A Script for The Heat Death of the Gilded Lilly

EXT. GILDED LILLY ROOFTOP - DUSK

The sky is a bruised purple, choked with the alchemical smog of OAKHAVEN. The summer heat is a physical weight, pressing down on the crumbling tenement towers.

On the roof of the GILDED LILLY, five stories up, SIMON (16), scrappy and pragmatic, hangs precariously from a wrought-iron gutter. His fingers are white, straining.

On the narrow ledge above him, MARIE (16), fiercely independent, crouches. Her heavy canvas coat is absurd for the weather. The heel of her boot is planted firmly on Simon's knuckles.

<center>MARIE</center>

> You're standing on my hand.

<center>SIMON</center>

> I'm not standing on it. I'm strategically utilizing the available surface area.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Your boot. My knuckles. Grind. That’s the equation.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Hissing)

> Shh. If you whine any louder, the gargoyle is going to wake up, and then we're both going to be pâté.

Simon grunts, gritting his teeth. He doesn't move his hand. He can't.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Whispering)

> He's coming back around.

She shifts her weight. The boot heel digs deeper into Simon's pinky finger.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Don't drop. Seriously. Don't drop.

Simon stares down at the dizzying drop to the alley below—a dark abyss laced with laundry lines and flickering neon runes.

<center>SIMON</center>

> I'm not going to drop. But if I lose this finger, I'm billing you.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Put it on my tab. Right under 'Attempted Murder' and 'General Nuisance.'

A vast, leathery SHADOW sweeps over them. The THUMP-THUMP of massive wings vibrates through Simon's chest.

A WYVERN-CLASS PATROL BEAST, the size of a carriage, banks hard, circling the chimney stack they're hiding near. Its screech is like tearing metal.

The wind from its wings blasts hot grit and dust into their faces. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, sweat stinging them like acid. He counts the wing beats. *One. Two. Three.*

Silence returns, heavy and suffocating.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Shaky exhale)

> Okay. Okay. I think he’s gone to harass the pigeons on the North Tower. You can come up.

With a groan, Simon hauls himself up, muscles trembling. He rolls onto the flat tar-paper roof and collapses, wheezing, staring at the sky. His shirt is pasted to his back.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Nice view.

Marie sits against the brick chimney, knees pulled to her chest. She's as wrecked as he is, dark hair frizzed with humidity.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Views are free. Getting down without being incinerated costs extra.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Sitting up)

> You led the beast here. I was clear. I was halfway to the vent.

<center>MARIE</center>

> I did not lead it here. It tracked your aura. You leak magic like a cracked pipe, you know that? What are you carrying? Unrefined mana-shards?

Simon instinctively pats a satchel at his side.

<center>SIMON</center>

> None of your business. Why are you even up here? The Lilly is my turf. The Guild marked it.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Scoffs)

> Your Guild couldn't mark a tree with a bucket of paint. I'm looking for the Penthouse cache. Rumor says the old wizard who lived here died last week. Left his vaults open.

<center>SIMON</center>

> He didn't die. He transcended. Turned himself into pure energy or something. But yeah. The vault.

They sit in silence, the roof radiating stored heat. Marie pulls out a canteen, shakes it—it's empty. She tosses it aside with a CLATTER.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Voice cracking)

> I'm thirsty.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Me too.

His eyes scan the roof—a wasteland of rusted fans and pigeon coops. He stops. Near the center is a large, wooden crate covered in faded shipping runes. Stamped on its side: a BLUE SNOWFLAKE inside a circle.

Marie follows his gaze. She squints.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Is that...?

<center>SIMON</center>

> Frost-Tech? No way. That stuff is import only.

<center>MARIE</center>

> The wizard was a collector.

She scrambles to her feet, stumbling slightly in the heat.

<center>MARIE</center>

> If that's a cooling unit, I'm going to hug it. I don't care if it freezes my arms off.

They reach the crate. Simon pulls a heavy iron pry-bar from his belt and jams it under the lid. Marie grabs the other side.

<center>SIMON</center>

> On three.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Just pull, you idiot.

They HEAVE. Wood groans, nails SHRIEK, and the lid flies off.

A puff of COLD AIR, visible as white mist, rolls out of the crate and vanishes in the heat.

Inside, packed in straw, are dozens of glass spheres, each swirling with a milky, pearlescent fog.

<center>SIMON</center>

> What is it? Potions?

Marie carefully picks one up. The glass instantly frosts over in her grip.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (In awe)

> No. These are Weather-In-A-Bottle. High-end illusion tech. Rich people use them for parties.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Slumping against the crate)

> Great. We can throw a party while we die of heatstroke.

Marie looks at him, then at the sphere. A mischievous light flickers in her tired eyes.

<center>MARIE</center>

> You know what? Yeah. Let's.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Let's what?

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Reading the label)

> This one is marked 'Midwinter Gale'.

A grin splits her dusty face.

<center>MARIE</center>

> Catch.

She tosses the sphere high into the air.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Are you crazy? That could be unstable—

Marie whips a small slingshot from her pocket. With a SNAP of her wrist, she fires a ball bearing. It strikes the glass sphere perfectly.

*CRACK.*

A sound like a thousand wind chimes. The air above them ripples.

The temperature drops forty degrees in a heartbeat.

Simon GASPS, the cold air a shock to his lungs. He looks up.

SNOW. Thick, heavy flakes spiral down, blanketing the rooftop.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Holy...

He holds out his hand. A perfect snowflake lands on his palm and stays for three whole seconds before melting.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Laughing)

> It works! It actually works!

She spins, arms wide, letting the snow catch in her hair. The oppressive city vanishes. They are inside a bubble of pristine winter. A low fog swirls around their ankles as the cold magic battles the hot roof.

A laugh bubbles up in Simon's throat. He reaches into the crate, grabs another sphere.

<center>SIMON</center>

> 'Alpine Blizzard'.

He smashes it on the ground. A GUST of wind howls, swirling the snow. He shivers. It's the best feeling in the world.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Yelling over the wind)

> Pass me one!

She's already packing a snowball. Simon tosses her a sphere marked 'Glacial Calm'. She smashes it against the chimney.

The wind dies. A profound, heavy silence descends. The air turns a crystalline blue.

The rooftop is a winter wonderland floating above the miserable city.

Simon flops backward into a snowbank. It CRUNCHES. He stares up at the sky, now filtered through falling white.

<center>SIMON</center>

> This is... expensive. We're wasting thousands of Golds.

Marie drops down next to him, her breath pluming in white clouds.

<center>MARIE</center>

> We can't fence these without the Watch tracking the serial numbers. Might as well use 'em.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Fair point.

They lie in the snow, side by side. The city noise is muffled, distant.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Quietly)

> My dad used to talk about snow. He was from the Uplands. Said it made the world look clean. I thought he was lying.

<center>MARIE</center>

> My mom hates the cold. Says it makes your joints lock up. She works in the textile mills. The weaving spells give her arthritis.

<center>SIMON</center>

> The mills? Rough gig. My old man worked the slag-pits. Same deal. Magic eats you up eventually.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Sighs)

> Yeah. It does.

A moment of quiet connection.

<center>SIMON</center>

> You think the Wyvern likes snow?

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Giggles)

> I think the Wyvern is a cold-blooded reptile and would probably fall out of the sky if it flew through this. We've created a no-fly zone.

Simon closes his eyes, feeling peaceful.

<center>MARIE</center>

> We should build a snowman.

<center>SIMON</center>

> We are professional criminals, Marie. We don't build snowmen.

<center>MARIE</center>

> I'm building one. You can supervise. His name is going to be Baron Von Melty.

Simon snorts, but sits up to help. They work in comfortable silence, using roof debris for features: a rusted bolt for a nose, two dead mana-batteries for eyes, a jagged piece of wire for a sword.

Their creation, BARON VON MELTY, stands three feet tall, listing slightly, armed with a wire shank.

<center>MARIE</center>

> He looks terrifying.

<center>SIMON</center>

> He fits right in.

He looks at Marie. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes bright. She looks like a girl. A pang of melancholy hits him. This isn't real.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Softly)

> It's stopping.

They look up. The snow has thinned to slush. The magical chill is losing its war. The smell of sulfur creeps back in.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Whispering)

> No.

She reaches for the crate. It's empty.

<center>SIMON</center>

> It was good while it lasted.

Baron Von Melty is already drooping, his wire sword slipping.

<center>MARIE</center>

> (Voice small)

> It’s not fair. We had five minutes.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Five minutes is more than most people get.

He offers her a hand. She hesitates, then takes it. He pulls her to her feet.

<center>MARIE</center>

> You're not terrible, for a Guild rat.

<center>SIMON</center>

> You're okay, for a freelancer.

The snow vanishes, revealing dirty tar paper. The heat and noise of the city CRASH back in. The moment is over.

Marie lets go of his hand. Her eyes harden.

<center>MARIE</center>

> The Penthouse. We still need to check the vault.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Yeah. Right. The vault.

He walks to the edge of the roof and peers over. Down in the alley, parked five stories below, is a carriage with no horses. It's silent, black, hovering slightly. On its door, a silver crest: A WEEPING EYE.

The Inquisitors.

The sweat on Simon's neck turns to ice. He turns back to Marie. She's staring at the puddle that was their snowman.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Trembling)

> Marie.

She looks up, annoyed.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (Whispering)

> The snow... the magic... it didn't just cover the roof. It sent out a signal. A massive magical flare.

Her face goes pale with understanding.

From the stairwell door—the only exit—comes a soft, metallic *CLICK*. The sound of a lock being disintegrated by a void-spell.

The door handle begins to turn. Slowly.

Simon looks at Marie. All joy, all connection, gone. Only survival remains.

He mouths the word:

<center>SIMON</center>

> Run.

But there is nowhere to run.