Clash of the Sound Bites


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Sounds and Voice Talents Including, but not Limited to:

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Scene Title Clash of the Sound Bites
Synopsis The audio-visuals in a movie theater get a bit strange as one Evolved evolves again.
Date April 17, 2010

A Movie Theater

Many places have signs out front their doors. Closed due to weather. But there are many that stubbornly remain open, despite everything else. The place that Faye sits with her daughter happens to be one of them. A movie theater that refused to close up shop and shut down, though many of their movies are weeks behind the rest of the country due to missing shipments. The popcorn is warm, the drinks are cold, and Snuggies are for sale at the counter as an addition to the movie viewing experience.

Likely due to the fact that the theater remains notoriously difficult to heat. Big rooms often are.

A blue snuggie drapped over her from, Faye's arms are sticking through, allowing her bare hands access to the popcorn and the drink, which is wrapped with a napkin to keep her hand from freezing too much when she sips on it. The preshow shows are on, commercials flashing across the screen, advertising various programs on television and movies— And the theater could hardly be called packed, a few people quietly munching behind them, a few heads in front of them, but until the movie starts, they have plenty of time to talk.

"I was around your age when the first one came out. I wonder if they'll include the owl— there as a mechanical owl in the original."

"You can't say things like that anymore or people will think you're crazy, since you look like you're maybe a couple years older than me," Peyton says with amusement. She's curled up so that her feet are on the seat, tucked under the snuggie, the arm rest to her right pushed up for some more room. "I think I saw re-runs of that — the effects were really bad and I couldn't stand to watch it. Pegasus made me feel like I was having a seizure, the way he kept jerking around." Today's youth has no appreciation for culture. Or Harryhausen — which may not be the same thing.

The younger of the two brunettes reaches for some popcorn, chewing it thoughtfully. "Thanks for coming out with me. It's been a weird day. Magnes came by to apologize for the elevator freakout, and kept talking about like, probably dying or something, and now Aaron's moved out. It's going to be good for him, I'm sure, and I think he needs to feel useful to someone. I'm not good at acting helpless anymore, I guess, and he needs to —" she stops suddenly, frowning, looking around. "What was that?"

The sound of a some sort of gun echoes though it sounds artificial, like a laser gun, something from a sci fi movie or video game — it doesn't connect with what's on the screen, an advertisement for the last chance to buy Milk Duds, popcorn or soda.

For once, it's not Faye hearing things. Occassionally while staying with Peyton, she'd get a message from one of the members of FRONTLINE about needing to be somewhere for something— but the little threads of telepathic links extending out from her are silent. Even the one she shares with her daughter. They rarely use it, unless talking about something sensetive. "I didn't hear anything," she says quietly, glancing behind them as if wondering if her daughter heard something one of the two gossipy girls behind them muttered.

Or the guy bitching to the other guy about how cold it happens to be. They should have bought a snuggie too!

"I understand thinking the original was bad, though, compared to effects today, it had been fairly bad. Though those Bourne movies give me the seizure inducing feeling far more than Pegasus ever did."

"I … maybe it was someone's PSP or something, it sounded like—" Peyton begins, before she tilts her head again, her brows furrowing with confusion this time.

"What's all that then?" The rustling of cotton clothing, and the squeak of weight pressing down onto presumably a seat with the thuds of elbows to table.

"Names- y'know- for your kid, but-" A pair of light female voices; one of a fiery Brit and the other of a more subdued accent, a mix of New York and heavy Europe.


"Yeah, Dee, they're all the same. Dunno if I'm back t'normal but that's still pretty damn weird."

This time Peyton turns to look at the girls behind them, whose lips are not in sync with the words at all.

Could have been a number of things. While Peyton glances behind her at the girls, there's a movement nearby in the corner of her vision, Faye's lips moving as if she's saying something but her voice is being drowned out, or downplayed. It's like watching that old Buffy episode, with the heart snatching creeps, when everyone lost their voice…

Except Faye doesn't seem to notice anything at all is wrong with the words coming out of her lips. They're so simple, but something that can't be heard. Though it might be understood, anyway. Peyton had been working on lip reading— if only somewhat.

'Is everything okay? What are you hearing?'

The conversation between the two women continues, clearly not the one the girls behind are having as they look at Peyton strangely. The clairvoyant frowns and turns to look at her mother, seeing her lips moving but no sound coming out. Peyton shakes her head, because all she can hear are the accented voices of the two people in her head.

"Thanks anyway. If it helps, you were right every time. Walter," the British voice continues — it must be Delilah.

"He'll live by a Johnny Cash ballad, eh?" the one named Else asks.

"Hush up, you-"

A man’s raspy and harsh voice interrupts the sweet planning of the two women. She doesn’t recognize the speaker until he speaks: "If we can find her and get her into the room, she can knock out their powers. Me in the ring against someone who uses their shit as a crutch, bet big on me. The fix will be in."

The sound turns to one she recognizes — Moonlight Sonata, on the guitar. Peyton knows that one, and it reassures her a little, before it fades out leaving her with only the sound of the movie previews which have begun — they seem so faint compared to what she heard a moment before. She turns to look at the screen, then back at Faye. She jumps to her feet and heads to the aisle, hands clamping over her ears as she ducks her head, making for the exit of the theatre.

The trailers don't always need sound, to convey the messages that they're trying to give. Thanks to big letters that appear with the talking people, the explosions, and various other things going on while the screen yells at them. The colors and lights reflecting on her face, and her eyes, Faye looks at her daughter worriedly, before wondering if, perhaps, she's using her ability. From the way she bites her lip, and looks concerned, she's not entirely sure her daughter can see her— which is why she keeps talking.

Talking in a voice that can't be heard. In a moment, she may choose to send a telepathic message, but for now… she's saying her daughter's name, while the roar of an explosion, and guys yelling blocks it out. Some action movie on the screen.

Peyton makes it to the hallway between the door to the lobby and the actual seats, before leaning against the wall there, holding her head as yet another conversation begins. Now it's very clear that the voices she's hearing are not ambient noise, not her surroundings, not the movies, not her mother, not the audience. They're in her head. Is she going crazy?

“ …haven't told anyone yet, and I want to make sure it stays that way," says a masculine voice that's vaguely familiar.

Another voice that’s less familiar, responds, “Well that's… that's good, Peter. You know it's better that way, safer.” Peyton now knows who the other speaker is — someone she’s only met twice before.

Peter responds, “I know, I just… it feels like I'm lying to everyone.”

“I wouldn't worry about it, really. Eventually… Eventually everyone'll come around, right? Just gotta' be patient,” the other man’s voice replies.

Peter’s voice again: “Yeah, you're right. You're— usually always right aren't you?"

“I've… been told I've got a way with words, yeah. Now about Cl” And suddenly the connection to Peter Petrelli’s conversation is cut off, as suddenly a woman’s voice, distinctly Southern filters through in a voice that carries a tune and might easily be heard in church on a Sunday if it wasn't so breathy: “ ord at last my sin I learned. Then I trembled at the law I'd spurned, Till my guilty soul imploring turned to Calvary."

"…Mercy there was great, and grace was free. Pardon there was multiplied to me. There my burdened soul found liberty at Calvary. Now I’ve giv’n to Jesus everything, now I gladly own Him as my King, now my raptured soul can only sing of Calvar—”

The sweet and pious hymn is interrupted by a sound of grunts, groans, and panting — masculine in origin, and after a moment the fact that he is alone registers. “52… 53… 54…” another familiar voice counts, voice ragged with exertion.

Suddenly the counting is interrupted again. A voice with a European accent Peyton can't place builds with anger, with a note of underlying desperation beneath it: "I'm finished if they find that body, Daniel. Completely and utterly. DNA doesn't fucking lie."

Peyton sinks, back sliding against the wall, closing her eyes as if that will block out the sound, when Magnes' voice says, "Either Messiah or Ferry are going to kill me, it's just a matter of figuring out who did the attack."

"Fuck." Peyton's voice is very real — audible to her mother if Faye has followed her to the corridor.

Popcorn and drink abandoned, only the snuggie has been salvaged as Faye follows the young woman out of the movie theater. The tickets paid for as they are, they're the only ones leaving before the movie even starts, even if people complained about the cold. A hand is on her shoulder when she stops, her mother — who could pass for a sister now— stands right behind her, touching her, trying to offer her some kind of comfort in the lonely corridor. There's no movie lines, the ushers take tickets further away from the actual theater, with no real care if someone cheats and walks into the wrong one.

"Peyton?" the woman says— or mouths as it would be for her. It's hard to know what's happening with the young woman.

Finally there is respite from the sounds that are bombarding the clairvoyant with no context or connection that she can understand. She lifts her head and looks at her mother. Her face is pale, but there are no tears — she's come a long way since the onslaught of confusing visions back in the summer. "I'm hearing things. Voices. Music. I think … people I know, some of them, others I don't…" she whispers, her head leaning back against the wall as she peers up at her mother. "I might be going crazy… don't schizophrenics hear voices?"

"I— I'm not entirely sure," Faye says, relieved that her daughter seems to have found a recovery point in the attack, or whatever had happened to her back in the theater. The hand stays on her shoulder, joined by a second one, that's cushioned by blue fleece-like cloth. "You said you only discovered your ability last year? It— could be a— " Her voice cuts off, as someone walks nearby, toward the movie, paying little attention to what's going on. Doesn't involve them, and they're late anyway! Almost.

It could be a new aspect of your ability. Such parts of conversation are better left in private, though she does add, outloud, "Do we need to go home?"

"Like… late summer," Peyton says in a small voice. Her head hurts, and she's confused, and she doesn't want to have to worry about weird voices in her head. "I … no, I don't want you to miss the— " her voice trails off and she winces, as if a loud noise had startled her.

The loud sound of the Rolling Stones, Paint It Black, comes blasting into her head. Barely above the bass and guitar and Jagger’s vocals, singing along, is the voice of another British man — Peyton only knows a couple of people with British accents; Peyton thinks it’s the man she’s only met once in an elevator and yet has so recently painted a painting that’s changed everything.

I look inside myself and my heart is black.

I see a red door and it has been painted black.

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts.

It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black.

The music fades again. Another conversation takes its place. Frustration is barely masked in a placating tone of a male voice that Peyton isn’t sure she recognizes. "Ellen… No…"

A young girl’s voice, tinny from being over the phone whines, tear filled. "But daaaaddy. She doesn't understand me, I want to come live with you!"

There is a small sigh from the male voice. "You know we can't do that, sweetie… This city is crazy… You…"

The sounds shift to more sounds of fake-sounding guns, and a young teenage male voice swearing suddenly, “Shit!”

But then there is the sudden, jarring jangle of slot machines, the buzz of an energetic crowd laughing, talking, yelling.

A female voice says, "Check the machine. Paying out too much, it's not favoring the house and it's supposed to. Too many wins on it for it to have been natural. If there's a god damned technopath in here I will personally stick them in a faraday and see how they enjoy not being able to do a damn thing till the cops come. Jenkin's go check. God damned blizzard will be death of us."

There is the metallic whhhhang of something hitting something metal and hollow. An unfamiliar male voice says uncertainly, "Hey. You get… uh. Scared, about what God thinks? Seeing all our— shit?"

A voice she does know — having heard it murmured in her ear, accompanied by warm breath and soft lips, replies, "Shit like hitting trash hoping you'll concuss one of those gang-banger motherfuckers driving up Winslow Avenue?"

The other man replies, "And worse. We'll do more."

"Yeah. But faith goes both ways,” Jericho’s voice replies. “’Specially when you can believe your eyes."

Peyton's hands, which had gone up to press into her eyes, suddenly drop. Her mother's words and Jericho's words click. Her pupils stretch in the dark irises, until she can see through Jericho’s eyes, finds herself looking at the young man known as Chuckles holding a golf club and standing on a roof. Peyton exhales, a shaking, shuddering sigh, somewhat relieved, but still frightened. It seems to do the trick of calming her down, of quelling the myriad of sounds that were volleyed at her. "You're right. It's… I can … hear."

A remake is something that Faye could likely afford to miss, even if they did have to pay for the tickets. As the world falls away for one woman, the other is still standing in the hallway, until the younger can respond outloud again. Patiently waiting for it to pass, wishing that she could do something besides squeeze her shoulder. At least she can still feel.

"Maybe we should get you home— if this continues you'll miss most the movie anyway," she says, expression concerned as her voice, but also reasonable. The trip wasn't just so she could see if they included the mechanical owl thing.

A hand goes to squeeze Faye's on her shoulder, and Peyton stands, tripping a tiny bit on the hem of her snuggie. "I think I'm okay now," she murmurs. "I don't … the last time my power manifested, I was drunk… maybe I'm just tired, or … I don't know. But now that I know it's my power, I should be able to control it. I just… I thought I was losing my mind."

The clairvoyant glances down the hall to where a sliver of the screen is visible — amazingly, the movie is only just beginning. "At least I can see, if the sound cuts out again," Peyton adds with a chuckle, taking Faye's hand to tug her back to the seats.

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