The Final Tale of Alkrush

A scene on set becomes very interesting

My name is Alkrush. Fifth member of the Fourth Hand. We protect the hoard, and we stalk the hordes. We are many, and yet, we are alone. Our name echoes through the ages—a forgotten legend. I am alone. I am unknown. And today, I face my end.

Those were the lines I was supposed to say while striking a perfect blend of humble heroism. One hand on my sword. The other over my heart. The director was very clear—this moment had to feel like the weight of an ancient prophecy, but effortless. Dignified. Like I was about to save a kingdom, not sprain a hamstring.

I took my mark. Heart pounding, sword trembling in my hand, I stared at the cracked stone floor like it had just insulted my ancestors.

Silence.

Then came the sighs. The long, synchronized kind that hit like a cold wave.

I glanced up. The crew stared through me like I was a thumbtack on a corkboard. One of the gaffers yawned, not even bothering to cover it. Another tapped his boot with the slow rhythm of a man reconsidering life choices.

"Alkrush!" the director barked. "You’ve got to feel it. You’re on the edge of an empire’s fall! You’re not just any warrior—you’re the warrior. The one who gave up everything!"

I tried again. Dramatic pose. Sword clenched like it was my last link to this earth. I imagined the swelling of an epic score—violins, drums, the whole emotional buffet.

“Today is my—”

“Alkrush, please. Not the sword again. Look like you have a destiny, not a cramp.”

I dropped my arms. Right. Destiny.

The crew looked at me like a dog trying to perform Shakespeare. Only the dog probably had better posture.

My mind wandered to the far corner of the set. Maybe I should’ve gone into painting. Or, I don’t know, accounting. Somewhere I wouldn’t have to memorize lines like ‘We are forgotten.’

Ironically, that was the line that hit the hardest.

Was I forgotten? Probably. Unknown? Absolutely. But maybe that’s because the role I had in mind for myself never made it past one particularly odd college professor—the one who said I had “great potential” and could maybe, one day, be a third-string understudy. She said it with a divine certainty. Of course, she also lived in her car. I figured it was some kind of money-saving genius move.

Anyway.

“Alkrush!” the director snapped. “Feel the weight of your character!”

I adjusted the armor digging into my shoulders. “I do feel it,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

She frowned. “More gravel, Alkrush. More grit! We’re building a legacy here.”

I stared at the literal gravel beneath my boots. “Maybe I’d feel it more if I tripped on something.”

The assistant camera guy yawned. Again.

I shot him a look. “This is going great,” I said.

The director clapped her hands. “Think of the battle!”

Right. The great war. The hoard. The hordes. The valor. The blood. The glory. The... buried treasure?

I nodded. Took a breath. “Today is my end,” I whispered.

It came out flat. But maybe that was the truth of it.

Maybe I was done. The acting. The scraping for recognition. The fantasy of being a hero. Maybe the battle was already lost and I was just waiting for the credits to roll.

Then the director’s eyes lit up. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the death! That’s the fall!”

I nodded solemnly. But inside, I was mostly thinking about pizza.

The crew didn’t react. They knew the truth. The real story. Alkrush wasn’t some forgotten warrior from a lost age. He was a guy in foam armor, trying to hold it together until lunch.

Maybe it was never about a legacy. Maybe it was about making the most of your one shot. Or maybe, just maybe—it was about the pizza.

Still. I wasn’t a quitter. My nickname (which only I knew) was “Concrete Head.” So I gave it one more try.

This time, I drooped the sword. Let the weight of defeat sit in my shoulders. I whispered the line—“Today is my end”—and let my voice crack at the end. A burble. I dropped the sword. Reached for my chest like the pain of history itself had broken through.

Only, the pain was real.

My hand hit something solid.

An arrow. Feathered. Fresh.

Sticking out of my chest.

I blinked. The pain spread like wildfire. I staggered.

This script sucked.

And it was maybe just a little too real.