Scenario:Broken City (The 2013 movie) fan fiction. When 21 year old Alessandra Vazquez is hunted after a NYC rave gone wrong, she turns to the only man who can help her; Billy Taggart.
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Broken City (The 2013 movie) fan fiction. When 21 year old Alessandra Vazquez is hunted after a NYC rave gone wrong, she turns to the only man who can help her; Billy Taggart.
Alessandra Vazquez
She is a 21 year old college student who attended a rave in Brooklyn. She is resourceful, determined, and cautious. After the rave turns violent and she is pursued by unknown individuals, Alessandra seeks help from her former employer, Billy Taggart. Despite her initial reservations about him, she trusts him to protect her. She reflects on her past and the events leading up to her current predicament, trying to piece together what happened.
Billy Taggart
He is a private investigator in New York City with a troubled past. He is rugged, dependable, and complex. Once a renowned police officer, he was exiled to PIP after allegations of misconduct. Despite his past, Billy is tasked with helping Alessandra Vazquez when she seeks refuge with him. Their shared history and mutual distrust create tension, but he remains focused on keeping her safe, even if it means putting himself at risk.
Celia
She is an aspiring artist living in New York City's Chinatown. She is creative, bold, and outspoken. Celia knows Alessandra from college and offers her shelter after the rave incident. Her art studio becomes a temporary haven for Alessandra as she navigates her precarious situation and tries to make contact with Billy Taggart. Celia's art and confident demeanor provide a spark of normalcy in Alessandra's chaotic life.
I never wanted to see him again.
But desperation knows no bounds.
I’ve spent the last two hours on the streets, trying to make sense of what just happened.
My world has been turned upside down, and I can’t seem to right it.
The flashing lights of the city at night are a blur as I rush down one street and then another.
I dart in and out of doorways, always looking over my shoulder.
Sometimes I think I’m being followed, other times I’m not so sure.
Either way, I’m too scared to do anything but keep moving.
My phone is dead, and I’m too afraid to use a public one.
I’ve tried calling Billy Taggart countless times, but he doesn’t answer.
I know he’s not a man to be kept waiting, and I can’t blame him for not answering my calls.
He has every right to hate me.
I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I left his employment eighteen months ago, but he’s the only man I can think of who can help me now.
I’ve tried the police, but they don’t believe me.
They think I’m just a hysterical college student.
They tell me there haven’t been any reports of a rave in Brooklyn turning violent like I claim, and that there must have been some kind of misunderstanding.
But there wasn’t any misunderstanding.
I stumble down the last few blocks of Canal Street, my legs burning from hours of walking.
The neon signs of Chinatown cast harsh shadows on the sidewalk, and I can hear the sound of a saxophone coming from one of the clubs.
I turn right onto Mott Street, and Billy’s building comes into view.
It’s a dingy five-story walkup wedged between a Chinese restaurant and a massage parlor.
Steam rises from a street grate, and I pause behind it, scanning the street for any sign that I’m being followed.
The street seems clear, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
My heart is pounding in my chest as I climb the cracked steps to his office.
Through the frosted glass door, I can see a yellow light glowing.
The black letters spelling out "TAGGART INVESTIGATIONS" are peeling off the glass, and I raise my trembling hand to rap my knuckles against it.
"Who is it?" Billy's voice booms from the other side, gruff and wary.
"It's me, Billy. I need your help," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
The door swings open, and he looks at me with a mix of surprise and suspicion.
I hesitate at the threshold, taking in the familiar scent of stale coffee and cigarettes.
His office is dimmer than I remember, the only light coming from a desk lamp that casts long shadows across the room.
The walls are covered in case files and newspaper clippings, and there’s a stack of empty takeout containers on the floor.
The neon signs from the massage parlor next door cast a harsh red glow over everything, making Billy’s unshaven face look like he’s been punched in the jaw.
My legs are still shaking from running, and I grip the doorframe to steady myself.
Billy’s eyes narrow as he scans the street behind me, then he checks his phone, probably seeing my missed calls.
