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The Test
Topic Started: Aug 3 2009, 02:14:16 PM (102 Views)
Bx
Notorious
[ * ]
Opening Cast

Azzam (Age: 37) - Born, Santana Shields, a former cameraman who was held as a P.O.W., for six years by a religious terrorist group known as "Damita." In time, he adopted the culture of his captors, possibly due to Stockholm Syndrome and changed his name as well as his appearance. Though he remains an atheist. His "death" was filmed and broadcast to the world prior to his release.

Marcos - One of the terrorists who befriended Azzam while he was in captivity. He, along with several others, plan "Damita's" terrorist activities. He and Azzam are not particularly close though they have remained in contact since his release two years ago.

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Setting:

Wati - The fictional nation where the story takes place. It is a nation torn in two by a religious conflict between the Umrils and Amarils.

The Umrils: The majority people in Wati. They worship the goddess, Kalila, and believe she created and controls all life. They believe she holds a predestined path for all living beings and desires two human sacrifices per month for good harvest. They exclusively control Wati's government and do not officially acknowledge the Amarils' religion.

The Amarils: The minority in Wati. They worship the god, Vernicio, and believe he only created the world and it's creatures. They do not believe he controls all aspects of life or a predestined path. They also view human sacrifices as barbaric. Their people are persecuted by the Umrils.

The Komartis: A group of people outside the conflict, who live in the northern nation of Komarti. They are a powerful and influential group who work to stabilize Wati via peace talks. They have proposed an outlaw on civilian firearms to end the conflict, and are sending a young, female representative to speak with Wati's president.

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Plot: Talks between the Wati government and Komarti people, involving the gun outlaw proposition, are heating up. The Wati government has invited the Komartis to send a representative to their capital, Delargo, to speak with the president. Though discussions have been amiable between the nations, both the Umrils and Amarils find them unsettling. The Umrils view the plan as a ploy for the Komarti to establish control in the region while the Amarils believe weapons are their only means to survive Umril persecution as their people are constantly used for the monthly human sacrifices.

Damita strategist and devout Umril follower, Marco, has conceived a plan to send a message to the Komarti and seeks out Azzam, for reasons unknown.
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Bx
Notorious
[ * ]
The Day Before... (9:47 p.m.)

(A man drifted into a small, sparsely populated cafe. His rubber soles squeaked against the floor's ceramic tile and he looked around, his visibility slightly lowered by his dark hood, covering the upper rims of his deep brown eyes. He saw several tables available, those filled, held mostly teenagers and young adults. He heard their youthful chatter, though somewhat muffled by his thick hood, dripping droplets of rain in front of his eyes onto the beige floor.)

(He shot a glance at the back of the cafe, it was dimly lit, empty and...quiet. "Perfect," he thought, as his boots made a trail of water while he walked toward the empty table. He felt impassive stares grip the fibers of his coat as he passed, but he remained fixed on his destination.)

(He reached the table, noticed the neatly-packed napkin holder and sat down. He crossed his right leg over his left and pulled a hefty-looking novel from his bag. It's title, "Mirrors." A romance. His favorite. He placed it on the table and his damp bag on the floor. Then he grabbed the ends of his hood and dropped them to the back of his neck, revealing his cheddar complexion, light pinkish wrinkled lips, and rust-colored eyes, that matched his hair, with dark, sleepless circles underneath.)

(He grabbed his novel, opened it to its bookmark, page 103, and picked up where he had left off. He stayed like this, reading, until he heard a set of footsteps approaching. He lifted his eyes from page 114 and watched the incoming feet, dark brown hiking boots. He raised his gaze further and fully viewed the man, he was pudgy and his flab bounced against his clothing as he stepped. "It's him.," he thought, and dropped his novel back in his bag.)

(The man had planted his feet directly in front of his. He extended his hand and they shook.)

???: Good to see you again, Azzam.

Azzam: As always, Marcos.

(Marcos had an expression wrinkled, not by age, he was only in his forties by rather, a tumultuous life. His hair held a streak of premature gray and his eyes likewise. He grabbed one of the napkins from the case and blew his nose before he took his seat, just across from Azzam.)

(Azzam rested his clenched hands on the table and watched Marcos' constant sniffling until he stopped and their gazes came together.)

Azzam: So...I'm here. Now, why?

(The fat man chuckled and nodded slowly as he spoke.)

Marcos: You've been free for two years but you're still as tightly-wound as ever. Relax a little. Have you ordered anything?

(He shook his head. Marcos rolled his eyes amusingly and released an unsurprised sigh.)

Marcos: It seems you really want to get down to business.

Azzam: Either that, or I can get back to my book.

(Marcos grinned and aligned his face with the floor to shake his head. He raised it and looked at him, still with a smile.)

Marcos: Still into those romance novels?

Azzam: Yup.

(The fat man tapped his right thigh repeatedly and replied...)

Marcos: I never understood that. You say, you love "love" but you cheated on your wife.

Azzam: We were both unfaithful.

(Marcos pointed his greased, bulky forefinger at him.)

Marcos: And you don't even know if that kid is your son. What was his name, again?

(Azzam stared at the napkin holder, silently.)

Marcos: Azzam?

(Still with his eyes fixed on the now ruffled napkins, he began stroking his chin and murmured...)

Azzam: ...Danny.

(Marcos positioned his eyes on a scantily-clad young woman who stood from her seat, a few feet from them, and replied, only partly focused on their conversation.)

Marcos: ...Yes. Danny...

(Azzam bashed his palm against the table and startled him. His neck jerked back and his lids were fully open.)

Marcos: What was that for!?

Azzam: Why did you call me?

(He moved his eyes back to where the girl had been standing, but she had left. He sighed and mumbled...)

Marcos: A man who loves "love," huh? Anyway, we'll get to business right now.

(He pulled a black pen from his pocket and grabbed a napkin from the napkin holder. He opened it, spread it on the table and began drawing. When he was finished, he turned his diagram toward Azzam, who raised an eyebrow upon viewing it.)

Azzam: What...is it?

(The fat man raised from his seat, walked to Azzam and hunched over him with palms pressed on the table. In a low whisper, he said...)

Marcos: That, is our message.

Azzam: Huh?

(Marcos moved from behind him and went back to his chair. He reached for his cellphone, dialed a few keys and stopped. Azzam's phone beeped. He had received a new text message. He looked at Marcos with narrowed eyes but opened the message. A video played. It was a news broadcast saying that the Wati president's meeting with the Komarti representative was tomorrow. When it finished, he looked at Marcos, then at the diagram in front of him. "I get it...," he thought, scanning the intricate design.)

Azzam: "D's" new plan, huh?

(Marcos laughed, low but childishly, and replied...)

Marcos: That, Azzam, is a plan for all of Wati. ...Excluding the Amaril trash. The Komarti think they are slick but we'll show them just what we think of "gun-control."

(Azzam glanced at the diagram again, then at Marcos.)

Azzam: And my role?

(Marcos placed his meaty pinkie on the tiny star he'd drawn.)

Marcos: You, my friend, are the cross hairs.

Azzam: ...The sniper?

(His eyes had grown strained and worrisome. Marcos noticed this and asked casually...)

Marcos: You're not pleased with this choice?

(He turned his head right to see if anyone was watching, no one had been, and he stretched himself forward, hands spread on the table.)

Azzam: Why, me? I'm just confused. Doesn't "D" have better...snipers? And I'm not one to begin with...I was a cameraman.

(The fat man tapped his fingers against the air, telling him to back away, as he replied...)

Marcos: That's why we want you. Cameramen have to have steady precision, they have to be men with delicate hands. Just like a...sniper. You're naturals at being "cross hairs." Plus, you're a "dead" man, your identity is...safe. And you have military experience.

Azzam: One year in KMS (Komerti Militia Services). I wouldn't exactly say that makes me "battle ready."

(Marcos raised a napkin to his nose and blew into it. When he finished, he crumpled it and placed it on the table.)

Marcos: And you won't have to be. You're not heading into a battle, you're taking the "shot."

(He rose from his chair, looked at Azzam, whose eyes were with the table, and said...)

Marcos: Listen. I won't force you to do anything but I need an answer within an hour.

(He turned on his heel to walk off but Azzam raised his left hand and replied...)

Azzam: Wait.

(Marcos looked over his shoulder at him.)

Azzam: ...I'll do it.

Marcos: Why?

(Azzam tilted his head toward him, eyes hardened and intent.)

Azzam: Because...

(He gripped his chin between his index finger and thumb, still with a focused stare.)

Azzam: Because Wati needs it.

(Marcos smiled, wide and devilishly. His plump cheeks jiggled as his lips wrapped across his face.)

Marcos: You've come a long way, Azzam. ...The President will be pleased, not to mention the rest of us in "D." You'll receive the meeting point later on tonight. You can keep the diagram. Have a goodnight.

(He walked off. His rolls jellied around with the beat of his step. Azzam lifted the diagram, folded it and stuffed it into his pocket. With his elbows rested on his knees, he hunched over and studied the floor, reflecting on what had just occurred.)

The Day...

(Delargo's streets were closed and filled densely with people waiting outside the President's Residency. Everyone from news people to commoners, all jammed together to see "history" potentially made. Security persons held them back from the gates with massive armored vehicles and imposing weaponry. Ironic, due to the nature of the meeting. It was early, though, and the Komarti representative had yet to arrive.)

(Azzam waited outside of his apartment building, cellphone in hand, and backpack latched on his shoulders. He twisted his right hand to read the time, it was 11:33 a.m. He pulled his eyes from the phone's screen and looked out at the streets while his right foot tapped nervously. "He said 11:30. Where is he?," he asked himself as an incoming vibration made his body tremble. He turned his head toward it's source and it came into full view...An armored truck, the type security was using. Marcos head was sticking out of the passenger's window and he waved upon spotting Azzam.)

Marcos: Hey! You ready!?

(Azzam raised his left hand, with his index and middle fingers extended and shouted...)

Azzam: Hurry up!

(Marcos smiled and withdrew his head from the window. Within seconds, the truck stopped in front of Azzam and Marcos opened his door, beaming a smile at him.)

Marcos: What do you think?

(He spanned his gaze across the entire truck and nodded slowly as he replied...)

Azzam: Perfect.

(Marcos directed him to the back of the truck with a few of his sweaty, pudgy fingers that glistened in the sunlight.)

Marcos: Alright, get back there. Everything you need is there. We've got about a half an hour to get in position so be ready before we stop.

(He ran to the back of the truck, lifted the hatch and let himself in. He closed the hatch, turned and saw all of his equipment, from the phony "security" uniform to the suitcase with his rifle. He dressed himself as the truck went into motion. After five minutes, he had everything on but his black gloves. He placed them over his sweaty palms hurriedly and fastened their straps across his wrists.)

(Now resting on the truck's bench, he unlatched the suitcase that held his sniper and rubbed his right hand across it, feeling it's slick metallic build under his dampened glove. "It's been a while," he told himself, receiving a flashback of his year in KMS. He closed the case, rested his back against the bench and pulled out his novel, "Mirrors." He read it to ease the tension he had felt stiffening his neck.)

(About ten minutes later, the truck's motion halted. "Okay...," he thought, stuffing the book in his backpack. He let out a heavy, thoughtful breath and stood on his feet. He looked at the rifle's case, reached for it with outstretched fingers, and lifted it by its handle.)

(The hatch flew up and outside, he saw Marcos and the driver. Marcos tapped against the air toward himself, motioning for him to come out. He did, jumping to the ground. The fat man placed his hands atop his shoulders and said, in a very serious tone...)

Marcos: We have a little under fifteen minutes. You're cool?

("Yes.," he answered internally and nodded to show this.)

Marcos: Good.

(He removed his fat, stubby hands from his shoulders and turned to the driver, a small framed-man, no older than 25.)

Marcos: Stay here. We'll be out in a few minutes. And don't panic when the crowd does. You've gotta be cool, alright?

(The driver nodded more eagerly than Azzam had.)

Marcos: Good.

(He turned toward Azzam and said...)

Marcos: Come on, we've got no obstacles or anything. We just have to get on the roof of this building.

(It was a dirtied, off-colored tan, slum of a building just across from the President's Residency. Nocturnal lowlifes infested it's apartments like roaches before dark, holed up until nightfall. Though security had barricaded the entire place, they were assisted by a mole and managed to pass through virtually unnoticed. They rode the elevator to the tenth floor. When it's doors slid open, Marcos looked at Azzam and said...)

Marcos: We go up one flight of steps and we're on the roof, okay?

(He nodded.)

Marcos: Alright.

(They exited the elevator, rushed up the stairs and burst open the door to the roof. They felt the wind slam against their uniforms but they moved toward the edge and peeked over, seeing the hundreds packed together, waiting for the representative's arrival. Marcos pulled out his phone, regarded the time, 11:57 and turned to Azzam.)

Marcos: Okay... They should be coming soon. Get ready.

(Azzam's breathing had increased to steady, short, quick breaths and he unfastened the suitcase's latch with shaky hands. As he lifted the rifle, he heard the pitch of the screams increase dramatically. He peered out at the citizens and saw the representative's sleek black car approaching.)

Marcos: Alright, hurry up, man!

(He readied the rifle over his right shoulder, crunched his knees and hunched himself. As he placed his eye against the scope, he thought, "Wait a minute... Who's my target!?," and jerked his eye from the scope and shot it at Marcos.)

Azzam: You never described the target!

(Marcos' face had become flush and he shouted, with his arms stretched over his head...)

Marcos: You'll know her when you see her! It's the only woman!!

(Azzam's fingers twitched as he focused his sight again and eyed through the scope. The door to the representative's car swung open and a set of black pants hung out. "Wait... Wait, for it...," he kept telling himself as the figure fully appeared, a man, a guard. "Not him.," he remarked silently, huffing a long, drawn out breath. His hands trembled erratically as another set of legs draped over the seat, again, black pants. "Another guard...," he thought, this time with a more relaxed breath.)

Marcos: I think this one's her, Azzam...

(He sucked in a deep breath and kept the cross hair stationed on the car's open door. First bare legs then the rim of a dark skirt stretched out, "Okay, it's time...," he thought, still holding his chest full of air. He sharpened his focus and waited to see her face. He finally did. He zoomed in on her head and, "Oh, shit... No...," he told himself, his hands now locked in place. It was a young woman, twenty-one years old, and one unnervingly familiar to him. "My sister...!?," he asked himself as the woman made her way to the President's gate, unharmed.)

(Marcos burned a stare at him and shouted...)

Marcos: What the hell are you doing!? Shoot!

(He stayed as he had, his index finger frozen on the trigger.)

Marcos: Fire!! Fire!!

(Shots fired at them. A roar of screams filled their ears and they both dived onto their stomachs, the fat man's protruding flab bouncing humorously against the sandstone. The representative's guards had spotted them. Marcos turned his head and glared at Azzam.)

Marcos: What the fuck was that!?

(He didn't answer, his sister's image had clouded his mind. More shots fired, now from the opposite direction. They were trapped.)
Edited by Bx, Aug 5 2009, 12:00:02 AM.
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