Work Text:
CAMERA 1: ABOVE-TABLE
20XX-XX-XX D5 7:45 M RK36
I-AA3
[MICHAEL S. unconscious on conference table. Almost too tall for it. Head up against TABLETOP INTERCOM. Basic business-casual attire, too mature for his age.]
FAST-FORWARD
20XX-XX-XX D5 7:49 M RK36
[S. still unmoving.]
TABLETOP INTERCOM: Hello?
[S. jumps. Groggy and flinching but waking up. Curls away from tabletop intercom. Speaker’s voice is mechanically garbled, but nominally female.]
T.I.: Hello?
[S. lifts head. Too much hair. Shakes it away, looks at tabletop speaker.]
MICHAEL S.: …What?
T.I.: Good morning.
[S. sits up. Looks around, blinking and wincing. Room is small - large enough for the table and chairs, not much else. Green carpet. Door, locked, at opposite end of room from the tabletop intercom. S. turns back to intercom.]
MICHAEL S.: …What’s this?
T.I.: You need to answer some questions for us first.
MICHAEL S.: I don’t understand.
T.I.: No. Just a few simple questions.
[S. has been still up to this point. Now, suddenly bolts off the table, almost falls over nearest chair, and presses back against wall.]
MICHAEL S.: What is this?
T.I.: The questions are very simple. Just five of them.
MICHAEL S.: Who are you? Why am I here?
T.I.: You took the words right out of my mouth.
MICHAEL S.: What?
[S. notices the door. Shrinks from it at first. Looks at tabletop intercom, then makes a dash for the door, yanking on the handle. Door does not open.]
MICHAEL S.: Let me out of here - let me out!
T.I.: That’s why you need to answer the questions. To get out.
[S. turns back, one hand still on door handle. Slightly out of breath. Eyes wide.]
MICHAEL S.: What questions?
T.I.: Who are you?
[Long silence. S. breathes harder. Eyes wider.]
T.I.: Sir, just a first name.
MICHAEL S.: I… no, I… I have one.
T.I.: That’s the spirit.
MICHAEL S.: …I don’t… know. What it is. What—
T.I.: Great answer. Question two. Where were you born?
[Another silence. S., growing agitated, turns back to door, shakes it.]
T.I.: Sir.
MICHAEL S.: You’ve got to let me out, I - I can’t remember - something happened, something must have happened, I…
T.I.: You can’t remember?
MICHAEL S.: No, it’s gone, I - I should know, shouldn’t I?
T.I.: Right again. Question three!
MICHAEL S.: What?
T.I.: Name a monster.
[S. makes low unsettled sound, one hand over mouth. Other still rattling door handle, though perhaps subconsciously.]
MICHAEL S.: I… w-werewolf. Dracula? What?
T.I.: Just one, please. Wait, that’s all right? Two? Fine, I guess. You get by with two, lucky. Question four—
MICHAEL S.: Please—
T.I.: What shape is the ex libris sticker on the frontispiece of all Leitner books found by the Library Division after 1999?
MICHAEL S.: Is, is, is this a stroke? Am I having a seizure?
[S. begins feeling the sides of his head. Increases pressure until he is holding head very tightly. Tabletop intercom emits sigh.]
T.I.: Just answer the question, please, we’re halfway there.
MICHAEL S.: I - I don’t know. I don’t know. Who’s - Leitner, what’s—
T.I.: Don’t know, another good answer. Last one! What was the last thing Ryan told you before he was taken?
[Utter stillness for several seconds. S. is paralyzingly upset.]
MICHAEL S.: …Should I know this?
T.I.: Does this mean you don’t?
[S. shakes his head. Slowly. For many seconds.]
T.I.: Out loud, please, we need it for the tape.
MICHAEL S.: …No. I don’t.
[Stillness again. S. begins chewing on the side of his index finger.]
MICHAEL S.: Please let me out. Please. I answered your questions.
[Door opens behind him. S. springs around and stumbles backwards until he hits chair at head of table. In the door, EMMA H. stands, notepad in hand, arms crossed. Medium height. Business-casual attire. Very little hair.]
EMMA H.: You passed, Bambi. I know it doesn’t feel like it - it doesn’t look like it, either - but your brain is all where it needs to be. Ms. Robinson’s got you safe and sound.
[S. looks prone to fainting.]
MICHAEL S.: Safe… Ms. Robinson?
EMMA H.: Your new boss.
MICHAEL S.: My—
EMMA H.: If you’re going to repeat everything I say, please stop, I’ve already got a headache. You’re in the Archives Division - we are, I should say, so don’t worry, you’ll have a headache too, soon enough.
MICHAEL S.: …Okay.
[H. jerks head over her shoulder, indicating the dark hall behind her.]
EMMA H.: We’ve been short a pair of hands for a while. It’ll be nice to not have to work so hard carrying things. Can you carry more than ten pounds at a time, Bambi?
MICHAEL S.: I don’t… know. Yes?
EMMA H.: God. Let’s go. Robinson can explain the rest, I’m exhausted of you already.
[H. withdraws into hallway. S. lingers. Looks around room. Looks down at hands, which are shaking. Steps forward, tests door handle, which, unlocked, moves fully. Turns sideways to look into room again. Meet the gaze of the camera.]
EMMA H.: [offscreen] I said let’s go!
[S. startles. Lets go of door handle, moves past door, closes it behind him, gently. Barely so much as a click.]
[Tabletop intercom crackles.]
20XX-XX-XX D5 7:45 M RK36
I-AA3
END RECORDING