| Mar. 9th, 2006 @ 11:37 pm Untitled |
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From BREN-DON:
"What is noir? A story about losers.
Who are the losers? They didn't win.
Who are the winners? The writers of history.
What is a history? Lies that come true.
What kind of words come true? Magic ones.
So for a noir story you make up people who know magic, then write about the ones who don't."
IV)
Merrick sneaks in the back way through the sprawling ghetto-hive of shipping crates, rusting in stacks ten high. Flickering light sneaks between gaps in sheets draped across openings: illuminates a puddle of something he prefers to think isn’t blood.
The warehouse skulks, low and angry, seemingly built from stains and corrosion. Merrick draws his revolver, his shadow stretching out behind him like it knows something he doesn’t.
Inside, the whimpering gets his attention faster than the corpses do. The man is dead when Merrick finds him, but in his eye, a gleam: Merrick turns, safety off, sees new frost-
CUT TO:
III)
Merrick awakes to an angry primate pummeling the inside of his skull. He sits up painfully, dimly aware that he wasn’t here last night.
A girl enters, dressed stereotypical overcity chic: layered colours, trinkets around her neck. White gloves, bare feet. She hands him a mug of tea before perching coolly on the benchtop.
“Ogle?” she asks, after aeons sipping in silence; indicates his goggles with her free hand.
“Means ‘to look at’.”
She peels the tape from the back of one glove with her teeth. Blue, red, yellow...
Above their heads, the long-dead light bulb shines cheerfully in its socket.
II)
INT. OFFICE - NIGHT
Rain patters on a window. The camera pans around to MERRICK lounging at his desk, idly examining his goggles.
MERRICK (V.O.)
The rain beat down like a hangover
after payday, so loud I almost
didn’t hear the door. In walked
trouble: brunette, as usual, but
she had a case and work was
slower than a sloth at sunrise.
She needed something found, and
that’s what I do. The name’s
James Merrick, and I’m bleeding from
His ears
His nose
His
CUT TO:
"The android, Merrick." Her eyes are glowing like giant novelty Christmas lights. "Where is it?"
I)
The maglev moves with discomforting silence, and Merrick's spirits sink further. Nothing makes noise anymore. The blue orbs set into the guide rail just glow with a pleasant eeriness, striped shadow pulsing through the carriage’s windows.
They didn’t have to, thinks Merrick. But they’re showy bastards.
He pulls his goggles over his eyes as he alights, the coloured logo caked in years of grime and fear. Merrick likes them because they were built to work: the departing train is just a hollowed-out shell, a marionette controlled through warping nature.
He heads for the alley. Let’s see their prissy words do this.
I wrote about Merrick a while ago (but never put it up here). In it he finds The Engine, and gods. I'm not sure if that's canon in this story yet.
I know I should probably try to write in bigger blocks than 101, but it feels like going from polaroids to film. Besides, I don't have the attention span. |
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