Almost impolitely short update this time, because I HAS WERK AND I WERK IT, but still…
Hope you like it – and hope you’ll help me with your advice and opinion on this one :3



We can see the glass ridge of the roof of the main hall of the library; there’s a silent dark figure standing at the point where the glass meets metal. We cannot actually see if that’s a man or a woman. The stranger stands, tilting their hand slightly to one side, as if they’re able to listen to what is happening meters and meters below, in the library hall. The stranger nods thoughtfully and vanishes from the roof, not exactly disappearing, but apparently moving too fast for us to catch the moment of movement.


Camera descends through the glass roof to reveal students swarming around the library hall in various directions, deep in their own thoughts — and one pale man, dressed in plain black clothes, with tired and slightly anxious look in his eyes. It’s the LIBRARIAN; he needs to be nerdy enough for being adorable, and serious enough for looking slightly creepy. [Dreamcast? Michael Sheen!] LIBRARIAN is the only one who is standing perfectly still, seriously alarmed. At some point LIBRARIAN raises his glassy, unblinking stare in the direction of the roof.

Cut to black when LIBRARIAN’s eyes meet the camera, focusing, widening in terror.


We slowly approach an old door. Right at the moment when the slowness of movement gets creepy enough, someone kicks the door open, letting triumphant ARTHUR in, followed by ever-sleepy QUINCY. At some point, ARTHUR, humming something glorious, walks past us — but the camera doesn’t follow him, focusing on QUINCY instead; QUINCY stops dead at his tracks, turning his head to the camera, obviously having heard something that caught his attention. [Would be perfect if the camera moved around QUINCY slowly, just to reveal that he focuses his gaze on the men’s room door.] QUINCY stands very still for a few seconds, then walks to the door.


QUINCY enters. There’s a man, choking on something, or vomiting, bowing above one of the sinks. The light is dull, bluish, but we can still distinguish that the man is RENFIELD. RENFIELD is shaking from the spasms, shuddering; he slowly straightens, slowly turns around. We can see that RENFIELD’s mouth is practically leaking blood — and, at the same moment, he looks innocently questioning, as if it’s not like he’s vomiting blood right now. QUINCY stares back at RENFIELD, clearly suspecting at least a dozen professional reasons for such a bloody scene. For a few seconds QUINCY and RENFIELD just stare at each other. RENFIELD absent-mindedly wipes the blood off his lips with a paper towel, smiles, slowly, nervously, apologetically. Then, all of a sudden, RENFIELD starts running, pushing QUINCY off his way with an unexpected show of strengths.


VAN HELSING and JOHN are walking down the corridor side by side, talking about something in low voices [could be discussing JOHN’s graduation project or something, they clearly have a lot of common themes], when RENFIELD practically runs into them. VAN HELSING manages to catch RENFIELD by his shoulder, when RENFIELD suddenly spins around in an almost inhuman movement and bites VAN HELSING’s hand. JOHN gasps in shock, trying to get hold of RENFIELD. VAN HELSING, barely flinching or showing any reaction to possible pain from the bite, grabs RENFIELD in an efficient immobilising grip which looks suspiciously like an old military reflex — it’s that type of alarmingly swift movement, which can be only a result of a long-term army training.

QUINCY enters the scene.

Professor, careful!

(struggling with hissing RENFIELD)
And good afternoon to you, Mr. Morris.

ARTHUR runs into the scene, carrying a standard U-100 insulin syringe; at this sight, RENFIELD starts struggling even more frantically. QUINCY and JOHN rush closer, to help VAN HELSING.

What is wrong, for the love of God?!

He’s mad!

He’s bleeding!

Let m e decide whether he is mad, would you? Renfield? Renfield! Talk to me!

RENFIELD kicks one more time and suddenly gets very still, almost rigid.

(quietly, almost whispering)
Excuse me. Looks like I’ve got a bit excited.

Do explain, please.

RENFILD sighs, then frowns, as if trying to remember.

Looks like I got the whole idea wrong, I’m afraid. (Whispers) I’m… feeling unwell. I suppose.

RENFIELD loses his consciousness — almost falling if not for VAN HELSING’s holding him up, while QUINCY, ARTHUR, and JOHN stand by, shocked. VAN HELSING carefully lies RENFIELD on the floor, quickly checks his pulse, pupils’ reaction, and, finally, examines RENFIELD’s mouth.

(in dull tone, while checking)
I’m afraid I need to repeat myself: do explain. Now. You first, Mr. Morris.

QUINCY stands at the farther distance from VAN HELSING then everyone else, and he clearly feels uncomfortable with any questions.

You’ve mentioned the bleeding. Specify.

Looked like haemoptysis to me.

John, would you go inform the headmaster and get some senior medics from surgery department here, please?

JOHN rushes off without a word.

(calmly, cont’d)
You know, even I can come up with at least fifteen reasons for coughing blood, and fifteen more for blood vomiting. In any case, the patient won’t be eager to run away and fight, so be more specific in describing the symptoms, would you? And why in the bleeding Hell are you waving a loaded syringe around, Mr. Holmwood?

(taken aback)
Eh. Sedation. Just in case.

(dangerously soft)
Just in case of w h a t, I wonder, taking into consideration the fact that you still can’t tell haemoptysis from haematemesis?

ARTHUR tries to come up with an answer, but just shuts his mouth when meets VAN HELSING’s glare, which is not exactly threatening, but just too blank to look normal.

What about your bleeding, Professor?

VAN HELSING glances quickly at his hand, where RENFIELD bit him: there’s a smear of blood on skin.

(slowly, quietly)
No serious damage, too blunt teeth, too quick impact. It’s not my blood.

(nods at RENFIELD)

VAN HELSING raises his hand to his face and smells the blood cautiously. ARTHUR looks even more shocked than before, QUINCY watches closely.

(too thoughtful to really speak to anyone but himself, mutters)
It’s not even human.


~ by Erebus Odora on August 5, 2012.

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