The producer and director around a pool table, bills on the side, the writer laughs maniacally from the room with grips for cash in his hands.
Alan Smithee
The producer - Chalking as the door slams, "So. Is he like ... actually insane ?"
A (that guy) Production
The Director - Circling the table, "I've never had a clue what the fuck he was talking about." Leans in for a shot, "I just make it look pretty."
Directed by (that other guy)
Taking his time to line it up right ... he takes the shot.
And a pool cue crashes through the moon ~Shattering
the it into three large pieces and a lot of dusty shards, slow tumbling
for the Earth. Where the tides feel it first like the storm inverting
the calm.
The ships begin to depart, all over the world. For
what little we see of it, we've survived all our political drama,
apparently building a paradise. A shame really.
But at least there's a lot of space ships.
Behind
the tumbling stones and debris of when would appear a large asteroid,
it's seen that many already flee. It passes a space station fighting
the gravitational turbulence on its stabilizers, a warship wrenching
from it's dock.
A slow turning wheel wrapped around a tall
spire, top and bottom the same and dotted with array for communication, a
balanced gyroscope where the hamsters are human on the wheel. A
science hub and nothing more.
The ships continue pouring from the
land, three fires in the sky. These cities are recognizable, not so
far ahead, but the crashing traffic shows the age. We'd just stepped
out of the darkness, and only just made it to the stars.
Too late.
The tidal wave arcs high, as the people scream from their traffic jammed cars.
Too late.
As
the lunar shards begin breaking apart like a hopeful fletchet loading
dragonfire shells. A man realizes this looking up, how hard it will hit
as his hair begins to rise and blow a bit from the gravity and
compression before that wave takes him from the side.
The stones
strike, shattering the continents into the dawn of an asteroid's belt,
the last of the survivors navigating the stones desperately to escape
their cross collisions.
(0:54)
Streaking through the
debris, spinning between the escapees, a vehicle shaped like a smooth
seed. The last population flees the clattering storm with it, some
expensive and some poor.
Shards of continents crack with the last
of their atmosphere carrying cries of humanly protest, Hollywood
crashes in Vegas, the Statue of Liberty impales an oceanic vessel.
The
survivors navigate through in hard acceleration, too many drawn into
the wells and sent crashing to the forgotten place, crippled between
stones.
(1:45)
The director grins behind the yellow ball ...
Producer - In terror, "No ... "
Director - Madness in his eyes, "Yesss ... "
Producer - "Fuck ... both of you guys ... " Throws down the stick and leaves.
~ Director takes the shot.
The space station jerks hard from the shift as the sun appears to implode in the distance, lashing flares appearing like dragons depart the nova wave erupting behind.
~ Has a bit too much fun with the rest of the table while the plants crash in their gravitational vortices.
(2:23)
The
seed ship breaks way from the planetary shards, burst speed over the
station and drops a beacon flashing before jumping to speed and then
gone.
~ Xenofix ~
Because of course
it happened on a Monday. From inside docking tubes aboard the station
as every kind of ship imaginable makes it's slow way in. Behind, the
asteroid belt grows while near station as a refrain, the beacon the seed
ship left behind flashes.
While the warship, side lettering seen
to say the 'Centaur', dispatches a shuttle in lieu of the torn docking
clams seen beneath the letters.
From a bay holding otherwise
fighters, deck crew in non atmospheric suits bracing for decompression
as the doors open, relaxes as it closes behind.
It leaves from
the fore, as if designed to spray fighters into its path, and to keep a
hollow bay forth to absorb heavy impacts without effecting the bridge
above. The aft a shell for crew between heavy gunwales beneath broad
wings held forward to tear hulls if need be.
From peaked tail
over engines, they wrap from the aft into peaked into spikes just beyond
the fore, a bird pointing its wings over its head. Cannons one may
think made to destroy cities lay protected between them.
The
shuttle, if not bomber to the lighter fighters in the bay, is of a
similar design. Like the fighters and Centaur, wrapped wings offering
protection to the core and weaponry.
This also allows space
between any concussive strikes and the core of the craft. Heavy
missiles to blow off parts distanced from what's important. The shuttle
joins the rest in the turning view of refugees docking.
____________
Aboard the station ~
Technology - "Hawking."
Science - "Yeah like a Hawking wave."
Technology - "Has that even been named that yet ?"
Science - "No idea."
Science - "Hawking wave."
Technology - "Yes the Hawking wave. And even if we do, black hole. There went all the solar power."
Science - "Hawking wave."
Technology - "Yeah that."
Captain - "Just ... how long do we have ?"
~ The Producer on the telephone - "Jesus fuck."
Technology - "Hour and a half."
Science - Smiles handing him an envelope. "And you."
Technology - "Have orders."
...
Captain - Takes the envelope. "What ?"
In
the engine room, the machinery begins shaking. Crew looks to the core
as it starts to clang like beating an oil drum. A simple round tube
with 12 smaller bricks held around it by mechanical arms suspended
above.
The pipes clang like a heater coming on, a bolt
unfortunately pops harmlessly, it concerns no one, a crewman notes on
the data-pad it for later repair. The room shakes hard to the side, the
crewman catches himself.
They all look to the core as though
they'd never seen it turn on, its cacophony of clanging and coughed up
smoke amid the electrical discharges. The mechanical hands let go of
the bricks, allowing them to hover on their own as they start to orbit
the central core.
A sound like a dragon as they lock into network
with one another, as if each were propelling the next. Steam pouring
to cool, the evaporating moisture helping to contain the wild
electricity lashing out.
The lightning goes mostly to the three
rods surrounding it all, which in turn funnels it back into the device.
The mechanic puts a hand on the crewman's shoulder to calm him, a
glance and a smile to the popped bolt.
"Yes sir." And to it he goes.
It likes dirty electricity. Electricity that's been through it. Around the way and back again, the machine groans on.
On
the bridge the concerned crew as well, no one but the Captain and XO
joining his side to watch the pretty lights, as the stars begin
stretching. And as if with a cannon shot through the fabric of the
universe, they're gone.