Script Writing: Capture the Flag

Written by Gordon S. McLeodWednesday, 26 April 2006

This was a group assignment completed with the assistance of Mark Smith and Frank Messier, classmates of mine at the Academy. In this class we were taught to read, write and analyze scripts as used in film, theatre and television, and with thought in mind on how they can be useful in the game development world. Note we also studied the game design document in detail in this class.

CAPTURE THE FLAG Screenplay by

Gordon S. McLeod Mark Smith Frank Messier

February 4, 2005

FADE IN:

EXT. FOREST VALLEY - NIGHT

A carpet of trees covers the sides of the river valley, broken in places by clearings; some natural, some bearing the look of old battle scars. The sky is a pale green/blue of a shade never seen in any time or place on Earth.

Glints of metal in the starlight hint at recent wreckage not yet overgrown.

Two imposing fortresses stand off at opposite ends of the valley, the river between them. They crouch in night's shadows, facing one another like cathedrals of diametrically opposed religions, each convinced of its own rightness at the other's expense.

A full moon observes the eternal confrontation, small in the sky, as though distancing itself from a fight it knows will never end.

INT. BLUE BASE - NIGHT

THREE PEOPLE sit at a triangular desk. There's an air of tension and a hint of veiled hostility in the room.

BLUE LEADER, aka LITTLE PONY, a hard woman in her mid-twenties, faces RED LEADER, a sombre but sharp man only a few years her senior.

The THIRD FIGURE in the room sits in shadow, watching the two leaders in silence.

BLUE LEADER

I knew this meeting was a waste of time! Who are you, and what do you want with me?

RED LEADER

A good question. I too would like to know why I was called here. My time is valuable.

The THIRD FIGURE almost appears not to notice that the two have spoken to him. The orange glow of a cigarette rises in the shadow, casting the faintest of lights on his features. The eyes are large and almond, traced with fine lines, but there's a hardness to them that suggests it was acquired, slowly, over a long time.

Standing slowly, as though time held little meaning for him, he turned his head from RED LEADER to BLUE LEADER slowly.

THIRD FIGURE

This war of yours has gone on for generations. Centuries. Some say even millenia.

Pausing, he took a drag on his cigarette. The light it casts intensifies, revealing a craggy face worn by long years.

BLUE LEADER

Get to the point. Who do you think you are to call us together the night before battle?

Though her words are strong, BLUE LEADER seems taken aback by his demeanor, and perhaps more taken aback by her own reaction to him. There's a hint of uncertainty to her voice. She tugs unconsciously at her VIETNAM-ERA MILITARY UNIFORM.

RED LEADER controls himself somewhat better, though he too smooths a wrinkle from his VIETNAM-ERA MILITARY UNIFORM - the same era, and same army, as that worn by BLUE LEADER. An ex-wrestler, RED LEADER'S massive muscles keep the uniform from smoothing well.

THIRD FIGURE's eyes catch the body language, though he doesn't betray the perception except with the barest flicker of an eye.

THIRD FIGURE

There are those who might see opportunities in a situation such as this.

RED LEADER

Indeed. And what sort of opportunities do you see in us? Monetary? Military? Intelligence?

BLUE LEADER

You're from a rather large organization, I'd say. I'd love to know how he arranged this meeting otherwise.

THIRD FIGURE's mouth almost twitch in a smile around his cigarette at BLUE LEADER'S snide tone, RED LEADER'S down-to-business attitude.

THIRD FIGURE

You're perceptive. Yes, I represent an organization with certain... interests in your operations.

BLUE LEADER has heard this before. Eyes rolling, she immediately relaxes into what she mistakenly believes is familiar ground.

BLUE LEADER

Hold it there a minute... I've heard this pitch before. I thought for sure word'd gotten out that Blue Team doesn't hire out our services. I've never seen Red Team do so either. If you're lookin' for a private army, look somewhere else. Or am I wrong? Is that why HE'S here?

Eyes dangerously close to twinkling, THIRD FIGURE actually breaks the barest of smiles.

THIRD FIGURE

Oh no, no. We aren't looking for an army, private or otherwise, I assure you. At least, not for any genuinely military purpose.

RED LEADER glances at BLUE LEADER, and both share a slight frown of confusion at this. Eyes narrowing, RED LEADER takes a half-step towards THIRD FIGURE.

RED LEADER

Enough with the guessing games, please. We do have a battle to attend to in the morning. If you're not looking to engage our services as mercenaries, what is this all about?

THIRD FIGURE lifts a BRIEFCASE from under the table. Opening it with care, he withdraws a perfectly-aligned stack of documents on INTRAGALACTIC MEDIA NET stationary. With equal care, he withdraws an antique FOUNTAIN PEN.

THIRD FIGURE

Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Bronte. James Allan Bronte. I represent IntraGalactic Media Net. We see a great deal of promise in these... conflicts of yours.

BLUE LEADER

What... then... this is all about holovision? You want to broadcast our WARS?

BRONTE

We prefer the term "matches", but yes, essentially that is correct. We would like to sign for the broadcast rights to your... wars. We've already discussed the situation with Yellow and Green teams.

Eyebrows raising slightly at the stunned disbelief clear in the faces of RED and BLUE LEADERS, BRONTE pushes the stacks of paperwork towards them.

BRONTE

You would all be compensated, of course. But if you need a few moments to go over the details...

Open-mouthed in surprise, BLUE LEADER shrugs at RED LEADER.

BLUE LEADER

I've lost track of how many hundreds of years it's been since there was any point to this war anyway. It... it might be nice to fight with a purpose for once... even if it is merely entertainment.

CUT TO:

EXT. FOREST VALLEY - BLUE BASE - DAWN

An unaccustomed feeling of motivation hangs over the blue camp this morning. Though tired, BLUE LEADER moves energetically. The TROOPS are brisk and professional in their preparations.

BLUE LEADER loads ammunition into the GUN mounted on the back of her JEEP. The vehicle is an ancient model widely used in mid-20th century conflicts on old Earth, painted with her personal insignia, the LITTLE PONY. Crudely painted EMPTY COFFEE CUPS in rows count the number of kills she has racked up in years of CAPTURE THE FLAG conflicts.

BRONTE oversees unit directors installing holovision camera emplacements about the base, checking remote links to the crews doing the same about RED BASE. He pauses his activity, looking almost fatherly down upon BLUE LEADER.

BRONTE

Let's give them a show they'll never forget, my LITTLE PONY...

FADE TO:

EXT. FOREST VALLEY - MINUTES LATER

As the first missiles arch into the skies to rain down on advancing flag seekers, the IntraGalactic Media Net logo flashes onto screens across the galaxy.

ANNOUNCER

Welcome ladies and gentlebeings to the first IntraGalactic Capture the Flag Championships...

FADE OUT.

Short Fiction: October's Fools

By Gordon S. McLeod This is a story I wrote for my first term Introduction to Storytelling class at IADT. The plot is an adaptation of a part of the overall plot to the comic I worked on some years ago, October's Fools. (Thus the name of this site, as well.)

Morrisdale, OF seemed like your typical small Canadian town until you got beneath the surface. It was a university town, a home town, a bedroom town, a quiet town, and even a haunted town if you believed the rumours spread by neighbouring communities. But no matter what anyone told you of Morrisdale's nature, no matter how they described it, the word “weird” would invariably enter into the conversation.

Bob was a typical inhabitant of Morrisdale. He lived with his roommate in an old 6 story apartment building that was much like apartment buildings anywhere and everywhere. Its only distinguishing feature of note was the view; the windows of the south side overlooked the Morrisdale Cemetery. He worked out of the apartment running a small web design company; his success in such a small and remote location was a bit strange, but he was very successful in spite of the global nature of the web. People somehow found him and his work though the noise of the ‘net, despite the overwhelming number of worldwide competitors.

One fine evening in early October marked the end of Morrisdale's merely being weird and began to bring the town to the brink of the utterly bizarre. Bob walked home after a late afternoon meeting with clients. He loved the outdoors and took off to the mountains to hike and camp whenever he could; when he couldn't, he would walk out-of-the-way paths through the town's many small parks to try and remember what nature was like. The familiar sights and sounds of the park bordering the cemetery were a constant source of comfort to him. But this night, something was wrong.

“Is someone there?” he called, though he did it quietly. He was on a long stretch of dense tree-and-bush lined path that curved around the outside of the park's area. It was still some distance to The Grinder, the coffee shop he frequented with his friends. The path was not well lit in this area of the park, and he could have sworn he'd heard something in the bushes.

“I have no money tonight,” he said, even quieter. While very uncommon, beggars were not unknown in Morrisdale. At least the odds of finding a beggar were better than the odds of finding a mugger.

Straining his ears, he heard nothing. The park was quiet, with only the faint stirring of the breeze brushing against bush and tree disturbing the silence, wafting the scent of pine and leaves turning their colours. Pine, leaves... and just a hint of something more. The hair started to rise on the back of his neck as he tried to decide what that odd scent was.

Burning leaves? Pot? No, not quite, though like muggers and beggars, neither was unheard of. Something rustled in the grass near his foot. Through a cloud of his own visible breath, he saw something slithering in the grass in the dark towards his foot. Jumping backwards, he fell awkwardly with a cry and scrambled back. The snake (it must have been a snake, snakes don't have leaves, it must have brushed one along with it,) snapped back with lightning speed into the bushes.

Breathing heavily, Bob climbed to his feet, keeping towards the middle of the path. Something large and man-shaped moved in the bushes, rusting and rattling branches as it pushed towards him. Bob tried to make a break for the direction of The Grinder, but ... SOMEthing sprang from what should have been the man's arms, some sort of vine-like growth, and wrapped about him tightly. The cell phone in his pocket tumbled out, away from his hands. “Mrrrmph!” The vine-like thing wrapped about his mouth as he struggled, preventing him from crying out. A low, eerily pitched chuckle sounded from a very large, misshapen head.

It looked man-like at a distance, in the near-black of night, but as it drew closer and edged towards the circle of light the impression of humanity melted away. Thick, rough green vines, complete with leaves, spread out from the top of the dangling head - the large, orange, irregularly-shaped pumpkin of a head. As it stepped closer, golden wedges of light slowly appeared on the face as though they were on a dimmer switch. They looked a little like flames, but were made by no candle Bob had ever seen.

The scuff of a shoe in the distance saved his life in that moment. Attention diverted, the fiery eyes narrowed and the tentacles withdrew soundlessly. Bob's own mind filled in the 'snap' that should have accompanied such swift movement. Dazed and half-crazed, he blinked but could see no sign of the apparition, nor where it might have gone to. He certainly was of no mind to notice that a single thin vine had broken off and was still wrapped around his wrist.

The footfalls got closer, but it wasn't until she was right on top of him that Bob was able to focus on his savior. Becky Heitmeyer, the tall, athletic trainer at the local gym, jogged to a stop beside him and stared down unblinking.

“Geezus Bob. You spend all your time hiking in the woods and mountains and never so much as a sprain a toe, and now the park paths are too much for you?” She nudged his shoulder while helping him up and returning his cell phone to his pocket. “What on Earth happened to you? You look like you've just seen a ghost!”

Bob's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Brow furrowing a bit, Becky nodded. “Right. There's only one cure for this, and it's on me. One double-double at The Grinder. Jack and Allison are meeting me there, and I was supposed to try and drag you out to join us. I didn't expect the dragging to be quite this literal, though!”

Wrapping her arm under his shoulder to support him, Becky half-led, half-pulled Bob down the path, around the bend, and on into the better-lit areas that led to the coffee shop. Behind them, the faint tracings of a fiery face stared balefully from the branches of the hedgerow.

* * *

The Grinder was the kind of softly lit, always warm feeling coffee shop that seems to spring up somewhere within a couple of kilometers from any college or university. Warm yellowish light filled the place as though it were bathed in candlelight, complete with a slight flickering. The clink of mugs and gurgle of brewing coffee generally soothed away the cares of a trying day.

Jack, or Jackson, was Bob's roommate. He attended Morrisdale University, studying philosophy, literature, mythology and religion, and worked as a writer-in-residence. Like any good philosophy student, he drank far more coffee than was good for him, and was swallowing the last drops of his third cup when Becky unceremoniously dumped Bob into the chair opposite him. His eyes flickered in surprise and mild curiosity. “What's with him?” he asked, as Bob sat unmoving, unaffected by the familiar surroundings.

“I don't know. I found him collapsed on the path. I thought he had tripped, but now... well, he hasn't reacted at all since I found him.” Becky bit her lip, eyes worried.

“Bob, trip? That'll be the day.” Allison, a short, dark-haired girl with round glasses, set four large double-doubles in white ceramic mugs on the table. She stood with hands on hips, lips pursed. Leaning in, she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes and by his ears, frowning at the lack of reaction. “What do you think we should do?”

“Do... what... what am I... doing here?”

“Bob! What on Earth happened to you!?” Becky's concerned face filled his blurry, orange-tinted vision.

“You... didn't see? You were there... what were you doing there? It came from the hedges... flame... flame and vine...”

“Whoa, easy big fella. Here, you sound like you desperately need some of this.” Jason, by far the tallest of the group at almost 6'5”, pushed Bob's coffee towards him. “You're not making any sense. Flame and vines? What came from the hedges?”

His wrist itched and burned. Scratching it, Bob hesitated a moment before reaching for the coffee. There was a thin white line spiraling around his wrist, outlined with red inflammation. He shifted his arm in its sleeve to conceal it. These people had been his best friends for years now, but how well did he really know any of them?

“What were you doing in the park, Becky?” The heat in his tone took the others aback. “It’s awfully convenient that it left just as you were arriving.”

“Bob, what the hell are you saying?” Becky's face was hard to read; shock, anger and disbelief warred on her fine features. “I was jogging from work to your place to get you. We were going to meet here, right?”

“Mmm.” His head was pounding; he couldn't think straight. His arm was on fire.

* * *

As they left The Grinder, Becky looked off across the street into the darkness of the park path. “I don't like this at all. Are you sure about this? A demon? For real? Those are just old legends, right?” The darkness outside seemed somehow much more oppressive than it had hours before.

“I don't much like it either, believe me. But I saw that mark on his wrist. So did Allison. You know her and her gardens; she recognized that creeper. It's too much like the stories to be coincidence.”

“But that's just too... I don't know. If I hadn't seen the effects, I'd say silly. I mean, come on. A talking jack-o-lantern, in October? That’s weird even for this place.”

“That's where a lot of the Halloween associations came from; old stories.”

“I suppose. I didn't notice the wrist thing, but the eyes were hard to miss. I'm scared; what if we can't get it out of him in time?”

A faint rustling from above marked the end of their free time as a vine looped down around Becky's neck. Jackson tried to catch it, but it snaked out of the way as several more vines dropped, clutching for Becky. A spectral rasp uttered “Wheeeere isss heee?”

The main mass of the creature dropped to the ground before them. It was wrapped up in what looked to be old clothes, making it look like nothing so much as a scarecrow with vines in place of arms and legs. It took a step, or a slide... it was hard to say which. It drew closer to her, hellfire burning into her soul from the jagged eye gashes. Jackson seized its 'arm' in a tight grip and dragged it halfway around, wrestling it away from her. She took the opportunity to snap off one of the smaller leafy vines around her neck.

Head whipping back, it sent a rippling wave down its arm mass, flinging Jackson a good 7 meters away to slam into the ground with a crash. “Where... issss... heeee?”

From around the corner, eyes still aglow with their orange nimbus, Bob walked into Becky's view, something clenched in his hand. She gasped and gathered herself for a surge of action, determined to keep its attention on her for as long as possible. Arm muscles straining, she tore off another, larger vine from its arm mass.

Its response was immediate. Keening an ear-rending wail, it thrashed its remaining vines savagely, throwing Becky clear across the street to strike halfway up a telephone pole. Her shoulder shattered, raining blood and fragments of bone, and she lay very, very still.

Something in the image of his friend's broken body snapped deeply into Bob's mind, twisting and fighting the snaky strands of fog that strained to keep his thoughts repressed. He stood, physically shaking with the effort, and looked around him with half-clear eyes.

The ... thing... that had invaded his mind was ignoring him for the moment, intent on Becky's broken form. He could see that she was still moving very slightly, breathing at least. Its tentacles crept quickly towards her good outstretched arm.

Bob's hand tightened around something; looking down, he found he held a large knife. He didn’t know where he’d gotten it; nor did he care. Moving slowly, limbs feeling like they belonged to someone else, he started towards the creeping nightmare. Images crowded through his mind, doubts about his friends. But the sight of Becky smashing into the pole chased them off.

She saved me. She saved me twice tonight, and look what it's done to her. Assuming she survived, an injury that bad could cost her her job, her dreams, even her arm itself. No nightmare demon creature from any hell could convince him she meant him harm after that.

The last of the clutching creepers of fog lifted from his brain. Step quickening, he slashed with the knife at the stem of the vines protruding from the back of the pumpkin head.

The twisted, unearthly howl that he heard was something he could never thereafter describe. The creature's body wavered in the air before him like a heat mirage, head turning back to pierce him with the most frightfully hate-filled gaze he had ever known. For a moment, the tendrils of mental domination slid back into his head, but found no purchase; they faded into nothingness, following in its body's footsteps.

Numbly, Bob pulled out his cell and dialed 911.