Day One: The Impossible Truth Behind Snake Plissken’s Eye Patch.

INT. MANAGER’S OFFICE – MORNING

A PENCIL scribbles across a piece of paper, quickly writing entries on bold thick lines. It looks like an exam of some sort. A hand grips the pencil tightly. In a hurry.

THE LEAD BREAKS, skittering off across the mahogany desktop.

WIDER – as the man holding the pencil lifts it up to inspect it. This is PLISSKEN. Early 20s, handsome and clean cut. The boy next door. He’s sitting at a large desk in a well-appointed high-rise office. He’s alone.

Plissken’s wearing an ill-fitted suit and drab tie. His eyes blaze briefly with annoyance at the pencil.

PLISSKEN

Ah, well.

He grabs another pencil from his suit pocket and finishes scribbling on the page. When he’s done, he gathers up the five pages he’s written on. Shuffles the papers together and looks around for something.

A STAPLER – heavy-duty, sitting near a large window. Plissken moves to it and attempts to staple his sheets together. The stapler jams. He tries it again, harder. No good. He’s getting irritated.

Plissken picks up the heavy thing, opens it up to peer inside and clear the jam. He pokes it and squeezes the handle a bit, jimmying and clutching and gripping it –

A STAPLE SHOOTS OUT – ZZZIIIP – and embeds itself IN PLISSKEN’S NECK, just below his jawline.

PLISSKEN

AAAAHH, SON OF A BI--

He pivots toward the window, draws his hand back, the stupid jammed stapler clutched in his angry hand. Starts to swing forward, furious destruction ahead –

And he stops himself in mid-throw. Breathing heavily. Calms himself down. Like a mantra:

PLISSKEN

Uno. Dos. Tres. Cuatro –

WOMAN (OS)

What in the hell is going on here?

He turns. A smallish WOMAN stands in the office doorway. 55, grey haired. She looks slight but she’s not. This is the MANAGER.

Plissken replaces the stapler, straightens his suit. Pulls the staple from the skin of his neck and gently dabs the small wound with a tissue.

PLISSKEN

Sorry, ma’am. I was just finishing up my paperwork. I didn’t –

She cuts him off as she moves behind the desk.

MANAGER

Mr. Plissken, you understand the restrictions of your employment here, don’t you?

She sits down in an ancient leather desk chair. It SQUEAKS NOSILY as she sits. Every time she moves, the chair SQUEAKS.

PLISSKEN

Yes I do. I am allowed a work furlough for 16 months, in the service of the government -

MANAGER

No, Mr. Plissken, you are in the service of me. I didn’t achieve this position of power and influence by coddling misunderstood youth and charming ne’er-do-wells, and I expect nothing less than your perfect rehabilitation.

SQUEAK. SQUEAK.

PLISSKEN

Yes ma’am.

MANAGER

I assume that you’ve begun your ARP?

He has no idea what that means.

MANAGER

(impatient)

Aggravation Redirection Program?

PLISSKEN

Oh, yes ma’am. We calm ourselves by creating a mental task, a Brain Relaxation Exercise such as –

MANAGER

And you’ve been taking your doses of Placidenol?

PLISSKEN

Yes. Four times a day.

SQUEAK. SQEEEEEEAK.

MANAGER

Well, everything seems to be in order. What are your plans for the completion of your program?

PLISSKEN

Oh, I’ll be joining the military, probably. That’s what I’d like to do, anyway.

She raises an eyebrow, leans back in her chair.

MANAGER

Really. What branch of the military?

PLISSKEN

I was thinking Special Ops. Intelligence. Something where I could really, uh, hone my skills and –

SPAAANG! Something in the Manager’s chair SNAPS, sending a metal spring SHOOTING through the air across the desk. IT HITS PLISSKEN RIGHT ABOVE HIS LEFT EYE.

He reels back, holding his head in pain. The Manager is non-plussed.

MANAGER

And perhaps improve your reflexes.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE FLOOR – MINUTES LATER

The Manager leads Plissken through a cubical city maze. He’s carrying a cardboard box. Large red mark smarting on his forehead. From somewhere in the distance he can hear someone’s soft WHISTLING.

MANAGER

- there are no exceptions. At 5:30 PM the lights go out and you need to be out of this building. Your security pass will cease to function precisely at that time. Do you understand?

They’ve reached Plissken’s new cube. It’s every bit as soul-crushing as you would imagine. He gives it a hopeful smile.

PLISSKEN

I think I’ve got it.

MANAGER

You break the rules, you break our deal. You won’t like what’s next.

She walks away. The WHISTLING continues, nearby. He looks around but can’t see anyone.

Plissken puts his things down, sits behind his new desk. Opens up a few drawers and closes them. One drawer is locked. He jiggles it, tries it again. No good.

He looks through another drawer and finds a key, then slides the key into the drawer’s lock. It fits, but won’t budge. He tries it again, harder this time. THE KEY BREAKS OFF in the lock.

PLISSKEN’S EYES FLARE UP – A STORM OF FURY AND IMPATIENCE –

He reaches over and grabs a metal letter opener, jams it into the lock, into the drawer’s mechanism, anywhere he can think. He’s on a mission now. Can’t be stopped. He tries to calm himself as the WHISTLING SOMEWHERE gets a bit louder, a bit more cheery and mocking and frustrating.

PLISSKEN

(through his teeth)

Uno. Dos. Tres. Cuatro. Cinco.

It’s not doing him much good. He’s kneeling on the floor now, his face inches away from the drawer lock. The letter opener is jammed and mangled, bending way too far beyond its tolerance, way too close to Plissken’s face – his left eye –

PLISSKEN

SEIS! SIETE! OCHO! NUEVE!

THE LETTER OPENER BREAKS, SENDING A JAGGED PIECE OF METAL FLYING –

- right past Plissken’s left ear as he smartly cocks his head out of the way just in time.

MAN (OS)

Diez!

A MAN somewhere in another cubicle starts laughing. He was the one whistling.

Breathing hard, Plissken looks around, stands. Heads toward the sound.

The laughter builds – the man’s little joke certainly wasn’t this funny – and it’s a strange laugh, unnerving and fake. Plissken approaches him from behind.

He’s a SMALL MAN in an old suit. Stringy hair. Playing with a pencil at his desk. Plissken’s annoyed, ruffled.

PLISSKEN

Hey you.

No reaction.

PLISSKEN

HEY YOU. You got some kind of a problem?

The MAN turns. Indeterminate age. Strange black eyeliner. His mouth has been angrily disfigured into a hideous SMILE.

MAN

Could be. How’d you like to see a magic trick?

CRASH TO BLACK.