Blade Page #13

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Karen gestures to the microscope. Blade takes a look --

BLADE'S POV

Vampire blood cells swirling about.

Karen injects the contents of the syringe onto the slide of cells --

the reaction is immediate. The vampire blood turns black, then begins

violently bubbling.

Blade lifts his head away from the microscope just in time -- the

blood on the slide atomizes, exploding outward in a fine mist which

bursts apart the glass lens of the scope.

Whistler laughs, thrilled with the results.

WHISTLER:

Can you imagine what a dash of that

would do on your sword?

Whistler claps his hand on Karen's shoulder in approval, then limps

away, quickly busying himself with another project. Blade moves to

follow, but Karen stops him --

KAREN:

Before you go, I'd like to take a

sample of your blood.

Blade grudgingly rolls up his sleeve. As Karen takes her sample,

Blade looks to Whistler. The older man brings a handkerchief to his

lips, coughing into it.

KAREN:

Is he sick?

BLADE:

Cancer.

Karen watches as Blade's blood flows into the vacutainer. She fills

the first, then inserts another.

KAREN:

You care about him, don't you?

BLADE:

We've got a good arrangement, that's

all. Whistler makes the weapons, I use

them, the vampires die -- end of

story.

Karen finishes. Blade rolls up his sleeve.

KAREN:

(pointedly)

My mother used to say that a cold

heart is a dead heart.

BLADE:

Your mother sounds like a Hallmark

greeting card.

Blade slips his Casulls into a shoulder holster, then shrugs into his

leather jacket, donning his sunglasses.

BLADE:

I'd wish you luck, Doc, but I never

put much stock in optimism.

He heads towards the elevator.

EXT. CHINATOWN, STREETS - DAY

Blade makes his way down a street lined with vending stalls --

passing MERCHANTS peddling exotic vegetables and cheap curios,

butcher shops with rows of roast ducks in the window, tyro GANG-

BANGERS lounging at the entrance to a video arcade.

BLADE'S POV

Even though the streets are crowded, the people seem to make way for

him, avoiding eye-contact.

Blade turns into a dark alley, ducking into the doorway of a hole-in-

the-wall herbalist shop.

INT. HERBALIST SHOP - DAY

A bell atop the door JINGLES, announcing Blade's arrival. We're in a

dusty, cave-like room filled with baskets and bottle-lined shelves

featuring things like "Toad Spleen Extract" and "Barking Deer Wine".

Joss sticks burn, sending wispy tendrils of incense into the air.

At the back of the shop, an elderly CHINESE MAN in a cardigan sits in

front of a battered television, watching a boxing match. He's eating

a bowl of litchi fruit. On the counter nearby, a SPIDER MONKEY

watches attentively.

BLADE:

How's it going, Kam?

KAM:

(re:
calendar)

You're a week early.

BLADE:

I was in the neighborhood.

Kam sets his fruit bowl aside, leads Blade through a curtain into a

back room.

INT. HERBALIST SHOP, BACK ROOM - DAY

Kam hands Blade a leather valise. He opens it -- its lined with tiny

ampoules of scarlet-colored serum. Blade pulls one out, holds it up

to the light.

BLADE:

Whistler says I'm building up a

resistance to it.

KAM:

I was afraid that might happen.

BLADE:

Maybe it's time to start exploring

other alternatives.

KAM:

There's only one alternative to the

serum.

Blade nods. They both know what that "alternative" is.

BLADE:

Yeah. I know.

Blade closes the valise and tucks it inside his jacket.

BLADE:

Thanks, Kam.

(thinking)

One other thing. Have you ever heard

of a vampire called the Sleeper?

Kam shakes his head. Blade pulls out the parchment he took from

Pearl.

BLADE:

I found this in there archives. I need

to find someone who can read their

language.

Kam studies the parchment.

KAM:

I've heard about a woman named

Miracia. Some say she's a mayombero, a

Santeria witch. Supposedly she lives

in that tent community down by the

city dump. I'm told she only sees

people at night.

Blade nods his thanks and heads back through the curtains.

EXT. CHINATOWN, STREET - DAY

Blade emerges from the alley into the sunlight, then hears his name

WHISPERED on the wind.

VOICE (o.s.)

Blade.

Blade spins, scanning his surroundings -- did he really hear his

name, or was it just the wind?

VOICE (o.s.)

Blade.

Again, the taunting voice calls him. Blade's gaze finally settles

on --

A MAN:

sitting on a bench in the deep shade, his face obscured by the

Chinese newspaper he's reading. There's a LITTLE GIRL sitting stiffly

beside the man -- a look of pure terror written on her face.

MAN:

Afternoon, Blade.

The man lowers his newspaper. It's Deacon Frost. He's wearing

sunglasses, but otherwise, he's seemingly unprotected by the sun.

Blade reaches for his .454 --

FROST:

Easy.

Frost's hand rests on the back of the girl's neck. We see his claws

extend, caressing the flesh beneath her chin.

FROST:

Wouldn't want our little friend here

to wind up on the back of a milk

carton, would we?

Blade reluctantly lowers his hand. Frost smiles. He takes in a deep

breath of air, savoring it.

FROST:

Beautiful day, isn't it?

BLADE:

(confused)

How can you be out here?

FROST:

I dabble in pharmaceuticals, medical

research. We've developed a type of

sun-blocker using octyl salicylate, a

few others things.

On closer examination we see that Frost is wearing a translucent

lotion on his face. He touches a finger to his cheek, rubs some of

the lotion between his fingers.

FROST:

It's not very effective in direct

sunlight, but it's a start. The goal,

of course, is to be like you, "the

Day-walker".

BLADE:

I don't buy it.

FROST:

Why not? The future of our race runs

through your bloodstream. You've got

the best of both worlds, Blade. All of

our strengths and none of our

weaknesses.

BLADE:

Maybe I don't see it that way.

FROST:

Oh, so it's back to pretending we're

human again, is it? Spare me the Uncle

Tom routine. You can't keep denying

what you are. You're one of us, Blade.

You always have been.

BLADE:

You're wrong.

FROST:

Am I? You think the humans will ever

accept a half-breed like you? They

can't. They're afraid of you.

(pointedly)

The humans fear us because we're

superior. They fear us because in

their hearts they know their race has

become obsolete.

Frost watches the marketers stream past, sneering in contempt.

FROST:

Look at them, just an endless stream

of cattle in a mad race to the

slaughterhouse.

Frost lifts a silver flask to his mouth, taking a swig of blood. He

smacks his lips, sighs contentedly --

FROST:

The pause that refreshes --

(offering it to Blade)

Care for some? Smells good, doesn't

it? Pungent, with just an

irrepressible hint of iron.

BLADE:

Pass.

FROST:

You sure now? I bled a newborn for

this. You won't find a drink that's

sweeter.

It takes every ounce of Blade's self-control to keep from attacking

Frost -- and Frost senses this, pressing his sharp thumbnail against

the child's jugular.

FROST:

Tell me honestly, do you really get

the same rush from that pasteurized

piss-serum of yours?

(off Blade's look)

You're surprised I know about your

serum? You shouldn't be. I know

everything about you.

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