July 1987
The July heat pressed down harder than June ever had. The streets shimmered, fire hydrants cracked open by laughing kids sprayed arcs of water, and delivery trucks rumbled through the boroughs with windows rolled down and radios blasting. Inside the Workshop, the air was heavy with ink, sweat, and the restless urgency of a company trying to stretch its reach before anyone thought to cut it back.
Distribution had stabilized into something that felt less like experiment and more like structure. Marcus arrived each morning with a new stack of contracts—some signed, some waiting for signatures, some torn in frustration. He pinned maps on the wall, dots spreading across the Midwest, each dot a theater or a small chain willing to test Lotus slots.
One Monday morning, he dropped into a chair across from Julian, exhausted but triumphant. "Three new chains in Michigan," he said, sliding over the paperwork. "All small, family-owned. They're fed up with Paramount's arrogance. They're not giving us exclusives, but they'll run us side by side with Warner."
Julian flipped through the contracts with the slow patience that unnerved even his allies. "Good. It's not dominance we need yet. It's coexistence. If we survive in the same cages as the lions, we prove we belong there."
Marcus grunted. "Still feels like we're crawling."
"Crawling is survival," Julian said. "And survival buys time. Time is growth."
Revenue sheets showed a steady climb. July's projections put gross receipts at $12.7 million across partner theaters, with Vanderford's net hovering just above $5.3 million. It wasn't enough to shake the majors, but it was enough to prove persistence. Julian diverted funds carefully: 40 percent reinvested in logistics, 40 percent to R&D, 20 percent to employee bonuses and new hires. "They must feel rewarded for carrying the weight," he explained to Sophia. "Ownership without morale collapses. Bonuses buy both."
Sophia spent long nights with legal drafts. A fresh batch of lobbying briefs had surfaced, thinly disguised as "public-interest concerns" about distribution fairness. "They're trying to strangle us with bureaucracy," she told Julian, dropping the papers on his desk.
Julian glanced over them once. "Then we counter with public proof. More community programs, more photos of kids, more sponsor reports. Let them drown in goodwill again."
In the corner, Mira was already sketching plans for expanding the summer league into additional boroughs. She saw what Julian meant—proof lived not in boardrooms but in gyms, on courts, in the smiles of children wearing lotus jerseys. She outlined schedules, transportation costs, and local sponsor options. Julian approved them without hesitation. "This is armor," he said. "Every jersey is a shield against their attacks."
Anna continued to split her focus between Sāmrta and the Workshop's lighting systems. The Ohio pilot group had reported a curious glitch: one device had frozen mid-transaction, requiring a manual reset. Anna's team investigated, discovering a memory overflow tied to a poorly documented function call. "We can patch it," she assured Julian, "but it means rewriting part of the allocator."
Julian nodded. "Patch carefully. Never chase speed over stability." His words were steady, carved with the certainty of someone who knew what lay ahead if they rushed.
Demi's presence flickered in and out like a light through a curtain. Shooting for her film had begun in late June, and she now spent long days on set. Still, she called Julian most evenings, her voice a mixture of excitement and nerves. "They respect me," she whispered once, "but some of them are waiting for me to trip. You know how they look at me."
Julian listened, silent for a long moment. "Then don't trip," he finally said. "And if they try to make you, I'll pull the rug from under them instead." She laughed softly at his bluntness, but the reassurance steadied her.
By the second week of July, the Workshop's rhythm had become relentless. Contracts signed, checks deposited, pilots expanded, jerseys delivered. The empire wasn't yet visible from the outside as a giant, but within the Workshop, it felt undeniable: the scaffolding was holding, and brick by brick, the walls were rising.
Julian wrote in his ledger at the close of the week: July opens. We crawl, but every inch leaves a mark.
July 10, 1987
The set smelled of hot lights, old plywood, and cheap coffee. Demi arrived each morning before dawn, script in hand, her hair tied back in a simple knot. She was no longer the girl with rumors at her heels—she was an actress in the middle of her first mid-budget production, and every step mattered.
Julian visited quietly, never making his presence an announcement. He stood behind the cameras, ledger in hand, watching the rhythm of production. Extras fidgeted, grips adjusted cables, and the director barked instructions in clipped tones. To most, Julian was just another investor checking progress. To Demi, he was the silent anchor in the storm.
The director, a lean man with a reputation for temper, pulled Demi aside after one take. "You need to give me more," he snapped. "You're playing it like television, not cinema."
Julian didn't intervene, but Demi glanced toward him. He gave a small nod—steady, calm. She straightened her back and tried again. This time her delivery cut sharper, her movements deliberate. The director blinked, then clapped once. "Better. Again."
That evening, she joined Julian outside by the trailers. "You didn't save me," she said, half-teasing, half-accusing.
"You don't need saving," he answered. "You need sharpening. That's why I stay quiet until it matters."
She smiled faintly, the exhaustion in her face softened by pride.
Not everyone on set welcomed her rise. Rival actresses whispered between takes, joking that she had "friends in high places." One even muttered within earshot, "Let's see how far boardroom money gets her when the camera's rolling." Demi ignored it, but Julian noted the remark in his ledger, the way he noted all threats.
Off set, Julian moved in subtler ways. He met with the producer and spoke not about Demi but about the film's international appeal. "Fresh faces sell in markets tired of recycled stars," he explained. He offered projections, drawn from his frozen archive of past box office trends. His calm certainty convinced them—press coverage would highlight Demi as a disciplined newcomer, not a curiosity.
Meanwhile, the gossip press circled like vultures. One columnist speculated openly about her "mysterious benefactor," hinting at scandal. Sophia handled the matter deftly: a legal letter here, a carefully placed counter-story there. Within a week, the narrative shifted—Demi was now described as a rising actress "guided by mentors who valued craft over glamour."
Julian and Demi's personal life intertwined quietly with the work. On long shooting days, she would find him in a shaded corner, ledger balanced on his knee, eyes distant in calculation. She would drop beside him, lean her head briefly on his shoulder, then rush back when called. In those fleeting moments, their relationship was unspoken yet undeniable.
By mid-July, the production had completed its first major sequence. The studio executives, wary at first, now muttered approval during dailies. "She's green, but she's got something," one remarked. Julian said nothing, only made another note: Respect is not given. It's extracted.
That night, back at the Workshop, he told the team about the set's progress. Marcus smirked. "So Hollywood hasn't eaten us alive yet?"
"Not yet," Julian replied. "And when they try, we'll already own the fork and knife.
July 18, 1987
Boston smelled different than New York—salt in the harbor air, brick streets that held centuries of memory, and the faint echo of church bells drifting across campuses. For Julian, it was fertile ground. If Sāmrta was going to survive outside the walls of his Workshop, it needed academic soil to grow roots.
Anna accompanied him on the trip. She carried a battered briefcase full of prototypes—slim boards, plain casings, and careful documentation disguised as "experimental teaching aids." The devices looked unremarkable, intentionally so. Julian insisted: "Camouflage first. Revelation later."
They met with faculty at a technical college not far from the Charles River. The professors were skeptical at first, adjusting their glasses as they studied the manuals. One, a gray-haired man with chalk still smudged on his jacket, frowned. "This syntax is… unusual. Rigid, almost ceremonial. It doesn't resemble C, Pascal, or anything we teach here."
Julian smiled faintly. "That's because it isn't meant to resemble. It's meant to endure."
Another professor, younger and curious, turned the pages with increasing interest. "But look at the stability claims. If these hold in testing, you may have built something that resists drift far longer than our current systems."
Anna set up a demonstration. She connected two pilot devices, initiated a handshake, and let the code run live. Encrypted tokens flashed across the screen, serialized in Sāmrta's bytecode. The devices exchanged data cleanly, without delay.
The younger professor leaned forward. "You're saying this could run for decades without collapse?"
"That's the intention," Julian replied evenly. "Long after languages shift, this remains readable."
The faculty murmured among themselves. One skeptic shook his head. "But adoption requires familiarity. Students won't embrace alien syntax."
Julian met his gaze without blinking. "Students adapt faster than institutions. The first ones to learn will carry it forward. And the world will need it when the old languages fail."
By the end of the meeting, they had secured a pilot agreement. Ten devices would be deployed to the computer science department, under strict non-disclosure contracts Sophia had crafted. The paperwork described the project as "stage-lighting control research," a fiction so bland it discouraged deeper questions.
On the train ride back to New York, Anna sat across from Julian, her briefcase on her lap. "They were skeptical," she admitted, "but they're curious. That curiosity is dangerous."
Julian closed his ledger. "Curiosity is the price of planting seeds. Let them be curious, but never give them the whole picture."
Back at the Workshop, news from Boston sparked cautious optimism. Marcus shrugged when he heard. "As long as it doesn't bankrupt us, fine. My side of the world bleeds cash fast enough already."
"Your side feeds this side," Julian countered. "Every ticket sold, every sponsor kept, buys time for Sāmrta to harden. One feeds the other. Balance is survival."
Demi returned from set that night, hair damp with sweat, exhaustion etched across her face. She dropped onto Julian's office couch, watching him mark new pins on the mezzanine map. "Boston now?" she asked.
"Yes."
She closed her eyes. "Feels like you're building a second city inside your head."
Julian paused, then replied softly, "Not a second city. A future one."
July 28, 1987
The heat of late July pressed down like a weight, the kind that made tempers short and patience thin. New York shimmered under the sun, but the Workshop did not slow. Fans whirred on every floor, sweat beaded on brows, and still the typewriters clicked, phones rang, and contracts shuffled across desks. If anything, the heat only sharpened the urgency.
The Brooklyn summer league had grown from a local novelty into something larger than anyone expected. By the third weekend, attendance had doubled. Parents filled the bleachers, vendors lined the entrances, and kids ran in jerseys that now looked less like uniforms and more like symbols. The lotus insignia had become a mark of pride.
Julian sat quietly in the stands, ledger balanced on his knee. He didn't cheer like the parents; he observed. Every detail mattered: the scuffed floorboards, the laughter spilling from the concession stand, the local reporters snapping photos of smiling children. He noted which sponsors' banners drew the most eyes, which volunteers showed initiative, which parents approached Mira to ask about next season. To him, it was all data.
Marcus, on the other hand, looked like a man on the edge of collapse. He stood near the entryway, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, juggling three conversations at once. A sponsor from Michigan demanded more visibility, another wanted exclusive naming rights, and a third hinted that if Vanderford didn't sweeten the deal, they'd pull out. Marcus cursed under his breath, wiped his forehead, and stalked toward Julian.
"They're bleeding us," he muttered. "Every time we give them an inch, they want a mile. If I cave on naming rights, we'll look like amateurs."
Julian closed his ledger calmly. "Then don't cave. Remind them that what they're buying isn't just a logo. It's loyalty. They can't replicate this with billboards. They need us more than we need them."
Marcus exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded. He returned to his phone call with renewed steel.
On the court, a whistle blew, signaling halftime. Mira strode across the gym, headset on, her clipboard stacked with schedules. She stopped at Julian's side. "We need more gyms," she said without preamble. "If this keeps growing, we'll have waitlists by next season."
"Good," Julian replied. "Scarcity makes people value what they can't have. But plan for expansion quietly. When we grow, it must look inevitable, not desperate."
Mira smiled despite the exhaustion. "You really think ten years ahead, don't you?"
"Always," Julian said. "That's the only way this survives."
That evening, after the last game ended and the gym emptied, the team gathered back at the Workshop. The air smelled of pizza boxes and sweat, exhaustion palpable in every slouched posture. Yet their faces carried the glow of accomplishment.
Mira read out attendance numbers. "Over three thousand across all weekends so far," she said. "Local press picked up two more stories. Sponsors are happy—loud, demanding, but happy."
Marcus grumbled but conceded. "Concessions revenue doubled. Still not enough to cover expansion, but close."
Anna, who had spent the day poring over Sāmrta logs, listened with quiet interest. "All this noise," she said softly, "keeps eyes off the real project. That's good."
Julian nodded. "Every court, every jersey, every news clipping—camouflage. They look here, not at Boston."
Sophia joined late, dropping a stack of legal papers on the table. "Regulators filed another inquiry," she reported. "Nothing serious yet, but they're circling."
Julian flipped through the documents with his usual composure. "Circling is good. It means they don't know where to strike."
Demi arrived last, her hair still pinned from the set, her shoulders slumped with fatigue. She slid into the chair beside Julian, resting her head briefly against his arm. "The director says I've got the role under control," she murmured. "The whispers are quieter now."
"Whispers never vanish," Julian replied. "But they can be drowned."
When the room finally quieted, Julian stood. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"July is heat," he said. "Heat reveals weakness, but it also tempers steel. We have survived the month without bending. Distribution grows. Sāmrta hardens. The league plants roots. Hollywood listens. This is what it means to crawl forward without pause. We are not yet giants, but the ground beneath us knows our weight."
The team listened in silence, exhaustion blending with resolve. Demi squeezed his hand under the table. Marcus scribbled notes despite his drooping eyelids. Mira leaned back, eyes closed but smiling.
Julian returned to his mezzanine later that night. The city below steamed from a fresh rainfall, neon lights reflecting off wet pavement. He stood over the map, pins and threads glowing under the desk lamp. One by one, he traced the lines: theaters, leagues, pilots, films.
He opened his ledger and wrote in clean, deliberate strokes:
July closes. We endure heat. We prove survival. August opens, and with it, the next front.
He closed the book, turned off the lamp, and let the storm-rinsed city carry the sound of his ambition into the night.
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