A Clockwork Orange sequel, a Fanfiction, A Clockwork Purge
A Clockwork Orange sequel, a Fanfiction, idea for a script
A CLOCKWORK PURGE
written by Kalifornia Jani - chatgpt
(A cinematic treatment – third person, hybrid tone)
Prologue – The Ghost of Violence
FADE IN:
A city reborn and still dying. London, 1999. Towers of neon glass glimmer over the cracked bones of the old streets. Drones hum where milk vans once rolled. The night has gone digital, but the alleys still smell of cheap liquor and blood.
ALEX DELARGE, forty-something, wiry and sharp-eyed, moves through the crowd like a ghost. A collar pulled high, a cap low. No bowler now—just the posture of someone who’s seen too many years of control. His eyes flicker at every Beethoven phrase leaking from shop speakers, as if the notes slice straight into his skull.
Inside his head, a rhythm still ticks—the old music, the old violence. A remnant of the Ludovico cure that never quite died.
ACT I – The Return of the Old Droog
INT. GOVERNMENT REHABILITATION FACILITY – DAY
Rows of citizens hooked to screens. Subliminal bliss programs loop endlessly.
Alex sits among them, blank-eyed, while a bureaucrat in silver spectacles reads his discharge order.
“You’re free, Mr. DeLarge.
We trust you’ll stay that way.”
Freedom feels colder than any cell.
EXT. EAST LONDON – NIGHT
Alex trudges through rain and holographic adverts. The streets are carved into territories now—The Bratva Sector, Moloko District, Droogline.
Language has mutated: half-English, half-Russian slang bouncing off the walls. “Ey, bratva, poshli v klub!” The young sound like a remix of his past.
He finds work as a low-tier maintenance tech in a Ministry lab. The irony isn’t lost on him; he’s repairing the same machines that once “fixed” his brain.
INT. MOLoko+ BAR 3.0 – NIGHT
A slick chrome club pulsing with synthetic jazz. Alex orders a drink—“Moloko plus vodka, no nano.”
Across the room, VIKTOR “SMESHNIK”, a tattooed twenty-something with mirrored eyes, leads his Neo Droogs—hooded, wired, fearless.
They recognize Alex. Legends never stay dead.
VIKTOR: “You the malchik what burned the world once, da?”
ALEX: “Just an old ghost looking for a quiet drink, brat.”
The young ones laugh. Quiet dies. Violence flares—chairs, fists, static.
Alex moves like old muscle memory: one strike, one twist, one drop of blood.
But as Beethoven’s Fifth hums through the speakers, his stomach knots; the implant still punishes disobedience. He collapses mid-fight, shivering, humiliated.
The Neo Droogs film it for the underground net. By dawn, the old droog is a meme.
ACT II – The Machine and the Mind
INT. MINISTRY OF CIVIC ORDER – NIGHT
Alex repairs a neural modulator. He notices the schematics—identical to his own treatment, updated for implants. The Ministry hasn’t cured violence; it has patented obedience.
IRINA, a systems engineer in her thirties, confronts him after hours. She’s been stealing data. Her brother died during “conditioning trials.”
She whispers in Russian-laced slang:
“They program crime itself, Alyosha. Then they sell the cure.”
They meet secretly in the boiler tunnels. She shows him the black-market devices that block control signals. For the first time in decades, Alex feels a spark of true choice.
But old instincts wake. He starts to enjoy the danger again. A grin. A hum of Beethoven under his breath.
MONTAGE: The City Rotting
-
Gang wars light up alleys in strobe flashes.
-
Ministry drones erase corpses from sidewalks.
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Propaganda screens play Alex’s face from his youth—government mascot for reform.
Alex stares at his own past selling a future he despises.
He begins assembling a group: THE FREE CLOCKWORK—ex-patients, failed subjects, outcasts. They move through the undercity spreading a virus that disrupts implants. Their slogan scrawled in neon paint:
“FREE WILL OR NOTHING.”
ACT III – The Purge
EXT. MINISTRY COMPLEX – NIGHT
The revolution begins not with shouts but with music.
Irina hijacks broadcast towers; Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” floods the airwaves, layered with digital distortion. Every implanted citizen seizes, their programmed calm cracking.
Alex leads the assault through corridors of mirrored glass.
Security drones descend; he fights with improvised brutality—pipes, wrenches, fists. Not pretty, but precise. Each motion feels both righteous and wrong.
Inside the Core Chamber, a holographic interface materializes: his younger self in crisp white garb—the propaganda avatar known as Model Alex 2.0.
HOLOGRAM: “The State thanks you for your service, John Alexander DeLarge.”
ALEX: “You stole my name, my choice, and my tune, droog.”
They circle each other, man versus machine. Alex fires into the console, sparks flaring like fireworks. The hologram glitches, screaming in his own voice.
He smashes the control core, and alarms wail like orchestral crescendos.
Irina’s voice through comms:
“You have to leave! The feedback will fry every implant—including yours!”
ALEX: “Maybe that’s the price, love. Real choice—burning both ways.”
The explosion blossoms in silence.
Epilogue – The Clock Keeps Turning
EXT. LONDON – DAWN
Ash drifts over the city. Implants fail. People wake confused, angry, alive.
Police lines crumble; graffiti blooms.
INT. RUNDOWN CAFE – MORNING
Irina sits, watching the newsfeed: “MINISTRY NETWORK DOWN. CHAOS IN CAPITAL.”
A figure enters—limping, scarred, one eye bandaged. Alex.
He orders black coffee, no milk. No moloko now. Just bitter truth.
IRINA: “You survived.”
ALEX (half-smile): “Or maybe I’m the ghost they deserve.”
Outside, the Neo Droogs prowl again—leaderless, hungry for purpose.
Viktor, burned but alive, looks into a cracked mirror and mutters:
“History turns, bratva. Clockwork keeps ticking.”
FADE OUT.
Themes
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Freedom vs. Control: the illusion of rehabilitation reborn as technology.
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Memory and Identity: Alex confronting his own mythology.
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Violence as Language: inherited across generations, never erased.
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Human Choice: the eternal conflict between morality and instinct.
Style Notes
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Visual palette: cold neon oranges, metallic blues, reflections of fire in rain.
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Camera work: long, symmetrical Kubrickian frames; abrupt handheld bursts during violence.
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Music: electronic re-orchestration of Beethoven, with Russian choir undertones.
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Dialogue: modern English with flickers of slang — bratva, malchik, horrorshow — enough to flavor, not obscure.
Tagline
“They cured his violence. Now he’ll cure their control.”
This treatment leaves room for a sequel hook: Viktor’s rise, the spread of chaos, and whether Alex truly found redemption—or simply rewound the cycle
the A Clockwork Orange voice with Alex DeLarge as narrator (light Nadsat flavor), a neon-dystopian London, and a plot that tracks from inciting incident through finale and epilogue. Violence is stylized and not graphic.
A CLOCKWORK PURGE (2nd)
Written as a fanfiction sequel – Alex DeLarge narrates
FADE IN:
EXT. LONDON — NIGHT
Neon rain on chrome streets. A billboard loops ads for “THE MINISTRY OF CIVIC ORDER — Harmony Through Choice™.”
ALEX (V.O.)
Right then, O my brothers and sister devotchkas, lend your ears. Your humble narrator, one Alex DeLarge, returns—older, icier, still viddy-sharp. The world’s gone all clever since our glory days, wired to the teeth and programmed to smile. But the song—ah, the old song—still plays underneath.
A tram slips past. A huge screen flickers: propaganda using archival footage of YOUNG ALEX from decades ago. Tagline: “We Cured Him. We Can Cure You.”
ALEX (V.O.) (CONT’D)
They kept my picture. Isn’t that a snort? Make a monster a mascot and call it peace.
INT. MINISTRY LAB — NIGHT
Rows of sleep pods. TECHS monitor brainwave graphs. A CITY SEAL glows.
IRINA (30s), a systems engineer with tired eyes, peels off gloves. She watches a pod twitch.
SUPERVISOR
Version 9.0 tonight. Trigger’s musical. Chopin, not Beethoven—focus groups preferred softer compliance.
IRINA
Music isn’t a leash. It’s a mirror.
He moves on. Irina slips a data wafer into her sleeve.
ALEX (V.O.)
Irina, a chelloveck with a brain and a conscience. Dangerous mix in our lovely age.
EXT. EAST LONDON ESTATE — NIGHT
ALEX (40s), lean, in a plain coat and cap. He carries a repair kit. The estate lights stutter.
ALEX (V.O.)
Yours truly now keeps gadgets alive for the Ministry’s little lullaby machines. I’ve a chip in the head that sings sickness if I step out of line. They say I’m “reformed.” I say I’m bored.
ALEX fixes a relay, kills power, restores it. He tests a hidden EM field jammer on his wrist. A faint buzz. He smiles, small.
ALEX (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Boredom is the first cousin of rebellion.
A pack of NEO DROOGS swagger by, led by VIKTOR “SMESHNIK” (20s)—tattooed knuckles, mirrored eyes.
VIKTOR
Oi. Old malchik on Ministry pay. Sign me a tune, granddad?
ALEX
Only if you can dance on the beat, bratty.
Tension. Viktor laughs and moves on.
ALEX (V.O.)
They play at ultraviolence the way we played symphonies—cheap and quick. But a city full of strings still needs a conductor.
TITLE CARD: A CLOCKWORK PURGE
INT. MINISTRY LAB — SECURITY SUBLEVEL — NIGHT
Irina downloads schematics. Alarm pings. She kills it with a code-loop. Exhales. Hurries out.
EXT. CANAL — NIGHT
ALEX crosses a footbridge. IRINA steps from shadow with purpose, almost colliding.
IRINA
You’re Alex DeLarge.
ALEX
Depends who’s asking. Police get one face. Priests another.
She shows him the wafer.
IRINA
That implant in your head? They never turned it off. They updated it. They’re doing it to kids now—music-triggered obedience. New model rolls out citywide.
ALEX
They nicked my sickness and made it retail. Hah. Progress.
IRINA
Help me wreck it.
ALEX (V.O.)
And there it was: the old itch, right between the ears.
ALEX
We’ll need hands. And a stage.
IRINA
I have both.
ACT I — THE RETURN OF THE OLD DROOG
INT. MOLoko+ 3.0 — NIGHT
Chrome bar, synth-jazz, retro posters of the old milk bar. ALEX sits with IRINA. MIA (20), graffiti poet; DAX (30), ex-paramedic; LENNY (50), broken-faced unionist. The seeds of THE FREE CLOCKWORK.
ALEX
We don’t smash the shopfront. We switch their ledgers. We turn the cure on the curers.
MIA
We’re not killers.
ALEX
We’re composers. We change the key.
IRINA
Their central node controls the implants. It’s called THE ORPHEUM—a listening tower with a quiet heart. Cut it, they go deaf.
DAX
Security?
IRINA
Automated. Music-triggered drones.
ALEX
Then we sing a better song.
VIKTOR enters with his NEO DROOGS. Clatter. They surround Alex’s table.
VIKTOR
Still alive, legend? Thought I’d buy you a milk and break your teeth with the glass.
ALEX
You can try both in either order.
A beat. Viktor grins, backs off with a mock bow.
ALEX (V.O.)
I could taste the old dance in the tongue. But this wasn’t that story. Not yet.
INT. ALEX’S FLAT — NIGHT
Bare. Metronome ticking. ALEX strips his coat. He opens a hidden drawer: old cufflinks, a single eyelash curler, vintage cassettes. Relics.
He stares at the mirror. Touches his temple where a scar hides the implant.
ACT II — THE MACHINE AND THE MIND
EXT. CITY STREETS — MONTAGE
— The Free Clockwork spread whisper codes via wheatpaste posters of broken gears.
— Irina trails a Ministry courier, clones a keycard.
— Alex calibrates street speakers; rewires a tram hub.
— Viktor’s crew film ambushes for clicks; the Ministry’s public calm index rises.
ALEX (V.O.)
Peace in our city’s a pie chart for the newsies—green slices for “cooperation,” red for “naughtiness.” They forget the crust holds it together. We aimed to crumble the crust.
INT. SAFEHOUSE — NIGHT
Blueprints. The Orpheum tower dominates. Irina points with a laser.
IRINA
Power bus here. Acoustic core here. We need both. Drones patrol on a lullaby loop. Counter-beat them or they’ll swarm.
LENNY
And the law?
ALEX
Law’s asleep with a badge on. We’ll tuck it in quiet-like.
MIA
And Viktor?
ALEX
He’ll try to own the story. Give him a toy.
EXT. SUBWAY TUNNEL — NIGHT
ALEX waits as VIKTOR approaches.
ALEX
Want a real legend, Smeshnick? Ministry’s vault. Untouched. You bring noise, I bring door.
VIKTOR
We split?
ALEX
You take all the video sugar. We take what matters.
Viktor considers. Offers a hand. Alex shakes.
ALEX (V.O.)
I’m no priest. But sometimes you hire a sinner to rob a church.
EXT. THE ORPHEUM — NIGHT
A black spire with ringed speakers humming like bees. Drones circle.
ALEX (V.O.)
The Orpheum. A cathedral for obedient angels.
DAX (on comms)
North door is yours. 90 seconds until patrol.
IRINA (on comms)
I’m in the sub-station. Power bus primed.
MIA (on comms)
Street poets ready. When the lights go, the city will read.
ALEX pulls his cap low, walks to a utility hatch. He badges with Irina’s clone. Green flash. He slips inside.
INT. ORPHEUM — SERVICE LEVEL — NIGHT
Humming walls. ALEX moves, ghost-quiet. He plants sound jammers, each chirping faintly.
A DRONE floats near. ALEX freezes. He taps his jammer; the drone wobbles, re-stabilizes, moves on.
He reaches a grate. Peers down at the ACOUSTIC CORE—a shimmering cylinder with algorithmic patterns.
ALEX (V.O.)
There’s your heart. Clockwork and chorus.
IRINA (on comms)
On my mark… three, two—
Lights FLARE, then GO DARK. City hum drops. Sirens elsewhere sing off-key.
IRINA (on comms)
Bus is cut.
ALEX drops into the core room. He pulls a coil of cable, slots a wafer.
ALEX
Play time.
The core stutters, the speaker rings shift.
EXT. STREETS — SAME
VIKTOR’S CREW arrive with scooters and flares—stunt streaming. They find… nothing. Doors sealed. Their feeds show only dull maintenance corridors.
VIKTOR
He played us. Move! We’ll make our own show.
They wheel off, angry, toward a protest two blocks away.
INT. ORPHEUM — CORE — NIGHT
ALEX’s wafer injects Irina’s code. The Orpheum’s tone warps from sweet chime to blank silence.
The DRONES stop mid-air. Lights fade to a gentle grey.
ALEX (V.O.)
And there, my brothers, was genuine quiet. Not the Ministry kind. The old precious kind.
He turns to leave—
SECURITY GLASS bursts. MINISTRY TACTICALS pour in, visors down. ALEX dodges, glides through rails, knocks a baton aside, never brutal—just efficient.
His implant BUZZES, pain stabbing. He stumbles, presses his jammer to his skull. The pain fades.
ALEX (V.O.)
The sickness still loved me. I loved it back with a little feedback.
He bolts.
EXT. PLAZA — NIGHT
The city stops—no subliminal music, no compliance loop. People look at each other like waking from a long nap.
MIA projects a poem on the wall: FREE WILL OR NOTHING.
ALEX (V.O.)
You never know how loud a silence is till you hear your own heart in it.
Sirens begin from far off. The calm index plummets. The Ministry’s giant screen flickers to a LIVE BROADCAST—a sleek host: VOX AURELIUS (40s), comedian-turned-czar.
ACT III — THE PURGE
INT. SAFEHOUSE — NIGHT
Maps. The group reassemble. News feeds split-screen: looting / street dancing / drone shots of crowds. Vox narrates it all like a game show.
IRINA
He’s turned the blackout into a pilot. People choose the feed that gets funded. Attention tilts reality—power, police routes, everything.
LENNY
We made a hole. He sold tickets.
ALEX
We break his camera.
IRINA
He’s everywhere. But his root is at the Ministry Broadcast Spire. Same system as the Orpheum, just meaner.
MIA
We do it again?
ALEX
We do it louder—and kinder.
DAX
There’s a protest outside the Spire tonight. Thousands. You can disappear in it.
ALEX (V.O.)
Disappearing is the first trick of resurrection.
EXT. BROADCAST SPIRE — NIGHT
A plaza packed with citizens. Vox’s face towers on a screen, charming, oily.
VOX
Tilt for Community Night Market! Tilt for Curfew if you’re scared! Tilt for Open Stage! Your city, your show!
The crowd’s votes stream in, shaping which police lines move, which stalls open.
ALEX and IRINA move through. MIA spray-chalks SLEEP WINDOWS—times where people agree to log off.
ALEX (V.O.)
We needed Stillness. A truce with our own thumbs.
IRINA slips into a side door with her forged key.
INT. SPIRE — STAGING FLOOR — NIGHT
Cameras, drones, a circular desk. VOX stands with a lapel mic.
VOX (to crew)
Remember, panic earns. But we sell hope at the end. Keep it tidy.
He senses something, smiles at the lens.
VOX (to audience)
I hear a special guest might join us tonight. A legend from our peaceful past. Stay tuned.
INT. SPIRE — UNDERFLOOR — NIGHT
IRINA hacks a maintenance port. ALEX guards.
IRINA
I can invert their aggregate. Make attention cancel instead of amplify.
ALEX
Translate, love.
IRINA
If enough people look away at once, the system eats itself.
ALEX
A city learns to blink.
Footfalls above. TACTICALS. ALEX signals hurry. Irina nods, types faster.
IRINA
Almost— done.
She hands Alex a trigger pendant.
IRINA (CONT’D)
At midnight: ten minutes of stillness. No screens, no shouting. Breathe. Hit this. The Spire collapses to quiet. If we get that window—no one owns us.
ALEX
If we miss?
IRINA
They keep us forever.
They move.
EXT. PLAZA — LATER
Midnight approaches. MIA and DAX lead a chant: “TEN MINUTES PEACE!”
Some mock, some join. Vox leans into the mic.
VOX
How quaint. Let’s do a split screen—peace on one side, party on the other. Vote with your eyes!
Crowd pins between choice and spectacle.
ALEX (V.O.)
Choice is the sweetest prison when it’s painted pretty.
ALEX walks to the center fountain, climbs it. He faces the crowd.
ALEX
My name’s Alex. Yes, that Alex. They made me their scarecrow once. Look what they grew—fear. I’ve got a new idea. Close your lovely glazzies with me. Count to sixty. Breathe like a city does.
Boos. Laughter. But a pocket of quiet emerges.
IRINA (on comms)
Now or never.
ALEX pulls the pendant.
CLICK.
The BIG SCREENS GO BLACK. Drones pause mid-air. Vox’s mic cuts.
Silence. Not empty—human. Thousands of breaths, wind, a cry, a laugh. Sirens die around the perimeter as officers lower shields, confused by no metrics.
ALEX (V.O.)
There you are, London. I missed you.
Vox’s feed fights to reassert. He bursts back, sweaty, brittle.
VOX
Okay, cute trick—
Security!—
A soft choral hum rises—neighbors humming a single note. It spreads like a tide.
IRINA (on comms, hushed)
The system can’t parse it. It’s not content. It’s presence.
Vox’s eyes, cold rage.
VOX
Find him.
Tactical lines advance—then hesitate, as KIDS step in front of their parents, humming too.
ALEX steps down, rejoining the crowd.
ALEX (V.O.)
No ultraviolence tonight, my brothers. Just a city remembering itself.
VIKTOR pushes through with his crew, phones up.
VIKTOR
This is dead air! Gimme a riot! Gimme—
MIA lowers his arm gently.
MIA
Shh.
He looks around—sees rivals, followers, enemies, all humming. For once he’s small.
VIKTOR (quiet)
…Shh.
He pocket his phone, shoulders sagging.
INT. SPIRE — CONTROL — SAME
Irina locks the Stillness Window into the root code. Her console shows TILT ENGINE: NULL.
The Ministry SUPERVISOR storms in with guards. Irina holds up her hands.
SUPERVISOR
Who authorized—
Irina shuts the console gently. Smiles.
IRINA
We did.
They handcuff her. She goes quietly.
ACT IV — THE LAST FREEZE
EXT. PLAZA — MOMENTS LATER
Vox, thwarted, triggers PLAN B—a giant hologram of YOUNG ALEX appears above the plaza in Ministry white, pointing at OLD ALEX in the crowd.
VOX (V.O.)
There he is! The original monster! Let’s purge the purge!
The hum threatens to fracture. People look, murmur. ALEX steps forward, face lit by his ghost.
ALEX (V.O.)
Ah, you wicked clown. Using yesterday’s sin to sell today’s leash.
ALEX raises his hands—not in surrender, but conducting.
ALEX
Keep the note. Don’t watch me. Watch yourselves.
He closes his eyes. Others imitate. The hologram flickers under the unwatching air. It grows fainter.
VOX (V.O., strained)
Look at him!
They don’t. The hologram dies.
ALEX (V.O.)
Miracles cost, my luvvlies. This one costs the show.
Tacticals push again. VIKTOR steps between ALEX and the batons, surprising himself.
VIKTOR
No show tonight.
The line holds. Police lower batons, unsure who to obey without metrics. A STATION CAPTAIN unlatches his helmet, breathes, nods to Alex—human to human.
ALEX (V.O.)
An angel in a tin hat. Fancy that.
INT. DETENTION VAN — NIGHT
IRINA sits cuffed. The door opens. DAX (paramedic) is there with forged release papers and a trolley. He winks.
DAX
You fainted in processing. Paperwork says you go to hospital. Paperwork is the true god.
He wheels her out.
ACT V — CLEANUP, OR AS CLEAN AS IT GETS
EXT. RIVER THAMES — DAWN
Mist. The city drowses after its first Stillness. Public boards display COMMUNITY WINDOWS—voluntary daily minutes where everyone agrees to go screen-dark.
ALEX (V.O.)
A city can learn a habit same as a man, if you show it how to breathe.
INT. COMMUNITY HALL — MORNING
ALEX, IRINA, MIA, DAX, LENNY drink weak tea. The Free Clockwork is more neighborhood than cell now.
LENNY
Got a union vote tonight. Without sponsored metrics telling us how angry to be. Might feel weird.
IRINA
Good weird.
MIA
We made a zine for the kids. “How to Hum.” It sold out.
They laugh. ALEX smiles, quiet.
ALEX (V.O.)
My heart, that old stony, did a little skip. I viddy’d a city not cured, not perfect, but awake.
DAX
Vox?
IRINA
Ratings fell. He’s on at noon now. It’ll hurt him worse than prison.
ALEX
Forget him.
He stands, pulls on his coat.
IRINA
Where are you going?
ALEX
To work. Some of us are honest labor these days.
They grin.
EXT. BACK STREET — DAY
ALEX walks alone, lighter than we met him. He passes a street musician playing a cheap synth—Ode to Joy, clumsy but earnest. Alex pauses. The old sickness doesn’t bite.
ALEX (V.O.)
Listen proper and even old ghosts get shy.
He drops coins. Moves on.
A window TV in a shop shows VOX hosting a quiet panel about “The New Civility.” Nobody watches.
ALEX (V.O.)
Attention is a jealous god. Starve it, it sulks.
ALEX turns the corner—
VIKTOR leans on a wall, not swaggering. He holds a bag of bread. Offers one.
VIKTOR
For the old malchik.
ALEX
Cheers, bratty.
They eat in silence.
VIKTOR
You think it sticks? The humming and such?
ALEX
Everything sticks if you repeat it. That’s what they taught us, no? We’ll repeat better things.
Viktor nods, confused by hope, almost smiling.
EPILOGUE — A LEGEND PUT AWAY
INT. CITY ARCHIVE — NIGHT
Quiet shelves. A civil servant wheels a cart. He files a holographic plate: THE PROGRAM OF OBEDIENCE — RETIRED.
Next slot: a dusty tape labeled DELARGE, ALEX — INCIDENTS. He hesitates, files it too.
Lights dim to night-mode. Silence.
ALEX (V.O.)
I won’t chitty the fairy tale, my brothers. Nothing’s forever. There’ll be new shows, new devils with nicer teeth. But the city’s learned a song I fancy it won’t forget.
Beat.
ALEX (V.O.) (CONT’D)
As for your humble narrator—well, I’m off to viddy the sun rise twice. Once in the sky, once inside. Real horrorshow, eh? Only this time, no horrors. Just show.
FADE OUT.
CREDITS ROLL — over a city soundscape: markets opening, bicycle bells, a child’s hum drifting to choir, then to simple wind.
END.
Notes on Style & Performance
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Narration: Alex’s V.O. punctuates scenes sparingly; when present, it adds wit and moral irony. Light Nadsat: “viddy” (see), “droog” (friend), “devotchka” (girl), “malchik” (boy), “horrorshow” (good), “bratty” (brother), “chelloveck” (person).
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Violence: Minimal and stylized; choreography favors redirection, restraint, and rhythm over gore.
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Music: Classical themes reinterpreted as analog synth; “Ode to Joy” appears as diegetic busker motif—un-owned.
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Design: Retro-future London with Ministry greens and greys; community scenes warm with amber practicals.
VOX (on screens)
Don’t panic, citizens. We’re beta testing freedom. Like, share, choose your city. Tilt left for harmony, right for chaos. Democracy as easy as a swipe.
ALEX (V.O.)
Here comes the real villain: the laugh with teeth.
ALEX (V.O.)
The machine taught me once: touch the stove, feel the vomit. Pavlov with a soundtrack. And me? I kept an ear for off-notes.
He taps his jammer—faint hum.
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