Alex Graves - Pilot (Part I) lyrics

ACT ONE [FADE IN] INT. AIRLINER – NIGHT [CLOSEUP on a FASTEN SEAT BELT sign, ILLUMINATING as the plane SHUDDERS. A jumbo jet. International flight, half-full. FLASHES of an ELECTRICAL STORM through otherwise BLACK windows as a tense PA ANNOUNCEMENT is made: ] FLIGHT ATTENDANT (V.O.) : Das Sicherheitsgurtzeichen wird belichtet. Befestigen Sie bitte Ihre Sicherheitsgurte. (then, accented) The captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign, please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened. [- and PASSENGERS do. Even the FLIGHT ATTENDANTS buckle up; and when they look nervous, it's never good. Up in FIRST CLASS, an older couple HOLD HANDS. A few rows back, into coach, an overweight WOMAN looks to the nervous MAN sitting beside her and says: ] WOMAN: Ich bevorzuge die Serie. MAN: I don't—speak German, I'm from Denver. WOMAN: Weil – dieses mein MAN: Erstflug ist. - I'm—- I'm from Denver. [- and SHUDDER – the jet DIPS too much –-armrests gripped –- BRILLIANT strobing LIGHTNING as the plan LIFTS, BANKING one way, then the other. Further back in the cabin, an angry 16 year-old headphone-wearing BOY plays PSP, oblivious to the rough ride. Six rows behind him, a 45 year-old MAN is sweating. Pale. Distraught. The TURBULENCE is clearly a problem –- but something says “there's more happening here than just airsickness and anxiety. We'll give him this name for now: TROUBLED. Troubled closes his eyes, head back, trying to find relief. The 60 year-old INDIAN MAN beside him says, comfortingly: ] INDIAN MAN: My friend. It is just an electrical storm. This will pa**. TROUBLED: I understand. INDIAN MAN: (offering a pack) Juicy Fruit? TROUBLED: No. I can't, I'm fine. Thank you. [Indian Man nods as Troubled pulls a briefcase from under his seat. Opens it. Goes through his papers -– the plane DROPPING AGAIN as LIGHTNING strikes closer than before –- an AUDIBLE REACTION from many pa**engers –- Troubled pulls out a DOSING PEN –- a pen-shaped syringe for the injection of medicine. Indian Man watches curiously as Troubled finds a small MEDICINE CARTRIDGE and inserts it. Indian Man doesn't really understand what he's watching –- and neither will most of the audience, and that's okay.] [Troubled unbu*tons the lower half of his shirt – pushes the pen against his stomach and TIRGGERS IT: POP! He's just taken an injection. Troubled loosens his collar when HOLY fu*k, THE PLANE DROPS –- actual SCREAMS from some –- the LIGHTS IN THE CABIN DIM –- the LIGHTNING BRIGHTENS as if they're now flying through the center of the Goddamn storm. A GERMAN PA ANNOUNCEMENT from the co*kpit doesn't help anyone who speaks only English - and Troubled seems to suddenly be in far worse shape -– a sort of atypical PAIN. Indian Man, watching this, concerned, says: ] INDIAN MAN: - my friend-? [But Troubled is so f**ing uncomfortable that he UNDOES HIS SEAT BELT and heads for the bathroom. He moves down the ROUGH and ROCKING cabin. A dozen rows behind him, a FLIGHT ATTENDANT strapped to her bulkhead emergency seat sees Troubled and calls, in a German accent: ] FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Sir, excuse me! You must stay in your seat! [But he keeps going -– and so she reluctantly unbuckles and stands -– grasping row after row as she moves for him –- he's well ahead of her, having even more difficulty walking as the plane struggles through the erratically blinding storm –- ] FLIGHT ATTENDANT (CONT'D): - Sir! You have to sit down! [But Troubled keeps going –- STUMBLING –- we're ONLY ON HIS BACK NOW as he heads away from us -– from her -– ] FLIGHT ATTENDANT (CONT'D): Entschuldigen Sie mich., geehrten Herrn, bitte! Gehen Sie zu Ihrem Sitz zuruck! [Troubled keeps going, steadying himself on the seat backs as he moves –- the Flight Attendant gaining. Practically the only light we get now is from the WILD LIGHTNING and SEAT BELT lights -– and finally she catches up to him -– reaches out, grabs his shoulder -– and she turns him toward her -– toward us -– AND HIS FACE IS A THING OF HORROR: HIS FLESH LIQUIFYING – fu*kING MELTING – HIS EYES BALLOONED IN UTTER FEAR –- and the Flight Attendant's eyes go wide in a terrifying PRE-SCREAM GASP as Troubled GRABS HER ARM –- and she SCREAMS BLOODY fu*kING MURDER - and THOSE WHO SEE HIM DO TOO –- and if this isn't enough, Troubled THROWS UP ON HER – and she stumbles back, SCREAMING and the jet momentarily PLUMMETS again! Troubled FALLS BACK as the Flight Attendant gets up, covered in bile and in shock and she runs toward the back of the plane as we realize we've been HEARING SOMEONE ELSE YELL –- not in English or German, but in HINDI. The Flight Attendant runs past INDIAN MAN -– WHOSE FACE IS fu*kING MELTING NOW TOO – HE'S LOSING HIS MIND -– LOOKING AT HIS HANDS – THE FLESH PAINFULLY LIQUIFYING! - Indian Man stands –- hurries in a panic toward the front of the plane -– pa**ing ANOTHER PASSENGER, who STANDS in crazy alarm -– SCREAMING IN GERMAN –- HER FLESH DISINTEGRATING TOO: ] GERMAN WOMAN: Helfen Sie mir! Was? geschieht! HILFE! [Indian Man runs PAST –- RIGHT OVER -– the VISCOUS, BONE AND MUSCLE CORPSE of TROUBLED as another FLIGHT ATTENDANT makes a frantic call on the service phone -– ] FRANTIC FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Kapitan, haben wir etwa-! [The LIGHTENING STORM IMPOSSIBLY TURBULENT, ANOTHER seated PASSENGER is suddenly SCREAMING –- HIS BODY COMING APART. Then ANOTHER –- now the TEENAGER with PSP –- now the OVERWEIGHT WOMAN –- now the ELDERLY COUPLE –- and we PULL BACK AT HIGH VELOCITY, LENS WIDE, WHIPPING FROM SIDE TO SIDE AT THE HORROR SHOW OF EVERY SCREAMING PASSENGER, AFFLICTED, GROTESQUE –- lit by BURSTS OF LIGHTENING –- And we PUSH IN now as the CO-PILOT opens the co*kpit door and looks back, seeing the plane –- EVERYONE ON THE PLANE –- SCREAMING, MELTING –- DYING –- the Pilot hits AUTO-PILOT, turns back, yells: ] PILOT: SPRECHEN SIE MIT MIR! [THE CO-PILOT TURNS TO US – HIS FACE ALREADY STARTING TO DRIP BLOOD AND FLESH AND OFF THE PILOT'S TERROR-SCREAM CUT TO: ] EXT. SKY – NIGHT [The jumbo jet, flying in the awful storm. A sarcophagus, at forty-thousand feet. The cause of this gruesome event an absolute mystery. And things are about to get weirder. And as if to announce this fact, from the VERY EDGES OF FRAME, WHITE LETTERS APPEAR –- and CONVERGE NEAR THE RIGHT SIDE OF FRAME as the rest of the image, the background, TURNS GREY –- and our short but spooky THEME PLAYS as the LETTERS TURN BLACK –- AND SPELL, SIMPLY: F R I N G E ] [FADE IN: ] EXT. TURNPIKE MOTEL – NIGHT [A cheap-a** motel. An old neon TURNPIKE MOTEL sign. The constant SQUEAKING of a flimsy BOX SPRING is HEARD –- and as we DOLLY IN, WORDS FADE IN (NOTE: A SIGNATURE OF THE SERIES WILL BE HOW LOCATIONS ARE IDENTIFIED –- WORDS WILL APPEAR THREE-DIMENSIONALLY, AS IF EXISTING WITHIN THE SPACE). In this case they read: “LEXINGTON, MASSACHUSETTES”, PUSH PAST THE WORDS to – ] INT. TURNPIKE MOTEL ROOM – NIGHT [A small motel room. A WOMAN falls back, into frame, lying on the bed. She's naked. Glistening. Smiling. Out of breath. She's 32 years old, beautiful, but real. A deceiving innocence. Her name is OLIVIA DUNHAM. This is our woman. Suffice to say, the SQUEAKING has ceased.] OLIVIA: … oh my God. [And she starts laughing. A male VOICE, off-camera, says: ] MAN (O.S.): - what? OLIVIA: This bed is ridiculous. It's like the loudest bed in the history of cheap motel beds. MAN (O.S.): - and you would know this how? [She smiles as he, past her, lies back into frame. This is Olivia's love. He is 41. Handsome. Tough, but kind. His name's JOHN SCOTT. Also out of breath. ] JOHN: This is so much better than that policy seminar. OLIVIA: Oh, thank you, a compliment. [He takes her hand, they lie there. ] JOHN: I was losing my mind, that meeting was endless. I kept finding myself staring at you. I actually had to turn my chair to stop. OLIVIA: We can't keep doing this. Sneaking around… JOHN: The department's not a ma**ive fan of office romances – as recent events demonstrate. OLIVIA: Dryden seeing Lynch had nothing to do with why he was demoted-— you don't see any irony in what we're doing? JOHN: Is knowing the a**istant manager of the Turnpike motel by name ideal? No. Is being with you worth the subterfuge? Yes. OLIVIA: I feel like I'm living in a Charlotte Bronte novel. Which is not how I envisioned my early thirties. I think Charlie knows anyway. JOHN: He doesn't know. OLIVIA: I think he does -– JOHN: If he knew, you'd be transferred. [This quiets her. Then: ] JOHN (CONT'D): I like Charlie. But if there was ever a by-the-booker, it's him. He'd let Jakes know faster than you can say “good soldier”. I'm not afraid of transparency—- but we're already working for a Department that's as unstable and fluid as they come and somehow? We found each other. And in the madness of what we've been seeing lately… I've taken great solace in being with you. Now if that's the kind of information that makes you back away, so be it. ‘Cause this is all preamble to the kicker, which is that I love you. (beat, that was a first) And the idea of an old boy's club wonder making the call whether or not you and I get to live in the same city is unacceptable to me. So forgive my…furtive nature, it's got nothing whatsoever to do with protocol or decorum or enjoying the status quo -– this is about you. I don't want to lose… you. [Olivia stares. Taken by his honesty and heart -– and she kisses him -– and it quickly gets pa**ionate again -– and they're definitely going for another round when a CELL PHONE RINGS –- they both moan at the interruptus. Olivia reaches over, answers: ] OLIVIA: Agent Dunham. (listens, sits) Okay. Are there any more details than-? (beat, concern) Yessir. [Olivia hangs up. ] OLIVIA (CONT'D): Incident at Logan Airport, International flight, Charlie's on his way. [John nods, and they're both up, getting dressed. ] OLIVIA (CONT'D): Hey, in the spirit of our talk… you should get there a few minutes after me. We arrived pretty close last time. JOHN: Now you're being paranoid. OLIVIA: Maybe – Logan: access gate at Runway 15R [CLOSE ON AN OPEN BADGE WALLET on the desk –- a FEDERAL AGENT BADGE. Olivia, dressed, grabs it -– then moves to John, kisses him sweetly -– about to say something -– but doesn't. She grabs her keys and leaves. John stands there, in the wake of her tornado. Alone. Amused. Then his cell RINGS. He answers, already knowing it all: ] JOHN: Agent Scott. EXT. LOGAN AIRPORT – NIGHT [PUSH IN, past the (signature, three-dimensional) WORDS THAT FADE IN: “LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT – BOSTON” – this is an access gate –- three POLICE CARS are here, lights BLAZING, FLASHING in the night. Olivia pulls up in her black hybrid Lexus, shows her creds. ] OLIVIA: Olivia Dunham, FBI. [Guards check her ID, squawk walkies, wave her in. BOOM UP to reveal the JUMBO JET from the opening, a light-show of two dozen EMERGENCY VEHICLES, including a CRANE, surrounding it. Olivia parks, gets out –- crosses half a dozen FEDERAL AGENTS, all ARGUING issues of protocol, information, jurisdiction. An angry, heated fight. Olivia continues past them, met by 43 year-old fellow Agent CHARLIE FRANCIS. ] CHARLIE: Inter-agency harmony and cooperation continues. OLIVIA: Who's winning? CHARLIE: Langley by a nose. (then, re: jet) Flight out of Hamburg –- hundred and forty-seven pa**engers, towers lost contact three hours in. Thought there might've been some electrical interference, apparently they were flying in a hell of a storm. They entered our airspace radio silent -– Navy scrambled two F-18's for escort. They reported stains on the windows...and no signs of life aboard the jet. [This stop Olivia –- she looks up at the jet –- the cabin is too dark for her to see anything. ] OLIVIA: Stains? CHARLIE: Blood. OLIVIA: I'm surprised they let ‘em land –- “No signs of life” -– who was flying the plane, auto-pilot? CHARLIE: Programmed to land right on schedule, which it did. Unlike every flight I've ever taken. OLIVIA: If there was a decompression the windows would have frozen solid –- have they opened the cabin? CHARLIE: White House approved a CDC request for the jet not to be opened until they arrive. [Behind them, a BLACK VAN arrives. The drive gets out – it's JOHN, on a cell: ] JOHN: let me a**ure you, we'd be happy to treat you like family too. (hangs up, grins) Good old NTSB. All like to think they're cops. CHARLIE: Agent Scott. JOHN: Agent Francis –- (no special regard) Agent Dunham. [Their relationship, their secret. She turns back to Charlie: ] OLIVIA: They must've looked in through the windows… CHARLIE: CIA did. Whatever the hell's inside that plan made Special Agent McNeary throw up in front of his whole unit. And he's a good man, that was embarra**ing. [A finger-to-mouth WHISTLE turns everyone to PHILLIP BROYLES, SPECIAL-AGENT-IN CHARGE from HOMELAND SECURITY. Broyles is a bureaucratic Hitler, with authority to puppeteer the Federal and International agencies on-scene: ] BROYLES: Although this is a joint task force, this investigation will be run through HDS – I'm Special Agent in Charge Broyles! DC has sent me here to make sure we get results. As soon as our friends from Atlanta get here we're going in, one member from each agency on the starting line as follow – (reads a card) CIA: Baronoff! FBI: Francis! DHS: Pitts! (MORE) BROYLES (CON'D): Contagion precautions apply: level four HAZ-MAT suits, we should have your size in the van! Move! [Agents on the move, Olivia, disturbed, goes after Broyles: ] OLIVIA: Sir: Olivia Dunham, FBI Inter-agency liaison, I'm EOD and NBC certified, I'd like to suit up too-– BROYLES: Liaison on an inter-agency task force. Gotta love that. Like powdered sugar on a glazed donut. OLIVIA: Excuse me, if I'm gonna do my job effectively, I like my information first-hand -– that's not redundancy, that's accountability. BROYELS: (sotto, threatening) I know exactly who you are. You put my best friend in prison two years ago. (she's stunned, louder:) You want in, Liaison? Suit up. [And the bully walks off – Olivia watches him go, indignant. ]