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Narrator: From the team that brought you Keeping Up With the Anchevs comes a brand new sensation that will keep viewers on the edge of their seats! Here in one place, new faces will mingle with household names as each and every participant vies to win the ultimate prize.
[Shot opens on a long curved driveway leading to a stately mansion. A procession of various cars can be seen driving up to the entrance to the house. In the lead is a Honda Civic, covered in bumper stickers mainly centering around the logo of a band called 'The Unholy Assassins'; a woman clambers out of the driver's seat and instantly finds a perch to view the approaching vehicles. The next car arrives after a smooth time lapse that covers only a few minutes. A modest yet showy black BMW pulls up, and an old man exits the vehicle with an annoyed grunt of effort.]
Narrator: For some, this experience will offer a chance to come face to face with new admirers. For others, it will threaten to unseat the balance of power in their daily lives. And for others still, it is a reunion that will offer the chance to right old wrongs - or compound them. The choices are ultimately their own.
[After a longer time lapse that runs in the background, a black and gold wrapped Cybertruck with logos plastered on either side reading 'BaneCoin', and a retrofitted hearse arrive at the location. A young man emerges from the Cybertruck, hitting a button on his watch to send it away to a parking space. An older, larger man slides from the back doors of the hearse; a glimpse into the interior is reminiscent of a limousine with signs of notable grime and disrepair.]
Narrator: Tucked away from their public lives, our participants will be tested and judged to see who has what it takes, and who will be found… wanting.
[The arrived participants are seen chatting quietly and milling restlessly for a time lapse of about twenty minutes about until a Toyota Prius speeds to the door. Two shorter men tumble out of it, out of breath and visibly nauseous from driving well over the speed limit in an attempt to arrive on time. The young man who exited the Cybertruck can be seen berating the short men, who both wear visible logos for prestigious tech universities, Ironhand College of Engineering and the Gondian Institute of Technology.
A montage of the mansion front plays under soft metal music, as the show's participants wait outside. Time can be seen passing as they all change positions, conversations picking up for short moments and then abandoned as the shot progresses.
The sun appears visibly lower in the sky when a blood-red McLaren 750S convertible enters the grounds of the mansion. Three passengers can be seen in the open-topped vehicle. A short old man jumps out of the driver's seat and scurries around the car to open the door for the other two. A tall, pale man with long black hair steps out first, brushing away the driver's offer of assistance. A woman, who was stuffed in the back, awkwardly climbs over the front seat and stomps out of the car, also blowing off any assistance.
Once all are gathered, they enter the house together.]
Narrator: Together, our participants will bare their hearts, their souls, and much, much more to each other and to our viewers at home until our judges reveal who, exactly, will be Chosen.
[Open to an older man with a white beard wearing a veteran's cap, sitting in a private area of the house set up for testimonials and interviews. He looks to be on the verge of sleep, eyeing the camera with relative disinterest.]
Interviewer (an offscreen neutral voice): General Ketheric Thorm, retired Army three star, led several initiatives in two major theaters spanning a career of 14 deployments over 40 years. May I say it is an honor to meet you, sir, and thank you for your service.
[Ketheric grunts, nodding his head slightly.]
Interviewer: You have many stories to tell from your years of experience on the battlefield, and I'm sure we will get to hear many of them as this season progresses. I'd like to know what has brought you here?
Ketheric: Turns out, even a man that almost singlehandedly carried out three separate major operations gets dumped in the dirt by the government the second he leaves the service. You're the great fearsome general one day, and the moment you retire, they toss you out like sh**.
Interviewer: So you're here for the money?
Ketheric: I need the capital to buy back the stock share on my cryo firm. That lazy f***er Balthazar snapped up my stock on my most recent deployment and took control of the company. We were partners for a while, but split due to… creative differences.
[Cut to a man of indeterminate age with sallow skin, dark eyes, and subtle facial scarring that appears even more noticeable against the paleness of his raw silk shirt.]
Interviewer (off screen): Balthazar, tell me more about this new private resort you’re talking about doing. I know when we first spoke with you about doing the show, you and Ketheric had big plans for the next great cryo startup. What’s changed?
Balthazar: I believe you are referring to my highly exclusive health retreat, located on a pristine island in an undisclosed locale. We will offer only the best treatments, to only the best people.
Interviewer: Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but there has been some talk that this may be an uncomfortably similar setup to another private island that has seen some media coverage over the last several years.
Balthazar: Lies and petty jealousy. I have my lawyers dealing with it. But of course, we do want our friends to feel welcome, and I can assure you that no client will ever leave unsatisfied.
[The shot zooms in on Balthazar’s creepy creepy smile before fading out.]
[Open to a young woman with cornrows, heavy dark makeup, and what may once have been a band t-shirt that looks like it’s been stabbed two dozen or more times.]
Interviewer (off screen): So, Z… Z-R… I’m sorry, could you say your name for me again?
Z’rell: It’s Z’rell.
Interviewer: And that’s pronounced like -
Z’rell: It’s pronounced like Z’rell, man, I don’t know what to tell you.
Interviewer: Can you tell me about that, uh, t-shirt? Is that The Unholy Assassins’ logo?
Z’rell: Their first one, yeah. From back before their Uncle Sarevok left the group. I almost got a backstage invite on that tour, but that asshole cut meet and greets short. I’ve been trying to get an autograph from Cyril ever since.
[Cut to Cyril, a tall, pale man with long, black hair. He wears black and red contacts and faux devil horns on his head. His face is covered in makeup resembling patterned scars. He is wearing a flowy red satin robe, and is scraping his teeth with his index fingernail in the reflection of a kitchen knife. A sample of one of his songs (purely consisting of a low bass guitar drone and largely unintelligible chanting) plays in the background.]
Interviewer (off screen): Cyril, you're the current lead singer of the cult-classic death metal band 'The Unholy Assassins', heir to the Bhaal family fortune. I think the one question that we all have on our minds is–
Cyril: As I told your producers, there is no provable connection between the recent disappearances and our shows. We are not responsible for the activities of our fans inside or outside the venues. You will drop the subject or you will hear from my attorney.
Interviewer: I was going to ask what a man of your means would gain from winning the prize? I'm sure the winnings are dwarfed by your personal fortune.
Cyril: Our music seeks to bring people together. In a world full of division brought about by previous generations, we ask our fans to "give their lives," so to speak, to a new purpose. One of togetherness, committing to raze the world to the ground so that a new world can spring forth from the ashes. Being here further spreads this message, and I plan to give all of my winnings to my father's charity, Bhaal's Embrace. Everything I do is for my fans, and I–
[Z'rell cautiously approaches mid-interview, holding a tour poster that has seen better days. Unlike her previously confrontational attitude, her approach seems tentative as she edges closer to the man on camera. Cyril notices her, raising his eyebrows, but does not look at her directly.]
Z'rell: Uhh, excuse me? Hi! I'm, um, well I guess it doesn't matter who I am. I've been a fan of yours for ages, but I've never made it to a meet and greet because stupid Balthazar doesn't pay me– Anyway. I was wondering if you could… and I understand if you're busy so I'm sorry if this is a bad time. But could you maybe… sign my–
[Cyril abruptly turns toward her, snatching the poster. He grabs Z'rell's wrist and slashes a small cut into her forearm with the kitchen knife, then dips his sharpened acrylic nail into the blood and draws out a polished, practiced signature on the paper. He gives her a patronizing, if not indignant, smile before turning back to the camera. Z'rell's face darkens several shades and she leaves the room hurriedly.]
Cyril (to camera): If she's a fan of mine, I'm not entirely sure how she's lasted this long… That is to say, The Unholy Assassins' fanbase is fickle and monstrous. It is rare to see a fan survive for more than a couple tours.
[An equally pale woman with long blond hair stomps into frame. She is wearing a dress made out of some sort of meat.]
Orin: Brother, I smell blood. Are you signing autographs without me?
[Orin approaches the interview chair and squeezes next to Cyril, shoving him to the side. She gives the camera an overly wide smile. Cyril scowls.]
Cyril: Meet my sister-b****, Orin.
Interviewer (quietly): Sir, this show is rated TV-14. I would appreciate it if you would–
Cyril: Shut up, c***-s***er. My sister is the–
[Orin swipes her finger across Cyril's forehead, smearing his scar makeup. Cyril stands up and grabs her roughly by the hair.]
Cyril: Are you f***ing kidding me? I hope you've enjoyed having fingers because they will not be attached to your body for much longer, you *********
[A steady bleep can be heard as the camera follows Cyril out of the room to a nearby bathroom, then the shot pans back to Orin.]
Interviewer: You two seem to have a… strained relationship.
Orin: He's such a foul blood-sack! He thinks that just because he's the oldest he's entitled to everything! I'm going to use this opportunity to show him that being Daddy's favorite only gets you so far. To believe himself above his family, above any consequences, is verging on blasphemy! Daddy didn't make the cult– uh, band, so that Brother could just run off and do whatever he wants. Besides, I'm a better singer than he'll ever be!
Interviewer: How do you plan to do that? Pranks and sabotage are common in a competition like this.
Orin: I'm going to f***ing kill him.
[There is a long silence, then some nervous laughter can be heard behind the camera before it travels back to the bathroom where Cyril is fixing his makeup. A man of medium build in his late thirties enters the room and leans on the doorframe, giving Cyril an appraising look. It is the same man who arrived in the Cybertruck, though he has removed the jacket he wore in the opening scene.]
Gortash: With the way you handled that knife earlier, I'm surprised those scars aren't real.
Cyril: Oh they are, but the camera can't see the white scars on my skin so some embellishment is required.
Gortash: I must admire your commitment to your craft. It's rare to find people like us these days. Driven, talented, cunning.
Cyril: Like us? I'm sorry, what exactly do you do?
[Cut to Gortash, sitting in a wingbacked chair with one ankle crossed over his knee and his fingers steepled under his chin. He’s wearing expensive loafers without socks, tailored black khakis, and a white button down shirt under an unzipped Patagonia vest. The logo is blurred out.]
Gortash: As I’m sure you’re aware, my work has always been at the cutting edge of future vision - be that in technology or finance. While I won’t risk jeopardizing my intellectual property for the interest of novelty television, I will say that my current project will revolutionize the way the modern home functions. All funded and backed by BaneCoin, of course.
Interviewer: Does this have anything to do with the interesting addition to the mansion you’ve brought with you today, Mr. Gortash?
[Camera pans to a long shot of a sleek black disc zooming down a carpeted hallway.]
Gortash: Ah, you’re referring to the prototype of my Steel Watch home management system that my interns have been setting up. Innovative integrated control of all household functions - environmental regulation, security, and even housekeeping - all embedded with smart tech controlled through a wearable system: The Gauntlet.
[Gortash flourishes his wrist to show a large smartwatch with a black face, gold wristband, and embedded crimson stones. It snags on the cuff of his button down before he yanks the fabric free.]
Gortash: It will be the future of home management and significantly reduce the demand for paid labor. And through the mobile network of Watchmen that provide constant three-dimensional mapping of the home, worry about intruders will become a thing of the past.
[Cut to a view of the interns, two young men sitting side by side with matching scowls and t-shirts with their rival tech school logos. Their names are added to the screen, since they are never introduced or addressed by name.]
Wulbren: They’re roombas. He had us strip enough of the original programming and casing to avoid iRobot’s IP claims.
Zanner: Adding the limited AI and speaker capabilities was an interesting challenge. I’m still not sure putting in the tasers was a good idea, though.
[Cut to footage of Z’rell staring down at the robot repeatedly bumping into her foot.]
Watchman: Alert, citizen! You do not have permission to be in this area. Evacuate the premises at once or prepare to be eliminated.
[Z’rell takes the toe of her boot and flips the robot over gently until it lies on its back, wheels spinning furiously in the air. The camera holds focus on the spinning wheels for several moments before fading out to black.]
[The scene returns to Cyril and Gortash chatting in the bathroom.]
Cyril: BaneCoin, hm? I suppose anyone can be rich these days if they make up their own currency…
Gortash: I did not make it up! I happen to have a very generous benefactor who helped BaneCoin get off the ground, if you must know.
Cyril: A touching story. I'm glad your mother gave you your allowance. Did you inherit her willingness to get on her knees as well?
Gortash: Bold words coming from a nepo baby creep clinging to daddy's apron strings. I bet you've never worked a day in your life.
[Cyril turns to Gortash with an uncanny smile, then spins a butterfly knife out from one of his pockets and throws it toward Gortash's head. It sticks itself in the door a few inches from his face.]
Cyril: The f*** did you say about my father? I wonder how much BaneCoin your kidneys will sell for!
Gortash: Your little threats won't help your PR problem, Assassin.
Cyril: At least I have a public image, and I do what I please with it. The world will remember you as just another failed upstart begging for money on some cut rate reality show that will run at 2 a.m.
Gortash: My Steel Watch will revolutionize–
Cyril: I've heard enough. I've been looking for a diversion, and you'll do splendidly. How about an alliance?
Gortash: You– What? I–
Cyril: You're much prettier when you keep your mouth shut, Gortash. Let me help with that.
[Cyril purses his lips in a smug smile, then rushes at Gortash, pushing him up against the wall near the bathroom door in a kiss. He uses his foot to kick the door shut. The camera remains on the closed door as grunting and banging noises can be heard on the other side.]
[Fade to another interview with Cyril. His red lipstick is smeared on his face, almost resembling blood, and his hair is disheveled.]
Cyril: I was bored. That's all there was to it. Besides, alliances are useful in the earlier parts of these kinds of games. Not that I intend to maintain it for long.
Interviewer: What do you hope to gain from an alliance with Gortash?
Cyril: Oh absolutely nothing, but the man is so strung out on his own ego it's most entertaining seeing him encounter real power. I would say it's for the fans, but the real reason is that father will hate it. Which gives me all the more motivation to play with him.
[Gortash's robot makes a slow path across the shot, and Cyril grabs it. The whirring of its motor in protest can be heard as he carries it around and searches for a roll of tape.]
Watchman: Halt, citizen! You are not authorized to handle this equipment.
Cyril: Shhhh, my friend. I'm only here to make some… improvements. Your inventor will curse himself for not thinking of this first.
[Cyril takes another butterfly knife from his pocket and tapes it to the top of the robot, the blade sticking out a few inches from the surface. He gently places the machine down and watches it retake its course.]
Interviewer: Sir, weapons are prohibited on set, please retrieve your knives and give them to a crew member. You may have them back after the show.
[Cyril throws yet another knife directly into the camera lens, shattering it. His voice can be heard over the black screen, as well as footsteps exiting the room.]
Cyril: I do what I want.
Interviewer: Sir, your cooperation is required on this– how many knives do you have?
[Microphone feedback is heard before the sound cuts off completely, replaced by static and a scroll at the bottom of the screen reading "Please stand by. Technical difficulties." The microphone slowly fades in again, and two hushed voices of crew members can be heard.]
Crew member 1: We can't keep him on set like this! I'm gonna call security, this is getting ridiculous.
Crew member 2: His dad owns the media company, so he stays.
Crew member 1: He does?
Crew member 2: Yeah the execs say this whole thing is a marketing ploy for his so-called charity– ah sh** we're still rolling!
Narrator: Damn it, this is wildly unprofessional… who cut this footage?
[A mostly inaudible answer filters in from the background.]
Narrator: Well, they’re going to have to cut it again. It’s not going to be my head on the chopping block if that doesn’t get edited out of the final release.