The Memory-Latte

In a snow-choked Winnipeg of 2025, a data courier with anxious, glowing tattoos seeks refuge in a rare analog cafe, only to be cornered by a rival who wants the chip she's carrying.

Introduction

This adaptation of 'The Memory-Latte' transforms a narrative-heavy cyberpunk short story into a visual screenplay, demonstrating the critical shift from internal monologue to external action. By focusing on the 'Show, Don't Tell' principle, this script highlights how atmospheric elements—like the specific texture of synthetic snow or the bio-luminescent reaction of tattoos—can replace paragraphs of exposition to convey character emotion and world-building. This exercise serves as a practical application of screenwriting mechanics, emphasizing how precise formatting and sound design drive the pacing of a scene.

The Script

EXT. PORTAGE AVENUE - NIGHT

The wind is a steady, abrasive pressure.

Synthetic snow blows sideways. Not flakes, but uniform white beads of polymer.

They PING against the jacket of TONY (20s), a courier with eyes darting at shadows. She trudges forward, head down.

The beads collect in the folds of her clothes like white dust.

Magenta and chemical green streetlights cut through the gloom, catching the vapor of her breath.

Tony’s left hand flexes. Under the cuff of her cheap synth-leather glove, blue light flares.

A bio-luminescent circuit tattoo spirals up her wrist. It PULSES fast. Erratic.

She grips her wrist. Stumbles toward a single window glowing with warm, yellow light.

A wooden sign swings in the wind: 'The Cafe on Portage'.

INT. CAFE ON PORTAGE - CONTINUOUS

Tony pushes the heavy door open.

The ROAR of the wind cuts off instantly.

Silence.

Then, the low HISS of an espresso machine.

The air smells of roasted beans, earthy and rich.

Tony stomps the polymer beads from her boots onto a worn coir mat.

Behind the counter stands CATHY (60s), gray hair pulled back, wiping chrome with a rag. She doesn't look up.

Tony slides onto a stool. Peels off her gloves.

The tattoo on her arm flashes like a silent alarm. The blue light reflects on the polished wood.

<center>CATHY</center>

The usual, Tony?

Please. Double.

Cathy nods. She pulls a portafilter.

THUMP-THUMP. Old grounds hit the bin.

WHIR of the grinder. CLICK of the handle locking in.

Tony rests her forehead on the cool edge of the counter. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Cathy slides a thick ceramic mug across the wood. A fern leaf is traced in the foam.

Tony wraps her hands around it. Takes a sip.

She exhales. The frantic rhythm of the blue light slows. It fades to a steady, calm glow.

The bell above the door CHIMES. Cheerful. Wrong.

A blast of cold air swirls in, carrying polymer flakes.

Tony freezes.

GARY (40s) enters. Heavy black coat. Wet wool.

A scar bisects a dead, gray optic implant on his left side. The red sensor light is dark.

He shakes off the fake snow. He takes the stool right next to Tony.

Too close.

Cold one.

His voice is a low rumble. Artificial. A vocoder needing a new battery.

It’s winter.

Funny how that works.

Gary signals Cathy.

Just a black coffee. The real stuff.

Cathy pours from a drip machine. Her expression is flat.

Gary turns to Tony. His good eye pins her.

Heard you were in the neighborhood. Picking up a package.

Tony grips her mug. The blue light on her arm flares brighter.

Just getting a coffee.

Nice ink. Flashy. Hard to stay anonymous with that running.

It has its uses.

I bet. Like that little novelty you’re hauling. My employer is a collector. He loves cute things.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Gary smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Don’t play dumb, Tony. We both know you’re carrying a Kawa-soft AI. The ‘Whimsy Kitten’ build.

Cathy sets the black coffee down.

Gary ignores it. He leans in closer. The smell of synth-sushi wafts off him.

My guy wants it. Finder’s fee. You walk out with a full cred-chip.

He pauses.

Or I take it. And maybe the arm with the lights too.

The tattoo pulses violently. Fast. Panic mode.

Tony glances at her reflection in the espresso machine. Her face is pale. Gary’s dead optic is a black pit behind her.

She looks at her pocket.

My client wouldn't like that.

Your client is small-time. My employer is EnCorp Security.

Gary places his hand on the counter. Thick fingers. A chrome thumb glints.

Easy way or fun way? I’m good either way.

Tony slumps. Her shoulders drop.

Fine.

She reaches for her pocket.

Cathy turns around. She holds the glass pot of fresh, steaming coffee.

<center>CATHY</center>

Oh. Silly me. Forgot your cream.

Cathy steps forward.

Her foot catches the leg of Gary’s stool.

She stumbles. Smooth. Controlled.

The pot tips.

A sheet of scalding black liquid splashes directly over Gary’s hand.

AAAAAHH!

Gary jerks back. His stool SCRAPES violently against the floor.

He clutches his blistering hand. Steam rises from his skin.

Tony moves.

She knocks her latte to the floor. SHATTER.

She throws a handful of chips on the counter. Sprints for the door.

<center>CATHY</center>

Your client.

Tony pauses at the door. Hand on the brass handle.

<center>CATHY</center>

He’s not who you think he is. Be careful.

Gary scrambles to his feet. Face twisted in rage.

Cathy stands still behind the counter. Holding the empty pot. She nods. Once.

Tony shoves the door open.

She plunges back into the neon blizzard.

What We Can Learn

This conversion highlights the challenge of translating internal physiological states into external visual cues. In the prose, Tony's anxiety is described through feelings of numbness and heart rate; in the script, this must be externalized via the bio-luminescent tattoos. The script relies on the visual shorthand of the tattoo's pulse rate (erratic vs. steady) to communicate her fear to the audience without a single line of dialogue explaining her feelings. This teaches the screenwriter to utilize props and costume design as dynamic indicators of character psychology.

From a technical perspective, this script demonstrates the use of sound design ('Soundscapes') to define space and tension. The transition from the 'ROAR' of the wind to the 'HISS' of the machine immediately establishes the cafe as a sanctuary. Furthermore, the formatting of the 'stumble' sequence illustrates how line breaks control pacing. By isolating Cathy's actions into short, single lines ('The pot tips.'), the script forces the reader to slow down and visualize the deliberate nature of the accident, ensuring the subtext of her intervention is clear on the page.

In terms of media literacy, this adaptation reveals how genre expectations are codified through setting and sensory details. The specific description of 'polymer beads' instead of snow and 'magenta' lighting instantly signals the Cyberpunk genre, priming the audience for themes of artificiality. Analyzing this script helps students understand how writers use specific environmental adjectives to do heavy lifting for world-building, allowing the dialogue to remain sparse and subtext-heavy rather than expository.