The others drift off, dejected, and Ann follows their suit, thoughts in a jumble. Eventually, they fix on a name: Weston, Isolation's casting director. Maybe, just maybe, she can convince him --

---

"Hello, Mr. Weston!"

"Aw, Christ."


The conversation goes downhill from there.

"Look," he finally tells her, "a girl like you doesn't have to starve. You ain't bad lookin'. Here" -- he pulls out a business card and scribble an address on the back -- "go here, ask for Kenny Kay. Do the job."

Ann flips the card over and glances at the address as he continues, "And forget you was ever there."

The address is for a burlesque dance joint, about ten blocks east of here.

A girl like you doesn't have to starve.

The door bangs shut behind Weston, cutting off the enticing scent of cooked food.

Ann simply stands for a moment, gazing at the card. Finally she slips it into her jacket pocket and starts walking, past bread lines and workers, headed east.

For all that the days are long, full of the hurry-up-and-wait of a movie set, Ann is happier than she can remember being in a long time. Every day, she's acting, and every day, she feels like something big is coming her way, and every day, he's--

Well.

It's too dark to film by now, so Ann is making her way back down to her cabin, smiling a little to herself.

Ann hasn't slept much lately.

The crew -- what remains of it, anyway -- doesn't comment, and lets her wander the decks at night. They keep her away from the ape's cage, though. Despite the heavy sedation, he becomes agitated when he smells her.

Tonight, she has wandered out to the front deck, where the air is clean, and watches the sea in front of her.

Testity testity testity