Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Martin was in Weta Digital's Los Angeles office.

To amplify The Avengers' visual impact, he'd enlisted top-tier Hollywood VFX studios—Weta Digital, Industrial Light & Magic, Digital Domain, and Blue Sky—for the film's effects. With 416 VFX shots, nearly 90% of the film relied on digital wizardry.

"Mr. Meyers, which cameras were used for these 29 shots? We need to match the right lens distortion," a Weta tech asked.

"It's complex. For this scene, I used three different 50mm lenses: an upgraded Ultra Panavision 70 here, a Panavision Sphero 65 there…"

"Mr. Meyers, your New York battle storyboards show heavy destruction and debris. That's manageable, but the fog you used in live shoots is making green-screen keying tricky."

"Any solutions?"

"Yes, but it'll take time."

"How long?"

"At least three days."

"Fine."

After discussing VFX details, Martin returned to the editing room to tackle the film's cut.

"Here, here, and here—scrap these shots. Wait—rewind six seconds."

The editor complied.

The scene showed Nick Fury dispatching two unnamed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to chase Hawkeye and Loki after news of Hawkeye's betrayal. During the pursuit, Loki, riding in a pickup bed, blasts the agents' car with his scepter, taking them offline.

The next shot was the car flipping. Martin noticed the driver and passenger seats were conspicuously empty—no bodies, no dummies.

"Damn, that's a mistake. Ditch this shot. Use a different angle of the crash."

"Got it."

…

The Avengers post-production hummed along smoothly.

But Satan's team hit a major snag.

The convoy ahead suddenly split into two groups, vehicles peeling off onto separate routes.

"Damn it, which team do we follow?" Big Dog growled, eyes wide with urgency.

Both Maybachs were identical, their tinted windows opaque. There was no way to tell which carried Gaddafi.

Satan frowned. "Looks like Gaddafi doesn't even trust his second son."

"Boss, what now?" Big Dog pressed.

"No time to guess. Pick one and follow," Satan ordered.

"Fuck, here's hoping for luck," Big Dog muttered, yanking the wheel left to trail that group.

Satan tapped the truck's partition. "Ram, get everyone ready to fight."

The split was clearly preplanned. If they followed the wrong group, they'd raise suspicion, and a fight would be inevitable.

No battle erupted. They'd guessed right.

The only question now: was Gaddafi or Saif al-Islam in that Maybach?

Satan pulled out a high-res nylon map of Libya, studied it, and cursed. "Damn. The right-hand group's heading to Sirte. We're following the one going to a place called Tarhuna, about 29 kilometers away. I don't think Gaddafi's with us."

"Tarhuna? What kind of name is that?" Big Dog asked.

"Keep driving," Satan said.

In the truck bed, Ram and the 40-odd men were crammed together, sweltering.

Ram pulled a dagger from his boot, twirling it irritably. "Fuck, I've never wanted a fight to start so bad. This truck's a damn oven."

His eyes fell to the crates beneath him. A sly grin spread. "Hey, brothers, let's check out Gaddafi's gold."

He pried open a crate with his dagger, revealing six rows of five neatly stacked gold bars.

"Whoa!"

"Gorgeous!"

"Never seen so much gold in one place!"

"How much is this worth?"

Ram reached for a bar but couldn't lift it one-handed—it was heavier than expected.

"Whoa!" He sheathed the dagger, using both hands to hoist a bar, inspecting it.

Engraved in fine print: Row 1: London Bullion Market Association Standard Gold Bar Row 2: Weight 400 oz Row 3: Purity 99.5%

Ram tried calculating but gave up. "Anyone know the current gold price?"

"Pilot," in the corner, raised a hand. "I dabble in futures. Last year, gold was over $1,600 an ounce. This year, it's fluctuating—around $1,500."

"How much is this crate worth?" Ram's math was abysmal.

Pilot eyed the crate. "Based on size, it holds three layers, 30 bars per layer—90 bars total. 90 × 400 × 1,500 equals—"

He gasped, eyes bulging.

"Spit it out! How much?" Ram demanded.

"This crate's worth $54 million!"

"What the fuck!"

"Holy shit!"

"Sartre's bitch!"

Exclamations echoed in the truck.

Ram, trembling, counted the crates. "Ten crates… we're sitting on $540 million!"

Pilot, voice shaking, added, "Minus the Maybachs, APCs, and troop carriers, there's 20 trucks. That's… $10.8 billion?"

"No way. Gaddafi can't have that much gold!" Pilot pulled out a calculator, muttering, "400 ounces × 90 bars × 10 crates × 20 trucks…"

"7.2 million ounces."

"One ounce is about 28 grams."

"That's 201.6 million grams."

"Or 201.6 tons."

"Fuck, the UK's gold reserves are only 310 tons. How's Gaddafi got this much?"

"Who cares? Even if the other crates aren't all gold, they're probably worth just as much. We've gotta secure it all for the boss. He won't skimp on bonuses."

"Wait!" Ram groaned, remembering the split convoy. "We've only got half now. Damn it. I'm telling Satan—he needs to tell the boss."