….
September 15, 2014.
The MarvalDC Studio lot was unnaturally quiet for a Monday evening.
Regal stood in the back of the screening room, watching three hundred carefully selected audience members relax into their seats.
The demographic breakdown had been intentionally wide range: 40% comic book fans, 30% general audiences, 20% families, 10% industry professionals who had signed NDAs.
This was the first time anyone outside the production would see [Superman: Man of Tomorrow] in its entirety.
Beside him, Darren held a tablet displaying the real-time biometric data they would be collecting, heart rate monitors built into select seats, facial recognition software tracking emotional responses, and old-fashioned response cards that audience members would fill out after the screening.
"So… You are still capable of getting nervous?" Darren observed quietly.
"I am human." Regal watched a family of four settle into seats in the middle section, father, mother, teenage son, younger daughter.
The demographic they needed to capture for box office success.
Leo Martinez appeared from the projection booth, giving a thumbs up.
The film was loaded, color corrected, with a temporary sound mix and ninety percent complete VFX.
It wasn't the final version, but close enough to gauge genuine reactions.
Henry Cavill sat three rows from the back, baseball cap pulled low, trying to be invisible.
He had insisted on attending despite Regal's suggestion that actors rarely benefit from watching test audiences react to their work.
"I need to see it." Henry had said. "There is no way any actor can skip something this major."
Stephen Hawking Sr. had declined to attend.
"I know what I gave you." he had said when Regal extended the invitation. "What the audience thinks won't change that."
The house lights dimmed.
Regal's heart rate kicked up despite years of experience with this process.
Test screenings were necessary evils, they provided crucial data about pacing, emotional beats, and audience comprehension.
But they also meant surrendering control, exposing something you had lived with for months to people who would have opinions after ninety minutes.
The MarvalDC logo appeared on screen.
Then pitch black.
Wind howled across invisible plains.
And Stephen Hawking Sr.'s voice filled the theater, the movie actually started off from where the trailer did–
"This is the story of my son."
….
After two hours and minutes the film reached its near end, as the final confrontation in the ruins played exactly as Regal had envisioned.
Zod defeated Clark standing among the destruction he had helped cause despite trying to minimize it.
The weight of that reality is visible on Henry's face.
It wasn't triumphant music playing out… Nor did he make a victorious pose.
Just a man realizing that being Superman meant living with impossible choices and their consequences.
The final scene, Clark at the Kent farm, standing by Jonathan's grave, the letter from Martha in his hand, played in complete silence.
Stephen's voice returned one last time, voiceover from the letter:
"I'm so proud of you, Clark. Not because of what you can do, but because of who you chose to be. You didn't owe this world anything. But you gave them a hero anyway. That's what makes you my son."
The screen faded to black.
Silence.
Three seconds.
Five.
Then applause erupted.
Not the polite applause of a preview audience fulfilling social obligation. Real applause - sustained, emotional, several people standing.
Regal felt Darren grip his shoulder, but he couldn't look away from the audience.
The teenage boy was wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
The father who had shushed him earlier was doing the same.
The woman in the third row was still crying, but smiling through it.
Henry had removed his baseball cap entirely, no longer caring about being recognized, openly emotional at watching the audience react to his performance.
The house lights came up gradually.
Studio executives began distributing the response cards and digital tablets for the detailed questionnaire.
Regal knew what the questions would ask:
How would you rate the film overall?What was your favorite scene?Was any part confusing or unclear?How likely are you to recommend this film to others?Would you see this film again in theaters?
But more than data, Regal watched faces.
Watched people talking animatedly to their companions, gesturing as they described favorite moments.
The family of four - all of them engaged in excited discussion.
Industry professionals make careful notes, their expressions thoughtful rather than critical.
Leo appeared at Regal's side. "The cinematography played beautifully. Did you see how they reacted to the Kansas golden hour sequences?"
"I saw." Regal's voice felt distant to his own ears, like he was speaking from underwater.
"Are you alright?"
"I don't know yet."
….
Twenty minutes later, Regal stood in a conference room with the core team and studio executives, reviewing preliminary data while the audience completed their surveys.
The biometric data was extraordinary.
Heart rate spikes during action sequences, expected.
But also during emotional moments - Jonathan's death, Clark's first flight, the final scene at the grave.
Sustained engagement throughout the entire runtime with no significant attention drops.
Facial recognition software had tracked emotional responses frame by frame, and the heat map was exactly what they had hoped for, strong positive reactions to heroic moments, strong emotional reactions to dramatic beats, and most importantly, no confusion or disconnection.
"This is remarkable." said Katherine Bryce, head of marketing.
She was in her fifties, sharp-eyed, someone who had seen hundreds of test screenings and knew how to read data. "I have rarely seen emotional engagement this consistent across such a diverse demographic."
"The Jonathan Kent death scene is going to be our marketing centerpiece." added Marcus Chen, head of distribution. "That moment is what separates this from every other superhero film. That's our Oscar campaign."
Regal barely heard them. He was reading individual comments from the digital surveys as they populated in real-time:
"I cried three times. I never cry at movies."
"Stephen Hawking's performance deserves every award."
"My son wants to see it again immediately."
"The action was incredible but the heart of the story is what stayed with me."
Comment after comment, overwhelmingly positive.
It wasn't just universally perfect, some people found the pacing slow in the middle section, a few wanted more action earlier, one person complained that "Superman should smile more" - but the consensus was undeniable.
They had something special.
Henry approached hesitantly, still processing his own emotions from watching the audience reaction.
His voice carried wonder and relief in equal measure. "I can feel the people's connection with this film… I can relax a bit during the release?"
"You can if you could, but I don't think so…" Leo said, showing Henry the biometric data. "Anyway… Look at this spike during your monologue to Lois in the Arctic. Your performance was hitting them on a physiological level."
Henry studied the data, and Regal watched the actor's face transform, the uncertainty that lived in every performer's heart finally quieting as evidence of impact replaced doubt.
Katherine pulled Regal aside while the others celebrated. "We need to talk about the release strategy."
"What about it?"
"December nineteenth is already locked, but after seeing this..." She gestured to the data displays. "We're moving this into the prestige release category. Limited opening weekend in select cities, then wide expansion. We want this film in the awards conversation from day one."
"That will reduce opening weekend numbers."
"It sure does. But it will extend the theatrical run significantly. This isn't a film that needs to make all its money in two weeks, it will build through word of mouth and critical consensus." Katherine's eyes were sharp with the calculation of someone who knew how to sell something special. "The trailer gave us awareness. The film itself will give us longevity."
Regal nodded slowly. The strategy made sense, even if it meant gambling on a non-traditional superhero release pattern.
"What about international?"
"Same strategy, but we go wide immediately in major markets. China, UK, Japan, South Korea. They don't have the same awards-season culture, so we can play both sides, prestige domestic, blockbuster international."
A production assistant entered the conference room. "Excuse me, Mr. Seraphsail? The audience surveys are complete. Ninety-eight percent response rate."
"Bring them in."
The PA distributed tablets to everyone in the room. Regal took his and began scrolling through the compiled results.
Overall rating: 9.2 out of 10.
He blinked, reading it again.
Test screenings typically averaged between 7.5 and 8.5 for successful films. 9.2 was nearly unheard of.
Would you recommend this film: 96% "Definitely Yes"
Would you see this film again in theaters: 87% "Yes" or "Definitely Yes"
Favorite scene (most mentioned):1. Jonathan Kent's death (42%)2. First flight (31%)3. Final battle (18%)4. Kryptonian ship discovery (9%)
The data went on, detailed breakdowns by demographic, scene-by-scene engagement ratings, emotional response tracking.
Every metric told the same story: they had delivered something that resonated across all audience types.
Marcus Chen let out a low whistle. "In twenty years of running distribution, I have never seen numbers like this from a test screening. Not even close."
"What was the previous high?" Henry asked.
"8.7, for a romantic drama that went on to win Best Picture. Superhero films typically top out around 8.2."
Katherine was already on her phone, presumably calling studio heads to report the results.
Through the glass wall of the conference room, Regal could see audience members still lingering in the lobby, some approaching studio representatives with additional comments they wanted to share.
Regal looked at the data again, at the overwhelmingly positive response, at the evidence that months of eighteen-hour days and creative battles and constant pressure had resulted in something that actually worked.
He felt... nothing.
Just a strange emptiness, like he had been holding his breath for so long that he had forgotten how to exhale properly.
"I need some air…" he said abruptly, handing the tablet back to Darren.
He left the conference room before anyone could stop him, walking through the lobby where audience members were still discussing the film, and stepped outside into the cool September evening.
The MarvalDC lot at night was surreal, soundstages looming like modern cathedrals, the distant hum of production work on other films, the artificial lighting that turned night into a strange approximation of day.
Regal walked to the edge of the parking lot and just stood there, breathing.
They had done it.
The film worked.
Audience loved it.
The studio was ecstatic.
So why did he feel so disconnected from the victory?
"You are having a delayed panic attack." a familiar voice said behind him.
Regal turned to find Stephen Hawking Sr. leaning against a black town car, dressed casually in jeans and a simple button-down shirt.
He must have been waiting in the parking lot the entire time.
"I thought you weren't coming." Regal said.
"I wasn't coming to the screening. I didn't say anything about not wanting to hear the results." Stephen pushed off from the car, approaching slowly. "I saw people leaving. They looked moved. Happy. That's usually a good sign."
"The test scores were 9.2 overall."
Stephen's eyebrows rose slightly. "I don't believe in such scores but it sounds exceptional."
"Everyone's celebrating inside. The studio's already adjusting release strategy to position us for awards."
"And you're out here alone, looking like someone just told you your dog died." Stephen studied him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know." Regal ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself–
"I should be happy. The film works. All that work, all those hours, all the pressure, it paid off. But I feel nothing. Just empty."
Stephen was quiet for a moment, then gestured to a bench near the edge of the parking lot. "Sit with me."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the occasional car drive past, listening to the distant sound of production work on a nearby soundstage.
"Can I tell you something about my third Oscar?" Stephen said eventually.
"Alright."
"I was forty-seven years old. The performance was for a film about a father losing his son to war, a role I had prepared for six months, that required me to access grief I didn't know I had. When my name was called and I walked to that stage, I felt exactly what you're feeling right now."
"Empty?"
"Completely. I gave my speech, thanked everyone I was supposed to thank, smiled for the cameras. And the entire time I kept thinking: 'This should mean more. I should feel more.' But I didn't. I just felt tired."
Stephen leaned back against the bench. "You know what I realized later?"
"What?"
"That the emptiness wasn't because the achievement didn't matter. It was because I had already moved on emotionally. The work, the actual creating of the thing, that's where the joy lives. The recognition, the awards, the test screening numbers... Those are echoes of something that already happened months ago."
Regal absorbed that, recognizing the truth in it.
He had lived with Superman for over a year.
Fought every battle, made every decision, poured everything he had into making it work. The film itself, the actual creation of it, was already behind him.
This moment, this validation, it was just confirmation of something he'd already completed.
"So what do you do?" Regal asked. "With the emptiness?"
"You recognize it for what it is, the space between finishing one thing and beginning the next. Most people call it burnout. I prefer to think of it as a transition." Stephen looked at him directly. "You have two other films in production. Matrix and Deadpool. When do you start feeling something again?"
"When I am working on them."
"Exactly. Because that's where you actually live, in the process, not the result. The problem is you've been so focused on delivering Superman that you haven't let yourself transition to what comes next."
Regal thought about that. About Alexander calling with Matrix problems. About Reynolds and his unconventional marketing. About the work still waiting, still demanding his attention.
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. It's also who you are." Stephen stood, stretching. "My advice? Go home. Rest. Then tomorrow, let yourself start caring about the next thing. The emptiness will fill naturally once you stop trying to force feeling something about what's already finished."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Stephen smiled slightly. "You are not broken, Regal. You are just tired. There is a difference."
The driver of Stephen's town car had gotten out and was waiting respectfully by the vehicle.
"I should go." Stephen said. "But congratulations. Genuinely. You made something rare, a superhero film with actual soul. That matters more than test scores, though the test scores are nice too."
"Thank you. For the performance, for the advice, for showing up tonight when you said you wouldn't."
"I am full of surprises." Stephen walked toward his car, then paused. "Oh, and Regal? When the awards campaign starts and they want me doing interviews about my 'triumphant return' and all that nonsense... I am saying yes. Because what you created deserves that support."
He got in the car and drove away, leaving Regal alone in the parking lot.
The emptiness was still there, but it felt different now. Less like something wrong and more like something natural, the pause between breaths.
Regal walked back toward the conference room to collect his things and officially wrap the evening.
Through the glass walls, he could see the celebration still continuing, Leo animatedly describing shots to executives, Henry finally relaxed and laughing, Katherine already working on marketing strategies.
They had earned this moment.
And Regal had too, even if he couldn't quite feel it yet.
He grabbed his jacket, said brief goodbyes, and headed for the parking lot.
Tomorrow there would be meetings about the final cut, about marketing materials, about the December release strategy.
Alexander would probably call about the Matrix again.
Reynolds would send another fifty-page email about Deadpool marketing.
…and the work would continue.
But tonight, he had to go home, eat reheated dinner with Gwendolyn, and let himself exist in the space between finishing one thing and beginning the next.
That felt like enough.
.
….
[To be continued...]
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