Burt Berendsen sat in his cluttered medical office in New York, adjusting his glass eye in the mirror. He had just received a package with no return address. Inside was a single, weathered film reel and a note written in Valerie’s unmistakable, frantic shorthand: “The titles are available. The script is being written in blood. Come to the coast.”
"We didn't change the world," Harold noted, lighting a cigarette. Burt Berendsen sat in his cluttered medical office
"They’re calling it 'Project Title,'" Valerie whispered, leading them into a basement filled with flickering projectors. "A group of industrialists is buying up every film studio in the country. Not to make movies, but to control the 'Available Titles'—the narratives the public believes. They’re filming fake newsreels, staged riots, and manufactured heroes to prepare the country for a coup that looks like a parade." The script is being written in blood
The trio realized the "titles" weren't just movie names; they were the designations of power. The industrialists had a list of who would be the next "President," the next "General," and the next "Traitor." "A group of industrialists is buying up every
Burt met Harold Woodman at a rain-slicked pier in New Jersey. Harold, now a successful lawyer but still wearing his scars like armor, looked at the film reel. "She’s in California, Burt. She’s found something in the Hollywood backlots that makes the Committee of Five look like a bridge club."
"No," Burt smiled, adjusting his eye. "But we gave it a better ending for today."
The year was 1938. The pact made by Burt, Valerie, and Harold in the original "Amsterdam" had held firm for years, but the world was tilting on its axis once more.