[1] RANDOM ACTS OF VIOLENCE.
Nov 29, 2021 13:56:26 GMT -5
CallMeRobert, Haters <3 Luv Me, and 1 more like this
Post by Henry Lee Hyde on Nov 29, 2021 13:56:26 GMT -5
[ON/OFF] SCENE ONE
Winter's coming in fast, not letting the final few breaths of autumn pass without a cold rush, a heavy, grey sky. The trees, stripped bare, rattle their bones at hunched passer-bys, chasing them down bleached streets. It must be morning, silver mist swaying with the smog of the city, of the bus parking up next to us. The doors hiss open and from them slips a shadow, stepping one time-worn boot out at a time.
The camera straightens, zooms in a little. Focuses on the man.
“Henry Lee?” a voice, breath laboured by the cold, asks from behind the camera.
The man snaps his gaze to the camera, nods as he approaches. “Just Henry,” he says, the name rough on his teeth. “You're Mike, right?”
“The filmmaker, yeah.”
Henry gives a dry laugh and mutters, almost amused, “'Filmmaker'.”
He hasn't taken his eyes off the camera. Just keeps staring, eyes stark white within the shadows of his brow.
“So how we doing this?” he asks, jabbing a finger at the camera. “You filming all the time, or...”
“Uhh, yeah. I think it makes it more real, you know?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Right.”
The scene cuts and now they're walking, marching down the street, Mike trailing Henry. The latter gives Mike a glance over his shoulder every once in a while, throws a sharp remark and just expects Mike to catch it.
“People've already been talking. About my debut.”
“Really?” Mike huffs, clearly trying to keep up – and struggling.
“Back home, yeah.”
“You got a lot of friends there?”
“Not really.”
They're in a car then, Henry in the driver's seat, Mike jostling the camera as he tries to get the right angle in the little space he has. As the engine rumbles to life, a laugh thrums from Henry's chest.
“I know what you're trying to get from me,” he says, smile hollowing out. “But I'm not gonna give you the old “do you know who I am” intro because quite frankly, I don't care to waste my breath trying to break down who I am, when what I do speaks louder. And what do I do? What am I bringing to Project: Honor?”
He pins Mike with a stare. His grin splits through his beard, teeth sharp and daring to be questioned.
“Kinda defeats the point, doesn't it?”
“Telling you.”
He turns his attention back to the car, his smile dying.
“When I can show you.”
The camera straightens, zooms in a little. Focuses on the man.
“Henry Lee?” a voice, breath laboured by the cold, asks from behind the camera.
The man snaps his gaze to the camera, nods as he approaches. “Just Henry,” he says, the name rough on his teeth. “You're Mike, right?”
“The filmmaker, yeah.”
Henry gives a dry laugh and mutters, almost amused, “'Filmmaker'.”
He hasn't taken his eyes off the camera. Just keeps staring, eyes stark white within the shadows of his brow.
“So how we doing this?” he asks, jabbing a finger at the camera. “You filming all the time, or...”
“Uhh, yeah. I think it makes it more real, you know?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Right.”
The scene cuts and now they're walking, marching down the street, Mike trailing Henry. The latter gives Mike a glance over his shoulder every once in a while, throws a sharp remark and just expects Mike to catch it.
“People've already been talking. About my debut.”
“Really?” Mike huffs, clearly trying to keep up – and struggling.
“Back home, yeah.”
“You got a lot of friends there?”
“Not really.”
They're in a car then, Henry in the driver's seat, Mike jostling the camera as he tries to get the right angle in the little space he has. As the engine rumbles to life, a laugh thrums from Henry's chest.
“I know what you're trying to get from me,” he says, smile hollowing out. “But I'm not gonna give you the old “do you know who I am” intro because quite frankly, I don't care to waste my breath trying to break down who I am, when what I do speaks louder. And what do I do? What am I bringing to Project: Honor?”
He pins Mike with a stare. His grin splits through his beard, teeth sharp and daring to be questioned.
“Kinda defeats the point, doesn't it?”
“Telling you.”
He turns his attention back to the car, his smile dying.
“When I can show you.”
HENRY LEE HYDE.
RANDOM ACTS OF VIOLENCE.
FALLOUT XVII: WIRED ACTIONS.
[ON/OFF] SCENE TWO
The screen is dark, static dancing around it. But Henry and Mike can still be heard talking, sounding a little muffled, distant almost.
“I need to be ready for this.”
“Your first match, right? Against Bianca McBride?”
There's a hesitation, heavy, pushing through even the screen, the dark, the static. “Yeah. Good first impressions and all that.”
Then we cut suddenly to light. Candlelight. The little flames flicker upon the small altar they've been placed on, their warm glow bouncing off of neutral walls covered in tapestries and kanji. Sitting in front of them, cross-legged, is Henry, eyes closed, and Mike – staring at his phone. They sit alone, the only sound between them being Henry's breathing.
Around the room, the thick smoke of incense – cinnamon, strong and heady – weaves and wanes. Its fingers coil around Henry's shoulders, now slumped, and venture up to touch his face as he breathes in and out in a slow rhythm.
His chest swells with each inhale, as if the smoke is reaching inside of him, gorging his lungs on something greater than air.
He inhales deep, and then.
Nothing.
It takes Mike a second to notice the sudden lack of Henry's raspy breathing. He glances over, does a double-take when he notices the complete stoicism. The way Henry's turned to stone.
Mike puts a hand on Henry's shoulder, shakes him. “Yo, Henry–”
A sharp inhale. A shock of a slap to Mike's chest, pushing him back.
“Don't,” Henry seethes through gritted teeth, eyes remaining shut.
“You weren't breathing–”
“Just let me do what I need to do.”
“Die?”
Henry remains still, breathing shallow, controlled.
Grabbing the camera, Mike scrambles to his feet. “All this for a fucking dark match,” he mutters under his breath.
There's something there then in Henry's posture. A slight twitch in the shoulders. Could be an error in the footage, Mike whipping the camera around fast as he goes to turn it off. Could be more.
“I need to be ready for this.”
“Your first match, right? Against Bianca McBride?”
There's a hesitation, heavy, pushing through even the screen, the dark, the static. “Yeah. Good first impressions and all that.”
Then we cut suddenly to light. Candlelight. The little flames flicker upon the small altar they've been placed on, their warm glow bouncing off of neutral walls covered in tapestries and kanji. Sitting in front of them, cross-legged, is Henry, eyes closed, and Mike – staring at his phone. They sit alone, the only sound between them being Henry's breathing.
Around the room, the thick smoke of incense – cinnamon, strong and heady – weaves and wanes. Its fingers coil around Henry's shoulders, now slumped, and venture up to touch his face as he breathes in and out in a slow rhythm.
His chest swells with each inhale, as if the smoke is reaching inside of him, gorging his lungs on something greater than air.
He inhales deep, and then.
Nothing.
It takes Mike a second to notice the sudden lack of Henry's raspy breathing. He glances over, does a double-take when he notices the complete stoicism. The way Henry's turned to stone.
Mike puts a hand on Henry's shoulder, shakes him. “Yo, Henry–”
A sharp inhale. A shock of a slap to Mike's chest, pushing him back.
“Don't,” Henry seethes through gritted teeth, eyes remaining shut.
“You weren't breathing–”
“Just let me do what I need to do.”
“Die?”
Henry remains still, breathing shallow, controlled.
Grabbing the camera, Mike scrambles to his feet. “All this for a fucking dark match,” he mutters under his breath.
There's something there then in Henry's posture. A slight twitch in the shoulders. Could be an error in the footage, Mike whipping the camera around fast as he goes to turn it off. Could be more.
[ON/OFF] SCENE THREE
Evening gloom creeps in through the car windows. Henry's in the driver's seat once more, the city outside the car blurring into one dense block of grey and blue, the occasional streak of a burning streetlight coasting past. His knuckles are bone white as they grip the steering wheel, his gaze pinned straight ahead. Eyes a white winter snow.
“So where we heading now?” Mike asks, a hesitancy in the question. “Hotel?”
“Nah,” Henry says, “I've still got business.”
“We've been driving all day. I need to charge the batteries for this thing at some point.”
Henry shrugs a shoulder. “Turn it off.”
“Come on, man, I'm trying to help you out here. I'm getting footage for your intro to the show, okay? At least try to endear yourself–”
“'Endear myself'?” Henry cracks a dangerous half-smile. “So I can get stabbed? So I can get my head caved in with a fuckin' rock? Get left for dead after a show?”
“We don't know the full details–”
“A guy like Rock doesn't just drop dead suddenly. The owner gets found dead after a show, you think that's normal? There's corruption in the ranks, I'm well aware of that. Project: Honor's a dangerous place to be, and you want me to 'endear myself'? I've got a reason for being here, and it ain't to 'endear myself' with the kind of people I've seen running around here.” He stills, relaxes into his seat. “We're almost done with everything today anyway.”
The 'business' leads them into a concrete jungle of chainlink fences and blunt brick buildings jabbing into the smoggy sky. It's the kind of place cars go to rust, where sidewalks hang on the knife-edge of cracked roads, constantly under threat of the weeds that claw at their edges. A dog barks in the distance, the first warning shot startling the camera.
Henry walks a few steps ahead, hands sheathed in his pockets. He disappears into the dark, discovered only by the ghostly glow of the streetlights overhead. As they dig deeper into the street, Henry glances over his shoulder at Mike.
“Stay back.”
“Why?”
Henry doesn't reply, but Mike still does as he's told. They crawl to a stop outside a lit-up house, one that stands out by virtue of looking like it actually has people living in it. Henry peels open the front gate, closes it behind him so softly it doesn't make a sound. He strolls up to the front door. Just stands there for a second, fists at his sides. Then knocks, twice, heavy.
A tall shadow passes a window, before the door yawns open and bathes Henry in a violent orange. A man stands before him, squinting, shoulders tense. But Henry's still, stands straight, looks right ahead. Almost like he's looking right through the guy.
They exchange words like shrapnel, trying to see who flinches first. The guy shoves him in the chest, tries to turn, reaches for the door handle. Something Henry says makes him stop.
Makes him lurch forward, scowling.
Makes him step out into the night.
And Henry headbutts him.
The guy staggers back, clutches his nose, blood oozing through his fingers. Henry punches him and he drops, smears crimson down the immaculate white paint of the door, crumples into the ground. There's a second.
A second of a flurry of punches and kicks and stomps, of the door shuddering as it slams into a skull, a second of cursing and barking and cracking and rattling before Mike realises what's happening.
“What the fu–”
“So where we heading now?” Mike asks, a hesitancy in the question. “Hotel?”
“Nah,” Henry says, “I've still got business.”
“We've been driving all day. I need to charge the batteries for this thing at some point.”
Henry shrugs a shoulder. “Turn it off.”
“Come on, man, I'm trying to help you out here. I'm getting footage for your intro to the show, okay? At least try to endear yourself–”
“'Endear myself'?” Henry cracks a dangerous half-smile. “So I can get stabbed? So I can get my head caved in with a fuckin' rock? Get left for dead after a show?”
“We don't know the full details–”
“A guy like Rock doesn't just drop dead suddenly. The owner gets found dead after a show, you think that's normal? There's corruption in the ranks, I'm well aware of that. Project: Honor's a dangerous place to be, and you want me to 'endear myself'? I've got a reason for being here, and it ain't to 'endear myself' with the kind of people I've seen running around here.” He stills, relaxes into his seat. “We're almost done with everything today anyway.”
The 'business' leads them into a concrete jungle of chainlink fences and blunt brick buildings jabbing into the smoggy sky. It's the kind of place cars go to rust, where sidewalks hang on the knife-edge of cracked roads, constantly under threat of the weeds that claw at their edges. A dog barks in the distance, the first warning shot startling the camera.
Henry walks a few steps ahead, hands sheathed in his pockets. He disappears into the dark, discovered only by the ghostly glow of the streetlights overhead. As they dig deeper into the street, Henry glances over his shoulder at Mike.
“Stay back.”
“Why?”
Henry doesn't reply, but Mike still does as he's told. They crawl to a stop outside a lit-up house, one that stands out by virtue of looking like it actually has people living in it. Henry peels open the front gate, closes it behind him so softly it doesn't make a sound. He strolls up to the front door. Just stands there for a second, fists at his sides. Then knocks, twice, heavy.
A tall shadow passes a window, before the door yawns open and bathes Henry in a violent orange. A man stands before him, squinting, shoulders tense. But Henry's still, stands straight, looks right ahead. Almost like he's looking right through the guy.
They exchange words like shrapnel, trying to see who flinches first. The guy shoves him in the chest, tries to turn, reaches for the door handle. Something Henry says makes him stop.
Makes him lurch forward, scowling.
Makes him step out into the night.
And Henry headbutts him.
The guy staggers back, clutches his nose, blood oozing through his fingers. Henry punches him and he drops, smears crimson down the immaculate white paint of the door, crumples into the ground. There's a second.
A second of a flurry of punches and kicks and stomps, of the door shuddering as it slams into a skull, a second of cursing and barking and cracking and rattling before Mike realises what's happening.
“What the fu–”
[ON/OFF] SCENE FOUR
Static flickers across the dark screen.
“Nah, keep it. Keep it.”
Then light, harsh against pale skin, against bright red stains. Henry's slumped in the driver's seat once more, the overhead light stark despite the little coverage it provides. It paints enough of a picture.
Blood smeared on Henry's face. Some upon his brow where he's tried to wipe away sweat and come away with something thicker. Some dried around his nose; a wayward, lucky strike. Some fresh against his lips. Blood on his hands too, on his sleeves. Raw knuckles, bruised. One eye sits in shadow. The other's lit too well by the car light, has gone a ghost-white as it scatters around the confined space.
His words too are erratic, breathless. Scattered and spit-ridden.
“Keep the footage. You want an intro, there you go. Let's go.”
Mike on the other hand is quiet, words trembling more than the camera. “I really don't think we should be keeping that–”
“Why not? Why not.” Henry slams a hand on the steering wheel, his ghastly gaze sticking Mike. “You want real, that was real. You've got people running around sacrificing goats and bathing in blood, had a fuckin' Purge match. Let's keep the fuckin' footage in.”
He wipes a hand down his face, drags trails of blood like war paint across his skin, into his beard. Wipes a smile upon his face, a toothy grin that glints under the pallid light, gives a whine, a dry laugh.
“Bianca McBride. You're someone I can respect a little bit. Continuing on the family legacy, it's a noble cause. More noble than what some people fight for, right? And a traditionalist too, I can respect that as well. I've wrestled with traditionalists, was trained by a guy who was 'old school'. He weren't bad, weren't bad at all. Hard-working, resilient, and he instilled that in everyone he trained. That's how I know you have the same qualities, every traditionalist does. Runs in the blood, right?”
“But what I've learned about traditionalists is, that traditionalists often stick too closely to what they think other people think is right. They're too afraid to follow their own conscience, their own goals, stepping outside that box to get things done. And I think that's more accurate than anything else with you Bianca, 'cause when we look at you, what're you following? Your family's goals. Your family's footsteps.”
“And when you follow someone else's goals, you ain't doing it with passion. You're not fighting tooth and nail because you know, deep down, that isn't what you want. You don't see it as being worth your own blood, sweat and tears. There's no drive, no motivation, no undying fuckin' will to succeed because otherwise you'd lose everything. 'Cause those goals ain't yours to lose. Ain't your life you're wasting.”
“You lose, you disappoint daddy. I lose, then what the fuck do I have? I've lost my debut match here, I've lost my credibility, I've lost that good first impression. And Bianca I did not come here to lose, to fail, because I'm just happy to be here! I came here–”
Henry slows, mouth twisting into a wry smile, his hand shaking as his grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“I came here with a purpose, with a mission, with people weighing on my shoulders. So I hope you come into Fallout with something to fight for. Something more than what your father taught you, what your grandfather taught him. 'Cause what I fight for, what drives me? It's not something that can be taught.”
“It's something that's inflicted upon you and you deal with it, or you give up. You die.”
“And I'm not six feet under yet. But you? When you step into this match?”
“You're putting one foot in the grave.”
“Nah, keep it. Keep it.”
Then light, harsh against pale skin, against bright red stains. Henry's slumped in the driver's seat once more, the overhead light stark despite the little coverage it provides. It paints enough of a picture.
Blood smeared on Henry's face. Some upon his brow where he's tried to wipe away sweat and come away with something thicker. Some dried around his nose; a wayward, lucky strike. Some fresh against his lips. Blood on his hands too, on his sleeves. Raw knuckles, bruised. One eye sits in shadow. The other's lit too well by the car light, has gone a ghost-white as it scatters around the confined space.
His words too are erratic, breathless. Scattered and spit-ridden.
“Keep the footage. You want an intro, there you go. Let's go.”
Mike on the other hand is quiet, words trembling more than the camera. “I really don't think we should be keeping that–”
“Why not? Why not.” Henry slams a hand on the steering wheel, his ghastly gaze sticking Mike. “You want real, that was real. You've got people running around sacrificing goats and bathing in blood, had a fuckin' Purge match. Let's keep the fuckin' footage in.”
He wipes a hand down his face, drags trails of blood like war paint across his skin, into his beard. Wipes a smile upon his face, a toothy grin that glints under the pallid light, gives a whine, a dry laugh.
“Bianca McBride. You're someone I can respect a little bit. Continuing on the family legacy, it's a noble cause. More noble than what some people fight for, right? And a traditionalist too, I can respect that as well. I've wrestled with traditionalists, was trained by a guy who was 'old school'. He weren't bad, weren't bad at all. Hard-working, resilient, and he instilled that in everyone he trained. That's how I know you have the same qualities, every traditionalist does. Runs in the blood, right?”
“But what I've learned about traditionalists is, that traditionalists often stick too closely to what they think other people think is right. They're too afraid to follow their own conscience, their own goals, stepping outside that box to get things done. And I think that's more accurate than anything else with you Bianca, 'cause when we look at you, what're you following? Your family's goals. Your family's footsteps.”
“And when you follow someone else's goals, you ain't doing it with passion. You're not fighting tooth and nail because you know, deep down, that isn't what you want. You don't see it as being worth your own blood, sweat and tears. There's no drive, no motivation, no undying fuckin' will to succeed because otherwise you'd lose everything. 'Cause those goals ain't yours to lose. Ain't your life you're wasting.”
“You lose, you disappoint daddy. I lose, then what the fuck do I have? I've lost my debut match here, I've lost my credibility, I've lost that good first impression. And Bianca I did not come here to lose, to fail, because I'm just happy to be here! I came here–”
Henry slows, mouth twisting into a wry smile, his hand shaking as his grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“I came here with a purpose, with a mission, with people weighing on my shoulders. So I hope you come into Fallout with something to fight for. Something more than what your father taught you, what your grandfather taught him. 'Cause what I fight for, what drives me? It's not something that can be taught.”
“It's something that's inflicted upon you and you deal with it, or you give up. You die.”
“And I'm not six feet under yet. But you? When you step into this match?”
“You're putting one foot in the grave.”
END.
