ScriptsTDYK

Fan Fiction Archive

The Devil You Know
Transcribed by CritterKeeper

Story by Peter Hume
Teleplay by Ashley Gable
Directed by James A. Contner

Guest starring
Steven Flynn
David Haydn-Jones
Lisa Lynch
Mike McCafferty

OPENING: BOARDROOM

(Close-up on what looks like a large book, held by one pair of hands, another
hand placed on the top as if being sworn in by a court bailiff.)

First man: Do you swear to that?
Price: I do.

(Chuckling, Price takes his hand away and the 'book' is opened, revealing
expensive-looking cigars inside. The cigars are passed around a Boardroom table
surrounded by well-dressed men and women.)

Price: By tomorrow night we'll all be multimillionaires.

Darien (vo): F. Scott Fitzgerald once said to Ernest Hemmingway, 'Rich people
are different from you and me.' To which Hemmingway replied, 'Yeah, they got
more money.' Which brings me to a personal favorite of mine, Willie Sutton, who
said, 'The reason I rob banks is because that's where the money is.'

(Cigars are lit. {Yuck!} Price, at the head of the table in front of a broad
window, takes a puff and begins strolling around the table away from the window
as he speaks.)

Price: The S. E. C. approved the offer yesterday. If GlobalArk stock closes
tomorrow at half what the analysts are predicting, we'll all be buying Lear
jets!

(He is interrupted by gunfire and the crash of glass as the window shatters,
shot out by the machine guns of two men in black fatigues and ski masks, who
swing in through the opening on climbing ropes. One of the men in suits
crouches behind the table and frantically punches buttons on the tabletop phone.
Girlfriend starts to head for the door, but Price, crouching at the far end of
the table, pulls her down beside him. {They never gave her a name, so I'm just
calling her Girlfriend here. She's the company's Chief Financial Officer,
too.})

Price: Get down here!

(One of the gunmen looks around casually, slipping his gun into his belt.)

Gunman: You are all in a very bad situation right now. But, if everyone stays
calm, you can have a great bedtime story for the kids.

(As he speaks, he unslings a backpack from his shoulders, strolling down the
table. Price glances at Girlfriend, who is clasping his hand. He starts to
rise.)

Girlfriend: No, Lewis, stay down!

(He looks at her nervously but disregards her advice, standing to face the
gunman.)

Price: What do you want?

(The gunman has pulled a magazine from the backpack. There's a picture of Price
on the cover. He looks from the picture to the man before him, confirming his
identity.)

Gunman: (to Price) We want you.

(Gunman tosses the magazine on the table and reaches into the bag again, pulls
out a climbing harness, and tosses it to Price.)

Gunman: Hope you're not afraid of heights.

(Close-up of a clip being attached between two climbing belts. Price is now in
the harness, hooked up behind the second gunman, perched on the windowsill. He
looks understandably frightened. The other executives are crouched behind the
table, peeping over the edge. Half-smoked cigars lie forgotten on the table
next to bits of glass from the window. Gunman continues speaking confidently.)

Gunman: Now, from what I understand, Mr. Price made you all millionaires. Well,
now you're gonna get a chance to show him just how much you appreciate all he's
done for you. I'd keep this to yourselves if I were you. It's not gonna help
your IPO if it gets out that your CEO was just kidnapped.

(The gunman attaches a rope to his own gear and climbs onto the other side of
the window ledge. The two gunmen jump off the side, Price giving a frightened
yell, and begin rapelling down the side of the building. The executives come
out of hiding and dash to the window, Girlfriend leading the pack. They watch
as the gunmen reach the ground, unhook their ropes, and head for a white van.
The first gunman opens the back door and climbs in, the second gunman shoves
Price in and climbs in after him. The van immediately pulls away from the curb,
tires squealing.)

OPENING CREDITS

(Open on an upside-down picture of Price. A slide projector click, blank
screen, and the image reappears right side up.)

Official (first line vo): Five years ago, Lewis Price dropped out of MIT and
started playing with computer chips in his parents' garage. (shot of The
Official standing in his office, briefing Darien and Hobbes, sitting around a
table. Hobbes is in a suit, sitting at attention; Darien, in a T-shirt, is
slouching as usual, elbow on the table and leaning his head on his hand.)
Today, he became a multimillionaire, and his company, GlobalArk Communications,
went public.

Hobbes: Where do we plug in?

Official: Price was kidnapped yesterday. His captors are demanding five million
dollars from each of GlobalArk's twelve-member board. (A slide comes up of the
GlobalArk board, proudly crowded around Price and Girlfriend, who are holding up
something, maybe a magazine cover.)

Darien: They gonna pony up?

Official: They may not have to. Price was carrying a GPS locator when they
grabbed him. (slide of a glossy magazine ad featuring the GlobalArk GPS
Locators, captioned "PIECE [sic] OF MIND IN SIX FASHION COLORS") So we know
where he is. Lot of wealthy people using those nowadays.

Hobbes: Case like this is profile, how come the Bureau's not on it?

Official: They are. Justice Department called us in too.

Darien: Why? (suddenly worried) Hey, wait, they...they don't know about me, do
they?

Official: No. No, and they're not going to find out. (Turning off the slide
projector, the Official goes to the wall and turns the lights back on, then
paces over to his desk.) But, this may be the perfect opportunity to show them
what this agency can do. (He pulls a folder off his desk, sets it on the table
before Darien and opens it, then hands him a pen.) If you'll just sign here,
we'll be on our way.

(Darien picks up the paper inside and skims it)

Darien: Wait a minute, this is a ten million dollar insurance policy.

Official: You're going into a dangerous situation, I want to make sure you're
covered.

Hobbes: What about my coverage?

Offical: We're still waiting for the paperwork.

Darien: Wait a minute, this isn't for me... (He drops the paper on the table and
looks up at the Official.) It's for the gland!

Official: The government requires that all long-term assets be itemized.

(Darien and Hobbes' eyes meet, then Darien begins reading aloud from the
policy.)

Darien: "If Darien Fawkes, hereafter known as The Receptacle, becomes
physically or mentally infirm, Beneficiary agrees to mitigate loss by
harvesting...the gland...." (He looks up at the Official.) That would kill me.

Official: So you're not gonna sign it?

Darien: No.

Official: Ah.

Darien: No, no, no. If it gets coverage, I get coverage.

Official: (scooping up the papers) Well, we don't have time to quibble about
this now, you've got a job to do. C'mon. (He leads them out the door, Darien
still talking)

Darien: Hey, if I die, the gland dies with me. I'll have you know, I am not
just a 'receptacle.'

QUICKSILVER WIPE TO

(The Beach. The Official pulls the door open for Darien to climb out of the
back of the van, while Hobbes gets out of the passenger seat. It's very bright
and sunny, with wide open stretches of blue sky and white sand. A group of
volleyball players are in the background. Darien starts striding directly
across the sand, Hobbes and the Official move more slowly and at an angle.)

Hobbes: Hey, junior!

(Darien slows and they regroup, the other two exaggeratedly casual, never
looking directly at what they're looking at.)

Darien: What's up?

(Hobbes and the Official stand with their backs to their target.)

Official: (mumbling) The house where they're holding Price, it's the yellow one
straight back there.

(Darien turns to look at the house, then starts walking towards it. Hobbes
grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.)

Hobbes: Don't look! You want to compromise the mission? Kidnappers could be
watching us right now.

Darien: (rolling his eyes) Hobbes, I think they already know they're being
watched. I mean, c'mon, (he gestures towards the volleyball players) those FBI
guys might as well be wearing badges and full dress blues! (Hobbes walks away,
shaking his head, grumbling.) What?

(A volleyball flies towards Hobbes and he catches it. It is accompanied by a
man in shorts and sunglasses, zinc ointment on his nose, sporting a
close-cropped haircut and manner that peg him as an agent.)

Lawson: Hey, guys, thanks for coming. FBI's been sitting on their thumbs all
day.

Offical: (still mumbling, speaking more to the ground than to the agents) This
is Luke Lawson, Justice Department interagency liaison. This is Agent Fawkes,
this is Agent Hobbes.

(Hobbes tosses the volleyball to Darien, who tosses it to Lawson.)

Darien: So what's up? What's the situation?

Lawson: Well, they can't fully assess the situation until they send someone in
the house, and they won't send someone in the house until they fully assess the
situation. (He tosses the ball back to Darien.)

Hobbes: Love that FBI beuraucracy. (Darien tosses the ball to Hobbes, who passes
it on to the Official -- much to his surprise, but he catches it easily, giving
Hobbes a warning look.)

Lawson: Chain of command is so long they're choking on it.

Official: (tosses the ball to Darien and moves close to Lawson, speaking in a
low voice) Agent Fawkes is specially trained in covert entry. He can get in,
assess the situation, and get out, without anyone ever knowing he was there.

Lawson: Is that right?

Darien: (doing a basketball-type ball-rolling-along-his-arm maneuver) Oh, yeah.
You know, when I want, I'm practically invisible.

(Darien does a little spinning drop kick, sending the volleyball sailing towards
the FBI players.)

Darien: A little help, please? Excuse me!

(Shot of the house, in black and white, through a surveilance camera. The
Official enter a lifeguard shack, where another agent, wearing a lifeguard
T-shirt and orange windbreaker, has been monitoring the house. He glances at
Lawson, who had preceeded the Official, questioningly.)

Lifeguard: What's he doing here?

Lawson: I called him. He says he's got a man who can get in there and let us
know what's going on.

Lifeguard: It's too dangerous. If they figure out they're being watched, this
kidnapping's going to turn into a standoff.

Official: All they have to do to figure out if they're being watched is to look
outside and see those snow-white volleyball players.

Lawson: You FBI guys had your chance to play, and you dropped the ball. I'm
letting them run this for a while.

Lifeguard: I don't mean any disrespect, but are you insane? The Agency is a
cold war relic that hasn't done anything but budget-suck since Batista.

Lawson: That's wrong. Unlike you, they've done a lot right lately. (to the
Official) Send in your man.

Lifeguard: This goes wrong, there's going to be Hell to pay. Don't expect the
Bureau to pick up the tab.

Official: Right. (heads out)

(Cut to Darien and Hobbes standing outside the van)

Darien: Hey, I gotta tell ya, I don't like this, Hobbes.

Hobbes: Why? We're usually growling for cases. Justice offered us this on a
plate!

Darien: Yeah, I know. What if people're starting to think we're good?

Hobbes: 'Bout time. I'm tired of working for the Yugo of intelligence agencies.

Darien: Hey, Hobbes, we work for the government. They ain't gonna pay us any
extra to be good.

Hobbes: Y'know, man...if that gland was in my head....

Darien: What would you do?

Hobbes: There's *nothin'* I wouldn't take on.

Darien: Um hmm, yeah. You've got to remember, you chose this job, I didn't.
I'm just the receptacle, remember?

Hobbes: No, no, you're an agent. You're an agent, it's time you start thinking
like one.

Darien: Yeah, well, they ought to start treating me like one. I mean, think
about this, Hobbes. I'm workin' for a guy who won't even tell me his name.

(The Official walks up to them at the end of this conversation.)

Official: You're going in. This is our chance to shove it to those smug FBI
bastards.

(Darien is sitting in the door of the van, arms on his knees, Hobbes visible
inside behind him.)

Darien: Why don't you tell me something. You doing this to so you can showboat
or you doing it to rescue Price?

Official: To rescue Price, of course. Now get in there. The faster we finish
this off, the better it looks for us.

Darien: Alright, I gotcha. But if I'm gonna risk my butt to get you a gold
star, maybe the least you could do is tell me your name.

Official: (shrugs) Of course. All you had to do was ask.

Darien: (pleased) So what is it?

Official: The Official.

(Darien rolls his eyes, then strolls back to Hobbes)

Darien: Hey, Hobsie, do me a favor, eh? If something happens in there, don't
let him go gland harvesting, alright?

(Hobbes doesn't reply, he's too busy fitting Darien with an earpiece with a tiny
microphone attached. Hobbes is already wearing similar gear, a little less
streamlined.)

Darien: Alright, I got it, I got it, I got it.

(He settles the earpiece in more comfortably and looks at the house, starts
walking towards it and shooms.)

(Quicksilver vision view of the volleyball players as Darien walks past. The
Official and Hobbes are watching with thermal binoculars. Heat-sensitive view
of Darien, glowing green, approaching the house and moving to a window.)

Hobbes: (into his own headset) Right here with you, Fawkes.

(View from inside the house. A window opens. A curtain moves aside, a
footprint appears on the seat of a chair next to the window. Quicksilver view
of a doorway hung with beaded curtains, two men seated around a table behind it
watching TV. The beads slowly begin to part. Regular view from in front of the
men, the beads moving, one man quickly turns his head to look at the doorway.
He jumps up and moves to the door, parting the beads to check the room Darien is
in, the other man following suit. The room is empty, the curtains fluttering in
the breeze from the open window.

Kidnapper: See? There's no one there. It's just the wind.

(They move back to the table, the first man still glancing back at the doorway
uncertainly. Quicksilver vision moves from looking at them to scanning the
room. There's another doorway to the right, this one with a door in it, but
there's a round window in the door. Darien looks inside -- there's a figure in
a business suit lying on the floor, cuffed to a pipe. Vision moves down to the
doorknob, which rattles but doesn't turn, and then up to a light switch next to
the door. Regular vision of the light switch. Close-up as it flips upwards,
small sparks flashing from around the switch. Outside view of the house as an
explosion bursts from the windows. The Official and Hobbes watching; the
Official jumps at the explosion, Hobbes reaches up to his microphone and speaks
Fawkes' name into it. The explosion blows out parts of the walls)

Hobbes: Fawkes! Answer me right now. Fawkes!

Official: Oh, my God...

(Within the flames in the living room we see imperfect reflections off the
quicksilver in a Darien-shaped outline, which runs towards the front door. Shot
from outside the house as another, larger explosion destroys most of the front
wall. Darien flies from the center of the explosion, starting out quicksilvered
but shedding flakes on the way, fully visible by the time he lands, hard, on the
sand, out cold.)

Hobbes: I can't believe this!

(Hobbes charges forward to help his partner. The Official looks on from beside
the van.)

CUT TO COMMERCIAL

(A crowd of FBI volleyball players charging across the sand. Darien rolls over
onto his back, coughing, to see himself surrounded by a circle of gun barrels.
Hobbes, the Official, Lawson, and the Lifeguard guy come charging over, Hobbes
with his badge out.)

Hobbes: Whoa, whoa, fellas! (Guns turn towards Hobbes) Federal agent, federal
agent! (They lower their weapons.) All federal agents!

(Darien, still on the ground, pulls out his own badge.)

Darien: (weakly) See, I got one too.

Lawson: I thought you said you could get him in and out of there without anyone
noticing.

Official: I was wrong.

Lawson: Damn right you were. Obviously I've overestimated the abilities of this
agency.

Lifeguard: Congratulations, you just got yourselves your very own Ruby Ridge.

(Shot of the house burning, then of Darien sitting on the sand looking at it in
dismay.)

CUT TO THE KEEP

(The Keeper, standing at a bench, turns as the door opens and rushes to check on
Darien, who is accompanied by Hobbes.)

Darien: Hey, relax, okay, the gland's fine.

Keeper: Oh, to Hell with the gland, how are you?

Darien: Well, I just caused the death of three people, it's not the best way to
start your day.

(Darien climbs into his chair and lies back, the Keeper still fussing over him.)

Keeper: (pointing a finger at him scoldingly) You were doing your job.

Hobbes: We got no idea what caused that explosion. Could have nothing to do
with you.

(Darien looks up at Hobbes in disbelief while Claire checks his monitor tattoo.)

Darien: I flipped a switch and the place went boom, okay? I got a hunch I had
something to do with it.

Hobbes: So you think the place was rigged to blow.

Darien: Nah, why would they want to kill themselves, huh? Looked like they had
Price tied to a water heater, the only thing I can think is he must have
ruptured a gas line trying to escape.

(The Keeper has been doing something off to the side. Now she carries some sort
of sample around behind him to the lab bench, looking at it while she talks to
the boys.)

Keeper: Ah, see? There you go. If you hadn't gone in there, an FBI agent would
have, and he'd be dead right now. This quicksilver definitely protected you
from the flames.

Darien: So I didn't kill three people, I saved one.

(Keeper comes back to Darien's side with another sample container. She has no
problem dividing her attention between her work and their conversation.)

Keeper: Yes. Exactly. You have to look at the positive.

Darien: Right, from now on the glass is half full.

Keeper: Much better.

Darien: Unfortunately, it's filled with blood.

(The Official comes in as the Keeper is rolling up Darien's sleeve.)

Hobbes: Hey, chief.

Darien: Hey, wow, we really showed them, huh? Hey, what's up for tomorrow,
blowing up a nursing home, bombing a convent? You know, there's a day care down
the road we could get.

Official: You won't be working. We're both suspended, pending investigation by
a congressional oversight committee.

Darien: Good. With any luck, they'll sack both of us.

Official: Yeah, may be your lucky day.

CUT TO HALLWAY

(Shot of a door labeled "Closed Hearings." Darien sits on a bench in the
hallway outside, dressed in his tweed jacket, the one that makes him look like
an English teacher, and his hair is as neat as it gets. He's fidgeting
nervously. He picks up a coffee and takes a sip, looking down the hallway at
the Official, who is standing, hands in the pockets of his suit.)

(Cut to the hearing, where Hobbes is seated before a table with three men in
dark suits on the other side. Dressed in a brown suit and tie, he swivels side
to side a little bit, betraying his nerves.)

Hobbes: Well, sir, I never actually got that near the house.

Committee: Well, your file indicates a great deal of experience. This committee
finds it odd that Agent Fawkes was sent into the building instead of you.

Hobbes: Well, sir, Agent Fawkes has a tremendous background in covert entry,
sir. And I'd say having him go in was absolutely the right call. I'd have done
the same thing myself if I was running the operation, sir.

(Cut to Darien sitting in the same chair, looking even more nervous than Hobbes
did. His hand clutches the arm of the chair beside him.)

Committee: I'm told you've been specially trained in covert entry?

Darien: Yeah, I guess you could say that.

Committee: And what were the specifics of this training?

Darien: Mmm, your basic B&E stuff. Burglar alarms, lock picking, the cat
creep....

Committee: And where did you receive this training?

(Darien is getting a little more cocky as he speaks, starting to give them a
little Darien attitude.)

Darien: Soledad Penitentiary, mostly. But I, I did pick up a little in juvvie,
too.

Committee: You're a convict?

Darien: Ex-convict, thank you very much.

Committee: And whose idea was it to make you a federal agent?

Darien: Hmm, ah, that would be my boss, the Official.

(Cut to the Official sitting in the same chair. There's no outward sign of
nerves; what's going on inside is anyone's guess.)

Committee: Let me try to understand. You found Mr. Fawkes in prison, arranged
to have his sentence commuted, gave him a gun and a badge, and with almost no
training, made him a federal agent?

Official: Yes, and I stand by that decision.

Committee: Does Mr. Fawkes have some special ability this committee is unaware
of?

Official: Darien Fawkes is a fine agent, and he has a great talent for remaining
undetected.

Committee: So we've been told. Your record of public service is exemplary, so
I'll accept that your decision to send in Mr. Fawkes was sound. Mr. Fawkes,
however, does not have such an esteemed a record of service. This committee
would prefer to discipline a known felon, rather than sully the record of a man
like you.

Official: Thank you, sir, I appreciate that. But I'm the one who ordered him in
there. Responsibility lies with me.

Committee: Then I'm afraid, sir, that you leave us little choice. (the man to
his right bangs a gavel on the table) We stand recessed until tomorrow.

(The committee all rise and leave the room. The Official remains seated,
sighing visibly.)

CUT TO LAWSON'S OFFICE

(Close up on a videotape of the explosion. Darien's silver figure is visible
flying out of the blast. Shot of Lawson, holding a remote, as he rewinds,
watches the blast again. He freezes the tape on Darien mid-air. He stares at
the screen.)

(There's a knock on the door. He shuts off the tape, and for a moment the
office is dark. He leans forward and pulls the chain on a desk lamp, dimly
lighting the room.)

Lawson: Come on in.

(Smith comes in, closing the door behind him. {Again, no name given, so I'm
picking one} Lawson opens a side drawer in his desk and we hear glass
clinking.)

Lawson: Are you a drinking man?

Smith: I am.

Lawson: Glad to hear it.

(Lawson pulls out a large square bottle with a couple of inches of dark liquid
in it, followed by a couple of glasses. He pours for his guest, then himself,
and they clink glasses.)

Smith: May you live in interesting times.

Lawson: You know, the Chinese meant that as a curse. (He puts the bottle away)

Smith: You're a very clever young man, Luke. Which is why the directorate has
taken an interest in you.

Lawson: For which I'm very grateful.

(They both drink.)

Smith: Interesting. You seem very well-regarded by all my associates, but
there's nothing of the ass-kisser about you. What's your secret?

Lawson: I really couldn't say.

Smith: You mean you choose not to.

Lawson: If you want to put it that way.

Smith: Indulge me.

Lawson: Well, flattery and promises don't really work any more. They take up
too much time and they're undignified. I think George Orwell had a better idea.
He knew that everyone had a Room 101, some one thing that terrified them more
than anything else. I just try to identify what each person's Room 101 is, and
then reassure them that I can make it go away.

Smith: What's mine?

Lawson: Fear of being ordinary.

Smith: And yours?

Lawson: All these small-time terrorists who suddenly have the power to destroy
our way of life.

Smith: (glances down at his briefcase) Got a whole case full of them here.

Lawson: Oh, I'm sure you do. Which is why I want to talk to you about this
Agency.

CUT TO CONGRESSIONAL HEARING

(The Official is again seated before the committee)

Committee: It is the finding of this panel that the man in charge of The Agency
is at fault in the unfortunate death of Lewis Price. It is our recommendation
that you be removed from your post effective at once, with your successor to be
named at a later date. Our findings will be turned over to the Justice
Department for determination as to whether further steps are necessary.

(Member on the right bangs the gavel. The committee file out, leaving the
Official sitting there. The committee spokesman spots Smith in the hallway and
goes over to speak with him.)

Committee: Well, it's over.

Smith: Is he out?

Committee: Unfortunately, yes, and that's just the start. They'll probably file
criminal charges.

Smith: I'd like to recommend a replacement.

CUT TO THE OFFICIAL'S OFFICE

(The Official is packing his things into a box, Hobbes helping him carry stuff.
Darien is leaning against the window looking out.)

Hobbes: I just want you to know, I'm not happy about this. I'm very upset, not
happy at all.

Official: Thank you, Bobby. I appreciate that.

Hobbes: I mean, you know, what about all that stuff you promised me? Validated
parking, overtime, long vacations, you promised me all this stuff.

Official: I'm afraid you'll have to take this up with my replacement.

Darien: Any idea who that's, uh, going to be, by the way?

Official: They didn't consult with me about that.

Hobbes: Listen, Boss, I was, you know, thinkin' maybe you could leave like a
memo, like an outline of all that stuff you promised me previously?

Official: (puts his arm around Hobbes' shoulder) Bobby, could you give Fawkes
and I a minute alone? Hmm?

(Hobbes, disappointed, hands him the old-fashioned lunch pail he was carrying
and leaves, throwing a look at Darien before he goes. The Official adds the
lunchbox to the pile in his box, then turns to Darien, who is still staring out
the window.)

Official: I want you to know, kid... (Darien turns to look at him) ...you may be
the best thing that ever happened to this outfit. I think you would have made a
great agent. I know you're pissed about what happened at the beach, but --

Darien: You don't get it, do you? It's not just what happened. It's everything
you do. The way you just use people.

Official: Hey, that's the job description. (Darien looks away and down, leaning
on the back of a chair heavily) Anyway, I'm glad we got the chance to work
together.

Darien: (looking back up) Yeah, well, it's not like I really had the choice.

(There's a lot of emotion in the Official here. He's sincere. Darien doesn't
show much; it's not clear whether he's touched or cynically unmoved.)

Official: Doesn't matter. You have a real gift, even without the invisibility.
I just hope you learn to use it. (picks up his box) Well, take care of
yourself, kid.

(The Official walks out, leaving Darien standing with his hands on the back of
the chair.)

CUT TO LAWSON'S OFFICE

(Close-up on Darien's criminal file, starting with that awful picture and
scanning down across his record. It's a much clearer view than in Catevari; my
tape is bad, but it looks like the dates are 02-22-89, 04-12-92, 03-13-94
(ACQUITTED), and 09-22-97. That last seems too long ago, considering that Kevin
died in 2000, but oh, well....)

(His Criminal Record reads Petty Theft, Burglary, Fraud, Burglary, Theft, Grand
Theft, Transporting, Unlawful Entry, Theft, Transporting, Unlawful Entry.
There's a Caution, too: "Above average intellect. Extremely deceptive." I
won't try to transcribe the rest of it; if anyone really needs to know his
Fingerprint Classification, they can get Neko to send them their own tape. ;-)

(Cut to a shot of Lawson sitting at his desk, much better-lit than last time
with sunlight streaming through the windows, perusing that famous red file
stamped TOP SECRET INVISIBLE MAN in huge letters on the front cover. He then
turns to his laptop, sitting on the desk, and punches something up, leaning in
close to see better.)

CUT TO THE KEEP

(Darien is on his chair, legs pulled up double, one knee high in the air, the
other lying flat. He still looks depressed. The Keeper is holding onto his
right wrist, presumably taking his pulse or checking his tattoo, although as
they talk, it looks like she's just hanging on to it. Darien's sitting with his
eyes closed, not really interested.)

Keeper: So, the Official is gone.

Darien: Yeah, he split. Flew the coop. History.

Keeper: I'm gonna miss him.

Darien: Yeah. (glances up at her) Not me.

Keeper: Oh, come on, he's not that bad. Of all the overbearing, bureaucratic,
penny-pinching chauvinists I've worked for, he was definitely the best.

Darien: Well, it kinda depends on your point of view. I was the only indentured
servant around here.

Lawson: Maybe I can change all that.

(They both look over towards the entry, where Lawson is standing, still holding
the file. He strides over to the Keeper, offering his hand.)

Lawson: Hi, I'm Luke Lawson. You're in charge of this lab, right?

Keeper: (smiling cautiously and shaking his hand) Yes, nice to meet you.

Lawson: Nice to meet you. I've just been made acting head of the Agency,
pending approval.

(Her smile falls a bit at this last. Lawson begins strolling around the room,
surveying the contents of the lab benches posessively. The Keeper looks
annoyed. Darien climbs off the chair, watching Lawson closely.)

Darien: Hey, uh...what'd you mean about changing things?

(Lawson continues facing the bench, but waves the file at Darien)

Lawson: Well, is it true what they say about you?

(Darien looks nervous, shrugs casually)

Darien: I don't know what you mean.

Lawson: You don't really go invisible, do you?

(The Keeper shoots Darien a concerned look. Darien tries to keep things cool.)

Darien: Look, I don't know what they've got written about me in there, but I
wouldn't believe a bit of --

(As Darien is speaking, Lawson turns around. He's picked up a Bunsen burner
from the bench. He points it towards Darien and turns the intake dial, sending
a jet of flame towards him. Darien's words cut off as he jumps backwards,
turning invisible involuntarily as an instinctive defense against the flames.
The Keeper also steps back from the heat. Lawson turns the flames back down,
his eyes never leaving the spot where he knows Darien jumped to.)

Lawson: I'll be a son of a bitch!

Darien: (invisible) Yeah, well, you're not going to get an argument out of me.

(The Keeper steps forward, taking the Bunsen burner away from Lawson.)

Keeper: It's not nice to play with other peoples' toys.

(She sets it back down on the lab bench. Lawson's eyes are still fixed on that
empty space. They flicker to the side a bit, just before Darien deshooms
perched on the chair. Lawson turns to the Keeper.)

Lawson: Would you excuse us?

Keeper: I'm sorry?

Darien: Yeah, look, whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.

Lawson: No, you don't want her to hear this.

(Darien and the Keeper exchange looks.)

Darien: Why don't you let me hear what he has to say. (she hesitates; Darien
nods towards the door casually) Go ahead.

(The Keeper, arms folded across her chest, clearly displeased, heads out the
door. Once she's around the corner, Darien gestures casually with his hands,
sort of a shrug.)

Darien: Okay, so you know. Now what?

Lawson: Let me ask you something. Um, when you were a kid, did you ever have, I
don't know, any dreams about, about being caught in an elevator, or being
trapped down a mineshaft, or something?

Darien: Um...what the Hell kind of question is that?

Lawson: Well, it's just that it's a scary thing, you know, being trapped.
Trapped in jail, trapped by a gland in your head, trapped in a life that you
hate.

(Darien's head nods slightly, unconsciously, his eyes shifting away to the side,
as Lawson talks about being trapped. Then they return to Lawson, reluctantly,
cautiously.)

Lawson: What if I told you that there was a way you could never be trapped
again?

Darien: I'd say, 'I think you're full of crap.'

Lawson: Here's how it's going to play. I'm going to up your workload.
Increased activity means increased funding. When the money starts rolling in, a
potfull of it will get earmarked for research to get that thing out of your
head.

Darien: Uh huh, yeah. (gives Lawson a sarcastic wink and thumbs-up) The check's
in the mail, huh?

Lawson: Well, hell, your brother wasn't really that far away from it. His only
problem was that your former boss made him implant the gland before he knew how
to get it out.

(There's a pause; Darien is taken aback by this.)

Darien: No, I don't believe that.

Lawson: Fine. Ask him.

CUT TO OFFICIAL'S HOUSE

(Darien's car pulls up in front of a house. There are huge rose bushes
everywhere, with gorgeous blossoms. The Official is tending to one of the
bushes, wearing grey pants, a checked shirt, and gardening gloves -- very much a
civilian, retired type outfit. Darien climbs out of his car and strides over to
him. He's in a hurry for answers. He steps over a low bush to stand directly
in front of the Official, who straightens up to regard him.)

Official: Well you're the last person in the world I expected to drop by.

Darien: (intense, angry) How close was my brother to figuring out how to get
this thing out of my head?

Official: (matter-of-fact) A year. Eighteen months, tops.

(Darien exhales, looking away and around the yard. For a moment he can't look
at the Official. Then he turns back to glare at him. The Official waits
calmly.)

Darien: Why wouldn't you give him the time, you bastard? Why the hell'd you
make him put it in?

Official: It was his call, kid. He wanted you out of prison as fast as
possible. It'd been up to me, I would have waited.

(The Official turns back to the rosebush he's trimming, giving Darien a moment
to think, to reorient.)

Darien: Why should I believe that?

Official: Makes no difference to me whether you believe me or not, not anymore.
(He sprays a blossom, not looking at Darien at all) It's funny, you know. My
whole life, I never wanted to be defined by what I did. (sound of a car pulling
up in the background, unnoticed by either of them) More like who I was in the
community, what I was able to accomplish on the outside, away from the job. (He
finally looks up.) You know what? That office *is* my definition. (car doors
opening) When I'm in there, I know *exactly* who I am, what I'm supposed to do.
(car doors slamming in the background, unnoticed) Now all of a sudden that's
gone.

(Darien looks down, considering, and something catches his eye off to his left,
on the street. A pair of uniformed police officers are approaching up the front
walk, their cruiser parked at the curb. One of them moves behind the Official
to stand between him and his house. The other stands in front of him. The
Official stands motionless, holding his plant mister.)

Officer: Charles Borden?

Official: Yeah.

(The officer holds up a warrant.)

Officer: You're charged with second degree murder in the death of Lewis Price.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held
against you in a court of law.

(The officer behind him starts putting on the cuffs while the one in front of
him is reading him his rights. Darien looks from the officer to the Official in
disbelief. The Official meets Darien's eyes for a long moment before he's taken
away.)

CUT TO LAWSON'S OFFICE

(Dimly lit again, this time by a light on the wall and what's spilling in
through the doorway. Lawson is doing some paperwork. There's some sort of
leather daybook, closed, and his desk is otherwise very neat and bare. Smith
enters carrying a briefcase, backlit by the hall lights.)

Smith: Congratulations.

Lawson: Thanks. (He looks up in greeting, but continues with his paperwork.)

Smith: It's a nickel-dime operation. Everybody's got to start somewhere.

Lawson: True enough.

(Smith places his briefcase on the desk and sits in the chair in front of it.
Lawson pushes away his paperwork and regards him, slightly nervous or perhaps
just intense.)

Lawson: Our discussion earlier about the terrorists? I need a specific.
Someone in the country right now.

(Smith opens his briefcase, removes a file, hands it to Lawson. Lawson opens
it, begins reading.)

Lawson: What if I told you that I had a solution for this? Permanent, clean, no
red tape.

Smith: I'd be impressed. As would the directorate. (Lawson almost smiles,
still reading) This solution got a name?

Lawson: (not looking up) Darien Fawkes. (he glances up for a long moment, then
back down at the file)

CUT TO COMMERCIAL

OPEN ON THE OFFICIAL'S OFFICE

(Hobbes is pacing before the window, agitated.)

Hobbes: Second degree murder is a crock. The damn Justice Department's just
trying to make an example out of him.

(As the camera pans, we see Lawson sitting at the table reading a file. It's
him Hobbes is talking to.)

Lawson: Well, I appreciate your concern, but it's in the hands of the courts
now.

Hobbes: Yeah, well that's what scares me.

Lawson: You're a good man, Bobby. I only hope one day I'll have earned the same
kind of loyalty.

Hobbes: I just want what's due me, that's all.

Lawson: I've been looking at your file, and it's clear to me that you're an
asset that's been woefully underused. In fact, I think that you would be of
better value to the Agency if you were working on your own.

Hobbes: What're you saying? You breaking up me and Fawkes?

Lawson: Yeah, give you a chance to be in the spotlight, show people how good you
really are.

(Hobbes shrugs. He's playing along.)

Hobbes: I got no problem with that.

Lawson: Good.

Hobbes: Good.

(Lawson gets up, looking pleased. His tone is pleasant, his manner respectful
and charming.)

Lawson: Was there anything *you* wanted to discuss, Agent Hobbes?

Hobbes: Me, no, I'm good.

Lawson: Good.

Hobbes: Fine. Yeah. (as an afterthought) Thank you.

Lawson: Thank *you*.

Hobbes: Thank you.

Lawson: Thank you.

(Pause.)

Hobbes: Is that it?

Lawson: That's it.

(Hobbes purses his lips, hands shoved in his pockets, and strolls out of the
room, nodding to Lawson as he passes him. Lawson keeps his phony little smile
in place as the door closes.)

(The scene follows Hobbes out into the hall, where he stands outside the door
for a moment, observing the new paint on the door: 202 LUKE LAWSON DIRECTOR )

Hobbes: Butthead.

(He walks away down the hall.)

CUT TO THE KEEP

(Close-up on a number of vials in the refrigerator. If anyone's interested, the
vials are actually blood collection tubes, known as serum separator tubes, and
they're still lined up in the styrofoam tray they're shipped in. A hand reaches
out and picks one up, tilting it in the light to reveal a few cc's of pale blue
fluid. Camera pulls back to show it's Lawson who's holding the tube. He closes
the refrigerator door and walks over to the chair, where Darien is starting to
roll up his sleeve.)

Darien: Since when did you start giving the shots?

(Lawson draws the fluid into a syringe while he talks.)

Lawson: Well, I think it's time to change the way you've been handled, so that
eventually you could administer your own dosages.

Darien: Hmm. You mean, treating me like a responsible adult. You sure I'm
ready for that?

Lawson: Told you things were gonna be different.

(Lawson holds the syringe needle-up and makes sure there's no air left in it.
Darien sighs, holds out his arm, looks away. He's clearly expecting this to be
uncomfortable. He sighs again as Lawson swabs the inside of his elbow and takes
hold of his arm. Darien has good veins; in this position even the camera picks
them up! Lawson slides the needle into a vein and presses the plunger home. He
withdraws the needle and Darien turns to look at his arm and then Lawson in
surprise.)

Darien: You done?

Lawson: Yup.

(He places a cotton ball over the injection site and has Darien hold it in place
to prevent bruising.)

Darien: Wow, you're good, I didn't feel that!

Lawson: I spent two years as a corpsman, had a lot of practice.

(Darien keeps looking at his arm, even checking under the cotton ball, either to
see if the bleeding's stopped or perhaps to confirm that the needle really did
go into his arm. He's wearing a watch with a wide band, so we can't see whether
Makeup remembered to put on his tattoo that morning. Lawson finishes with the
equipment and turns back to Darien, arms crossed in front of him.)

Lawson: So I assume we have a deal?

(Darien looks at him, fragile hope starting to form, carefully guarded after so
many disappointments.)

Darien: You really gonna help get me out of here?

Lawson: Yeah, I really will.

(Lawson's answer is immediate and certain. Darien considers for a moment,
fingers tracing the skin of his arm where he got the shot. Then he nods.)

Darien: Then we have a deal.

Lawson: Good.

CUT TO BOARDROOM

(The windows that the terrorists shot out are covered in plywood. Hobbes sits
at one side of the boardroom table, interviewing members of the GlobalArk board
of directors in turn. There's a microphone sitting on the table pointed at the
first board member, hooked up to a large silver case containing an old-fashioned
reel-to-reel tape recorder.)

Board1: Yeah, we watched from the window. (Gestures to the plywood) They threw
Lewis into the back of the van, climbed in after him, and the van took off.

(We see the events in flashback as each board member describes them, complete
with a kidnapper yelling, "Step on it!" and squealing tires.)

Hobbes: So you're telling me there were three of them, two kidnappers and the
third one acting as driver.

(Board1 thinks about it and nods. Cut to the same shot, but with another board
member sitting in his place.)

Board2: They threw him in, jumped in right behind him and the van hauled ass out
of there.

(Cut to same seat, but with Girlfriend sitting in it. She's as cool and certain
as can be.)

Girlfriend: They threw Lewis in the back of the van, one of them climbed in and
closed the door, the other got in front and drove away.

(We see this version of events, too.)

Hobbes: You sure about that?

Girlfriend: Absolutely.

Hobbes: So, there were just two of them, no third one acting as driver?

Girlfriend: No, just two.

Hobbes: Thank you.

CUT TO HALLWAY AT THE AGENCY

(Lawson and Darien come around the corner, Lawson carrying a large briefcase.
Lawson wears his usual suit, Darien wears a cute lightweight leather jacket over
a white T-shirt and jeans. Lawson is briefing Darien on the fly.)

Lawson: Okay, the Agency got a tip that someone's smuggling a bioweapon into the
country. He's supposed to be selling it within the next twenty-four hours.
What you want to do is, you want to make a switch, so that the buyer finds
himself with a bogus bomb. That way, we leave it up to the buyer to take this
guy out.

Darien: Nice.

Lawson: Thank you. (holds up briefcase) You quicksilver this briefcase, you
switch it with his, and then you get the hell out of Dodge. No fuss, no muss,
no bother.

Darien: Sounds like a walk in the park.

Lawson: That's what it should be.

(As the two of them walk past the camera, we see Hobbes is following along
behind them, studiously casual.)

QUICKSILVER CUT TO:

(Outside the hotel. A sedan pulls up, and Darien and Lawson climb out. Darien
grabs the briefcase from the back seat and they head inside. Lawson hands him a
polaroid.)

Lawson: Alright, this is what he looks like.

(Darien looks at the picture briefly, then sticks it in a pocket.)

Darien: Got it. So, what do we do? We, uh, just head in opposite directions,
stay in touch?

Lawson: Yeah, you got it. Once either one of us spots him, we'll contact the
other one, decide exactly what to do from there.

(He trails off, looking at Darien, who has tilted his head back, groaning
quietly, and is rolling his head around as if he has a stiff neck.)

Lawson: You alright?

(Darien looks back at him, very casual about it; apparently he was expecting
Lawson not to notice.)

Darien: Yeah, I'm...just...got a headache. It's like when I go too long without
a.... Yeah, it's just a headache. I'm fine.

Lawson: Check out the lobby.

Darien: You got it.

(The lobby is large and fancy. Darien looks around briefly, then radios Lawson,
speaking into his lapel and touching a finger to the tiny earpiece.)

Darien: Lobby's clean.

(Cut to Lawson, stepping onto the escalator.)

Lawson: Check out the pool area, I'm gonna go up to the meeting room.

Darien: I'm on it.

(Darien heads down a wide staircase, and we see Hobbes entering the lobby behind
him and heading after him. The staircase passes by a huge set of windows --
this is a very bright and airy hotel! Emerging from a set of glass doors,
Darien strolls past several tables with happy people sitting at them, and looks
down another short stairway at the pool level. Rows of those awful plastic
webbing lounge chairs that stick to your sunscreen are set out by the pool,
about half of them occupied. Darien has on far more clothes than anyone else
visible, unfortunately. There's a low fence behind Darien with plants a few
feet behind it.)

(Close-up of the Polaroid as Darien compares it to the people in the lounge
chairs. He speaks into his lapel again.)

Darien: I don't see him.

(Lawson is just coming off the top of what is either a *very* slow escalator, or
a different one than he got on last time we saw him.)

Lawson: Stick around a minute, he may show up.

(Darien strolls around, pushing through an iron gate at the pool entrance. He
passes a white cloth tent with the sides rolled up, more lounge chairs and
tables, and loads of people wearing very little clothing. {If only he'd try to
blend in more!} He passes through another iron gate through the chest-high
fence and walks along the gap between the fence and an eight foot hedge.)

(Hobbes comes up behind Darien, running to catch up.)

Hobbes: Fawkes! We gotta talk!

(Darien is annoyed, mind focussed on his mission. Hobbes is agitated and
insistent.)

Darien: Hey, Hobbes, not now.

Hobbes: Right now, right now!

(Shot of Lawson, a finger to his ear, walking towards the window of the meeting
room.)

Lawson: Fawkes, who you talking to?

(Darien continues walking, doing his best to ignore Hobbes, following closely at
his shoulder, and tries to sound casual as he reassures Lawson.)

Darien: Uh, just some tourist guy.

Lawson: Get rid of him.

(Darien covers the microphone with his hand and scolds Hobbes.)

Darien: He will have your ass, okay?

Hobbes: The kidnapping, there's something bogus.

Darien: Fine. We'll talk about it later.

Hobbes: Later ain't gonna make it happen. We gotta move on this right now!

(Darien is only half-listening. He's spotted the target coming into the pool
area wearing trunks and an unbuttoned white shirt and with a towel over his
shoulders. Darien lifts the microphone and speaks to Lawson.)

Darien: I got him.

Hobbes: Got who?

(Darien elbows Hobbes in the chest, giving him a dark look.)

Darien: Hey, you screw this up, Lawson will can you, okay, and let's face it,
Hobbes, you've basically run out of agencies, so why don't you walk away, okay?

(Hobbes is hurt by this callous attack from his partner.)

Darien: Now. Walk. Okay?

Hobbes: I'm walking.

Darien: Thank you.

Hobbes: I'm walking.

Darien: Great, go.

Hobbes: You see me walking?

Darien: Yeah. More.

Hobbes: But I'm not leaving til we talk.

Darien: Fine.

(Hobbes is about five yards away by this point, moving slowly towards the hotel.
Darien keeps an eye on him for a moment, then shifts his attention back to the
target, who is spreading out his towel {guess he doesn't like the plastic
webbing either!} and settling down in the sun by the pool. Shot of Lawson
looking out of an upstairs window, then a view of the section of poolside deck
that the target is in. Darien, shielded from the target's view by a potted
palm, uncovers the microphone and speaks into it.)

Darien: Yeah, he's settling in, but, I can tell you, I don't see any briefcase.

(Lawson is leaning against a wall by the window, watching the target, very
focussed.)

Lawson: Don't worry about that. Open yours.

(Cut to Darien, Lawson's voice on the earpiece.)

Lawson (vo): Combination's 8 - 4 - 9.

Darien: Well, you're the boss.

(Darien sets the case down on the ground, kneels before it, and works the
combination. This low, he's no taller than the lower hedge on the pool side of
the passageway, and hence well-hidden.)

Darien: Eight...four....

(He opens the case. The lid raises to reveal the components for a high-tech
rifle, each safely packed into a separate hole in the foam padding. At that
moment, his head jerks back and he grunts in pain. His hand at the back of his
head, he looks back down at the rifle and growls at Lawson.)

Darien: What the hell's this?

(Close-up on the rifle case as we hear Lawson's voice over the earphone.)

Lawson (vo): Welcome to your new career.

Darien: Hey, up yours, Lawson, I'm no hit man.

Lawson: Of course not. You're a red-blooded American patriot in the service of
his country.

(Darien is still on his knees, leaning forward on one hand while the other
massages the back of his neck. He glares up at the target since he can't see
Lawson, defiant and pissed off.)

Darien: Hey, I'm not killing for you or anybody else.

(He groans, head snapping back, as another wave of pain hits him, harder this
time.)

Lawson: Tell me, Fawkes, how are you feeling about now?

Darien: (both hands on the back of his head now) Like my head's about to split
open.

Lawson: Sounds like the beginning of quicksilver madness to me.

Darien: It can't be, you just gave me -- (he catches on)

Lawson: Sugar water. Placebo.

(Darien pulls his hands down and slides down the watch band, revealing the
monitor tattoo. Every segment but one is red.)

Lawson: Wanted to make sure you stayed in the proper frame of mind.

Darien: You son of a bitch.

(That fragile hope comes crashing down around his ears. He's trapped, but
good.)

Lawson: Look at it this way, you do a shot for me, I'll do a shot for you. Quid
pro quo. That's going to be the nature of our relationship.

(Darien is on his hands and knees again. He looks down at the rifle, then back
up at the target.)

Darien: God damn it, Lawson, you can't make me do this!

Lawson: Wrong, see-through boy, I can make you do anything I damn well please.
Unless, of course, you want to leave the world as you know it, and take up
permanent residence in a rubber room, it's your choice. But given the pain in
your head, I'd say you're just about out of time.

(Very slowly, Darien reaches out to the case and picks up the rifle stock. He
holds it upright, one hand sliding along its length. He looks up towards the
target again. Another wave of pain hits him and he groans, his head snapping
back. His hand wavers between the back of his head and the rifle stock. The
pain gets worse, wave after wave, and his hand clasps his head. He looks up at
the camera, and in between the winces, his eyes narrow dangerously.)

(Camera pans across the rows of deck chairs and lounges. Shot of a waitress in
a wrap skirt and bikini top handing the target a foamy white drink. He sips it,
reading his magazine. A gorgeous blonde in a bikini walks by, drawing his
attention, and he grins. He stands up and moves to the pool edge, dipping the
toes of his right foot into the water to test its temperature.)

(The crack of a gunshot, and his body jerks, then falls limply into the pool.
People scream and start running away or moving closer to see what happened.
Lawson, watching from above, allows himself a small, triumphant smile, then he
moves away from the window. Shot of the target, from below water level, as he
floats face-down, unconscious; in the background people are screaming and
running from the pool area.)

CUT TO COMMERCIAL