Okay, standard disclaimer applies. Daria and company are the property of Viacom/MTV or whomever has acquired the intellectual property rights. This is a work of fanfiction, and nothing of value has been exchanged in its creation.

This is a writing experiment. I'm wondering if readers will be able to follow a story that may be encumbered with unexplained jargon. Let me know if you could still follow the story thread.

This is a one-shot and does not relate to anything else I've done except for the D/T thing.

Daybreak

"You know, that writer friend of yours is kinda cute."

In the dark, Trent rolled his eyes and gave the production assistant a dirty look. Idiot. Cute? Anybody who can't see her beauty is blind, stupid or so full of themselves that they can't see anything beyond the superficial.

Took you long enough to notice. And that's why you'll never be more than a second rate PA.

He hadn't cared for the way the Director had been watching her all night either, but then he should be able to understand what kind of person he was working with.

Trent remembered all those years ago, when the moron males of Lawndale couldn't see what he could. Well, except for Sloane, who didn't really count because he turned out to be a self-centered asshole that both Janey and Daria had done well to put behind them.

It was easier to be amused back then by how she flew below the radar, hiding behind a pair of oversized glasses and a shapeless, drab ensemble. Still, she had pretty legs and that auburn hair… he had noticed the moment he met her. But it was never something he dared to act upon- she was so wonderfully intelligent, so funny, and she was Janey's best friend.

Trent looked over to his first assistant. "Mackie, get the Aaton off the Steadicam. I think we should try this shot on the western dolly. Okay with you, Marley?"

"Sure, why the hell not," the Director nodded. "I'm okay with the last two takes. Give Pete some cutting options, anyway."

Daria appeared. "I was just going to ask about that; the shot looked a little too fluid and modern."

Marley gave her a look. "Morgendorffer," he sighed, "Maybe you or Lane should be directing this one."

She cracked the slimmest of smiles. "Whatever. Just my opinion, anyway." She turned to Trent, settling into the little padded seat on the camera dolly. "How the hell can you see what you're doing with that damn shutter flicker?"

"Hey, at least the image is nice and bright on the video assist screen," he laughed. "Usually I'm shooting stopped down at least four stops to get the depth of field."

"I gotta go and rewrite the last scene. Come find me when you wrap."

Trent watched her walk off to the office trailer. It was like a gift from the gods when he had gotten the call from the producer. Daria had suggested him as a Director of Photography, forwarding his sample reel; not too many people these days shot super-sixteen film as well as he did. She was the one who had suggested actually shooting on black and white film stock instead of hi-def video, for the distinctive look so much like the film noir feel she had wanted. He'd always loved shooting on film instead of digital. Hell, he would have worked for free if she had asked.

"Okay, people, if we're through watching Ms. Morgendorffer's ass, let's get this take for the DP." Marley was in a mood tonight.

"First positions, everyone!" Paul, the Assistant Director called out in his bossy bitch voice. "Roll sound!"

"Speed," called out Sue, the soundwoman.

Mackie flipped the switch on the Aaton, and watched as the sync LED came on. "Marker!" he barked.

The clapper-loader leaned in with the slate. "Scene 42A, take 9, MARK!"

Trent framed the shot as the dolly grip tracked the talent. Easy. Mackie pulled focus perfectly as usual with the wireless controller; the grip and the talent hit their end marks and Trent watched as he let the actor break frame right. "Good for me," he called after a moment's runout.

"DP's happy," Marley called out, rolling his eyes. "Strike it. We'll pick up, minimum crew forty-five minutes before daybreak."

"Everybody else not wrapping or on the last set go home and get some sleep," Paul recited. "Thank you, people. Crew call is at 6:30 PM, everyone check the production board and pick up your packets before you leave."

The breakers on the main generator were thrown and the location fell into relative gloom, illuminated only by the parking lot lights and the floodlights mounted on the trucks. The lighting grips scampered about, pulling and rolling cables up and loading them into the jockey boxes along the bottom sides of the trucks. Most of the stuff had already been put away; they were letting the lighting instruments themselves cool off before pulling them down and packing them up.

He was glad to find out that the lighting rental house had some old Mole Tenners up in the rafters that still had the old style incandescent globes in them. They were power pigs, but they had that old school quality of light that was perfect for the 1930's look Daria had wanted. Most of these old fresnels in rental inventories had been converted to high-output LEDs, but the optical change really did mess with the quality of the light. You could see it along the edges of light and dark, the way the much bigger tungsten filament in the lamp projected through the mirror and lens of the ancient lighting fixture.

The younger lighting grips bitched about the weight and how hot they ran, but Brady, the old Gaffer, just grinned and showed the younglings how to check and clean off the blackening on the inside of the soccer-ball sized light bulbs by swirling the spoonful of abrasive powder that had been sealed inside when it was made.

Maybe it was hereditary. His father was a highly regarded still photographer; he had also dabbled in filmmaking briefly. Trent had found his spring-wound sixteen-millimeter Bolex camera in the basement not long after Janey had left for BFAC. The notion of shooting a music video for the Spiral immediately came to mind; he soon fell in love with the moving image. His first short film was strikingly original, mostly due to the fact that he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

One of his father's old friends was an old-school cinematographer, and hunting him down for a little advice had been a stroke of luck.

"Nobody shoots this stuff anymore," Graham Maxwell had muttered. "Too bad. Film has a look that transcends the actual image quality and all that technical bullshit. What makes it different is that you have to know what's going to happen before the image is processed and put in front of you. No running to the monitor to see what happens when you move a light, you have to know what's going to happen. Video's thrown the door open for a bunch of amateurs."

Graham had led him to a corner of his basement, where a number of odd machines sat cloaked under white sheets.

He opened a freezer that stood in the corner. It was full of what looked like small sealed pizza boxes and silver disc-shaped metal cans. "Outdated movie film. You can have as much as you want. I know a couple of techs at SUNY Stony Brook that are still running an old movie film processing machine. I'll show you how to shoot and edit. Vince helped me launch my own career when we were both starting out; I owe his son at least that."

He was as good as his word. Trent took to shooting music videos for other bands; he spent hours in Graham's basement learning to put his footage together. "Old KEM Universal flatbed editing machine," he had said almost reverently, pulling off a sheet from the biggest machine. It looked like something that had fallen out of a vintage UFO. Two screens, eight spinning horizontal platters that moved rolls of motion picture film and magnetic sound film back and fourth in sync. Picture and sound was cut, negatives matched to the workprint that was honed on the KEM.

"This damn thing cost a fortune. Saved it from being torn apart for salvage when WGBH in Boston shut down their film department."

Trent had quickly grasped the poetics of the moving image; to him it was not unlike the music he had struggled to master for most of his life. The nuts and bolts of filmmaking was another challenge altogether, but the old man was a patient and excellent teacher. He took him past the mechanics of the turning sprocket wheels and quiet flutter of the film moving past the picture head gate; all those tiny, nearly identical pictures on a perforated acetate ribbon magically transforming into a moving image. Beyond the process of filmmaking lay the realm of storytelling, be it the gritty reality of an Italian Neo-Realist film or the visual poetry of Maya Deren.

Film had the same subtle distortion that recording music on analog tape had. It naturally compressed the range of light to dark, going nonlinear at the ends. Once you had a certain level of light hitting the film in the camera, it went white. Likewise, once the light was low enough, it went dead black and no more would be revealed. It was like seeing with someone else's eyes, in a parallel universe where things were different enough that the mind had no alternative but to accept that vision like a newborn.

Digital video was too perfect by comparison, too close to real life to demand that suspension of disbelief that opened the mind wide. Or at least, not to the extent that the imperfection of film required.

One night, they were having dinner together when Trent realized something. They had become friends, despite the age difference, but at the same time the old man was passionate about passing on what he knew to Trent. True, there was the history that began with his father Vincent, but that didn't begin to explain the situation that Trent found himself in.

Graham had no children. His career had made it difficult to maintain a marriage, and his had failed between the strain of a wife who wanted a normal lifestyle and the demands of distant locations and crazy work hours. In a way, not unlike the nomadic lifestyle his own father had. If it wasn't for the nonconformity that his mother Amanda embraced, it was unlikely that he or Janey would have even been born.

He'd always taken his father for granted. He'd always resented the way he and Janey seemingly didn't matter to him. He knew that his father was a highly regarded photographer; that wasn't surprising, given the dedication his profession got over the needs of his family. What he didn't realize growing up was just how good a photographer his father was. In fact, Vincent Lane was legendary.

Vince had tried to interest his son in the craft, but Trent would have none of it. Instead, he had turned to music, perhaps as much out of resentment as of passion.

What Trent had failed to recognize was that the genetic predisposition towards the visual arts was there in him as much as it was in Janey; it had just expressed itself differently. He'd always approached his songwriting first from the imagery in his mind's eye, as stupid as a lot of it might have been in retrospect.

Graham was a man who had a lifetime of wisdom and knowledge, with no one to pass it on to. He was growing old, a master of a profession that had pretty much moved on in certain ways.

Trent looked around his teacher's home. In every room, there was at least one bookcase, packed solid with a lifetime's accumulation of a man who never wanted to stop learning. Yet, in all the time he'd been hanging out with the old man, he'd never once seen him actually read a book. He'd open a book to show Trent a drawing or photo, but that was all.

He was always quick to walk over to a shelf and pull several volumes off, handing them to Trent to take home. When he tried to return them, Graham had waved him off and told him to keep them. He had given him scores of classic texts in the art and craft of lighting, boxes of American Cinematographer magazines, stacks of annotated scripts and lighting diagrams from projects Graham had worked on. It was almost as though he was desperate to pass them on.

The thing was, as it turned out, Graham Maxwell's vision was failing.

A man whose life was built on the mastery of the visual image was losing his eyesight. That was why he had retired; it was the ultimate nightmare for him, and it was slowly happening. Macular Degeneration, he had called it.

Once Trent had begun to truly understand the editing process, Graham pulled out a silver metal case. "This is the last movie camera I used," he smiled. He pointed at Trent's old Bolex on the shelf. "Vince let me borrow that camera for a year to learn on." He cracked open the seals on the case and opened it up. "This is yours now. I have no use for it anymore."

"Whoa." The sleek instrument nested inside was sexy. A work of mechanical and optical art. Instead of the primitive wind-up spring motor of the Bolex, this one had a quartz-controlled electronic drive system, and interchangeable film magazines for quick loading and changes. Instead of the three small prime lenses that the Bolex carried on its turret, this one had a massive zoom lens, as well as accessory wide-angles nested in clear plastic cases.

"This is an Aaton. Limited production, French built sixteen millimeter camera. It has an interchangeable gate that lets you shoot both academy like the Bolex, as well as the super-16 format. Runs silently for sound shooting. This rig cost me almost thirty thousand dollars. You can use it on a tripod, sure, but it was-is- one of the easiest hand-held cameras to shoot with. It was made for documentary filmmaking in the worst conditions- it was designed to be field-stripped and repaired on location. The lenses- not so much. That zoom is a Cooke. Replaced the Schneider that I dropped in the Amazon.

"You can acquire your image on a film emulsion, process it and then do a flying spot transfer right off the negative to high-definition video for post and distribution. The super-16 aspect ratio is really similar to HD video, but the look will be true film."

Graham pulled the camera out of the case, swung the viewfinder eyepiece into position and handed it to Trent. Settling it on his shoulder he found that it was shockingly light for its size. It seemed to balance perfectly and became an extension of his body, a highly evolved tool of a mature medium. It was nothing like the stupidly clunky DSLR video rigs he had tried out a few times.

Trent had spent two years under Graham's tutelage. While what he learned from the old cinematographer might have been considered obsolete in some sense, it did in fact provide him with a notable advantage over the competition when he applied for a position with a high-end, boutique video production house. It wasn't a long-term gig, but that's how it was played. You built your reel and you moved on until your reputation let you call the shots, so to speak.

His depth of knowledge made the transition to electronic imaging faster, and he quickly gained a reputation as a shooter who understood the heart of the matter.

Let there be light, and all will be revealed.

The rewrite went more slowly than she had expected, and she stepped outside just as the last of the big trucks drove off. It was well after midnight, and under the parking lot lights, she could see that Trent was still there with the rest of the camera crew. He was checking the camera reports with a flashlight before they were taped to the film cans, along with the footage from earlier in the day. The driver was waiting for the film, which would be couriered to one of the few remaining quality processing labs left in New York. She waited until he handed the clipboard to his assistant.

"Mackie, I'll go over the camera myself. Just get the batteries charging."

"Sure thing, Trent," grinned the eager visual media student. He reminded Daria of Ted, the home-schooled innocent she knew in high school.

"Join me for coffee or something? Craft Services just put out the last fresh bucket of caffeine," Daria said, reaching for the smaller case of filters that he had tucked under his arm. He smiled, tilting his head in the direction of his car.

"Let's go," he said, unlocking and then stowing the gear in the back. "There's a great all night diner a block away. Security's keeping an eye on the location tonight since we need to pick up some shots in a few hours when the sun comes up."

"Damn writer had to have that stupid tracking shot along the gutter to the body reveal in the alley," she smirked.

"And she had to have that early morning feel, with the garbage truck crew doing the honors of finding the body. Sounds right to me," he chuckled softly, taking her hand in his. "We transition from the Film Noir aesthetic to a more contemporary feel…from one stylized reality to another. It's a nice touch."

"Daybreak," murmured Daria. The metaphorical turning point.

This one shot was going to cost them thousands of dollars. The production manager tried to argue for shooting it tight and lighting it to look like early morning, but Trent pointed out that the sequence needed to start with the lightening sky in the shot, so it had to be wide and deep. You couldn't fake it; on the other hand, it meant that they needed very little in terms of lighting. The permits were good till mid-morning Sunday, to allow for cleanup.

He'd shoot it with the portable HMI lights if he needed controlled highlights but mostly he'd fill with the reflectors that they kept in the second unit van. You'd see the sky reflected in the water pooled in the gutter, the tire of the garbage truck would roll in and break up the reflection. He'd follow the motion until the truck stopped, at which point you'd see the bloodied hand, the fingertips bleeding into the water. The shot would hold until the water stopped moving, and the morning sky would again be reflected in its surface.

He knew he would get the shot on his own. Sending the trucks and half the crew home would save them a lot of overtime.

His hand felt warm in hers as they walked along. She could still feel the calluses on his fingertips. He had never given up music; he still played acoustic, although these days he had no time for gigs. It was too bad, since his songwriting had greatly improved as his sensibilities had matured.

It was so strange the way their lives had crossed again and again. She had heard of his new direction from Jane, of course; but by the time they had graduated he had left the country and had taken a job in Sydney, Australia at a movie studio there. Of course, he had flown back for Janey's graduation, and Daria was pleased that he had also taken the time to be there for hers as well, a week later.

She almost didn't recognize him at first. He was clean shaven, and there was no metal to be seen in his ears.

"Been travelling a lot, and the body jewelry sets off the airport metal detectors. Sorta got out of the habit," he smiled. "Sometimes the passport inspectors in certain countries give you crap if you look a little alternative."

They had spent the few days they had together catching up. It was like old times, with the three of them just hanging out.

But there was no question; Trent was a different guy from the lazy but endearing slacker she had known in Lawndale. He'd brought two of his in-progress personal projects to show them on a hard drive; she was surprised at this side of him. This medium suited him nicely. Naturally he had composed and recorded the music for the pieces, which made her smile when he sheepishly apologized yet again for screwing up on the music for some asinine high school project years ago.

Jane wasn't surprised in the least when Daria's project in Singapore later that year included a little side trip to Australia on the way back that had stretched to more than a month. He'd recruited her to do some script doctoring, something that she found she greatly enjoyed. The screen credits would be invaluable on her resume, and the money was great.

Not having to check into a hotel made the excursion both profitable and fun in many ways.

"What the hell was that?" Jane demanded, having been rudely awoken by the weirdest morning alarm she'd ever heard.

"A didgeridoo," smirked Daria. "Present from your brother." She handed the strangely decorated tube over. "You play it like this," Daria demonstrated, blowing into her curled hand.

Jane proceeded to make a sound not unlike a flatulent kangaroo, Daria decided.

"I love working with you, Daria," sighed Trent as he pushed toast through the last of his eggs. "It's been too damn long." Three years and six months since they had reconnected in Boston. Three years since Sydney. Two years and three months since he managed to make it back to the States, and then Daria's MFA graduation from Columbia a year ago.

He shook his head, just slightly, but she saw it.

She gazed at him, calm and collected. He could see that set of her jaw; the way her left arm sloped, the way she was sitting. He knew that she was anything but calm on the inside. She pushed the coffee cup around on the table for a moment before replying.

"Yeah, it has."

She didn't ask the question, but he could tell it was there. Say it, you dumbass.

"For the last several years the highlights of my life are the times I've met up with you," he said evenly, watching for her reaction.

It wasn't long in coming. A tiny look of terror in her eyes. Yet, she sat there, unmoving.

He put his hand on the table, palm up.

Without breaking eye contact with him, she put her hand in his again. "You're not your father, Trent. You have his talent, but I think you're also smarter than he is."

"So you…" Moron. Stop walking away. Stop letting her walk away.

She smiled. "Maybe you're not that smart after all." She laughed softly after a moment. "Wait, maybe we're both being idiots here."

"Maybe we can figure something out."

"I'd like that."

Trent smiled at her, and dropped some bills on the table. As they exited the diner, he put his arm lightly around her waist, and a moment later she returned the gesture.