INT. SHAY'S APARTMENT - DAY
Three days later, we see Shay sitting at his desk, TAPPING his fingers to the beat of his MUSIC, a song by an indie punk-rock band, against his laptop. The BLINDS are closed, a COLD CUP OF COFFEE sits next to his laptop. He's dressed for comfort in just an old pair of sweats, his SNAKE TATTOO winding up from his left side.
CLOSE ON - LAPTOP SCREEN
Four windows are opened; a NEWS ARTICLE, the SUPERS DATABASE run by the Court of Heroes and open for the public, the FACULTY PAGE of the Boston Public High School website, and a MICROSOFT WORD DOCUMENT with a series of bullet points. We ZOOM in and PAN DOWN on the NEWS ARTICLE.
The phrases Shay skims over are bold.
... new villain on the scene... ice manifestation... Sunday afternoon a jewelry store... Tidal injured when attempting to apprehend...
a spreadsheet with columns labelled ALIAS, STANDING, POWERS, DEBUT, STATUS. Shay CLICKS and highlights one row that reads FLURRY, EVIL, ICE MANIFESTATION, MAY 2015 (EVERETT, MA), ALIVE.
ANGLE ON - SHAY'S PROFILE
Shay's chin rests in his palm, fingers drumming against his cheek. He smirks in amusement.
Seems like the Court of Heroes hasn't noted his abilities in air manipulation. Your team's getting sloppy, General.
Shay scrolls upwards to the top of the site where some of the rows have a RED EXCLAMATION MARK on the left. The rows above them have a GOLDEN STAR to the left. Shay rolls his eyes at them and hovers the mouse over one of the rows with the red exclamation marks. It reads across: WYVERN, VILLAIN, DRAGON PHYSIOLOGY/TRANSFORMATION, DEC 2014 (BOSTON, MA), ALIVE. Shay snorts a derisive laugh.
It's in my bloody name. Wyvern. Not dragon.
They have had two years to get me, at the very least, down. None of those goody-two-shoe pansies have any semblance of observational skills. And they pride themselves on their data collection and intellect. They don't know the half of it, stupid heroes.
Shay picks up a BLACK PEN and twirls it in his free hand, a lazy grin on his lips. Between one spin and the next, the pen dissolves and reforms into a SILVER KEY. He sets it back down on the table.
INSERT - CLOCK ON WALL
where the second hand TICKS quietly, Shay's MUSIC fades further into background noise. The screen splits.
On the left side is the key.
On the right side is the clock.
At 20 seconds the key begins to change color. At 40 seconds, it's the color of the pen it used to be and now begins to slowly melt and reform on its own. At 60 seconds, it is the pen once again.
BACK TO SHAY
On the dot. As always.
Shay closes the SUPERS DATABASE and NEWS ARTICLE. His phone RINGS. Pulling it out of his pocket, he wrinkles his nose at the caller id, flashing the name NICOTINE, Shay's nickname for NICOLE PFIEFFER, 34 the head chef and co-owner of the successful restaurant Fork and Dagger, of which Shay owns 30% and Nicole the other 70. She's a chain smoker with a harsh, raspy voice.
What can I do for you this fine day, my love?
Just reminding you of the event at the restaurant you can't skip out on.
Ah... Right. That's on... next week? See, I've kind of got--
When I say you can't skip out on it, Sinclair, I mean that I will find your reptilian ass, shove that 'special' taser you gave me up where the sun don't shine, and drag you by your flaky tail down here if you even think about making some bullshit excuse. Capiche?
For the record, I do not have a tail and even if I did, it would not be flaky.
Capiche. I understand. I'll be there.
Now that you've secured my holy presence at whatever this event is, can I get back to what I was doing?
You were doing something other than lying around in your underwear?
Ha. Ha. I do many things, I'll have you know. But I have found a new... subject of interest.
What poor soul has caught your eye now?
That's for me to know and you to agonize over.
Right. I have to go. Don't forget about next week. Thursday. You better be here by four-thirty or I will do as promised and then some.
Shay bids Nicole goodbye and sets his phone down, returning his attention to his laptop.
ANGLE ON - FACULTY PAGE
where a portrait of Issac is presented with his school contact info and a small blurb on what he teaches and other inconsequential person tidbits. The mouse hovers around Issac's forced smile on the screen.