1
The lonely sound of a buoy bell in the distance. Water slapping against a smooth, flat surface in rhythm. The creaking of wood.
Off in the very far distance, one can make out the sound of sirens.
Suddenly a single match ignites and invades the darkness. It quivers for a moment. A dimly lit hand brings the rest of the pack to the match. A plume of yellow-white flame flares and illuminates the battered face of Jack Harkness, age forty. His dark hair is wet and matted. His face drips with water or sweat. A large cut runs the length of his face from the corner of his eye to his chin. It bleeds freely. An unlit cigarette hangs in the corner of his mouth.
In the half-light we can make out that he is on the deck of a large boat. A yacht, perhaps, or a small freighter. He sits with his back against the front bulkhead of the wheel house.
His legs are twisted at odd, almost impossible angles. He looks down.
A thin trail of liquid runs past his feet and off into the darkness. Jack lights the cigarette on the burning pack of matches before throwing them into the liquid.
The liquid IGNITES with a poof.
The flame runs up the stream, gaining in speed and intensity.
It begins to ripple and rumble as it runs down the deck towards the stern.
A stack of oil drums rests on the stern. They are stacked on a palette with ropes at each corner that attach it to a huge crane on the dock. One of the barrels has been punctured at ita base. Gasoline trickles freely from the hole. The flame is racing now towards the barrels. Jack smiles weakly to himself.
The flame is within a few yards of the barrels when another stream of liquid splashes onto the gas.
The flame fizzles out pitifully with a hiss. Two feet straddle the flame. A stream of urine flows onto the deck from between them.
The sound of a fly zipping. Follow the feet as they move over to where Jack rests at the wheel house.
The unknown man pulls a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket and a strange antique lighter from the other. It is gold, with a clasp that folds down over the flint. The man flicks up the clasp with his thumb and strikes it with his index finger. It is a fluid motion, somewhat showy.
Jack looks up at the man. A look of realization crosses his face. It is followed by frustration, anger, and finally resignation.
"How are you, Jack? "
"I'd have to say my spine was broken, Keyser." he spits the name out like it was poison.
The man puts the lighter back in his pocket and reaches under his jacket. He produces a stainless .38 revolver. "Ready?"
"What time is it?"
The hand with the gun turns over, turning the gold watch on its wrist upward.
The sound of sirens is closer now. Headed this way.
"Twelve thirty."
Jack grimaces bitterly and nods. He turns his head away and takes another drag. The hand with the gun waits long enough for Jack to enjoy his last drag before pulling the trigger.
GUNSHOT
The sound of Jack's body slumping onto the deck. Below is the stream of gasoline still flowing freely. The sound of the gasoline igniting. The flame runs towards the barrels, finally leaping up in a circle around the drums, burning the wood of the pallet and licking the spouting stream as it pours from the hole.
The pier to which the boat is moored is littered with dead bodies. Twenty or more men have been shot to pieces and lie scattered everywhere in what can only be the aftermath of a fierce fire-fight.
On the deck of a nearby barge is a tangle of cables and girders.
The mesh of steel and rubber leaves a dark and open cocoon beneath its base.
Sirens are close now. Almost here. The sound of fire raging out of control.
Voices yelling. New light flickering in the surrounding darkness.
Suddenly a large explosion.
Then silence.
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We hear the voice of Ifan "IANTO" Jones, whom we will soon meet.
"New York. - six weeks ago. A truck loaded with stripped gun parts got jacked outside of Queens. The driver didn't see anybody, but somebody fucked up. He heard a voice. Sometimes, that's all you need."
BOOM
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Somewhere downtown in a grimy apartment building a quiet night explodes with the opening of a door into a dark room. Outside, the hall is filled with blinding white light. Shadows in the shapes of men flood into the room. We can make out men in hoods with flashlights. They are laden with weapons.
"POLICE. SEARCH WARRANT. DON'T MOVE. "
It is a blur of violent action and sound. Beams of flashlights cut the darkness in all directions.
A dozen flashlights land on one woman. She lies naked in bed, emerging from a deep sleep. She squints at the flood of blinding white light, more annoyed than frightened.
She nearly laughs at the sound of countless guns cocking. She is Suzie. Age twenty-eight.
"Suzie Costello?"
"Yeah."
"Police. We have a warrant for your arrest." One of the men squirms as she stretches to show her assets.
"Will they be serving coffee downtown?" Two dozen black gloved hands grab her and yank her out of bed.
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An old paint mixer vibrates furiously. TOSHIKO SATO, a svelte, tiny woman in her thirties is working on an old Fire-bird. A young black kid mixes paint a few feet away. Suddenly the garage door opens to show a row of five men silhouetted by the bright sun. Sato squints.
"Can I help you?" Sato's voice is low.
"Toshiko Sato?"
Sato reaches for something just inside the door of the Fire-bird. "Who are you?"
All six men instantly produce gins and aim them at Sato.
"Police."
Sato withdraws a filthy towel and wipes grease and sweat from her forehead. "We don't do gun repair."
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OWEN HARPER, a short, thin man in his thirties strolls casually down the street. He is dressed conspicuously in a loud suit and tie with shoes that have no hope of matching.
He smokes a cigarette and chews gum at the same time. He happens to glance over his shoulder and notice a brown Ford sedan with four men in it cruising along the curb. He picks up his step a little. The Ford keeps up. He looks ahead at the corner. He tries to look as comfortable as he can, checking his watch as though remembering an appointment he is late for. The Ford stays right on him.
Suddenly, he bolts. He gets no more than a few yards before cars pour out of every conceivable nook and cranny. Brakes are squealing, radios squawking, guns cocking. Owen is surrounded instantly. He stops short and flaps his hands on his thighs in defeat.
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An attractive man and woman walk quickly through the front of a small New York cafe. They are charged with nervous, excited energy.
The man is JACK Harkness, a well dressed, sturdy looking man in his forties with slightly graying hair. He looks much better than he did in the opening scene.
The woman with him is identified as Rose Tyler, age twenty-three, poised and attractive - Easily the calmer of the two.
They come to a staircase at the back of the restaurant leading down to a dark room. Rose takes Jack's arm and stops him. "Let me look at you."
Jack is uncomfortable in his suit, or perhaps the situation. Still, he smiles with genuine warmth. Rose straightens his tie and picks microscopic imperfections from his lapel.
"Now remember, this is another kind of business. They don't earn your respect. You owe it to them. Don't stare them down but don't look away either. Confidence. They are fools not to trust you. That's the attitude."
"I'm having a stroke." Jack grimaces as he pulls the tie loose again and she sighs.
"You've come far. You're a good man. I love you."
Jack blinks then stammers, looking for a response. "What… what about ….him?"
"I can love both of you" she snorts "Where there is love, there is life. Live with it."
She kisses him and runs down the steps with Jack close behind. Jack playfully grabs her ass and she nearly stumbles down the stairs.
They come to the bottom of the steps giggling and jabbing each other. Once off the stairs they instantly transform as though hit with cold air. They assume a cool, professional exterior and walk two feet apart. One would look at them and see only two business associates here to ply their trade.
They walk across the dimly lit dining room to a table in the far corner where two men are already waiting. The first is Mr. Humphries, age thirty-five, the other is Mr. Chrysler, age sixty. Both men are impeccably dressed with a distinguished air. They stand and smile.
"Rose, nice to see you." Humphries bows slightly as he takes her hand.
"Sorry we're late." She simpers accordingly.
"Nonsense. Sit, please."
Chrysler is struggling with English "You must be Mr. Jack."
"I'm sorry. Jack Harkness."
Chrysler's hand is already out. "Monsieur Chrysler. A pleasure."
"How do you do?" They shake hands. Jack takes Humphries's hand next. "Monsieur Humphries. So nice to finally meet you."
Everyone sits at the table. All faces are smiling.
Rose's hand reaches out and finds Jack's leg under the table. Her hand runs high up his inner thigh and squeezes firmly. Her face is absolutely calm, giving no hint of what her hand is doing.
Jack smiles and clears his throat.
Unbeknown to him, downstairs there is a commotion at the back door. Five sets of feet arriving at the bottom of the stairs to the kitchens. The feet in the middle wear shoes notably nicer than the rest.
SPECIAL AGENT ANDREW DAVIDSON, CUSTOMS.
Thirtyish, blonde-haired and determined.
"Rose brought us your proposal and I'll be honest. We're very impressed." Humpgries says excitedly "A bit sceptical, I must admit, but impressed."
"Sceptical" Jack repeats.
Chrysler leans forward "We find the concept brilliant, but New York is difficult for new restaurants. How can we be certain that our money will be returned in the long run?"
Jack looks at Rose and smiles confidently as he replies "It's simple gentlemen, design versatility. A restaurant that can change with taste without losing the overall aesthetic. Our atmosphere won't be painted on the walls."
"This was the part of the proposal that intrigued us, but I'm not sure I follow."
"Let's say for example…" Jack begins but is interrupted.
"This I had to see myself."
Jack looks up. He sees Andy Davidson. Behind him are the very serious looking guys in suits. Jack is not happy to see them.
"Andy. I'm in a meeting."
"Time for another one." Andy smiles.
"This is my attorney, Rose Tyler." Jack is gesturing "This is Mr. Chrysler and Mr. Humphries. Everyone, this is Andrew Davidson"
"Special Agent Davidson. Customs." Andy corrects him and gestures to men behind him "These gentlemen are with the New York police department. You look great, Jack. Better than I would have thought."
"Is there a problem, Mr. Jack?" Chrysler blinks.
Davidson answers with a predatory grin "The small matter of a stolen truck- load of guns that wound up on a boat to Ireland last night."
Chrysler and Humphries's confusion is giving way to suspicion.
"Mr. Jack?"
"If you will excuse us for a moment, gentlemen." Jack sighs as he looks over at Rose.
"We need to ask you some questions downtown. You'll be quite awhile." Davidson chortles as Chrysler starts to get up.
"We should leave you to discuss whatever this is." Chrtser sats as he struggles to mve away.
"Please. Sit." Jack stands up and throws a wad of money on the table to cover the check. He looks at Rose. She moves to stand, but he sits her back down with a hand on her shoulder. "Enjoy the meal. I'll call you. "
Davidson takes him by the arm, but Jack yanks away.
He looks out over the dozens of other faces in the restaurant. Everyone is looking at him with some level of surprise. If Jack is humiliated by the whole affair, he hides it well.
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A police officer opens the steel door.
A pair of slippered feet shuffle across the cement floor. The shoes are shabby and worn, as are the wrinkled pants that hang too low and loose at the cuffs. The right foot is turned slightly inward and falls with a hard limp. It is clear that the knee does not extend fully.
The sound of a steel door opening. The bottom corner of a steel cage comes into view. Another set of feet falls into step with the first. Another steel door and another set of feet. Another door, another and another. Five pairs of feet walk single file down the hall.
The lame feet are in the front of the line. They come to another steel door, this one solid and covered with dents and rivets.
Ifan Jones, IANTO to his few friends. He has a sad bland looking face, making his thirty-odd years a good guess at best.
From his twisted left hand, we can see that he suffers from a slight but not debilitating palsy. Behind him are Jack, Owen, Suzie and Toshiko Sato.
Ianto steps through the door, followed by the rest.
"It didn't make sense that I be there. I mean these guys were hard-core hijackers, but there I was. At that point, I wasn't scared, I knew I hadn't done anything they could do me for. Besides, it was fun. I got to make like I was notorious."
The five people are ushered into the room in front of a white wall painted with horizontal blue stripes. Each has a number at either end to denote the height of the person in front of it.
Between these lines are thinner blue lines to tell the specific height in inches. Bright lights shine on all of them. They squint, eyes adjusting.
Jack leans forward a bit and looks at the men in line with him. He shares a look of familiarity with Owen and then Suzie. Sato smiles at all of them.
Suzie calls to Jack "Where you been, man?"
"SHUT UP IN THERE" A voice shouts over the intercom "Alright, you all know the drill. When your number is called, step forward and repeat the phrase you've been given. Understand?"
They all nod.
"Number one. Step forward."
Sato takes a step forward. She looks directly into a mirror on the other side of the room. It is three feet square and we can make out faint light behind it. It is a two-way. She speaks in a complete dead- pan. "Hand-me-the-keys, you… you …. Sorry do I have to cuss?"
"Number two. Step forward."
Suzie steps up and makes a gun with her thumb and forefinger. She mocks criminal intensity, pointing at the mirror. She camps up her line. "Give me the keys, you motherfucking, cocksucking pile of shit, or I'll rip off your…"
"KNOCK IT OFF. Get back in line."
Suzie steps back.
The rest of them do their bit as Ianto speaks. "But … they are girls…sorry … ladies, we all sound nothing alike!"
It was bullshit. The whole rap was a setup. Everything is the cops' fault. You don't put guys like that in a room together. Who knows what can happen?
