Unfinished Symphony

FADE IN:

EXT. A CITY STREET - NIGHT

Streetlights illuminate a drizzle of rain falling between brick apartment buildings. Beneath one of these lights, a man in a trenchcoat and fedora struggles to light a soggy cigarette. This is REX PALOMA, a private investigator.

PALOMA: (V.O.) They say it never rains, but it pours.

Paloma fumbles with his lighter for several seconds more. It finally ignites the end of the cigarette... but before he can inhale, a drop of water falls from the brim of his hat, extinguishing the ember. He looks upward, irritated.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) It's a stupid saying, if you ask me.

A resigned sigh escapes Paloma's lips. He tosses the cigarette away, turns up his collar, and begins trudging down the street. Jazzy saxophone music is audible from somewhere nearby.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) What's it even supposed to mean? Does any rain at all qualify as a storm? What about when there are only a few drops? Are we expected to assume that all of the other ones are hiding?

A sudden clatter mutes the saxophone music. This is followed by sounds of breaking glass, a cat angrily yowling, and an Austrian-accented man bellowing "Oh, no!" with exaggerated dismay. Paloma pauses and looks in the direction of the noise.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) It's funny, what you don't see.

CUT TO:

INT. A TINY OFFICE - EVENING

SUPER: Three hours earlier...

Dressed in slacks, a collared shirt, and suspenders, Paloma sits at a small desk, apparently attempting to assemble a structure out of toothpicks. Said structure collapses when a tall, incredibly attractive woman in a red dress enters the office. This is THE WOMAN.

PALOMA: (V.O.) I should have known that she was trouble when she walked in.

THE WOMAN: Huh. That's a fine way to greet a lady.

Paloma gawks at the woman.

PALOMA: (V.O.) Maybe it was the way that she could see right through me; the way that her eyes bored right into my head, like she could read the words there before I'd written them.

THE WOMAN: ... You do know that you're speaking out loud, right?

PALOMA: (Yelping) Cleavage!

PALOMA: (V.O.) I kept my cool...

THE WOMAN: (Interjecting) You're really not.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) ... but there was something about her that was unsettling.

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes.

THE WOMAN: Look, the word on the street is that you have your finger on the pulse of this decrepit city.

PALOMA: (Stammering) I-I-I know... uh... yes, I'm... uh huh?

THE WOMAN: Great. Where is everybody?

PALOMA: What?

Moving slowly and seductively, the woman approaches and leans on the desk.

THE WOMAN: Haven't you noticed? It's a ghost town out there. Everywhere you walk, it's the same.

The woman leans further down. Paloma makes a noise like steam somehow escaping from a creaking hinge.

THE WOMAN: (CONT'D) There are endless copies of the same low-quality posters plastered on walls. The newspapers are reprints of reprints, and they're full of terrible writing. The theaters show the same films on repeat... and there's nobody to watch them. The streets are empty of anything but trash. Even when you do meet someone, all they ever do is say "This!" or "Same!" or "Oof!" and run off.

Paloma sputters and coughs as he tries to speak.

PALOMA: (V.O.) The dame...

THE WOMAN: (Interjecting) Don't call me that.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) ... had a point. The city had once been a thriving, bustling metropolis. Writers, photographers, comedians, actors... every creative type you could imagine had congregated here.

THE WOMAN: And now they're all gone.

The woman brings her face very close to Paloma's.

THE WOMAN: (CONT'D) Who's driving them away?

As the woman pulls away, she leaves a scrap of paper on Paloma's desk.

THE WOMAN: (CONT'D) Find that out, and you'll find a reward worthy of the task.

Paloma gurgles out an incomprehensible response as the woman leaves the office.

CUT TO:

EXT. A CITY STREET - NIGHT - PRESENT HOUR

Paloma continues to trudge through the rain.

PALOMA: (V.O.) I'd been given a clue – an address – but it hadn't been much to go on. There hadn't even been a number; just the name of a street. For three hours, I walked up and down the sidewalk, watching, listening, trying to...

Another clatter (and another series of shouts by an unseen Austrian guy) interrupts Paloma. He stands still and looks incredulously out into the darkness for several seconds.

PALOMA: (V.O.) (CONT'D) ... trying to see what could have made everyone leave.

THE FIGURE: (O.S.) (Shouting) Oh, for Pete's sake!

Paloma whirls to face a silhouette beneath a streetlight. This is THE FIGURE.

THE FIGURE: (CONT'D) Dude, you are taking this whole thing entirely too seriously.

PALOMA: Buh?

THE FIGURE: You're literally stomping around inside the metaphor, but you're not seeing it.

PALOMA: Buh?

The figure audibly sighs with impatience.

THE FIGURE: Look, nobody is going to come out here. Nobody is going to take the time to listen to your self-indulgent internal monologue. Nobody is going to spend any time thinking about what you're saying. Those days are gone.

PALOMA: ... Buh?

THE FIGURE: (Forcefully) What keeps people indoors?!

Several seconds pass as Paloma silently mouths something to himself. At one point, he appears to count on his fingers. Eventually, he looks upward. Drops of rain splatter on his face.

PALOMA: ... Nighttime?

THE FIGURE: The rain, you moron! It's the rain! Look at it!

PALOMA: (V.O.) It was a cryptic hint, but...

THE FIGURE: (Interrupting) No, it bloody well wasn't! It was literally the answer!

Hesitantly, Paloma extends a hand, catching some of the falling drops. He peers suspiciously at them. Within one drop of water, a memetic image macro can be seen. Another appears to contain a single-sentence, typo-ridden comment. Still another holds an emoji within it. Paloma looks up, realizing that the raindrops are capturing and magnifying images from all around him.

PALOMA: Buh!

PALOMA: (V.O.) That's why they'd left. It hadn't been a person keeping everyone away; it had been the rain!

THE FIGURE: Dear god, are you seriously going to be this heavy-handed?

PALOMA: (V.O.) The creatives had been drowned out by the torrent. They'd stopped writing. They'd stopped performing. After all, what would have been the point? The hours of work that they spent would just be washed away by the flood of low-effort, low-quality...

THE FIGURE: (Interrupting) (Shouting) Get on with it! Ugh, no, you know what? I'm done.

The figure stomps off into the night, muttering what might be colorful obscenities. Paloma looks skyward again.

PALOMA: (V.O.) They say it never rains, but it pours.

THE FIGURE: (O.S.) (Shouting) Stop talking to yourself!

CUT TO BLACK.