A Dramatization of Two St. Remedius Rivals At Their Most Aggressive
(Who was St. Remedius? And why is a medical college named after him?)
SCENE: The front gate of ST. REMEDIUS MEDICAL COLLEGE looms up, the cryptic graffiti “PROVERBS 26:11” crawled in sidewalk chalk on the street out front. It’s early on a lovely October morning, outstanding even for Dallas, Texas in October, with not a cloud in the sky. Students are rushing about like ants in a disturbed hill, rushing from the coffee shop across the street, locking up bicycles and scooters (it’s October, so riding a bike in the day is completely reasonable), and heading to lecture halls and labs. Everything bustling, everything reasonable, everything completely average for St. Remedius.
The CAMERA then starts to sink into the earth, past electrical conduit and water lines, into a Maypole lattice of interconnected ducts, vents, pipes, and nets, some with cryptic notations like “rty34pr” and “27b-6.” The CAMERA finally passes through a large vault: dark, foreboding, and easily big enough for about twenty people to walk side-by-side. At this point, though, there’s only one person in the gloom: a short figure in overalls, very practical boots, a black ski mask, and night-vision IR goggles. The figure rummages around a knapsack for a package, pulls it out, and then raises a hand to push a button on the side of the goggles.
POV: A classic night-vision view of pipes and junction boxes within the vault, not a creature was stirring, and digital numbers read “7:58 AM CDT” in the left corner.
Back to the FIGURE. The FIGURE scuttles over to a junction cabinet taller than it is, heading straight to a lock on the front of the cabinet. For a second, the FIGURE is aggravated, pulls down the goggles, pulls off the ski mask to unleash a huge mass of dark curly hair, and focuses on the strangely complex lock without touching it.
POV: The lock interface is right in the middle of the view, about the size of a laptop keyboard, with a front loaded with dials, switches, a couple of pulsing glyphs, and a swirl of dust or smoke that coils up and hisses. Two BEATS, and then the clock flashes in the goggles again: “8:00 AM.”
The FIGURE opens the package in its hand, revealing a set of arcane tools, and picks a long probe with a tiny purple glowing gem in the center. The FIGURE waves the probe at the swirl in a distinct North-South-East-West pattern, and it collapses like falling ash. The FIGURE then reaches its left hand over to its right forearm, covered with some sort of mesh festooned with buttons and a big Avago wheel (think the wheel on a vintage iPod), and light fixtures in the vault’s ceiling turn on, slowly, dimly, but enough light for us to see the FIGURE’s face.
FREEZE: A view of the FIGURE looking up at the lights, with SUBTITLES reading “DR. MORAG FEINSTEIN” and below that, in smaller italic subtitles, “Iconoclastus paininthetuchis” and a “ding” sound effect for the viewer.
The SUBTITLES fade, motion begins, and MORAG gets a big crafty grin. She pulls out other tools from the package, opens the lock with economy (she’s obviously practiced for a while), wields a short crystal at all four corners of the cabinet, and only then turns the cabinet’s handle. As she opens it, grinning at the rat’s nest of wires and blocks therein…
The CAMERA rises up from MORAG, through the earth again, and up to ground level in front of the St. Remedius gate. The CAMERA then rides low along the ground, barely dodging late students heading to classes, hopping slightly to swoop over a grackle pulling at a dropped bagel, and heading toward one specific building, about six stories high, with metaphysical symbols in the arch over the door. Two more smoke/dust figures stand on either side, vaguely insectoid and about ten feet high, come to attention and then quickly slide aside as the CAMERA passes. The CAMERA passes over patterns in the terrazzo floors (sigils, pentagrams, binding circles, and other more obscure forms) while heading straight to a slowly closing elevator. The CAMERA then goes vertical, past the oblivious elevator passengers, through the top of the elevator, and up the shaft, passing more smoke figures that start to reach out and then reconsider and pull back hastily. The CAMERA goes to the door for the sixth floor, out through the door crack, and down another terrazzo-floored hall. No symbols or glyphs here, but the air here is roiling gently, like a pot of water seconds before it starts to boil, buffeting the CAMERA slightly as if it had to fight to get through. The CAMERA hits the end of the hall, pushes a big wood and stone door open, and enters a reasonably large office. The CAMERA passes by a small sacrificial altar, candles and incense still burning, then past a big reading chair with a black robe over one side and a small calico cat asleep on the cushion, and past various framed newspaper cuttings and printouts on the wall, of which “St. Remedius” is about the only thing easily recognizable. The CAMERA then jumps from the floor, onto the big wooden desk in the back, and right up to the face of the WOMAN sitting in the chair behind it, focused on paperwork.
FREEZE: The WOMAN looks up from her paperwork as if exasperated. She’s middle-aged, medium build, and would be about six inches taller than MORAG if she were standing. Big grey eyes, silver-brown hair in a brush cut, currently with reading glasses. The SUBTITLES appear again, only reading “DR. CALLIOPE PENDERGAST,” followed with “Director of Thaumaturgy, St. Remedius Medical College” and then, in italics, “Wizardicus tiredofyourshiticus” with the same “ding” sound effect as with MORAG. Two BEATS, the subtitles disappear, the FREEZE ends, and CALLIOPE pulls off her glasses in exasperation and drops them on the desk.
PULL BACK to see CALLIOPE push back from the desk and stand up. She wears a dark maroon jacket and slacks with a white blouse, multiple ID cards and a silver dogtag on the outer pocket of the jacket. Upright, she starts mumbling under her breath as she moves her right hand from left to right, and her attire changes as her hand moves. When CALLIOPE stops, she now wears near-combat gear: jacket and pants of dark grey ripstop fabric, knee and elbow pads and high-tech shin guards, a matching fatigue shirt under the jacket, a web belt with a bright red gem in the center of the snap and an attached pouch off her right hip, black combat boots, the dogtag hanging off a platinum chain, and a stone that slowly changes color on a cord around her neck. CALLIOPE walks from behind the desk to the chair, pulls on the black robe with a flourish, and checks the robe’s interior pockets as if looking for something. The CAT in the chair wakes up slowly, looks at CALLIOPE, and chirps as if asking something.
CALLIOPE
No, Vesuvius, but thanks for asking. I’ve got this.
VESUVIUS the cat goes back to sleep, stretching her rear toes while getting settled in. CALLIOPE gasps with small joy at finding something in a pocket, and pulls out a small silver amulet. CALLIOPE grabs it within her fist and melts through the floor.
POV: CALLIOPE falling through drywall and wiring and terrazzo floor, hitting nothing more than winds that make her robe billow around her, and then moving slowly forward as well as down. Toward the VAULT.
CUT TO: The junction cabinet, where MORAG has the ends of a dozen blue shimmery cables attached to various spots of its contents. MORAG connects the other ends of the cables to a small box with a big green button. She presses the button, and a strong shimmer appears at the far end of the vault like falling starwater. MORAG walks through the shimmer like walking through a waterfall, to a door at the end. She stops for a moment, drops her tool pouch back into her knapsack, and rummages around a bit for something else: a pair of somethings about the size of her fists and made of red metal. MORAG stops for a moment to put them on: they resemble steel gauntlets with added brass knuckles, each covered with texturing except on the backs of the hands. She then reaches into the bag one more time and pulls out a sheathed Bowie knife: she unsheaths it, drops the sheath back in the bag, and spins the knife in the air before grabbing it by the handle. MORAG walks through the door…
CUT TO: The other side of the door is a larger, more elaborate vault. It’s the cliche of every mad scientist’s lab: obviously deadly and currently quiescent guns and arrays and robot arms, big power cabinets, painfully obsolete computers, and several partially dismantled humanoid robots piled up in a corner. With one exception, everything in the vault looks as if it hasn’t been touched for decades. That exception is a eight-foot-high column in the middle, with a top ornament that looks as if several art students went wild with big horseshoe magnets. The magnets spin around each other, but keep pointing up, slowly collecting energy from some unknown and incredibly distant galaxy. MORAG quietly walks up to the column, sometimes peering at the unknown language embossed on the side, and reaches into her knapsack again. As she does, a voice clears her throat.
CAMERA PANS to CALLIOPE with her robe closed in front of her, standing in the open doorway and blocking the only escape. Her eyes flare slightly, shooting a couple of sparks, and her boots appear to be keeping her about a half-inch off the floor. It’s not immediately noticeable, but it’s noticeable. A slow hum comes from under her robe.
CALLIOPE
Um.
MORAG
“Um” yourself. This can’t stay here.
CALLIOPE
We have it under control.
MORAG
The Wolfram Tor thought they did, too, and look what happened to them.
CALLIOPE
We. Have it. Under. CONTROL.
MORAG
Oh, to hell with it. Keep the damn thing.
MORAG suddenly lunges to the right, heading for a vault wall. CALLIOPE throws back her robe and grabs the stone on its cord around her neck. The stone rapidly shifts into a minimalist rapier: a simple coin-like pommel and a dark stone-like crossguard, but with a transparent light-blue blade. CALLIOPE catches the grip as it drops and takes chase.
MORAG zigzags back toward the column, rapping the backs of the gauntlets against each other. They ring like dropped brass howitzer shells, and they start to glow. She runs toward the column, arms wide to tackle it at waist-level, and…
CALLIOPE waves her free hand, and the column rises in the air. MORAG passes underneath, loses her balance, slides, and gets right back up, turning to face CALLIOPE again.
MORAG
It’s GOING!
MORAG charges CALLIOPE, who only manages to keep the Bowie knife from her throat with deft swordwork. The two slash and parry, with MORAG occasionally almost connecting with left jabs while CALLIOPE focuses on the knife. MORAG sweeps with a leg, and CALLIOPE hops out of the way, slashing at MORAG’s overalls. A flap, sharp as a tailor’s, flops down over MORAG’s heart, and she furiously takes the offensive. Sword lunges are met with the gauntlets, with a flash of actinic light and a metallic scream each time they connect. CALLIOPE starts mumbling under breath, with the deactivated robots in the corner starting to pull themselves together and shamble toward the pair. MORAG counters with a devastating uppercut, with blood flying from CALLIOPE’s mouth as she hits the floor, and the robots fall to pieces where they stand. Before CALLIOPE can stand or sit, MORAG stands over her, a robot chassis held over her head and an expression of violent rage on her face, and is about to smash CALLIOPE’s head in when a noise resonates through the vault: DING!
The two stop. The column slowly lowers to the floor. MORAG drops the chassis, grins, and reaches her hand out to help CALLIOPE up. CALLIOPE accepts and stands, cradling her jaw and moving it side to side with her hand.
CALLIOPE
New gauntlets, huh? Good thing I had the shield cantrips up. (winces) Bit my TONGUE!
MORAG snickers.
MORAG
YOU started it. (BEAT.) Seriously, that junction cabinet is your last weak spot.
CALLIOPE
Why? The alarm went off.
MORAG
Yeah, but I got THAT far. I bypassed the storm sewer guardians by entering that construction site up at Greenville Avenue and Lover’s Lane. That cabinet was your last alarm. You should have spotted me 30 minutes ago.
MORAG clicks the button on her goggles: “8:15”.
MORAG
Test 246 was a draw. Suggestions for improving St. Remedius security… (pulls a notebook out of her knapsack and scribbles some notes.) Want to get some coffee?
CALLIOPE
Sorry, but I have a department meeting at 8:30, and a big conference with…well, I can’t.
MORAG
Got it. Assemblage of Kurran again?
CALLIOPE
(Surprised) Yes. How did you know?
MORAG
I just know. I hate it, but I have to get going. (Gestures at the column.) You ARE going to get rid of that thing before the Wolfram Tor push to get it back, aren’t you?
CALLIOPE
You want to come up and say hello to everyone?
MORAG
Naah. The Colonel will be a pain, and your husband is still pissed at me.
CALLIOPE
Next time, then. Are you planning to give him his belknap regulator back?
MORAG
He lost it fair and square. Maybe for New Year’s Eve.
Both laugh, a knowing and gentle laugh. They shake hands, hug for a moment, and walk toward the vault door. PAN TO their backs as they walk through the doorway to the outer vault, silhouetted against the lights.
CALLIOPE
I’ll tell everyone you’re thinking of them. Good night, Ralph.
MORAG
Good night, Sam.
GO TO OPENING CREDITS.
Want to get caught up on the St. Remedius story so far? Check out the main archive. Want more hints as to the history of St. Remedius Medical College? Check out Backstories and Fragments. Want to forget all of that and look at cat pictures from a beast who dreams of his own OnlyFans for his birthday? Check out Mandatory Parker. Questions, concerns, and disgust over generative AI? Check out Contact, Privacy Policy, and AI Policy. And feel free to visit the St. Remedius Medical College Redbubble shop for all of your Mandatory Parker needs.
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I. Hate. It. When. People. Write. Sentences. Like. This. Haven’t you heard of ellipses? That’s what I use.
I figure everyone can use this once per year, and otherwise lose a year of life every time it gets used over that limit. You know, like exclamation points. (I’m certain that if this were applied to everyone in general, some eBay posters would die in the middle of the Paleogene.)