You are on the rusted iron walkway that snaking high above the cardboard craters. The catwalk is ancient and it groans beneath your weight. The director below you has returned and is shouting at the crew, “KEEP IT MOVING”, and “WE’RE BEHIND SCHEDULE.” You see the Mars Rovers, whirring around, making tight circles. Tiny brushes whir out below them. From this height, you can tell that they are just big vacuums for all the dust on set. No one looks up. No one can hear the creaking of the catwalk over their noise.
You reach the control booth at last. The door swings open, revealing a cramped room lined with monitors and file cabinets.
A man sits at a console, wearing an immaculate gray suit. He adjusts his circular glasses, smoking a cigarette with theatrical intensity. He doesn’t look up as you enter. There are dramatic shadows cast on his face.
“I thought you’d never make it up here. Have a seat.” He pats a chair, the way people do to call their cats. (It isn’t lost on you that cats would hate it here because of the huge vacuums.)
He gestures to a chair in front of a massive bank of knobs and dials. You hesitate. The screens show footage of you from earlier today, entering the Pentagon.
“It’s not too late to pretend you never saw any of this. Once you have seen it, you can never go back.”