Day 1: Accomplished
Title: Untitled Script
Author: Paperkitty (on Script Frenzy)
Rating:PG (some naughty words)
Word Count: 1677
Chapter: 1 (Scenes 1, 2, & 3)
Prompt: Script Frenzy (Script Frenzy.org)
Summary: Something nasty happens off-panel, and we meet our protagonist
Disclaimer: Dude, this is all me. I own this ^___^
Author's Notes/Warnings: Ah, yeah, technically it's supposed to be in script form. But I had so much fun writing the prose, I decided it'll be like Nanowrimo. I'll work on the script form later. Oh, and any corrections and such greatly wanted.
The slap of leather against a solid, unyielding ground echoes in the air. A man in shadow is panting with the exertion of trying to outrun an unseen predator. Now and then he throws chance to the wind and looks over his shoulder, clumsily balancing the running with the frantic searching. The city is no help: its straight lines blending seamlessly under the overcast of the darkened moon. There's never been much light even in this neighbourhood, and it's no surprise the man trips over his own feet.
He clutches his breast, intent on having his panicked moment. His eyes shut tightly, waiting for the menace to finish him off. But the menace doesn't arrive.
Eventually his gasps quieten to the point where the urban sounds of the cityscape can squeeze in and overwhelm all else in his pounding head. Rather than push his luck, he stays where he is, in a damp alleyway beneath a rusting fire escape, flanked by nearby metal cans holding the sweet stench of a many someone's food.
It is a long time before the man can stand up on his wobbly legs. And a little longer before he can let out a sharp laugh, remember where he is, and then double up on silent laughter. The tears roll down his face, dripping onto the soiled ground. He quickly runs his sleeve over his face.
There is no one following him.
Confident of this, he smugly wipes the dirt off his rumpled clothes and makes an indulgingly disgusted face when he regards the sweat stains spreading under his arms and his back. He checks downwards. His trousers too. He makes a sound of revulsion and walks out of the alley, intending to make his way towards the light showering over the city's inner circle of stately homes and businesses.
The man snakes around a couple of parked cars, barely looking both ways as he jogs across the road and towards the entrance of a footbridge. He climbs the stairs two at a time, grinning jovially, and feeling a welcome lightness.
No one was following him.
His heart is pumping now, the grin stretching across his face. At the top of the stairs, he can't resist leaning back, a firm hand curled on the railing, and saying goodbye to the wretched, miserable dankness of the East End. With a crazed laugh he dashes across the bridge, whooping out occassionally in delight.
If the man hadn't been too busy with himself, he would have noticed the little things that would have sent him running back to that hellhole. In particular, the stranger waiting for him on the other side. Or rather, the stranger's weapon.
***
Across town, a young man with his hat strongly secured on, is busy trying to keep a hold of a slippery fellow he's chasing.
'Never gonna catch me, COPPER!'
The young man groans. 'I'm not a cop! Why is that always everyone's--'
His gloved hand clamps on top of the hat and the man jumps down onto the pavement. The effort of falling two stories takes the wind out of him for a moment -- quite the failure of his plan to take the other fellow by surprise. The other man simply stares at him dumbly for a moment, before setting off again.
'Damnit.'
They weave in and out of alleyways and climb over walls. The last was particularly miserable, as the git had pulled up the ladder and it had to be done the old-fashioned way. He hangs by his fingertips and attempts to land as best he can. It's a compromise, this falling on his hip.
'Leave me alone!'
The young man's irritation is more than obvious. 'Of all the inane things to say to a man chasing you...'
His object of interest makes a sharp turn too quickly to see, and the young man is left standing in front of a part of the city no sane individual would venture in, alone and at this time of night.
'Make me run fourteen blocks, leap off a rooftop and climb a wall? I'm going to wring your neck. You hear me?'
The threat reverberates in the darkness.
'Come and get me, copper!'
The man lifts the hat briefly to wipe the beads of sweat at the hairline. 'For the last time... You know what? Forget it. I'll just go tell my boss you're dead.' He turns on his heels. 'But before I do, I'm going to tell him your last confession included ratting out your crew.'
His shadow retreats with the growing faintness of the footfalls. The air is still once more, but with a crackle that suggests an increasingly unhappy crush in the dark. Before long, the same fellow claws his way out with an intensity that suggests a life or death situation.
'Wait, wait!'
There is no answer. Wherever the hatted man might have been, he's certainly not there. His target, meanwhile, is growing uncomfortable.
'Look, we can work something out! Just don't leave me here!' The fellow's eyes are darting back at forth now, wary of any movement. 'Hello?'
The sounds of metal play up behind him. Several heavy sounds. And presumably angry people to go with those sounds. Not waiting for confirmation, the fellow's legs pump away, glad to take over the brain's role. He almost makes it past the old shut-in department store when a large thwack ends his night.
The young man looks down at his target, then peers at the cast iron pan he holds in one hand. Not a dent. He chucks it over his shoulder, grinning.
***
The squad car pulls up at the pre-arranged spot. A large uniformed man pulls out slowly from the driver's seat, while his spry partner seemingly bolts out from the passenger seat with a clear intent to speak his mind.
'Hey! What's all this, then?'
The young man with the ever present hat smiles wryly, biting the inside of his cheek. 'You don't want my answer.'
'I won't like your smart-arse reply, you mean.'
The large man steps in between them, coughing to announce his presence. He taps the gold badge on his chest with emphasis. 'PC Cooke. And you've had the pleasure of meeting PC Wen.'
'A pleasure, like you said,' murmurs the young man, undeterred by the sharp glare of the latter. 'Your present's all tied up and waiting.'
The officers look in the direction of the man's thumb. Slouched against the pole of a payphone is the fellow from earlier, his arms secured with a thin rope. PC Cooke lumbers towards the figure and bends his knees, ignoring the popping sounds. He leans in to scrutinise the material.
'Rayon?'
'Clothesline.'
Cooke makes a queer hocking sound from the back of his throat, and spits out a large gob of something to the side that momentarily unnerves the other two men. 'Right, what's he done?'
The young man has his fingers laced together, the thumbs twiddling as he glances up at the sky. 'Well... It's something like this: my client has no use for him anymore.'
PC Wen's hand reaches for his taser. 'Your client?'
'Woah there, Quicksilver.' The man has his hands up, smiling another of his wry smiles. 'It's legit. I work for Somerset Corporate Systems.'
PC Wen's demeanour doesn't change, in fact it darkens. 'That scummy gumshoe outfit?'
'Not a fan, I see.'
Cooke lays a hand against the side of the building and slowly straightens up, groaning under his breath as he does so. The young man starts to move towards him, but is held up by a taser held very close to the throat.
'Leave 'im alone, Wen! God's sake.' He pointed an accusing finger at the young man. 'And you, Mr Private Dick, we're going to need your name and number to verify the case.'
'Sure.' The man fishes into his breast pocket and pulls out a plain leather ID clip. Wen watches mutinously as Cooke takes it from the man's open gloved hand.
'Hmm. Quite a mouthful here.' He looks up from the ID. 'What do your friends call you?'
The young man shrugs, hands in his pockets. 'They wouldn't. But I've been called Rey. Like the sound of it, I guess.'
Wen snorts and jots the information glanced over Cooke's shoulder onto his notepad. 'You gonna tell us, Rey, what this guy did to your client, or are you going to let us arrest him without cause?'
Rey retrieves a neatly folded piece of paper from a suit pocket and opens it, creasing out the folds with his fingers. 'Here you go. Warrant out for this sucker, dated two years ago.'
Wen snatches the paper. His eyebrows furrow as he takes in the words. He stops. Then starts again.
The young man clears his throat. 'Well, if there's nothing else.'
Cooke is already back with the passed out fellow, slapping cuffs over the rayon restraint. 'You won't be coming in with us, Rey?'
'Sorry, PC Cooke. I'm not the gloryhound type of guy.' He glances at his plain wristwatch. 'But I am off to file my report.'
'Paperwork. Bane of our lives. Off with you.' He waves off Rey, who gives a mock salute before taking his leave, whistling. Turning round, he shakes his head. 'Wen, you burn a hole in that warrant yet?'
'Stupid. How. Police. How. Goddamn. DICK,' sputters his partner, unable to articulate the level of rage he's encountering.
'Wen,' sighed Cooke, wearily facing the younger officer. 'You're young. And stupid enough to think you're entitled to everything.' He holds up a hand to signal he isn't quite finished. 'Listen to me, long as the flatfoots stay on their side and don't cross the line, we have no trouble. Do you understand, Police Constable Wen?'
He then ignores the sound of metal trash cans being kicked and angry yells in reply. Glancing back to the incapacitated prisoner, he bends forward just a tad. 'Bloody nasty bump on the poor sod's head. Wonder what hit 'im?'
Author: Paperkitty (on Script Frenzy)
Rating:PG (some naughty words)
Word Count: 1677
Chapter: 1 (Scenes 1, 2, & 3)
Prompt: Script Frenzy (Script Frenzy.org)
Summary: Something nasty happens off-panel, and we meet our protagonist
Disclaimer: Dude, this is all me. I own this ^___^
Author's Notes/Warnings: Ah, yeah, technically it's supposed to be in script form. But I had so much fun writing the prose, I decided it'll be like Nanowrimo. I'll work on the script form later. Oh, and any corrections and such greatly wanted.
The slap of leather against a solid, unyielding ground echoes in the air. A man in shadow is panting with the exertion of trying to outrun an unseen predator. Now and then he throws chance to the wind and looks over his shoulder, clumsily balancing the running with the frantic searching. The city is no help: its straight lines blending seamlessly under the overcast of the darkened moon. There's never been much light even in this neighbourhood, and it's no surprise the man trips over his own feet.
He clutches his breast, intent on having his panicked moment. His eyes shut tightly, waiting for the menace to finish him off. But the menace doesn't arrive.
Eventually his gasps quieten to the point where the urban sounds of the cityscape can squeeze in and overwhelm all else in his pounding head. Rather than push his luck, he stays where he is, in a damp alleyway beneath a rusting fire escape, flanked by nearby metal cans holding the sweet stench of a many someone's food.
It is a long time before the man can stand up on his wobbly legs. And a little longer before he can let out a sharp laugh, remember where he is, and then double up on silent laughter. The tears roll down his face, dripping onto the soiled ground. He quickly runs his sleeve over his face.
There is no one following him.
Confident of this, he smugly wipes the dirt off his rumpled clothes and makes an indulgingly disgusted face when he regards the sweat stains spreading under his arms and his back. He checks downwards. His trousers too. He makes a sound of revulsion and walks out of the alley, intending to make his way towards the light showering over the city's inner circle of stately homes and businesses.
The man snakes around a couple of parked cars, barely looking both ways as he jogs across the road and towards the entrance of a footbridge. He climbs the stairs two at a time, grinning jovially, and feeling a welcome lightness.
No one was following him.
His heart is pumping now, the grin stretching across his face. At the top of the stairs, he can't resist leaning back, a firm hand curled on the railing, and saying goodbye to the wretched, miserable dankness of the East End. With a crazed laugh he dashes across the bridge, whooping out occassionally in delight.
If the man hadn't been too busy with himself, he would have noticed the little things that would have sent him running back to that hellhole. In particular, the stranger waiting for him on the other side. Or rather, the stranger's weapon.
***
Across town, a young man with his hat strongly secured on, is busy trying to keep a hold of a slippery fellow he's chasing.
'Never gonna catch me, COPPER!'
The young man groans. 'I'm not a cop! Why is that always everyone's--'
His gloved hand clamps on top of the hat and the man jumps down onto the pavement. The effort of falling two stories takes the wind out of him for a moment -- quite the failure of his plan to take the other fellow by surprise. The other man simply stares at him dumbly for a moment, before setting off again.
'Damnit.'
They weave in and out of alleyways and climb over walls. The last was particularly miserable, as the git had pulled up the ladder and it had to be done the old-fashioned way. He hangs by his fingertips and attempts to land as best he can. It's a compromise, this falling on his hip.
'Leave me alone!'
The young man's irritation is more than obvious. 'Of all the inane things to say to a man chasing you...'
His object of interest makes a sharp turn too quickly to see, and the young man is left standing in front of a part of the city no sane individual would venture in, alone and at this time of night.
'Make me run fourteen blocks, leap off a rooftop and climb a wall? I'm going to wring your neck. You hear me?'
The threat reverberates in the darkness.
'Come and get me, copper!'
The man lifts the hat briefly to wipe the beads of sweat at the hairline. 'For the last time... You know what? Forget it. I'll just go tell my boss you're dead.' He turns on his heels. 'But before I do, I'm going to tell him your last confession included ratting out your crew.'
His shadow retreats with the growing faintness of the footfalls. The air is still once more, but with a crackle that suggests an increasingly unhappy crush in the dark. Before long, the same fellow claws his way out with an intensity that suggests a life or death situation.
'Wait, wait!'
There is no answer. Wherever the hatted man might have been, he's certainly not there. His target, meanwhile, is growing uncomfortable.
'Look, we can work something out! Just don't leave me here!' The fellow's eyes are darting back at forth now, wary of any movement. 'Hello?'
The sounds of metal play up behind him. Several heavy sounds. And presumably angry people to go with those sounds. Not waiting for confirmation, the fellow's legs pump away, glad to take over the brain's role. He almost makes it past the old shut-in department store when a large thwack ends his night.
The young man looks down at his target, then peers at the cast iron pan he holds in one hand. Not a dent. He chucks it over his shoulder, grinning.
***
The squad car pulls up at the pre-arranged spot. A large uniformed man pulls out slowly from the driver's seat, while his spry partner seemingly bolts out from the passenger seat with a clear intent to speak his mind.
'Hey! What's all this, then?'
The young man with the ever present hat smiles wryly, biting the inside of his cheek. 'You don't want my answer.'
'I won't like your smart-arse reply, you mean.'
The large man steps in between them, coughing to announce his presence. He taps the gold badge on his chest with emphasis. 'PC Cooke. And you've had the pleasure of meeting PC Wen.'
'A pleasure, like you said,' murmurs the young man, undeterred by the sharp glare of the latter. 'Your present's all tied up and waiting.'
The officers look in the direction of the man's thumb. Slouched against the pole of a payphone is the fellow from earlier, his arms secured with a thin rope. PC Cooke lumbers towards the figure and bends his knees, ignoring the popping sounds. He leans in to scrutinise the material.
'Rayon?'
'Clothesline.'
Cooke makes a queer hocking sound from the back of his throat, and spits out a large gob of something to the side that momentarily unnerves the other two men. 'Right, what's he done?'
The young man has his fingers laced together, the thumbs twiddling as he glances up at the sky. 'Well... It's something like this: my client has no use for him anymore.'
PC Wen's hand reaches for his taser. 'Your client?'
'Woah there, Quicksilver.' The man has his hands up, smiling another of his wry smiles. 'It's legit. I work for Somerset Corporate Systems.'
PC Wen's demeanour doesn't change, in fact it darkens. 'That scummy gumshoe outfit?'
'Not a fan, I see.'
Cooke lays a hand against the side of the building and slowly straightens up, groaning under his breath as he does so. The young man starts to move towards him, but is held up by a taser held very close to the throat.
'Leave 'im alone, Wen! God's sake.' He pointed an accusing finger at the young man. 'And you, Mr Private Dick, we're going to need your name and number to verify the case.'
'Sure.' The man fishes into his breast pocket and pulls out a plain leather ID clip. Wen watches mutinously as Cooke takes it from the man's open gloved hand.
'Hmm. Quite a mouthful here.' He looks up from the ID. 'What do your friends call you?'
The young man shrugs, hands in his pockets. 'They wouldn't. But I've been called Rey. Like the sound of it, I guess.'
Wen snorts and jots the information glanced over Cooke's shoulder onto his notepad. 'You gonna tell us, Rey, what this guy did to your client, or are you going to let us arrest him without cause?'
Rey retrieves a neatly folded piece of paper from a suit pocket and opens it, creasing out the folds with his fingers. 'Here you go. Warrant out for this sucker, dated two years ago.'
Wen snatches the paper. His eyebrows furrow as he takes in the words. He stops. Then starts again.
The young man clears his throat. 'Well, if there's nothing else.'
Cooke is already back with the passed out fellow, slapping cuffs over the rayon restraint. 'You won't be coming in with us, Rey?'
'Sorry, PC Cooke. I'm not the gloryhound type of guy.' He glances at his plain wristwatch. 'But I am off to file my report.'
'Paperwork. Bane of our lives. Off with you.' He waves off Rey, who gives a mock salute before taking his leave, whistling. Turning round, he shakes his head. 'Wen, you burn a hole in that warrant yet?'
'Stupid. How. Police. How. Goddamn. DICK,' sputters his partner, unable to articulate the level of rage he's encountering.
'Wen,' sighed Cooke, wearily facing the younger officer. 'You're young. And stupid enough to think you're entitled to everything.' He holds up a hand to signal he isn't quite finished. 'Listen to me, long as the flatfoots stay on their side and don't cross the line, we have no trouble. Do you understand, Police Constable Wen?'
He then ignores the sound of metal trash cans being kicked and angry yells in reply. Glancing back to the incapacitated prisoner, he bends forward just a tad. 'Bloody nasty bump on the poor sod's head. Wonder what hit 'im?'