Noir

Early, early early WIP. Please don't kill me or maim me for it.

Script created with Final Draft by Final Draft, Inc.
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NOIR



TEASER

EXT. INTERSTATE 10, NIGHT

A Maricopa County Sheriff's van flashes past us, traveling
more than somewhat above the 65 mph speed limit.

INT. MCSO VAN

The van is typical of an inmate transport vehicle -- the
driver's cabin is seperated from the inmate holding cabin by
reinforced glass and steel grate. A holding cell, to go. The
deputies forward are silent, for the moment, but their cargo
is far from it.

CUT TO:

INT. INMATE HOLDING CABIN

A monkey cage, lacking only in flying shit to complete the
image. Twin benches run the length of the space, eight men
shackled by wrists and ankles to each, shoulder to shoulder
and cheek to sweaty, orange-clad cheek. The close confinement
coupled with the occasional shimmy of the overburdened
vehicle translates to an unfriendly and unappreciated
intimacy.

Near the fore end of the cabin, three unwashed souls shout
their way through an unwashed dialogue.

VASQUEZ
Yo, I telling you --

RICHARDS
So I told the bitch, I says, 'Look
here' --

VASQUEZ
Man, shut up, vato, I'm --

CARSON
Shut it, you little --

VASQUEZ
What?!

CARSON
Let the man speak!

VASQUEZ
(simultaneously)
I fuckin' bust your head,
motherfucker! You --

Pandemonium. Only words, for now, thanks to the shackles --
but if these men had their way, blood would fly. Only two men
among them are silent, and you'd better believe each has
noticed the other, though neither gives any sign of this.

The first -- Rainey is his name -- takes in the shouting
match between Vasquez, Carson and Richards as it draws in
new, angry voices. He observes this phenomenon with a mixture
of boredom and irritation. His face is craggy under a stringy
mop of greying hair, the great dome of his forehead a
leathery landscape of craters complimented by the scars of a
handful of knife fights. His eyes, though, shine with the
ferocity of a wild animal.

A smirk touches the corner of his mouth as Vasquez lurches --
shoulders and torso only -- toward Carson like a chained dog,
furious but impotent to do anything about it.

Rainey turns his gaze to the other silent one, MacLeod.

RAINEY
Yes.

MACLEOD
I'm sorry? What?

RAINEY
(nods)
'Is it always like this?' The
answer is... yes. It is.

MacLeod nods, then looks away. Far away. He's barely there.

RAINEY (CONT'D)
New meat.

MacLeod only gives Rainey an irritated look.

RAINEY (CONT'D)
I can always spot the new meat.
Shell-shock, that's what you got.
You ain't even been in it three
days yet. Bet you ain't.

MacLeod sighs. Stares at the wall again, trying to lose
himself. Trying to lose time. The van jostles as it shifts
invisible lanes. Nothing else for this man MacLeod to do.
Nothing to lose, as long as he's careful. Maybe a lot to lose
if he doesn't make himself part of the crowd.

MACLEOD
Yeah. They nicked me day before
yesterday. So you're right -- not
three days yet.

RAINEY
(leans toward MacLeod)
Ain't gonna be three days, neither.

MacLeod almost pulls away from what sounds like a threat,
until his training catches him, holds him in place.

MACLEOD
What do you mean by that?

RAINEY
(grinning)
You'll see, brother. You'll find
out.

RAINEY closes his eyes, still smiling, tilts his head back.
From our POV, the image begins to blur; slowly, at first,
focus disappears at a quickening pace, then

FADES TO BLACK.

CUT TO:

INT. DRIVER'S CABIN

The driver, Deputy Andy Garrity, reaches for the coffee in
the dashboard cupholder. His hand falls, limp, inches from
it. His shotgun, Deputy Chuck Wheeler, turns to see what's
wrong. His eyes widen -- and then droop closed as he, too,
nods off.

CUT TO:

EXT. MCSO VAN -- TRACKING

As the van charts its own course. For the first second, it's
smooth sailing as the van drifts like a sleep-walker toward
an off-ramp, swaying dangerously.

CUT TO:

INT. INMATE HOLDING CABIN

The inmates heads roll on their shoulders. All of them appear
to be in deep, deep sleep.
All, that is, but Rainey, whose posture is electrified; head
thrown back, eyes and jaw clenched in concentration.

CUT TO:

A rapid-fire sequence of images: The sleeping driver. The
unattended steering wheel. Rainey in concentration under the
harsh lights of the inmate holding cabin. Rainey's hands.
Rainey's hands moving the steering wheel. The steering wheel
moving without Rainey's hands.

CUT TO:

EXT. MCSO VAN -- TRACKING

The van sways down into the off-ramp, glancing off the outer
barrier. Sparks and broken glass fountain from the driver's
side.

CUT TO:

INT. INMATE HOLDING CABIN

The orange ranks remain oblivious as the floodlights in the
corners of their pen snap to black, then to life, then out
again for good. If our eyes are quick, we may just catch
sight of Rainey sweating profusely, his face etched in a
rictus of fear and concentration, just before the image
disappears and we hear a CRASH.

FADE IN:

EXT. CITY STREET -- NIGHT

We hear footsteps. Our eyes are drawn to a pair of black
leather shoes -- plain, utilitarian. They could be the shoes
of a police officer. We can't tell for sure until we

PAN UP

To see that it's MACLEOD, dressed very differently than he
was only a minute ago. A briefcase hangs in his fingers. A
modest suit hangs from his lanky frame. Atop his head lounges
a crisp grey fedora. His gait is lazy, dreamlike. His face is
devoid of expression.

Headlights illuminate the sidewalk, the thin, weedy grass
between sidewalk and street, show MACLEOD'S suit to be a deep
blue rather than the black we might previously have
suspected. We hear an electronic chirp, and a low, filtered
voice. We can also see, as the vehicle comes closer, that
there's a light bar perched on the roof -- it's a police
cruiser.

COP #1
(O.S.)
Sir! Want you to come talk to us
for a minute!

MACLEOD'S pace remains that of a lost man; he's completely
unresponsive.

CUT TO:

INT. POLICE CRUISER

COP #1
(watching MACLEOD, into
radio)
Dispatch, this is Adam 21 Sam, Code
6 with a possible 5150.

COP #2
Oh, fun.

DISPATCHER
(O.S.)
10-4, Adam 21 Sam, show you Code 6.

COP #2
(to COP #1)
Flash him?

COP #1 nods, and COP #2 slips out of his safety harness,
cracks his door open.

COP #2 (CONT'D)
Let's do it.

CUT TO:

EXT. CITY STREET -- NIGHT

Red and blue strobes crackle through the trees and across
picket fence and walking figure alike. A shrill "WHOOOOP!"
snaps MACLEOD out of his trance. He stops and rubbernecks at
his surroundings, completely bewildered. A pair of flashlight
beams slap him in the face.

COP #1
Good morning, sir! Want you to set
down the briefcase, raise your
hands and step over here for us,
please!

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Script created with Final Draft by Final Draft, Inc.

Actually had quite a bit more than that, yeah, but with a few reformats ( ) I lost a bit of it. S'Okay, rewrites make things bettah.