This entire story takes place in the future, only it isn’t the Blade Runner future, it’s the, “I can’t believe it’s the future” future; look at how little has changed physically about our reality since the 80s (sure, computers, cell phones and other tiny electronics, but if you were to have been frozen twenty years and were walking down the street, you would barely notice the difference until the person in front of you answered his phone). My point is fashion, technology, architecture, they can change in small, subtle ways if you like, but they should remain largely the same as today.
Semi-overhead shot of a naval shipyard. It’s a lovely day, late spring-early summer, the sun shining off the water. It’s about twenty years into the future, so you can fiddle with the technology a little, but it shouldn’t look too different from the kinds of pretty new buildings that are made today (if you go here, you can look at a diagram of Barrow, presumably from 1873, to get a feel for the general geography- and these images of Pearl Harbor for a feel for the kind of architecture). But the main point of the panel is tranquility; all seems right with the world. Assuming we’re in color, the BBC captions should have a red tint to them. At the very least, the design should be different, and the text italicized, to set them apart from narrative captions, but all of it in boxes for this page.
Caption: Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria.
Caption: United Kingdom.
BBC: Today, the HMS Vanguard follows the Victorious into retirement.
Zoomed in a little closer from the last panel. The buildings become more detailed, and barely, just barely, we can make out a submarine. We may not be able to see it, but a pair of Royal Marines guard the ramp to the sub. I know very little about submarine design, except that it hasn’t changed much from the teardrop shape, and twenty years isn’t long enough for the technology to get hugely different.
BBC: In London, the Remorseless class ballistic missile nuclear submarine entered service with its name ship, with plans to retire the Vigilant and the Vengeance by the end of summer.
Closer still, we can make out the guards now. The first guard has just been shot in the head, and is falling over, while the second guard raises his rifle.
BBC: The HMS Rage is said to be completed and armed, awaiting final approval from the Royal Navy at the BAE Systems ship yard.
Closer still. Six men in black paramilitary wear, including body armor and face masks, enter the dock. The lead man walks confidently, without raising his rifle, as the man behind guns down the other guard.
BBC: The as yet unnamed third ship is expected to be completed by the end of the month.
BBC: This is the BBC World Service.
Exterior shot, midday. Pick a favorite bit of Sanliurfa architecture, just so its representative of the city. There’s a lovely skyline here, and some fifteen pages to choose from here, or you’re welcome to look elsewhere.
Caption: Seven days ago.
Walter: It’s interesting that you found these pieces in the Sipahi Bazaar, Sal…
An alleyway in the city’s Old Town (there’s a wonderful, moody, representative picture of it here). Old, stone buildings stand on either side of a stone brick street. It’s light outside, but the closeness of the buildings shuts out most of the light, and Adam Walter, an American anthropologist/archaeologist is speaking with Saloman, a local Turk, as he opens the door to his home. Sal is a little irritated, even though he likes Walter, and Walter is impatient.
Walter: Only I don’t care where you found them…
Inside there’s electric lighting. Sal bolts the door; these pieces are worth a lot of money, and it could be considered a state crime trying to keep them out of the government collections. Not that he’s all that concerned; after all, he is planning on putting them into the collection he oversees at the Sanliurfa Museum.
Walter: Just that you did.
Sal: How is your Greek, Mr. Walter?
Laid out carefully on a cloth, are several small pieces of bronze. At one time, they formed part of a large hand (from a statue 110 feet tall). Walter is taking a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket, thin, and wireless, as his approaches the table.
Walter: And it’s better than my Turkish.
Walter smiles; they don’t know one another well, but have spoken on the phone often enough to gently rib one another. He’s also carefully studying the bronze pieces. Walter’s fingers hover over the pieces; he wants to touch them very badly, but is a good enough archeologist to know better.
Sal: So slightly worse than my English.
Walter looks up, at Sal, who is a little excited himself standing over his shoulder. Sal’s face is one of amused strain as he tries to think, hard, and comes up with nothing useful. His word balloons are connected in direct succession, with just a tiny bit of space between.
Walter: What do you know of the Colossi?
Sal: Standing on either side of a harbor on a small Greek island.
Walter gives him a smile, amused in that way professors do when you’ve given them an excuse to teach you, but not obnoxious about it. Sal, however patient he is, does want him to hurry up with it, though.
Walter: So not much. And that’s the Rhodes Colossus; it’s a popular myth his legs were across the harbor mouth, but both structurally and architecturally impossible.
Sal: To the point, Adam.
I do this from time to time, to punish an artist. To preference, it could be adjusted to two pages, but for my money, I’d rather flog the artist for a page to get the exposition squared away, and have an extra page for explosions and action and the like.
Walter is very intense, and passionate, like a man telling his favorite ghost story. Remember, Sal is a scholar in his own right, so be sure not to make him look too surprised by anything; and in this case, when he mentions aliens, he’s being a bit sarcastic, as well.
Walter: Nearly every religion agrees on the existence of extrahuman powers.
Walter leans in close, studying one of the fragments carefully.
Walter: Not extraterrestrials, but for lack of a better word, gods.
Walter: The Colossi hypothesis is that they aren’t exaggerations, but genuinely existed.
Angle upwards from the POV of the fragments. Walter is distorted, because he’s using a magnifying glass, and is seen through it. Sal stands to his side, outside the range of the glass, and for the moment he is genuinely confused.
Walter: It’s not a popular theory, but some believe that the disappearances of the Colossi speak to something larger.
Walter waves his hand Vanna White-esque over the bronze fragments as he lets Sal know how truly rare and wonderful they are.
Walter: The one at Rhodes, Constantine and Nero’s statues in Rome. Some include Zeus at Olympia.
Walter: All lost- the bronze sections specifically never recovered.
Walter removes his handkerchief from a pocket, and reaches towards the table for one of the pieces.
Walter: The theory is they contained details proving the Colossi were real. A history, maybe even schematics.
Walter has the piece in his handkerchief and lifts it up to look at it, a long, thin piece, tall enough for only one line of engravings on the back, where the words, “εβδομήντα κύβιτα υψηλά” or 70 cubits high, a description of the Colossus of Rhodes, is written in Greek.
Walter: Whether the original Colossi were giants or marvelous weapons of war, the statues were shells, replicas at best.
Sal: Why would you want to bring another weapons into the world?
Walter sets the piece down, and regards Sal as he speaks.
Walter: They aren’t just weapons- the myths describe them as beneficial.
Walter: And they’re here already. I’d just like to find them before someone who might misuse them.
Picking up right where Page One left off. This is a slightly angled shot downward towards the submarine. The commando squad drop a mickey moused bundle of gas grenades down the hatch at the top of the sail (the fin on top of the sub). The dialogue from Southby bleeds in as a caption.
Caption: Twenty minutes ago.
Southby (OP): They hadn’t the manpower or the time to cut the video feed.
Same, only picture has become grainy, because it’s being viewed on a monitor, and the commandos have closed the hatch as gas starts to escape. Commander Southby still isn’t on panel yet.
Southby (OP): The gas likely killed anyone on board, which was only a skeleton crew.
Commander Southby is a man in his late thirties, dark hair, and a moustache (because even twenty years into the future, the British will wear moustaches in their late thirties). Soubthy is commanding a twelve-man assault team of the Special Air Service; the Beta team are also aboard, receiving their briefing from another Commander on the other side of the Osprey (interiors).
Southby: The HMS Rage hasn’t left port, and they haven’t issued any demands.
Wider panel of the interior.
Southby: Our internal coutermeasures have stalled them longer than they planned, but they could crack our defenses at any moment.
Wider panel still of the interior.
Southby: So we haven’t any spare moments. When we touch down, we assemble aft to the transport, and proceed into the Rage with all speed.
Exterior shot of the Osprey (1- though obviously not open, and without the US symbols) in flight. Southby’s dialogue balloon originates from the interior of the craft.
Southby: There are 16 Trident II missiles aboard that vessel, and I want you fighting like they’re aimed at your families.
Sal and Walter stand with a crowd of tourists, mainly people from Abrahamic religions (at least one a very obvious, loud American tourist, Fudd: overweight, fifty, with white hair, a Red baseball cap and a T shirt asking, ‘Who wouldn’t Jesus do?’) at the Pool of Sacred Fish in Urfa (1 2 3 4 5). Walter is perhaps a little annoyed at being taken to a tourist trap. Sal’s body is pointing towards the pool, partially answering Walter’s question.
Caption: Six days ago.
Walter: Why are we here?
Sal: The woman who sold me the pieces. She said there was more.
Walter is incredulous, and on the cusp of tearing out all his hair.
Walter: You can’t be serious.
Sal: In there. Hidden behind a stone slab.
Walter: Oh god.
Focus on Sal, and perhaps on the lovely architecture behind him, as he thinks about their options. Walter isn’t really paying attention, lost in his own thoughts.
Sal: I have a friend, not high in the Governor’s office.
Walter: It would have to be hidden under sacred fish.
Focused more on Sal; Walter is no longer in panel.
Sal: Perhaps he could secure us a temporary permission to search, at night-
Sound Effect: Splash.
Sal stares dumbfounded into the water as the crowd presses against him. A Catholic woman has her eyes closed and her rosary in hand as she crosses herself. A dark skinned man stares angrily into the water. A Muslim woman, covered with a head scarf, mumbles a word. The American, described earlier, eats pistachio ice cream, because it’s hilarious.
Muslim woman: Blasphemy.
Walter rises triumphantly out of the water, with a slab of bronze five inches wide in his hand.
Sal elbows people away from Walter as he tries to climb up the side of the pool.
Sal: Please, forgive him.
Sal: My Canadian friend is not well in the head.
Sal, with his arm wrapped protectively around Walter’s shoulder, leads him away from the crowd. Their anger has shifted to pity, and almost understanding. Walter, thoroughly amused with the turn of events, is smiling broadly at Sal, who isn’t smiling back. Fudd may not even be visible, but he starts speaking here.
Fudd: He’s simple, huh?
Fudd gets his own panel. You can fill it with others gathered around him, but he should be prominent, and his T shirt legible.
Fudd: I thought he looked like he might have Down syndrome.
Walter looks back at the tourist, as confused as he is insulted. Sal tries to fight back a laugh as he pretends to try and steer him away.
A wet, shivering Walter stands in the room where they earlier examined the smaller bronze pieces. He holds the larger piece in his hands, with his glasses on. However, he is in the background, as we are closer in on Sal, as he bolts the door shut, agitated.
Sal exaggeratedly advances towards Walter with his hands outstretched, as if he meant to murder him; Walter halts him with a hand raised.
Sal: I should kill you with my own hands-
Walter looks up, removing his glasses, and smiling widely, giddy like a schoolboy (as a reference, look at the way Bryan Hitch makes people smile- I’m not suggesting you emulate his style, but the warmth underlying it).
Sal: What have you found?
Walter rushes over to the table, with the other, smaller pieces on it, comparing the edge of the larger piece with the fragments.
Walter: A piece of history.
Walter: The Colossus of Rhodes was a monument to Helios, god of the sun.
Walter: 350 years later, a similar Colossus was constructed in Rome by Nero.
Sal and Walter scramble with the smaller fragments, comparing edges, moving them around to make a place for the largest piece in the center of the table; they are no longer treating them delicately, just grabbing them and moving.
Walter: Historians believe Vespasian, who despised Nero, rededicated it as a monument to Helios.
A piece of semi-legible Greek can be on the larger piece, “Αημένη κολοσσός Ρόδος για τη” which says basically that the Colossus left Rhodes for, and matches up with “Ρώ” on one of the fragments, which is the first part of Rome in Greek.
Walter: Another 350 years later, a Colossus was constructed in Rome by Constantine who had converted to Christianity, and therefore could not dedicate his statue to Helios.
Walter looks up at Sal. Sal is excited, if a bit breathless.
Walter: This fragment confirms that the Colossus left Rhodes.
Sal: So we’re going to Rome.
Walter: We’re going to Rome.
I love the idea that the first launch silo in the country is at ground zero, where the World Trade Center towers fell. It’s very poignant that the system meant to prevent such a catastrophe would be housed there. But it would also open a wound (both in the story and in a real context). I would like to address the fact that there would be protestors, and that there would be public opposition to the idea. There would, of course, be safety risks, but frankly, if we’re firing robots out of a tube to fight gigantic, city-killing threats, risk is really not an important factor.
Wide view of New York, hovering over Ground Zero, where the World Trade Center towers once stood; the area has now been cleared and cleaned, and a military building centering around a launch silo has been constructed in its place, almost entirely out of concrete (to survive the initial stage of the rocket) [silos- 1 2 3 4 5]. It’s important to note that the new World Trade Center will be across the street from this location, and while it does not exist yet, should by the time of the story, and there are artist’s renderings of it (1 2, info here). There’s a press conference going on, and an area walled off for media, surrounded by people with signs (though most if not all of this may be too small to be seen from this height).
Caption: New York City.
Caption: Five days ago.
Second Lieutenant Caitlin Lange, Air Force, stands in her uniform before microphones at a press conference. I will say this now: Lange is going to be very important. Take your time and make her look beautiful and competent. Further, at present, it looks like the Air Force will be changing their uniforms to resemble these. The chanted protests are quieter, because they’re outside a perimeter created for the media to ask questions, and the fact that it’s yelled by many people is shown with a spikey balloon and several tails, all trailing off panel.
Protestors: --your death machines have got to go!
Reporter: --ork a larger target than it already is?
Lange: Excuse me.
Lange leans into the microphone. Her expression is shifting from one aiming to please to a more military and strict one.
Lange: Excuse me. I cannot elaborate as to the nature of the silo, except to say that it is not a part of ongoing maintenance of the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile Program.
Side view of Lange, showing a few of the reporters corralled into the area, and the protestors beyond.
Reporter: Lieutenant, Lieutenant.
Reporter: Can you confirm that this new silo is the “upgrade” the President promised to supplement our existing missile defenses?
Lange gives him a terse, military smile.
Lange: I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that.
Lange: I can, however, assure you that this is a passive defensive system.
Lange closes the folder she brought, and gives her last state as she gets ready to leave.
Lange: The Colonel has stated that while with any luck we will never require this countermeasure, it is the policy of the Department of Defense to plan for all contingencies.
Lange: Thank you.
The Palazzo dei Conservatori, here, here, and a distance diagram. 360º view; it’s the building closer to us (assuming the direction without a building is south, it’s to the east- although both it and the building opposite it have the same exterior, so it doesn’t matter too much). Walter, the Curator, and the Caption boxes should all be designed/colored differently. In the center is the Equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius.
Caption: Musei Capitolini
Caption: Rome, Italy
Caption: Four days ago.
Curator (OP): I’m… I’m sorry, sir.
Walter: But I know it was done, between February 6th and 10th in 2006, a laser-scanning of the Marble Colossus of Constantine.
Courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori shown here. It’s very subtle, but the Constantine Colossus pieces line the wall on the right (detailed pictures: face, hand and the rest of him (including bits of his legs and arms). Even more subtly, Fudd is there, standing half in the shadows, eating an ice cream.
Curator (OP): The file is locked.
Curator (OP): I can’t imagine why, but I can’t override it.
Curator (OP): And I don’t recognize this tag. It says…
The new wing of the museum (with its glass ceiling) is where the remnants of a bronze Constantine Colossus are (really just his head and his hand), together with an imposing Jupiter, and the Marcus Aurelius Equestrian statue that once was the centerpiece of the Capitoline Museums (in a way it still is- a replica remains outside in the square, where it is subjected to the elements). Sal stares at the giant head (1 2) of Constantine.
Curator (OP): National Defense?
Curator (OP): I have no idea what that means, but without one of the directors, I won’t be able to access the scans of the Constantine Colossus.
Walter, disappointed, walks up behind. Sal is surprised by the sudden noise inside the mostly quiet museum.
Curator (OP): Perhaps you could try someone in the Land of Rhineland-Palatinate.
They turn to leave. Sal can tell from Walter’s face that it didn’t go well.
Walter: You don’t know anyone in Germany, do you?
Sal: I’ll put in a call to Trier. Perhaps someone they’ll be more cooperative with a fellow curator.
Sal stands with his cellphone to his ear, inside a cellphone booth.
Martina (OP): Who is this?
Martina is an attractive German woman with brown hair put up, and perhaps a slightly plump face. She’s wearing a smart business suit, and sitting behind a desk in a small office space, also talking on her cell phone. She’s blushing slightly, and speaking quietly into the phone.
Sal: Saloman. We met at that conference in Berlin three years ago.
Martina: You never called.
Sal has her right where he wants her, and he pounces.
Sal: You had just moved and didn’t have a phone, so I gave you my number. So you never called me.
Some time has passed, and we’ve skipped part of the conversation.
Sal: Right. Well do you know anyone who might be able to get me a copy of the laser-scan of the marble Constantine Colossus from Rome?
Sal exits the booth, closing up his phone; Walter was waiting outside a few paces, looking at the architecture.
Sal: Good or bad news first?
Sal: Pulled all the strings I’ve access to, and no one can get anything.
Sal: But a friend of mine got kicked to someone low level in the German Ministry of Defense, who let slip that it was sealed at the request of the U.S.
Walter, confused, surprised, and amused.
Sal: Air Force, specifically.
Walter: What’s the good?
Walter gives him a little “Nice” nod.
Sal: I think I get free apology sex next time I’m in Germany.
The inside of the submarine is cramped; everything is slightly smaller than it feels it should be; you have to step slightly higher than natural while ducking to foot through most doorways, and the walls are always closer than feels right in the walkways.
Overhead shot of the submarine at Cumbria. The first SAS team, led by Southby, stands at the ready, wearing similar gear as the commandos before them. A thin line of plastic explosive rings the hinges of the hatch. All the men stand back, and all but one are at the ready with their weapons aimed. The last man is holding a detonator, and looking at Southby.
Caption: Ten minutes ago.
There’s a small, controlled explosion in the middle of them.
One of the men, Sergeant Bixby, already has the hatch pulled back, held partially in place by the bent-back locking mechanism, and the first soldier is sliding down.
The first soldier lands at the bottom of the ladder (he slid down); close on his feet touching down on the ground.
The soldier turns, taking his rifle back up as his second comrade comes down, not quite as quickly as he did, but still sliding. The first of the commandos pops out of a room a few feet down the hall, looking a little groggy and unprepared, with his weapon only half-raised in the general direction of the entry, dazed from the explosion.
The first soldier fires a three round burst into the commando’s chest from an MP5SD (it’s on page 8- with an integral silencer, and, more importantly for inside a sub, a much lower muzzle velocity).
The second soldier in raises his weapon; the first stands there with his rifle smoking, and gives the all clear over the radio, while a third man descends the ladder.
Soldier: Entry secure.
Walter and Sal walk down Greenwich Street, just down the block from the new building.
Caption: New York City
Caption: Three days ago.
Walter: I have almost no traction here.
In the background, subtly as they walk by, is Fudd emerging from a shop, and yes, he’s eating ice cream.
Walter: And the only thing I could find in Freedom of Information Act releases was funding for something called Project Colossus.
Before them, the giant silo/base is opening up.
Walter: It’s a bit of a long shot, but it’s funding goes back to February 2006, and their funding quintupled ten years ago.
Pulled back, the both of them are dots on the sidewalk, and the silo takes up most of the panel.
Walter: And doubled again two years ago when they started construction here in New York.
Sal: So your country has built a giant silo to lob replica chunks of ancient statues at the world.
Sal smiles like a jackass.
Sal: I never thought I’d say this, but:
Sal: I think I want the Texan back.
Sal: He wasn’t so bad. Tried to bring back Star Wars. Gave us burning food for fuel.
Walter puts up his hand, stopping Sal, who rants.
Walter: This is as far as you go.
Sal: How goddamn racist is your country that in this day and age someone with a vaguely Middle Eastern complexion--
Sal: --which, by the way, Turkey is part of Europe—
Sal: must be a terrorist and will be cavity-searched both coming into and leaving government buildings.
Walter: Well there is the little issue of your passport being expired and you bribing your way into the country.
Sal narrows his eyes.
Wide shot of the silo at Ground Zero, giving an idea of their smallness next to it. Walter stands by the entrance as Sal walks away. There are two guards standing at the entrance, a heavy metal blast door with no entrance, and no visible comms or cameras.
Walter: Adam Walter. I-
Walter: I have an appointment to speak with Lieutenant Lange.
Much closer in. Walter walks through the door that seemed to magically open, and looks over his shoulder at the two guards, nervous as hell. He hasn’t noticed there’s someone in the nondestinct room he’s entered.
Lange (OP): Mr. Walter.
She’s right on top of him, with her hand held out. The room is designed more as a security checkpoint than a lobby. There’s another metal fire door, and a guard station behind bulletproof glass.
Lange: Lieutenant Lange, Public Relations Officer for Colonel Lee.
Walter is startled as he takes Lange’s hand.
Walter: I… had some questions for you, Ms. Lange-
Lange: I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to answer them.
She hands him a stapled stack of papers.
Lange: In your hand is a transcript of the official press briefing, and the written statement. I’m afraid that’s all the information I can give you.
Southby is shoving through his men, on a rampage. He looks like he’s going to bite through the neck of the first bastard who doesn’t throw himself against the wall to get out of his way.
Southby: Here now.
Southby reaches a hatch. The door has been welded shut from the other side.
Southby: What’s the delay?
Bixby: They’ve welded it from the other side.
Southby barks the first command into the ear of a soldier about to light a cutting torch.
Southby: Well un-bloody-weld it, double-quick.
Southby: You lot, alternate route.
Bixby and five others follow him.
Same as the last, as the last of the men disappear around the bend.
Large panel, but close up on a boot pressing down a trip wire.
Panel 6 was large to make room for this insert panel of Bixby’s face, terrified, having noticed too late that one of the men hit a trip wire.
Walter: You know this means war.
Lange: I’m sorry, but did an untenured professor at a New York community college just declare war on the United States Air Force?
Walter: Maybe I should just write a letter to my congressman.
She raises an eyebrow at him.
Walter smiles, suddenly a little bashful.
Walter: Would it be inappropriate for me to ask you to go to dinner?
Walter: Would you anyway?
Lange looks a little scary, but Walter doesn’t budge.
Lange: I’ve been trained to break both a man’s arms in four moves, taking less than three seconds.
Walter: That isn’t a no.
Walter smiles, a little devilishly.
Walter: You have to say that.
Lange: Because you would ask questions I’m not supposed to answer.
Walter: You don’t have to answer them.
Lange turns to walk away; her going is nearly as nice a view as her coming, and she looks over her shoulder to tell him again as she walks through the lowered interior door:
Walter: Would you have said yes if I said I wasn’t going to ask them?
She smiles as the door closes.
Lange: You’ll never know.
Walter and Sal walk outside the base. Sal is a half a step ahead, subtly leading them around to the other side of the base, something Walter won’t notice; Walter, by the way, is smiling like an idiot. The sun is setting, so the air has that wonderful soft blue glow to it.
They continue to walk.
Sal: I take it Lieutenant Lange was a beautiful woman.
Sal: You’re smiling like an idiot. You smile like an idiot when you talk to beautiful women. Although it can be hard to tell.
Sal: You smile like an idiot alot.
Walter looks at him crossly.
Walter: Why aren’t you in Turkey? Don’t you have a museum to curate?
A second metal door, on the opposite side of the concrete bunker/silo, has opened up, this one leading into a car garage. A car is exiting. Sal has snugged himself against the wall.
Sal: I’m on holiday. And shut up.
Sal: I’m much cleverer than you. Follow me.
Walter walks into the garage, and looks back, noticing Sal is still standing outside the door.
Walter: Um, this seems an awful lot like breaking into a military base.
Sal adds this as the door closes, smiling.
Sal: It is. So don’t get caught.
Southby, with sparks and bits of flying red metal behind him, exclaims (he speaks into a radio inside his cloth mask). Bixby’s balloon is spikey.
Southby: What in the good Christ are you doing, Bixby.
Bixby (OP): Jenkins stepped on a tripwire.
Bixby is holed-up in a crew cabin. Jenkin’s flayed body is a steaming pile of meat and shredded clothing in the doorway as Bixby tries to lean around to get a better look without exposing himself too much.
Southby OP): Damage?
Bixby: Claymore. Hard to say how badly. I’m pinned in a crew cabin, one, two gunmen. Jenkins saved me from the brunt.
Southby points at the two men nearest the hall. Sussex comes in over the radio.
Southby: You two.
Southby talks into his mask, irritated by the intrusion.
Sussex (OP): Commander Southby, do you require the B squadron?
Southby: Negative, B. Hardly room enough for us. We’ll square it ourselves, out.
Southby leans in close enough that the soldier with the torch can smell the onions on his breath.
Southby: How’s my door?
Torcher: Thirty seconds.
Southby, standing a bit dramatically, holding his rifle, very angry; he’s just lost good mates, and his back up is breathing down his neck.
Southby: Make it twenty. I need to kill a bastard.
Lange is walking through the cement car garage in the facility.
Lange is surprised as Walter emerges from behind a car (several down the line and away from hers, as he’s no way of knowing which hers would be.
Walter: Lieutenant Lange
He has his hands up, stepping out into the light towards her.
Walter: It’s Walter, Adam Walter.
Lange, now knowing who he is, doesn’t go for her gun, or her mace, but smiles evilly, deciding to play with him a little.
Lange: Give me a reason I shouldn’t just mace you and run you over with my car.
Walter smiles; he knows she’s melting.
Walter: Because I’ve been crouched her for three hours, and my legs have fallen asleep. If you maim me, I won’t have the strength to crawl to a hospital.
Presumptively, Walter walks over to the passenger side door.
Walter: And you don’t want that on your conscience.
Lange: Get in.
As Walter closes the door from inside the car, Lange turns to him and says:
Lange: You’re paying for my Frappuccino.
Southby pulls his leg back as the man with the torch finishes cutting.
Southby: Out of my way, son.
From inside the hatch, as Southby kicks it inward. The nearest commando is beside the “camera,” and swears as he tries to turn, fumbling with an AK-47.
Same as the last, only the commando falls backward as three rounds hit square in his chest, and he drops the rifle ineffectually.
From behind Southby, who looks over his shoulder, with his eyes wide. The remaining commando turns his body full on to the SAS men to block his comrade from their bullets.
Southby: The panel!
Southby: The panel!
Very wide shot, showing on the one end the 4 SAS men entering the nuclear control room, and shooting the commando between them and the man working the controls. The 3 unnamed SAS soldiers eat him alive with fire from their MP5SDs. Southby leans high and to the right, tagging the man at the controls in the side of the head.
Southby shoves the dead man at the controls away from the panel. The damn is a slightly smaller font, whispered beneath his breath.
Southby: One away.
Southby turns towards his men, but speaks into his radio.
Southby: Get onto the phone with Washington, they have six minutes.
Radio: The tango?
Southby: New York.
Inside the Statue of Liberty (not outside as usually depicted), there is a bronze plaque (or a more legible, black and white copy) of Emma Lazarus’ poem, the New Colossus. This should take up the entire panel. The words follow, as the plaque is difficult to read.
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!"
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
This table, with her sonnet to the bartholdi statue
of liberty engraved upon it, is placed upon these walls
in loving memory of
born in New York City, July 22nd, 1843
died November 19th, 1887.
Sal is reading the plaque.
Sal: It’s eerie.
Walter (OP): I always thought it was poetic.
Sal gestures to the empty lobby. It’s dark outside.
Sal: I meant this place.
Walter: It’s a special thing to be here all on our lonesome.
They walk past a replica of Liberty’s face, which is just wonderful in getting across that feeling of insignificance of the two of them.
Walter: One of the perks of working for a local college.
Long, winding picture of the stairs inside the statue shown here. The dialogue starts near the bottom, and the answers continue all the way up the stairs as they climb. I’m trying something different here with the dialogue: the transcript should appear on the right side of the page, the dialogue on the left. The transcript will be done in a typerwriter-like font (like Courier), and appear in caption boxes, while the dialogue is in balloons.
Sal: You’ve avoided the question, dodged and maneuvered around it. What happened with Lange?
Walter: We had coffee.
Transcript: Transcript of Missile Defense Agency Proceedings:
Transcript: Turner: It had already picked up too much speed for the airborne laser systems.
Walter: We had coffee.
Transcript: Turner: The Navy’s mid-phase ABM missed it in orbit.
Sal: You’re not telling me something.
Side view, close up, of the statue’s head. I’ve had some difficulty finding a good picture of the windows in the crown, so it’s fine if their dialogue simply comes from the crown.
Walter: It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Transcript: Turner: And it made it through a THADD volley unscathed.
Pulling back, medium shot of the statue, showing some of the New York skyline.
Transcript: Collins: Of course it did. That’s firing spitballs at a .44 mag round.
Transcript: Collins: How did it get so close?
The panel should look like this picture. Differences would include: it’s night, the original WTC towers are gone, and the newer tower stands across the street, and a missile launches out of the
Walter: What the hell?
Transcript: Turner: Brits must have added a stealth package to their Tridents. Without telling us.
Transcript: I mean, we did.
I’m breaking my own convention, here, but I’m going to break this panel’s description up into paragraphs: In the sky above the harbor, the missile split into five pieces and falls down into the water, revealing the robot inside. The robot is massive. In this panel, it simply falls with the missile.
I will leave the majority of the design up to the artist, but I would suggest 2 things: that they look at modern tanks for ideas on designing it as armor (1 2 3 4 5 6), and that it be compartmentalized. What I mean by this is most things it’s going to do are going to crush it. If it punches a battleship, it will destroy it’s arm, so what that means is it should have an outer arm (similar in concept to a middle ages suit of armor) a middle-stage arm (it’s “regular,” designed for interacting with the environment more), and underneath that, it’s final, bare-bones operating model, mainly used to transport the pilot and the core systems back to the base (yes, I know, I’ve just spoiled the surprise telling you there’s a pilot).
The feet are similarly staged, and the first “feet” is has are actually large rocket boosters, designed to move the robot quickly over a long distance (it has smaller boot and back jets for sustained or return flight).
It should have or carry at least one “gun”- either designed like a tank gun or a rail gun. It can be holstered, shoulder-mounted, on the wrist. The only sticking point I can think of is that the pilot should be housed in the chest, not the head. The head is too vulnerable.
The foot rockets kick on, and the robot takes to the sky, as the pieces of the missile fall into the harbor.
The robot fires its boot rocks, flying at a breakneck pace up into the sky, just reaching the cloudline.
The Trident missile flies in the opposite direction and at the opposite angle as the robot, just entering the cloudline from the outer atmosphere.
The boot jets turn off.
The boot jets fall away (similar to the idea of booster rockets).
The missile impacts the robot in the sweet spot (if it were a football)- just under the arm, but the robot is only trying to “catch” it, not to smash it, so it lets the missile’s momentum buckle it backwards.
The robot regains itself, and fires its jets to slow the missile down.
The robot and the missile come to a standstill in the air above the harbor.
In one hand, the robot clamps down on the center of the Trident, and in the other, it grips the tip (where the warhead is).
The robot tears the tip off the missile.
The robot throws the missile into the sky away from itself. It’s fuel spirals out of it as it flies out of control.
The missile explodes, lighting up the night sky.
The robot flies back over the city, towards the silo it launched from.
The robot sinks back down inside the silo on a lift as intentional smoke partially obscures the view of civilians.
Transcript: Rankin: Sir, um, no impact. It’s verified. The missile did not detonate.
Transcript: End of Proceedings.