Benjamin Frandsen was awarded an Honorable Mention in Drama in the 2018 Prison Writing Contest.
Every year, hundreds of imprisoned people from around the country submit poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and dramatic works to PEN America’s Prison Writing Contest, one of the few outlets of free expression for the country’s incarcerated population. On September 13, PEN America will celebrate the winners of this year’s contest with a live reading at the Brooklyn Book Festival, Break Out: Voices from the Inside.
sYmantyX
Logline: When a computer genius creates a program
that predicts coincidence—and the future—he
must fight to escape deadly shadow agents who
will kill him to get it.
BLACK SCREEN
NARRATOR (V.0.)
Coincidence. Is it really only what
it seems—two events intersecting
in no discernible pattern?
FADE IN
EXT. SPIDER WEB – DAY
A SPIDER is halfway through spinning its web. In the b.g., two BLURRY FIGURES are barely visible through the silvery tendrils of webbing.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
All things in nature are made up of
patterns.
EXT. SPIDER WEB – LATER
The same spider finishes the last of its intricate web.
NARRATOR (V.O.). (CONT’D)
Patterns are formed by series of
intersections.
INT. CONVENIENCE STORE – NIGHT
With trembling hands, a wild-eyed MASKED MAN with a small .22 pistol is holding up the frightened CLERK.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
People do things because they have
the will to do them.
A UNIFORMED COP runs in with a .38 revolver drawn. The MASKED MAN drops his weapon and raises his shaky hands.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
The intersections of each of our wills
also form patterns.
EXT. BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF BUSY TRAFFIC INTERSECTION – DAY
Two lines are drawn, John Madden style, in a + over the
perpendicular streets, a letter X on the horizontal line, a Y on the vertical.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Small wonder that the intersection
of the X and Y axes
(the word origin is written
where the two lines meet)
is called the “origin.” Intersection
is where all things begin.
INT. LABORATORY – DAY
A gloved hand pours the contents of one test tube into a glass beaker, causing a SMALL EXPLOSION.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’D)
Two chemicals meet and cause a chemical
reaction.
INSERT – ANIMATION
Two FUNGUS THREADS shoot from either side of the screen and collide at center. A RED MUSHROOM WITH WHITE SPOTS sprouts at the collision point.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
Two mycelial threads collide and form a
mushroom.
INT. DARK BEDROOM – NIGHT
PANTING, a WOMAN and her LOVER passionately embrace under a blanket.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
Two lovers come together to make a child.
It is only by two things coming together
that anything new is made.
INT. BATHROOM – MORNING
The same WOMAN squints in horror at a HOME PREGNANCY kit.
WOMAN
(aghast)
Oh my God.
INT. DIVORCE COURT PROCEEDINGS – DAY
A MAN and his soon-to-be-ex WIFE glare daggers at each other as the JUDGE’s gavel DROPS with finality. A placard below the judge reads: DIVORCE COURT.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The Book of the Samurai says: “It is
bad when one thing becomes two.”
INT. CHAPEL – DAY
A joyful BRIDE and GROOM gaze rapturously at one another.
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’ D)
The Bible says: “The twain shall become
one.”
INSERT – A SKETCH OF MARK TWAIN
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’ D)
Twain says: “A dream that comes only
once is oftenest an idle accident …
EXT, MICHAELS’ HOUSE – NIGHT
Dozens of FBI AGENTS, clad in black, silently surround the house, running low, guns drawn.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
(uninterrupted from above)
… and hasn’t any message. But the
recurrent dream is quite another matter.
Oftener than not, it has come on
Business.
Two skulking agents near the door, nod and gesture…
INSIDE (HACKER’S POV)
The only sound is the STACCATO TAP-TAPPING of fingers flying over the keyboard, typing in some complicated programming language.
Until … KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK! Jolting awake, JOHN Michaels (20s) tries to orient himself. He was asleep at his computer desk, which is forested by empty Red Bull cans.
M.I.T. sweatshirt, two-day stubble, his usually sharp features are now blurred by panic. He pads furtively to the door, moving quickly, precisely, like a rabbit wary of danger. He KNOCKS twice, waits …
We HEAR A COMPLICATED SERIES OF KNOCKS in response. Relief washes over his face. He punches the keypad, DISARMING THE ALARM. UNLOCKS three heavy deadbolts.
And in bursts: LIBRA (Jen Michaels, 20s) her hands gesticulating wildly.She’s sharply dressed, her intelligent eyes wide as if for emphasis. Unlike her cousin, John, she has a strong Irish lilt when she speaks.
LIBRA
Three days, Johnny. Three days.
Professor Hoffstettler says if you
don’t have your thesis project in
by then,
(picking up his graduation
cap from a nightstand)
you won’t be needin’ this next
week. Ay, you’ll be lucky t’keep
that sweatshirt.
JOHN
What do you think I’ve been doing,
Libra?
Surreptitiously, he picks up a LEATHER JOURNAL from the desk, hiding it casually behind him. She notes the blank screen.
LIBRA
Not much apparently. You look all
craw sick-like.
JOHN
No, Mom, I wasn’t drinking.
LIBRA
Then how d’ya explain being up
all night with naught but a blank
screen t’show for it?
(eyeing him suspiciously)
Where is it? Give it here.
She reaches around him and snatches his journal away.
JOHN
What the hell? I spent-
LIBRA
(heated)
All your time in this bloody thing,
I know! When you need t’be
working. Now I know it doesn’t
come natural for a pisces t’do any
actual work.
His eyes say: Here we go again. She holds the journal up.
LIBRA (CONT’D)
They’re dreams, my starry-eyed
cousin. Everyone has dreams.
(kindly now)
But they wake up. Whatcha need is
a bit o’ Doctor Whack
(smacks his head)
t ‘ knock some sense in you.
Chastised, he turns away from her to a FRAMED PHOTO – FATHER AND SON HOLDING UP SEVERAL FISH, SMILING.
LIBRA (CONT’D)
‘e gave up everything for you, you
square-headed dolt. So you could
wear that funny hat. And he’ll be
out in time t’see it. D’ you know
what that means to him?
She steers his attention to another FRAMED PHOTO – JOHN AND A BEAUTIFUL GIRL, CLEARLY BOTH IN LOVE.
LIBRA (CONT’D)
And what about your Lily? Flying
out in less than a week to see
her distractible prince graduate.
JOHN
(chin held high)
I’m going to graduate. But I need to
find the connection.
(tapping the journal)
It’s in here. I just… have to find
The patterns keep surfacing.
It means something.
LIBRA
And if it doesn’t? If it’s nought
but coincidence? What then?
He starts pacing, speaking as he does when his mind is racing: in run-on sentences at hyper-speed.
JOHN
Yesterday? I heard the word
“portentous” three times in three
different places. I haven’t
heard that word in years. Three
times? Don’t you think it has to
mean something?
She nods sagely and pats him on the back.
LIBRA
Ay. It does. Means you’re not
taking your Ritalin, Mr. A.D.D.
(louder)
You going to face your dad, tell
him you were too busy playing
connect-the-dots in your damn dream
journal to graduate?
John nods. He knows she’s right. He opens a desk drawer, DROPS the journal in, SHUTS the drawer. She winks, pinches his nose, and heads for the door.
JOHN
Where’s Uncle Corky?
LIBRA
You know my dad. Pub’s just closed.
He steps into his shoes.
JOHN
I’ll walk down there with you.
(a wry grin)
He can tell us his latest conspiracy
theories on the way home.
Leaning over his keyboard, he types something. PUSH IN, we see the screen reads: SECURITY SURVEILLANCE SYSTEM-SET. He picks up a container of baby powder, backs out of the room powdering the carpet as he goes. He’s done this before.
LIBRA
You’re one t’talk, Mr. Paranoid.
What’s the baby powder for? The
carpet got a rash?
He ignores her and continues sprinkling. Resets the alarm. Heads outside…
EXT. MICHAELS’ HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS – CONTINUOUS
We TRACK them walking along the quiet street.
JOHN
Better to be safe.
LIBRA
(laughing) From whom? You—
JOHN
“Whom?” Who talks like that?
LIBRA
(uninterrupted from above)
—live with your uncle and cousin.
You don’t think your cloak-and-
dagger bit’s even a tad odd?
He pretends not to hear—his specialty. She changes subjects.
LIBRA (CONT’ D)
So I hear your interview with IBM
was a complete disaster. You think
Lily’s going t’marry a stony lout
who can’t land a job?
They cross MASS AVE. and wade into the CLOSING-TIME CROWDS…
LIBRA (CONT’D)
I heard you sat in complete silence,
doodling on your resume!
JOHN
(defensively)
I talked.
LIBRA
(falsetto)
“Do you not have a single thing to
add to the conversation?” says
potential employer.
(baritone)
“There are forty-six letters in
your question,” says Johnny.
Seeking to extricate himself from further ridicule, he points to a SMALL CROWD chatting and staggering outside.
EXT. PHOENIX BAR, CAMBRIDGE – CONTINUOUS
A stout, redheaded man (MICK, 40s) is holding up “CORKY” (Chris Michaels, 40s). Or vice-versa. Hard to say.
JOHN
Over there.
Weaving quickly though the crowd, John’s almost too fast for Libra, until the tail-end of a nearby conversation slows him down.
BLONDE WOMAN
… flattered really. Thanks but no
thanks. I’m heading home alone to
crash.
John cringes on the word “crash,” blinks the water from his eyes.
LIBRA
John. You all right?
He nods uncertainly, and is about to take a step when it happens again …
LAUGHING GUY
(Boston accent)
Ouch. Crash and burn, hotshot.
Almost stumbling this time, John winces, eyes shut tight. Now OVERLAPPING, WE HEAR:
BLONDE WOMAN (V.O.)
(echoing)
…and crash.
LAUGHING GUY (V.O.)
(echoing; Boston accent)
Crash and burn, hotshot.
LIBRA
John, you don’t look so good.
JOHN
(weakly)
You don’t hear that?
Concerned, she leads him by the hand like a child. Corky and Mick are carrying on boisterously in think Irish brogues. The ECHOES SLOWLY FADE.
CORKY
Ah! There’s m’love!
(hugs her)
‘preciate ye coming’ and all, but
Mick’s givin’ me a lift in ‘is ol’
noddy to… Johnny? What’s eatin’ ye?
MICK
(oblivious; slurring)
Ol’ Mick here’s bringing’ yer pa to
a shindig in Dorchester. We’re goin’
t’McLeary’s to crash a party.
John grimaces violently this time, jamming his fingertips into his temples, ready to pass out. OVERLAPPING AS BEFORE:
MICK (V.O.) (CONT’D)
(echoing)
…crash a party.
BLONDE WOMAN (V.O.)
(echoing)
…and crash.
LAUGHING GUY (V.0.)
(echoing, Boston accent)
Crash and burn, hotshot.
Then abruptly, the ECHOES STOP. John is suddenly the epitome of aplomb, his voice clear and sharp.
JOHN
Uncle Corky, you can’t go. Mick,
you shouldn’t be-
CORKY
Now, now, lad. Yer Nuncle Corky’s
been at this ‘fore ye were born. I’m
not about to-
JOHN
(volcanically)
No!You can’t go!
The NEARBY CROWD gawks at his outburst. Libra and her dad trade concerned looks.
CORKY
Okay, lad. No sense gettin’ like
a totty with her courses now. Ah,
well, sorry ’bout that, Mick.
‘nother time? Good den to ye.
Mick shrugs and teeters into the driver’s seat of an old, brown Buick Skylark. STARTS THE ENGINE, waves, and drives off.
EXT. FARTHER DOWN MASS. AVE. – A FEW MINUTES LATER
We TRACK them as John, absorbed in his thoughts, maunders ahead of his whispering kin.
LIBRA
Dad, I’m worried. I’ve never seen
‘im like this. I mean, he’s always
a bit …
(wobbles a hand)
But nothin’ like this.
They’re about to overtake a middle-aged man, WILL Harrington, who is listening with interest to the sound of his own voice.
WILL
(to no one or everyone)
The other man got out of the car
dead. My other sisters are all
wed. If anyone is using electronic
devices, I’ll be sure to keep the
noise down because I’m receiving
cable signals at 10,000 decibels from
some soy factory.
Slowing to keep pace, the Michaelses take a closer look at Will. He appears to be a vagrant. They are torn between fascination and fear. John is about to pass him. Until …
WILL (CONT’ D)
(singsong)
Crash, crash, crash.
(looking John in the eye)
About time somebody listened.
Stunned, John matches Will’s rambling stride and absently touches his own temples, searching Will’s face for answers.
JOHN
You, ah, sir?
WILL
(giggling)
“Sir”! No sir, I’m no “sir.” I’m …
Will. Yes. Will. Ah, here it is.
Their vagabond guide halts and immediately starts writing on the vertical part of the bench in thick, black marker: IT BEGINS HERE! Then a big arrow pointing down. He grins.
LIBRA
Yes, that’s, ah, quite nice.
Johnny? Why don’t we get you home.
JOHN
(re: Will’s writing)
What is it?
WILL
It’s a sign.
JOHN
Clearly. But what’s it mean?
The older man wags his eyebrows mischievously.
WILL
What does “meaning” mean?
Libra’s now tugging on John’s arm to go. Corky’s stifling a laugh. John is utterly entranced by this strange man.
JOHN
I don’t know. I guess it means
what it does.
WILL
Yes! Good. And what does it do?
JOHN
Do? Well… nothing.
Will shakes his head sadly at his disappointing protégé.
WILL
Then you’re doing it wrong. Meaning
will do nicely. If you let it.
(an awkward beat)
Now you folks get home before that
narcoleptic jackass flattens you.
He turns and rolls away like a dissipating fog, leaving them staring blankly at the bench.
CORKY
Sweet Jesus. Were we in ‘is dream,
or was ‘e in ours?
Their LAUGHTER wanes as we HEAR THE RUMBLE OF A CAR ENGINE. A brown Buick Skylark is drifting out of its lane.Only a half-block away, the headlights are heading right for them …
JOHN
(under his breath)
“Crash” …
He tackles them both to the ground. The Buick just misses them, bouncing up the curb and CRASHING into the bench. Steam from the radiator rises into the night. Bruised and scratched, but unharmed, they stand and peer …
INT. BUICK – CONTINUOUS
Mick is slumped over, his head bleeding slightly. The passenger side has been completely crushed by the tree.
CORKY
Mick?
(checks his pulse)
‘e’s okay. The bockedy bugger’s
just out cold.
(gaping at John)
Johnny, you weird, wonderful
bastard! Tha’ shoulda been me
sittin’ there.
CLOSE – JOHN RUBBING HIS TEMPLES
NARRATOR (V.0.)
The book of Revelation is said to be
the dream of John …
We PULL BACK TO REVEAL the splintered bench’s message: IT BEGINS HERE!
NARRATOR (V.0.) (CONT’D)
(uninterrupted from above)
But was it John’s dream? Or was it
God’s will? Well, John had that dream
again, Dream-you’ll meet him later,
and this? This is Will. And as his sign
says: it begins here.
John’s face is ablaze with the blinding light of epiphany.
JOHN
Of course.
INT. PROFESSOR HOFFSTETTLER”S OFFICE, M.I.T. – MORNING
Secretary CHARLOTTE Davis, a daunting gatekeeper, is organizing towering stacks of thesis papers. John barges in, red-eyed, hair wild. She tries to block his path into the professor’s inner sanctum:
CHARLOTTE
Young man! You can’t just …
If he hears her, he doesn’t show it. He charges in, half-shouting.
JOHN
It’s an idiot cipher!
Professor HOFFSTETTLER (50s), debonair and fashionably casual today, doesn’t even look up. His eyes are glued to his computer screen.
HOFFSTETTLER
I beg your pardon. I’ve got your
program summary here and I can’t
make heads nor tails of it.
(to Charlotte at the door)
He’s all right, Charlotte. Genius
cannot be fettered by social graces
and such.
She stomps off. The professor eyes the clock on the wall: 11:00.
HOFFSTETTLER (CONT’D)
Cutting it a mite close, aren’t we?
I said noon. Never mind.
(tapping his screen)
Idiot cipher. Continue.
INT. NSA HEADQUARTERS, FORT MEAD, MARYLAND – SAME
Dour senior cryptoanalyst Edward BLEVINS (40s) glowers over the shoulder of his subordinate, Amir JAFAR (20s), at a large flat screen monitor.
BLEVINS
When did this come in?
JAFAR
The M455MPP flagged the attachment
from the email as a Conversation
of Interest at 0955 hours.
Stutterlogic filters scanned the
text and forwarded it to our
cryptoanalysts
seventeen minutes ago.
BLEVINS
What the hell is it?
JAFAR
(hint of admiration)
Some M.I.T. student. I doubt he even
knows what a game changer this program
could be.
(off Blevins’ scowl)
If it works.
INT. PROFESSOR HOFFSTETTLER’S OFFICE, M.I.T. – SAME
JOHN
A lot of homemade codes use what CIA
and NSA cryptographers call idiot
ciphers-designed by an idiot,
decipherable by-
HOFFSTETTLER
—an idiot. How kind. I shan’t
ask you how you know such things.
JOHN
Numbers are substituted for letters.
You take a Frequency Table of the
English language, match it with
most-to-least-common numbers in the
code …
John grabs the closest piece of paper off the desk and jots down some scribbled calculations.
HOFFSTETTLER
That was a letter of reference for
a student.
JOHN
… and voila! There’s your message.
Hoffstettler pushes his glasses up his nose and reads.
HOFFSTETTLER
But your program, this …
JOHN
sYmantyX.
HOFFSTETTLER
Clever. Yes. It uses entire words-I
see. And the words used most often in
each recorded conversation are “marked.”
(gaining momentum)
So when compared to other recordings,
the words that occur most often …
(it sinks in)
You’ve created a program that mines
and tracks collective consciousness.
Do you realize what this could mean to
group dynamics?
John nobs sheepishly, hope glowing in his eyes.
HOFFSTETTLER (CONT’ D)
You’ve done it. You graduate. At
least one Michaels may bring these
halls no shame.
CLOSE – JOHN’S FACE DARKENING
We PULL BACK to see the professor realizing his mistake.
HOFFSTETTLER (CONT’ D)
Look, John, when your father taught
here, we were close. And his arrest
-an M.I.T. instructor hacking of all
things.
John bites back a fiery riposte.
HOFFSTETTLER (CONT’D)
This is excellent work. In fact,
if I haven’t singed your whiskers
too badly, I’d like you to present
it at the Sci-Tech Fair.
JOHN
That’s, ah, that’s tomorrow.
His teacher raises a bushy eyebrow.
JOHN (CONT’ D)
I mean, yes. I, I will.
HOFFSTETTLER
Hm, yes. I thought you might.
(proudly)
Well done.
EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS – A FEW MINUTES LATER
Gliding through the quad with a spring in his step, John answers his RINGING cell phone.
JOHN
Hello?
RECORDED VOICE (V.0.)
This call is from a Massachusetts
correctional facility and is subject
to monitoring and recording. You have a
collect call from…
PATRICK’s VOICE (V.0.)
Patrick Michaels.
BEEP. John presses a BUTTON to accept the call.
PATRICK (V.0.)
(faint Irish accent)
Tow’s m’little rascal?
JOHN
Dad, I did it. I did it! I-
PATRICK (V.O.)
Whoa, Johnny. Slow down.
Flailing his arms, ranting, he almost smacks a PASSERBY.
JOHN
I programmed an algorithm modeled
after substitution ciphers that-
PATRICK (V.O.)
You know I don’t know a damn thing
about computers.
(awkward pause)
It was my choice, son. Mine. And if
the answer to my next question is yes?
It was all worth it. Are you … going to
graduate?
JOHN
Yeah, Dad. Yes. Thank you.
INT. SCI-TECH FAIR, M.I.T. – MORNING
A large open space. A dozen demonstration booths for M.I.T.’s best and brightest, an eclectic crowd of people ranging from BOHEMIAN POETS and GEEKS to VENTURE CAPITALISTS scouting talent.
John’s booth is next to a wiry, Chinese student, Charlie WONG (20s), who is explaining his program.
A graying, bearded man who appears 50 perhaps (“DREAM” Aleksei Andropovich, 30s)listens. But he’s also paying a lot of (covert) attention to someone else …
Richard LUCIAN (40s) is unaware of Dream’s scrutiny. He listens to Wong’s presentation, dollar signs in his eyes. His tailored, navy suit contrasts with his ghostly skin.
He is both gentleman and thug-superb elocution and a smile like a mako shark. His sidekick Habib HASSAD (30s) is nearly as well-dressed, but apparently not as bright; listening to Wong, he looks helplessly lost.
WONG
So in essence, it’s a codemaker. That
learns.
LUCIAN
Artificial intelligence.
WONG
More than just A.I. My software
creates messages encrypted in a
given code and then requires you to
decipher each line before continuing on.
Wandering up behind Dream, John polishes off his chili dog while he listens to his fellow student.
LUCIAN
It’s a test.
WONG
An advanced training tool. For
cryptographers, code breakers. It
times you at each line.
Unnoticed, John drifts to the keyboard of Wong’s simulation and starts the program. Behind Wong, the screen reads: BEGIN DECODING NOW.
WONG (CONT’D)
If you decode a line too quickly
it speeds itself up, your next line
requiring a faster time.
John, in the zone, types insanely fast, decoding each line. He’s gleeful, a bright-eyed kid with a brand new toy.
WONG (CONT’D)
Should that prove too
unchallenging, the program changes
codes without warning. It evolves
until it learns your weakness. The
difficulty increases until it’s
virtually impossible to …
Wong can’t help but notice everyone staring at something behind him. He turns and sees his classmate decoding line after line without even pausing. Until …
CLOSE – JOHN GLANCING UP, EMBARRASSED
JOHN
Oh. Sorry.
We PULL BACK and see that Wong is furious.
WONG
Damn you, Michaels. Showoff.
LUCIAN
(conciliatory)
Mr. Wong, we’re very interested in
your work. In you. I can see
using this as a training aid, a
resharpening tool.
(hands him a business card)
I believe there’s a future for you
at VectorLink.
Perking up at this, Dream edges closer to hear his pitch. Lucian doesn’t notice Dream-he is remarkably unremarkable. Lucian turns to John’s running simulation of sYmantyx.
LUCIAN (CONT’D)
(to John)
That was really something
John dislikes him immediately. Shrugs.
JOHN
Just a game.
LUCIAN
Isn’t everything?
JOHN
No. What’s VectorLink?
LUCIAN
We’re a private-sector security
firm with a high demand for
technology capital.
John studies him a moment.
JOHN
You mean mercenaries.
Lucian offers an icy smile. Dream takes renewed interest.
LUCIAN
We provide specialized services for
clients that require … unique talents.
And we pay well for it. sYmantyX.
Brilliant.
(turning abruptly)
I think I’d like to buy it.
JOHN
Afraid I don’t understand.
LUCIAN
Come now. Surely you’ve considered
the implications. Tying common
threads from separate interviews,
Interrogations.
John’s mouth puckers like he’s tasting a lemon.
JOHN
Wiretaps.
LUCIAN
Perhaps. Would that be so bad?
JOHN
Yes. I designed it for think tanks,
not thought police. You know, I
think you have too many teeth.
Anyone ever told you that?
Lucian flashes another smile, this one laced with menace. He slides a business card into John’s shirt pocket and lowers his voice.
LUCIAN
I would think that, with your
father’s release next week, you’d
jump at the chance to show you’ve
made something of yourself.
The young Michaels’ expression is infused with such cold fury that Hassad moves his bulky frame forward protectively. John is too pissed to care.
JOHN
Who are you? What do you know about
me?
LUCIAN
John Lyndon Michaels. Age 22.
Majoring in M.I.T. Mathematics with
Computer Science, minoring in Science,
Technology, and Society.
Parents met in Prague while your father studied
advanced mathematics, and she
Linguistics of Slavonic Languages.
Your jailbird father, Patrick Michaels,
loved your mother Lenka Hazakova. But
she loved Prague more. She left you
and your father here and-
John doesn’t hear the rest. He storms off, grabbing his backpack on the way out.
LUCIAN (CONT’ D)
(to Hassad)
Tag him. Follow him. If the
program’s in the house, get it.
Surprisingly quick for his size, Hassad darts after John. Dream shadows him, dialing his cell as he moves.
EXT. M.I.T. CAMPUS – MOMENTS LATER
Still seeing red, John steams his way across the quad, too upset to notice the approach of the brute from the rear.
HASSAD
(Middle-Eastern accent)
Mr. Michaels!
(as John turns)
We really wish you would reconsider.
JOHN
So I can help you spy on other
people’s families? Dig into their
personal lives?
Laying a beefy hand on John’s shoulder.
HASSAD
You are jumping to all the wrong
conclusions. VectorLink is a multi-
billion-dollar corporation. Is it
so wrong to do our homework on a
person before investing in him?
CLOSE – HASSAD’S HAND ON JOHN’S SHOULDER
When he pulls away, a tiny TRANSMITTER is left on John’s jacket. PULL BACK to see John recoiling at the man’s touch.
JOHN
Not interested.
Hassad watches John trot off, then pulls a TRACKING DEVICE out of his pocket. He trails John at a leisurely pace. Dream brings up the rear, still on his cell via Bluetooth.
DREAM
Black Sheep, this is Dream. It was
Lucian. Posing as a hi-tech
security bigwig. He just
dispatched a minion to tail some
M.I.T. kid from the fair and snatch
his computer program.
RICKARDS (V.0)
Kind of out of their area, isn’t
it? What do they want with some
kid’s science project? What is it?
DREAM
It … tracks words? In other words, no
idea. But I intend to find out.
Without breaking stride, Dream pulls out a black golf cap and rips off his beard. He dons trendy sunglasses, inserts a silver eyebrow piercing, and doffs his heavy jacket, dropping it on a bench.
In seconds he’s transformed from a middle-aged Russian to a 20-something clubgoer in fitted Emporio Armani. He adopts a West Hollywood swagger and New York accent.
DREAM (CONT’ D)
(effeminately)
What’s your rush?
They’re side by side now. This edge of the campus is deserted. Hassad speeds up. So does Dream. Annoyed, Hassad extends a meaty paw to shove Dream away, a mistake.
Dream hits him four times-chest, stomach, neck, face-so quickly his hands are hard to see. Gasping in sharp pain, Hassad stumbles backwards, right into …
A WHITE MAINTENANCE VAN. The sliding door OPENS just in time for Hassad to fall inside, into the waiting arms of two “MAINTENANCE MEN,” one of whom immediately injects him with a hypodermic needle. The van ROARS off.
Dream CLICKS HIS TONGUE approvingly at the tracking device now in his possession, and strolls off after John.
EXT. CENTRAL SQUARE, CAMBRIDGE – A FEW MINUTES LATER
Through the work-a-day BUSTLING CROWDS, John (with Dream in tow) skirts past a FLOWER SHOP where RAUL Gonzales (50s) is exiting. He has a bouquet of flowers. A helium balloon reading: “happy birthday!” is hovering, tied to the stems.
Dream slips by him and into…
INT. 1369 COFFEE HOUSE – CONTINUOUS
They join the SMALL LINE of CUSTOMERS awaiting their coffee concoctions. John seems agitated. Takes out Lucian’s business card and studies it, tugging on his lip. The flowerchild BARRISTA (20ish) smiles at him, business-like.
BARRISTA
Bone-dry cappuccino, right?
He’s obviously been here before. He nods.
BARRISTA (CONT’ D)
Two-fifty.
He digs in his bag for his wallet and sets his journal on the counter. Seizing the opportunity, Dreams plucks the transmitter from John’s jacket and pockets it.
John pays, but forgets his journal. As John finds a seat, burying his face in his hands, Dream takes the journal to a table, sits, and opens it.
The page he opens to reads sYmantyX trial run==May 15th Keyword Results: dream, exchange, stock, balloon, fire.
He flinches, slopping coffee onto the table as he grabs his temples. In the b.g., John exits and Raul is now ordering. Disoriented, Dream finds himself listening to his surroundings, entranced.
BUSINESS MAN #1
This TZ8? I don’t care what the
numbers on the exchange say. This
stock’s burning up.
Wincing, Dream grips the table, trying to stand.
BUSINESS MAN #1 (V.0.)
(echoing)
… exchange say … stock’s burning up…
Dream falls back into his seat, as the ECHOING CONTINUES.
GIRL NEARBY
You’re a fire sign?
HER DATE
Oh, I never really put much
stock in all that.
This time Dream actually GROANS in agony, grimacing, as NEW ECHOES JOIN OLD …
GIRL NEARBY (V.O.)
(echoing)
… fire sign?
HER DATE (V.O.)
(echoing)
… much stock in …
Covering his ears, Dream’s lips move silently as he reads the page.
PUSHING IN, we see again: dream, exchange, stock, balloon, fire. He fumbles with the tracking device, standing. He starts to fall but Raul catches him. Dream notes the balloon and panics.
DREAM
(to Raul; demanding)
What is that, that balloon for?
Raul is taken aback by this seeming madman. The ECHOES PERSIST.
RAUL
For my daughter, señor. I meet her
at work.
DREAM
Where? Where does she work?
RAUL
The Boston Stock Exchange Building.
The ECHOING rises to a crescendo, and then SUDDENLY STOPS. CRASH! Dream’s cappuccino cup SHATTERS as he lunges for the journal. All eyes are on him. All movement ceases.
DREAM
Where’s the fire?
Silence.
DREAM (CONT’ D)
(on his way out)
Tell your daughter to get out of the
building!
He snatches the journal and bolts outside.
EXT./INT. BOSTON STOCK EXCHANGE BUILDING – 30 MINUTES LATER
Sweating and panting, Dream skids to a stop outside the tall, glass entrance doors. He flings them open. A brawny uniformed SECURITY GUARD greets him with a foreboding stare. Dream’s clubgoer façade has deteriorated badly.
SECURITY GUARD
(Jamaican accent)
Ev’rything all right, sah?
DREAM
You have to get everyone out of the
building.
SECURITY GUARD
Easy now. Calm down, sah.
DREAM
There’s no time for calm. Listen!
The guard reaches behind his desk, pushes an unseen button.
SECURITY GUARD
I’m listenin’.
DREAM
No. You’re not, I think there’s a bomb
in the building.
The Jamaican’s hand drifts nearer to his stun gun. Behind Dream, two beat cops approach warily. The older one, TIMMS (30s), holds the door open for his partner, EGGERS (20s).
EGGERS
Problem?
SECURITY GUARD
‘e’s crazy. Says there be a bomb in
the buildin’.
Both cops roll their eyes.
TIMMS
(into his radio)
Get me a supervisor.
(to Dream)
Sir, you mind stepping over here?
DREAM
How about a little sense of urgency?
I-
A SQUELCH OF STATIC drowns him out.
TIMMS
(into his radio)
Antonelli? I need Bomb Squad on
standby, 200 Franklin, downtown.
(to Dream again)
Now. Why you think there’s a bomb-
DREAM
It would take too long to explain.
You have to evacuate the building.
EGGERS
(opening the door)
Everything’s gonna be fine. Just
step out here with me so we can
sort this out.
Out of options, Dream makes a surprising decision.
DREAM
Fine. I planted a bomb in the
building.
Timms whips out his baton. He’s pissed now.
TIMMS
You think this is some kinda game?
DREAM
Damnit! Follow your protocol. If
someone, anyone, claims they-look,
cuff me. Do what you want, but
empty the damn building.
(pleading)
If I’m wrong, you’ve given a few
hundred people a coffee break. If
I’m right …
A tense hush settles on them. Timms sighs, giving Dream the evil eye.
TIMMS
(to the guard)
Do it. Everybody out. Cap’s gonna
have my ass.
EXT, BOSTON STOCK EXCHANGE BUILDING – LATER
From somewhere inside, an ALARM is sounding. Like an anthill exodus, the EVACUEES file outside. The mood is casual. Chatter. Yawns. Smiles.
A few NEWS REPORTERS and CAMERA PEOPLE compete to get footage of Dream, cuffed and being escorted to a squad car. Raul, flowers and balloon in hand, tries to get past the security guard.
SECURITY GUARD
Sorry, sah. It prob’ly be nothing,
but when we have a bomb threat we-
RAUL
A bomb! Ay, dios mio! My daughter’s
in there!
Scanning the crowd frantically, he doesn’t see her (TERESA Gonzales, 30ish) come up behind him.
TERESA
Papi?
He lunges for her, smothering her in a relieved bear hug.
RAUL
Oh mija! I was so worried.
TERESA
I got your message. I went and
grabbed a smoothie. Esta bien, Papi.
I’m fine.
RAUL
(crossing himself)
Gracias a Dios.
TERESA
No entiendo, Papi. How did you know
about this thing before we did?
He casts a troubled look at Dream being pushed inside of the black-and-white, a tattoo on the back of his neck briefly visible.
RAUL
I didn’t. This man, he-
(remembering)
Oh! Mija! The flowers, for you.
Feliz cumpleaños, Teresa,
TERESA
(taking them, beaming)
Aww, Papi, thank-
BOOM! An EXPLOSION of fire, glass and rubble blooms out into the unsuspecting street. Everyone hugs the pavement under the descending blanket of SHRAPNEL. Dust rises slowly.
EXT. SQUAD CAR – SAME
In the back seat, Dream closes his eyes, forehead to the car window glass. High overhead, the balloon floats away, carrying the world as he knew it into the swallowing sky.