Conflicts of the last progenitors

Goddammit Florida, give us

Killcall!

The One-Armed Sculptor swings its claw at Zria; she rolls toward her assailant; the swung claws elicit blue sparks from the stone of the plateau.

ZRIA (CONT'D)

We’ve got five empty Bullets! Give us-A sculptor’s foot SLAMS into Zria’s head and flattens it against the stone, CRWUNCH; gore and pulp erupts between the sculptors’ nine skeletal toes.

Kenneth and the Australian Bullet retreat; a sculptor notices and lunges after them.

More than three-hundred yards off, Florida and ten BULLETS

beeline through the construction site, past horrified human bystanders, toward the sculptors.

FLORIDA

Warning shots!

The Bullets point j-guns in the air, CH-CHAK, CH-CHAK, CH-CHAK, CH-CHAK, CH-CHAK. The sculptors take no notice; another Bullet is disembowelled; the man SHRIEKS.

Sven pilots the hover-van toward Kenneth and the Australian: the duo runs from a bounding sculptor. The Swede diminishes the lift; the craft descends.

Kenneth sees the hover-van.

KENNETH

Sven!

Sven points to the opening hatch at the rear of the truck-sized craft; Kenneth nods.

118.

The sculptor sweeps its hand around in an arc; its talons rip the calf muscle out of Kenneth’s left leg; he YELLS and SMASHES facefirst to the ground. A heavy foot flattens his abdomen: gore bursts in a torrent form his open mouth.

The Australian Bullet spins and points his j-gun at the sculptor; the gun is knocked down by a sweeping claw. The sculptor grabs the man by the neck and flings him into the hover-van’s luminous hull-booster; the Bullet’s head disintegrates inside the jet, SHZZZZZ.

The Australian man, headless, falls to and SLAMS upon the plateau.

Within the pilot seat of the hover-van, Sven SHOUTS in fury and futility, his despairing cries inaudible outside the airtight cabin. He looks at Kenneth’s killer and steers the hover-van directly toward the gore-drenched sculptor.

Florida TAPS his earplug.

FLORIDA

Bjorlsson! Don’t. You do not have Killcall.

Sven stops the descending craft; his string of curses are muted within the sealed craft; he pounds the console with his clenched left fist.

Florida gauges the hastily advancing sculptors.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Coilguns!

The Bullets switch their j-guns for blue coilguns. They train their weapons on the seven approaching sculptors and press the yellow shoot arrows: a flurry of speeding coils fly toward the onrushing humanoids, FWITFWITFWITFWITFWITFWIT.

Two or three metal spirals strike and corkscrew into the gray skin of each sculptors’ chest. The advancing creatures do not even notice.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Make sure you’re grounded.

The Bullets check their footing; a few step up onto dry stones.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Spark!

119.

The Bullets press their spark buttons, eleven typewriter CLICKS. The embedded coils flash; the sculptors’ WAIL awful tones but continue forward.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

J-guns! Legs only.

The Bullets switch their coilguns for j-guns and fire at the sculptors’ flamingo-like legs, CH-CHACK,CH-CHAK,CH-CHAK.

The long appendages of the seven humanoids are blown apart by the barrage of j-gun fire. The sculptors collapse upon the stone, red blood running from their shorn legs.

From beyond the rim of the plateau come twenty-two SCULPTORS.

Florida shakes his head despairingly.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

(muttered)

U nay klah nah hey.

(to the Bullets)

Hold. For now.

The humans watch the humanoids advance to their writhing, WAILING, legless brethren. The sculptors do not advance past that position.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Point your weapons but do not fire.

They now understand what j-guns can do.

The Bullets aim their j-guns at the sculptor reinforcements.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Bjorlsson, hover over them. Don’t

burn them.

Sven pilots the hover-van over the heads of the twenty-two sculptors. A few of the humanoids bend back and look up at the craft eighty feet above them.

FLORIDA (CONT'D)

Sit up there for now.

Jesca, the anthropologist two-star, runs at Florida; her face is red with rage.

JESCA

This is their home. Theirs! You

can’t do this. We need to clear

out now.

120.

FLORIDA

I’m awaiting orders.

JESCA

How can you do this? You of all of people. Aren’t you Native

American?

Florida does not look at the woman; he- and his Bullets-watch the sculptors.

FLORIDA

I’m Cherokee. And I’m a Bullet

Senior. But more than either of

those things, in the year 2979 I am one of the last human beings in

existence. And so were they.

Florida points to the Bullet corpses.

A chorus of EERIE NOTES wells up and emerges like a tsunami from the sculptors’ metropolis below. The twenty-two humanoids pick up their wounded, bleeding, WHEEZING and WAILING brethren and walk away.

INT. HIGH TOWER - SAME

Through a kidney-shaped window, the Tall One and eight other white-fleck sculptors stare up at the human plateau. From their first bowls emerges a single deep TONE. All of the sculptors present resonate the exact same note.

EXT. OPTION-1 ATMOSPHERE - LATER