Act I:
Open on a parking lot in front of an office building, the same night. A black car pulls to a stop, parking crookedly across two spaces. Whistler steps out of the car. He walks up to the front of the office building and pushes open the glass doors. Above the doors is a large sign that says "AMERICAS DIVISION". Cut to the inside of the elevator. Whistler leans against the back wall, his bowler hat pulled low over his eyes. The elevator dings as it reaches his floor and he steps out. The camera follows him as he walks down the hall, past doors with plaques saying ""PUBLIC RELATIONS," "RESTROOM," "LOUNGE," and "MEDITATION ROOM." He goes through the door at the end of the hall and the camera zooms in on the sign saying "THE MANAGEMENT".
Cut to the inside of a large office room, full of desks, computers, and people. The camera follows behind Whistler as he walks through and waves to an olive-skinned woman behind the front desk.
Whistler: Check me in, will you?
He sits down at his desk and opens a new file on his computer. He types the words "Field Report # 394578616" at the top. After staring blankly at the screen for awhile, he comes to the conclusion that a report is not forthcoming.
Whistler (muttering): Aw hell. Coffee.
Cut to a close-up of the coffee machine as Whistler pours himself some coffee. Cut to a wider shot of Whistler standing next to the coffee machine while Camilla, a slender brunette, comes over to join him.
Camilla: Yo, Whistler. You seem glum.
Whistler: Hey Cam.
Camilla frowns as she pours herself a cup of coffee.
Camilla: Okay, I'm too impatient to play the guessing game. What's the matter?
Whistler: That job. It was for their side.
Camilla simply nods sadly, understanding immediately what he means.
Camilla: Right.
Whistler: I hate it when they make me the bad guy.
Camilla: Sometimes I wonder if Upper Management isn't just screwing with all of our heads. Job like this is enough to drive anybody crazy. Though I'm not sure you need the help.
Whistler tries to muster a smile in response to her crooked one.
Camilla: You know, the help . . . with going crazy . . . get it? (She sighs) Okay, Operation Cheering Up is commencing now. I'll be back; don't move.
Whistler snorts as she walked away. He leans against the wall and sips his coffee as his thoughts turn back to his last trip to the outside world. Thankfully, Frank, a short guy with glasses, approaches and shakes him from his thoughts.
Frank: Hey there. (coughs nervously as he pours his coffee) You and Camilla seem to be getting on, um, well. You know. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Know what I mean?
Whistler: You been at the Monty Python tapes again?
Frank (shrugging): Nothing good was on TV.
Whistler: You've got to get out more.
Frank: I'm no good at field work. It's a curse.
Whistler: Not work, man, out. There's a whole universe and you hardly ever go down to the cafeteria!
Camilla and Jeremy walk up to Whistler and Frank.
Jeremy: I hear we're on a mission.
Frank: A mission? You mean an assignment?
Jeremy: No, I don't mean an assignment. I mean a mission. A mission to have some good old-fashioned fun.
Camilla: Shut up, you two. We're going out.
Frank: Say no more!
Whistler groans.
Whistler, Camilla, and Jeremy walk out of the office, Frank trailing after them. As they disappear through the wooden door, Frank's voice carries down the hall.
Frank: The cafeteria's that way!
Camilla: I don't want to go to the cafeteria. Whistler, do you want to go to the cafeteria? No, wait–you want to go to a Manhattan bar.
Whistler: No place like home.
Cut to the interior of Whistler's car as all four of them squeeze into it, Whistler in the front seat.
Jeremy (to Frank): He was born and raised in the bar, went to school in the bar, until he finally moved on to Immortal Balance Demon Academy of Management. It's a beautiful story, really, full of love, adventure, beer . . .
Cut to a wide shot of the inside of a packed bar. Rock music blares from speakers near the small dance floor, where a few couples are gyrating to the beat. Whistler, Camilla, Jeremy, and Frank are seated at the bar, talking and drinking as the camera zooms in on them.
Angle: looking down the bar, with Whistler in the forefront.
Camilla: My last job, wow. That man was terrifying. I mean, sure, he was a good guy, but lighten up already! Talk about paranoid. How do these people get to be champions?
Jeremy (darkly): They're not all champions.
Whistler: Cam, that's nothing. Couple years back, I was assigned to a Slayer and, man, that was one intense kid. She actually said she would rip out my rib cage and wear it as a hat. Course it wasn't all that scary coming from a little blond kid, even if she did have me shoved up against a wall.
Cam: I'll bet she did.
Whistler: Well, she did have a thing for older men. Vampire. But anyway, for a few seconds I thought she might actually do it.
Frank (awed): What convinced you?
Cam: She wouldn't have done it. She'd get gunk in her hair.
Whistler raises his hand to get the bartender's attention as he asks for another drink.
Whistler: Another beer.
He takes the mug the bartender hands him and begins to sip. Cut to a shot of all four of them, with the camera behind them, looking at their reflections in the mirror over the bar.
Jeremy (laughing): Women. Gotta love 'em.
Whistler: Got that right, man.
Cam: Hey!
She smacks them both upside the head, leaving Whistler spluttering over a pool of spilt beer on the counter. Angry, he opens his mouth to protest but is cut off by a shrill beeping. They all turn to look at Frank, who sheepishly fishes his phone out of his pocket. They all sigh with relief as the high-pitched noise cuts off. Frank puts it to his ear and listens for a few seconds, his face growing pale.
Frank: Shit, Whistler, Upper Management wants you. They want me to send you on up. I don't know if they know, you know, we're not, uh, in the office. If they find out, if they ask me, I couldn't lie, I'd have to tell them, but it was your idea, it was . . .
Jeremy places his hand on Frank's shoulder and looks him in the eye.
Jeremy (earnestly): Breathe.
Frank: But–
Jeremy: No. No buts. I am in a good mood tonight and the Uppers aren't spoiling that no matter how hard they try.
Whistler: I sure hope they don't. I dunno how well I could handle another one of your mood swings right now.
Camilla stands and gestures for the others to do so. She tosses a few bills onto the wet counter.
Camilla: Come on. Designated Driver says it's time to go.
Cut to a shot of the outside of the bar, illuminated by a blue neon sign that reads "Ferdinand's". Camilla, Jeremy, Whistler, and Frank come out of the bar and climb into the black car. This time, Camilla slides into the front seat.
Angle: from the back seat, looking out the windshield.
Camilla (over her shoulder as she drives): So how was Operation Cheering Up?
Whistler: Better than Desert Storm.
Camilla: That's not saying very much.
Whistler and Jeremy share a laugh. Frank just looks confused.
Frank: Is that a mortal world joke? You know I don't go down there very often.
Whistler: Yeah Frank, it's a mortal world joke.
Camilla is now driving on the highway. She turns her head to look at her companions.
Camilla: Where's our exit? Anybody see it?
They are quiet for a few seconds until Frank shouts in excitement and begins gesticulating wildly.
Frank: Oh! There it is! I see it! I found it!
Camilla: Crap.
She spins the wheel in her hands and hauls the car over to the right, ignoring the honking of horns and screeching of tires as she pulls the car onto the ramp she almost passed.
Whistler: Jesus, Cam, you're an awful designated driver.
Camilla: Like you could've spotted it, even if you were sober.
Angle: Outside of the car as it drives into the distance. The camera focuses on a sign saying "Exit ∞: Next Dimension".
Cut to the interior of the office as the four of them return.
Angle: Behind them, looking over their shoulders.
Whistler: Alright. I'm going in. (Turns to Frank) I'll buy you Life of Brian if you write up my field report. It was a potential warlock: real dodgy character who gets off on pain. I convinced him to start experimenting with the occult. Predicted results: well, he might do some initial good, and then go crazy with the power. Sound good? The file's on my desk.
Angle: looking over Whistler's shoulder as he faces his three companions.
Frank nods, used to this treatment. Camilla scowls and shakes her head disapprovingly while Jeremy looks on and laughs.
The camera follows Whistler again as he walks all the way through the office until he reaches a white door with the blinds lowered over the little window. He fishes through his pockets, pulling out a few crumpled dollars, some spare change, a parking ticket, keys, and a mysteriously sticky rubber ball. Finally, he pulls out his ID which he slides through the small security box next to the door. It flashes green and he goes through the door into a small white room. A phone booth stands in the middle of the room. Whistler steps into the booth and takes the phone off the hook. The camera zooms in on him inside the cramped booth as he pushes the only button on the phone: "UM".
Whistler puts the phone to his ear and waits a few seconds before speaking.
Whistler: Upper Management summoned me. The name's Whistler . . . Code # 8749 . . . A job interview? For a new applicant? Okay, okay . . .
Whistler pulls the parking ticket out of his pocket again, along with a small red pencil that resembles the pencils used at golf courses. He holds the phone between his shoulder and ear while he takes notes on the back of the ticket.
Whistler (writing and listening): Applicant is half-Brachen . . . Allen Francis Doyle . . . recently deceased.
End Act I
TBC (in Act II)
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