Act II

Open to a shot of Camilla and Jeremy peering through a shuttered window. The camera is behind them as a few demons walk by, sending the eavesdropping pair odd looks.

Whistler (O.S.): So. Allen Francis Doyle. That's a lot of names.

As Whistler speaks, the camera slowly moves in towards the window. When it can go no farther, cut to the inside of the room. The camera moves across white walls to a clear table in the middle. On one side sits Whistler, leaning back in his chair so that only two chair legs are on the ground. Doyle slouches uncomfortably in the chair on the other side.

Doyle: It's just Doyle these days.

Whistler: Heh. Well, looks like you've already got one part of immortality down pat. The name thing. The best names in the universe get boring after a few decades, or centuries for those with more patience than me.

Doyle (leaning forward slightly): I wore out both Allen and Francis in just twenty years. Wonder how long Doyle'll last.

Whistler: Look at me. I've been Whistler for the past . . . forty? fifty? years. Can't even remember what it was when I signed on to this gig, ages ago. You just wait, twenty years will feel like nothing, you get this job.

Doyle: Now when you say "ages," are we talking decades or centuries or millenia . . .

Whistler gives him a look.

Doyle: Right. Ages.

Cut to a shot of Camilla and Jeremy's eyes, just barely visible through the shutters they've pried apart with their fingers.

Camilla (whispering): Can you hear what they're saying?

Jeremy (also whispering): No. (Grunts) Looks like they're getting along famously.

Cut back to Whistler and Doyle.

Whistler: Just so you know, my friends are probably listening in right now.

He swivels in his chair towards the window where, sure enough, he spots two sets of eyes that quickly disappear behind the shutters. Whistler turns back to Doyle and notices that the half-demon's eyes have clouded over slightly.

Whistler (casually): I hear you ran with Angel.

Doyle nods but does not speak.

Whistler: How's he doing? Still alive–well, undead, anyway–I hope.

Doyle: He's still playing the Dark Avenger, if that's what you're asking.

Whistler: Good to know. I haven't checked in on him in awhile, not since he up and left the little Slayer. (Chuckling) I needed a break from the drama, and I wasn't even there!

Doyle (shifting nervously): Not to be rude or anything, but seeing as how this is a job interview, shouldn't we be talking about the job or my qualifications for said job? You know, something like that?

Whistler (putting his hands behind his head): There are plenty of things that should be but aren't. 'Sides, there'll be time for that later. If there's one thing we've got plenty of up here, it's time. (Frowns) Except when the Uppers are doing their performance assessments. Then there's never enough time to get all of your reports filed. Speaking of reports, I'd better check on mine. (Stands) Come on. I'll show you around.

Cut to the main office room. Whistler is walking along while Doyle follows right behind him.

Whistler (calling out): Oy, Frank! You get that report filed?

Across the room, Frank gives Whistler a toothy smile and a thumbs-up.

Whistler (to Doyle): That's Frank for you. He's the office geek. Doesn't do much work in the field – not suited for it really – so he mostly handles paperwork, and sometimes acts as a go-between for us and the Uppers.

Doyle: About these "Uppers" . . .

Whistler: Yeah?

Doyle: Well, just how exactly are they related to the Powers That Be? I spent awhile as something of a go-between for the Powers and their champions. Not pretty, let me tell you. Miserable hours, low pay, and migraines made that the worst job I've ever had.

Whistler (hesitating): Well . . . it's not really clear. They might be the Powers, or the Powers might be their superiors. They don't exactly keep their employees in the know.

Whistler is looking at Doyle instead of watching where he's going, and as a result nearly knocks over Ophelia. Doyle's eyes widen at the sight of the old woman. She is tall and thin, almost brittle. Her black hair is streaked with gray, and her face is heavily lined. She is sending something of a predatory glare Whistler's way.

Whistler (with fake cheer): Ophelia! How've you been? Have you met Doyle?

Ophelia: I'm very well, thank you. It is so kind of you to ask. No, I have not met this young gentleman but I know who he is. (Off Doyle's confused look) You two haven't exactly been quiet. (To Whistler) And your companions haven't either.

Whistler laughs at that, then attempts to pass it off as a cough. Doyle appears rather worried when Ophelia turns her attention to him.

Ophelia: If I may be so bold, why do you want this job?

Doyle: Well, I, uh, I've been working as something of a, uh, champion down on Earth. And well, I guess it sorta went to me head. Anyway, I, um, I died, obviously. And being a half-demon messenger for the Powers That Be, I was offered a choice between nirvana and this.

Ophelia: So why is the Management preferable to nirvana?

Doyle: Well, what's life – afterlife – without a little bit of suffering?

Ophelia appears unsatisfied with his answer.

Ophelia: It's dreadfully important work, you know. Keeping the universe in balance. Do you know why?

Doyle looks to Whistler for help, but the demon looks down at his shoes. If Whistler knows the answer, he's not sharing.

Doyle: So that Evil don't take over? No wait, so that Good don't . . . um, no.

Ophelia: I thought not. Do you know of the Zoroastrians?

Doyle (squinting as he tries to remember): They those scaly fellows with the fire-eyes?

Whistler hides his chuckle beneath a laugh, eliciting a look from Ophelia that instantly silences him.

Ophelia: They are followers of an ancient religion called Zoroastrianism, founded, not surprisingly, by a man called Zoroaster. There aren't many of them in the modern world, but there used to be. When the Prophet Muhammed was taking his first baby steps, the entire Sasanid Empire was practicing Zoroastrianism. According to Zoroaster, the forces of darkness have been engaged in a struggle with the forces of light since the dawn of time. In the end, Good will defeat Evil.

Doyle: Comforting thought.

Ophelia: One might think so. But as you said yourself, what's life without a little bit of suffering? You see, it is implied that when Good triumphs, the end of the world will truly be nigh. The Zoroastrians are far from alone in their belief in an ongoing struggle between Good and Evil. Everyone wants their chosen side to win, but nobody likes to think about what would happen after victory or defeat. When the fate of the universe has been decided, what is next? Perhaps nothing. But that is why we fight not for Good nor Evil, but for Balance between the two. The battle, like the show, must go on. Now if you'll excuse me, I have my own work to do.

She begins to walk away, then turns back and looks at Whistler.

Ophelia: Z is gone.

Whistler is startled, and he immediately stands upright from his position of slouching against the nearest desk. Ophelia departs before he can question her retreating back.

Doyle: Why do I get the feeling that I've missed quite a lot of vital information since she started talking?

Whistler takes his hat off and runs one hand through his black hair. He does not acknowledge Doyle's question. Doyle tries again.

Doyle: What did she mean by "gone"?

Whistler (quietly): Z was on our side. Gone is just . . . gone. Immortals don't exactly die, but we don't always last forever. The soul gets worn out or something like that. I gave up on trying to understand all this mess centuries ago. Point is, most demons here aren't gonna be around forever. Maybe Ophelia is. Notice how she mentioned the dawn of time? Popular theory is that she was there.

Doyle: That's a long time.

Whistler: Forever usually is. Anyway, when immortals . . . go away, they just . . . they just fade.

Camilla (O.S.): You're not depressing the new recruit, are you Whistler?

The camera, along with Whistler and Doyle, turns to reveal Camilla standing a few feet away.

Camilla (to Doyle): Hi, I'm Camilla.

Doyle: Doyle.

Camilla: Yeah. Anyway, don't worry about that fading business. If it does happen to you, it'll be a long time coming. And I mean a long time coming.

Whistler: Z's gone.

Camilla: I thought you were talking about him, but I guess I hoped . . . I don't know what. Now our sides down one.

Whistler and Camilla look at Doyle, then each other, then Doyle again.

Whistler: I wouldn't be too sure of that.

Doyle: Now I know I've missed several somethings.

Camilla: Why don't we go out in the hall?

Cut to a shot of a plaque on the wall that says "LOUNGE". Cut to the inside of the lounge. The three of them are seated in stuffed blue chairs around a small circular table. Camilla and Doyle are both leaning forward, elbows on the table, while Whistler relaxes in the chair.

Camilla: So what do you say?

Doyle: Let me get this straight. You guys work for Balance, but some of you are Good and some of you are Evil. (Leaning back and shaking his head) Goddamn Zoro-whatsits.

Whistler: It's crazier than a nutcase in a white coat, but it's real. Our office is unofficially split down the middle. Cam and me are on Team White Hat. We try to help the good folks out there in the world, but it's tough seeing as how we're, you know, supposed to be impartial Balance demons who are willing to help or hinder either side for the greater good – ahem – balance.

Doyle: And the bosses don't know about this?

Camilla: Maybe they do, maybe they don't. They don't seem particularly troubled by it though, not that any of us really know what troubles them. Thing is, the people they've hired have always made a, for lack of a better word, balance between the two sides. They're always even.

Whistler: Everybody knows who's on what side. Our desks are even arranged that way.

Camilla: Except for Ophelia.

Whistler: Except for Ophelia. Her desk is right smack dab in the middle. Nobody knows what side she's on. Heh. Maybe she's the only really impartial one of us all.

Doyle: This is crazy.

Whistler: I thought we already covered that.

Camilla: Crazy or not, what do you say? Think you'll join us on Team White Hat?

Doyle (to Whistler): You do realize that you're wearing a black hat.

Whistler: Hey, leave my hat out of this.

Camilla (conspiratorially): He's sensitive about his clothes. But you still haven't answered my question.

Doyle: Just take a look at my resume and you'll see. (Suddenly anxious) Well, actually, just look at the last few years. Months. The last day, anyway.

Whistler (waving the parking ticket): This here's the only resume I've seen and it doesn't have much in the way of information.

Doyle (affronted): I worked for Angel.

Whistler stands and the others follow suit. He stretches a bit, then starts to walk out of the lounge.

Whistler (clapping Doyle on the back): Yeah yeah, I know, kid. I was just giving you a hard time.

The camera follows the three of them as they leave the lounge and walk back to the office, talking all the while.

Camilla: Whistler here filling you in on life as an immortal?

Doyle: Well, yeah, I mean, it's a lot to take in. Pretty overwhelming, and then that Ophelia woman spun me around a bit.

Camilla (laughing): That's Ophelia for you. You get used to it eventually. (Her smile falters) I think. I hope.

Doyle looks from Whistler, on his right, to Camilla, on his left.

Doyle: So you haven't been here forever? I mean, obviously not, but . . . how long have you been here?

Whistler: Well, I've always been immortal.

Doyle: How's that work?

Whistler: Eh, it's kinda hard to explain. I mean, we're not exactly born. We just sorta, well, become. You get these baby immortals and there's not really anyone to take care of 'em. Some grow up real fast, and I'm talking literally here. You saw Frank, back in the office? He grew up real fast. Maybe it's why he's so messed up.

Camilla (amused): You on the other hand . . .

Whistler: I was your regular little Peter Pan. Didn't want to grow up, all that jazz. But I did, and here I am.

Zoom in on Doyle's face as he thinks about this. Cut to an image of a mini-Whistler, looking exactly the same as he does know only toddler-sized. Mini-Whistler is sitting in a crib surrounded by white space, shaking a rattle in one hand.

Mini-Whistler (chanting): I don't wanna grow up! I don't wanna grow up . . .

Cut back to actual-size Whistler, Doyle, and Camilla in the hall.

Camilla: But then he went through a second childhood when he discovered Manhattan. You don't wanna witness an immortal having an identity crisis. It's not pretty.

Whistler: Hey! Who helped you through your own little identity crisis?

Camilla (to Doyle): What Whistler's oh-so-subtly hinting at is the fact that I had a bit of a rough transition to immortal life. Although not as rough as some.

Doyle: You were mortal once?

Camilla: Oh yeah. Long time ago.

Cut to a slightly hazy image of rolling plains with tall grass blowing in the wind beneath a clear sky. A child's laughter can be heard, but then the laughter trails off only to be replaced by a scream. Cut back to the three of them in the hall.

Whistler: Don't ask how long.

Doyle, who was indeed about to ask how long, closes his mouth before opening it again as he thinks of something else. None of them notice that they've stopped walking.

Doyle: What's it like?

Camilla (softly): Weird. Disorienting. Exhausting. Exhilarating. All of the above. You know, the one thing I miss the most is dreaming. I haven't had a dream that wasn't a message from the Uppers in disguise since I took this goddamn job.

Whistler: She didn't actually take it too bad. Some bouts of crying, some stony silence, little bit of rage . . .

Doyle: Jeez. That's not too bad?

Camilla: Yeah. I thought I had it bad, but then I saw Jeremy. He's out on a job now, but you'll meet him if you stick around. Now he was a wreck.

Whistler: Big time. Whatever you do, don't talk to him about civil rights, Heaven or Hell, the Scourge . . .

Doyle: The Scourge? What've those bastards got to do with anything?

Camilla and Whistler exchange a surprised and slightly worried look.

Camilla: I take it you know who they are.

Doyle: I died facing them.

An image from Hero, of Doyle grimacing in pain and desperation as the flesh on his face is burned off, flashes on the screen.

A beat.

Camilla: Oh. You and Jeremy should get along well then.

Whistler: Back in the sixties, in the good old U.S. of A., our boy was a twenty-something half-demon enjoying the counterculture when the Scourge came to town. Jeremy found himself surrounded by a world of hate, on both sides. Not a demon and not a man, he turned to the only society he could find. The half-demon equivalent of the Black Panthers, only more violent.

Cut to a shot of Whistler sitting at his desk, sipping from a steaming mug and staring contemplatively at the typewriter in front of him.

Ophelia: Whistler! You look bored. Why don't you show the new recruit around, help him get accustomed.

Whistler looks up as Ophelia and a sullen Jeremy approach. Ophelia gives Jeremy a light shove in Whistler's direction then turns and walks off.

Ophelia (over her shoulder): I'm sure you'll be the best of friends!

Cut back to the hallway.

Whistler: Jeremy's what mortals call bipolar, and those aggressive demon tendencies don't help the matter none. Add it all up, and you got trouble.

Cut back to Whistler and Jeremy seated in front of Whistler's desk, staring at each other.

Whistler (breaking the silence): Some weather we've been having, eh?

Jeremy glares at him.

Whistler: So. What made you want this job? I mean, you died and all, eternal rest and all that.

Jeremy (stonily): I don't know about you, but fire and brimstone isn't really my thing.

Cut back to the three of them in the hall.

Whistler: Committed a fair number of hate crimes in his day. Enough so that his soul's fate was a bit . . . insecure. Decided further employment was the way to go. You know, suck it up to the bosses so that they'd pardon his sins. That was the plan, anyway.

Camilla: I have a sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, he's starting to enjoy himself here.

Doyle: Really? Cos from what I've heard, it don't sound like there are too many perks, life like this.

Camilla and Whistler look at each other.

Camilla: You missed Operation Cheering Up earlier today.

Whistler: I needed some cheering after a rough assignment. So Cam, Jeremy, and me – Frank came too – went down to Ferdinand's in Manhattan. Had some drinks and headed back up.

Doyle: Drownin' your sorrows, eh? I been there. Don't always help.

Whistler: Well, see, there's a perk: you can drink a gallon of vodka down on Earth, cross the dimension line and poof! Say goodbye to your inebriated state.

Doyle: Does that mean – no hangovers! I've died and gone to heaven. If heaven is, you know, an office building full of disgruntled workers.

Camilla: Oh god, not another one! Well, I for one have a job that I should be doing instead of discussing the finer points of drinking. May I remind you, Whistler, that we don't get paid to chat up newcomers in the hall?

Whistler (indignantly): Chat up? Not getting paid? I'm showing him the ropes!

Camilla (walking back into the office): Which includes chatting in the hall.

Whistler: Naturally.

They enter the office and Frank calls out to them from about fifteen feet away.

Frank: Camilla! Upper Management's sent you an assignment.

He hurries over and gives her the file, which she skims. Doyle peeks curiously over her shoulder and sees a photograph of the client: a young black woman.

Camilla: It's a quickie. Good.

Frank: They uh . . . they also said you should take number . . . sorry. The new guy.

Camilla glances at Doyle, then back at Frank.

Camilla: Really? Well, alright.

Whistler: Great! You two go have fun. I'm gonna catch an hour or two of shuteye.

Frank: Are you tired?

Whistler: What kind of a question is that? Am I tired? Of course I'm tired! I've been awake for days!

Frank: But you don't really need that much sleep.

Whistler: Sure, not physically. But unlike you, I need to give my brain a rest more than once a month. (To Camilla and Doyle) Anyway, best of luck. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

He saunters over to his desk, slips into his chair, and pulls his hat over his face. Soon soft snores can be heard.

Frank: Well, I've got to go do Melaka's field report.

As he leaves, Ophelia walks over to Camilla and Doyle.

Ophelia (smiling): Hello Camilla dear.

Camilla (smiling hesitantly): Hi Ophelia.

Ophelia: And hello again, Mr. – Doyle, was it? – You are going with Camilla on this assignment, I take it?

Doyle opens his mouth but Camilla hurries to respond.

Camilla: Yes, he is. It's a young Wicca in Cleveland. Do you know anything about the situation?

Ophelia takes the file from Camilla. She opens it, looks at it for all of three seconds, then hands it back to Camilla.

Ophelia: It's a dangerous area. A dangerous case. And it will not, despite any contrary belief, be a quick assignment. Perhaps initially, but something tells me you'll be working closely with this girl for at least a few weeks.

Camilla (unhappy): Really? I hadn't realized.

Ophelia (condescendingly): So it appears. But yes, this is a complex case. The witch's temper is rather volatile, and she has a great deal of power. Yes, she is a real fencer.

A man, Charles, brushes past Camilla, head down. She shoots an annoyed look at him, but if he notices he does not react.

Doyle: She's a sword fighter?

Camilla (quickly): No, not that kind of fencer. She means he's on the fence. He could go either way.

She eyes him meaningfully. He looks at her uncomprehendingly before his eyes widen.

Doyle: Oh, of course, haha. A fencer. Could go either way. So . . . we've got to . . . be real careful. And we will be.

Ophelia: See that you are.

She walks away, shooting a disparaging look at the sleeping Whistler.

Doyle: Well, she's certainly a . . .

His eyes widen and stare, unseeing, at a point over Camilla's right shoulder. His mouth opens and closes and he makes a few strangled noises.

Camilla: Doyle?

He slaps his palm against his temple as his eyes roll frantically in their sockets. His other hand grips the nearest desk which is, thankfully, unoccupied as he practically doubles over it.

Camilla (grabbing his shoulders): Doyle! Are you okay? Doyle, answer me! Whatever it is, snap out of it!

End Act II