Updated 1/3/15

Chapter 1:

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instrument, Cassandra Clare does. On the other hand, I do own the plot, so enjoy!

All you need to know right now is that Jace is a world-known world-famous actor and Clary is a world-known artist who is hired for her skills as a prop-manager and scenery consultant. They both play roles in the new-hit movie: The Agent.


JPOV.

There was nothing much on a Sunday morning to look at on my morning runs near Broadway at 5 am in the morning. I was running in overlapping circles over the filming area, memorizing each building.

I couldn't go back to sleep after Hollywood, one of the leading producers of movies in the world, just sent me a letter asking if I would like to play one of the main roles in The Agent. I couldn't wait to start the film, except that the cast couldn't find the perfect "Valerie", the other starring role.

I knew my skills could get me anywhere, especially if it involved a woman. Contrarily, the director was a guy, so I was sure as heck surprised, considering most of the directors I usually interact with are females.

I went back to the the Hollywood Hotel (this is where all current people who play roles in a movie or the crew for a movie reside, the hotel sometimes known as the HH), took a shower, and then decided to take a walk, to cool my muscles, around the premises. I walked around one of the studios the team was going to use for the movie, when I saw a flash I red.

I curiously followed, my boredom amounting to nothing at the moment. I knew every female at the HH and had all of them under my crotch at least once. And I knew I never did that with a red-headed. It would be a nice change for a while.

CPOV.

I was late for my job interview. Or, to be more specific, my very first job interview. I'm not usually late for important events like this, but having a job interview at 5:30 a.m. way too early. Besides, most of the places I've worked at didn't require me to have a job interview because my talent was that evident.

The earliest I ever get up is maybe around 7 a.m. to exercise in the gym. I had no idea why the art manager wanted to meet at 5:30, but you can't argue with your boss-to-be when you want a job. This job, unlike the others, would be the entire highlight of my career.

I walked along the Broadway Street, hopelessly lost. I didn't expect help since it was 5:15 am. If only there could be big signs that said Art Gallery this way or Starbucks that way, because I sure did need coffee at this moment.

I couldn't even use a car; Jon was the only one with a car and he was out of town working for this business company that traveled frequently. So that left me with the option to walk. Hell, I didn't even have a bicycle for the old times. I would even be extremely grateful for a scooter.

There were taxis, but there was only enough money to buy coffee at the moment, not money to go more than two miles, and who knew how long it would take with taxi drivers. Besides, this was an empty area, one of the set houses.

I wandered in circles till I recognized one spot I had passed: a bunch of poor neighborhood houses. The time said 5:25. The roads weren't even straight and kept intersecting at odd angles.

I heard an approaching set of footsteps behind me and I thought Crap, it's a burglar. This neighborhood wasn't that proper looking and looked like a ghetto that could contain all types of robbers looking for ways to make easy money.

In fact, this was probably a ghetto. Before I can even turn, a hand is over my mouth and around my waist.

I immediately stomp with all my might on the person's toes and flip over. I blindly kick the person and he/she lets go. At least a class of gymnastics pay off. I was not looking for a fight this early in the morning and if I could establish that, maybe no more burglars would bother me.

I rub my eyes and brace myself, not opening my eyes. Staring into a person's eyes meant challenging he/she, and maybe I could work through this situation with reason. I didn't want the situation to get out of hand and arrive at the art gallery with a gunshot.

The attacker groaned, and then started. "By the angel, what was that for?" the voice was distinctively male with a touch of annoyance. Also with a touch of a hot british accent that I knew I've heard from before.

What was that for? I wanted to screech back. Instead, I open my eyes and it takes my entire willpower to stop my jaw from hitting the ground. I think to myself, God, he's the hottest burglar ever.


So, yeah, it was pretty short, just a run through to get my ideas flowing.

Review?

~Lizbeth