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| Scene Title | Daylight, Part I |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | On the eve of New York's destruction, an arrangement between Nicole Nichols and Daniel Linderman should have saved Colette's life… |
| Date | November 7, 2006 |
Colette and Nicole's Apartment
Midtown Manhattan
«…and my next guest is a Daytime Emmy award winning comedian, writer, actress, and a co-host of the talk show The View. Please welcome, Joy Behar!"»
The noise of a television rolls across a dimly lit living room. The chirping voice of Jay Leno fills the air in the apartment, where golden light from shaded lamps reflects dully off of coffee colored walls and hardwood floors. Tired eyes droop down, focus blurry ont he television across the living room. With the black plastic of the remote control in hand, there's a loud and prolounged yawn that ends with a squeak from the couch's sole occupant.
Dark hair is mussed and unkempt, face mushed against a quilted throw pillow, nose wrinkled in lack of recognition for the guest. Green eyes drift up to peer at the clock above the television, five minutes to midnight. There's a grown, and rolling on to her back, the young teenager exhales a deep breath and covers her eyes with her forearm. "…Where are you?" She murmurs to herself, one hand blindly groping out at the coffee table to find a cordless phone.
There's a beep, then a dialtone, one thumb blindly moving around the keypad dialing a familiar number, the notes of each button click firmly painted in her mind from the repetition of calling all night. A long delay comes, then a soft voice over the speaker. «You've reached Nicole Nichols! Sorry I'm not at my phone right now or I'm in a meeting, but if you leave a message I'll— » Click.
The phone is lazily deposited at Colette's side, arm coming down from her eyes as she stares up at the ceiling, a tired sigh blown out through her nostrils. She turns her head, looking back at the clock, three minutes to midnight. Colette is so blissfully unaware, that for so long from this point on, these will be the last memories she has of this night. She'll never remember what comes next, the sudden and abrupt sound — of a knock.
Practically jumping off of the sofa, Colette bolts into an upright position, waiting until she hears the sound again to confirm that she did indeed hear it. When the three firm knocks come again, a smile spreads across her lips and mismatched socked feet come down to the hardwood floor. "God, you're late and you forgot your keys!" The young girl blurts out to the door, hustling across the living room and skidding on her socked feet over the polished wood until she bumps her shoulder into the door.
The deadbolt is turned back with a click, the chain withdrawn with a clatter and the knob turned without so much as a cursory glance as to who's outside. But when the door opens, the looming silhouette of a tall and gaunt black man in a camel colored suit standing at the doorway is not what she expected. The shriek that comes next is met with a slam as the door closes, "I'm calling the cops!" Is the first thing she can think of saying despite being across the room from the phone.
The door isn't closing all the way, she can feel the strange man pressing against it. "Get— go away!" Colette blurts out in a panic, eyes wide, trying to find something to use to defend herself. But the sharp British accent coming from the other side of the door doesn't quite sound like it fits with the man trying to force his way inside.
"Oh god, would'y lay off the spooky routine, man? Colette, your sist'a sent us here t'take you t'see her." Only upon saying that does the man realize how much like a kidnapper's line it sounds like. "We're— colleagues of hers from work, c'mon Colette please let us in fer chris'sake, my names James— James Woods. You can trust me, Nicole sent us t'make sure you're safe."
"Help! Help!" The sharp screams of Colette from the other side of the door are going to rouse suspicions eventually, her shrill voice ringing loud against the door and walls of the apartment, "Help! Help!" Dark fingers curl around the door, and one forceful slam of the door sends Colette stumbling back and against the wall, knocking down a rack that holds the house keys and dislogding a photograph from the wall, one of her sister and the man she works for — a jolly, white-haired old man — both out at dinner. It lands on the floor, glass pane on the front shattering.
Knocked onto her backside and scrambling to get to her feet, Colette only sees the Haitian's looming form in her periphery for a moment as she darts on slipping footing down the hall towards the bedrooms, screaming as loud as she can. The Haitian's stride takes him in to the apartment, followed by a somewhat short, blonde-haired and bewildered looking man in a black suit, the aforementioned Woods.
"Jesus Christ, man, did y'have t'go an' scare her like that?" Woods' eyes turn to focus on the hall just in time to see the door slam. "Fack," he grunts, "go make sure nobody else's comin', I'll go get 'er." Said with a sigh, Woods turns and starts walking down the hall, hands on his hips. "Goddamnit kid, we need t'get outta here." The Haitian, however, simply downturns his dark eyes to the broken picture frame at his feet, brows furrowing as he sees Nicole so close to Daniel Linderman.
It explains why they're here, why now.
Bursting through the bedroom door, Woods stops and sharply looks around, eyes narrowed. There's no sign of the girl, just a bed, dark comforters and partially open shades viewing a picture window that displays a panoramic view of the New York City skyline at night. "Oh fuck me this is ridiculous," Woods grumbles as he walks around the bed, kicking at the mattress on the floor setup, realizing she isn't hiding under it.
It's only the feverish breathing and shuffling in the closet that tips the blonde man off. He rolls his eyes, breathing out a heavy sigh. "Oh for the love of god, come out of the bloody closet." There's no response, just an awkward shuffling inside. Nodding his head repeatedly in a very of course that figures way, Woods storms over to the slatted closet door, turning the knob and flinging the door open, one hand lashing out to reach inside and grab a scrambling little girl by the arm.
Screaming carries louder, and it's all Woods can do to close his eyes and wince as he leans away from her. Her piercing scream comes with violent thrashing, feet kicking at shins, tiny fists slapping at Woods' dark suit coat, and and then teeth biting down on his hand. "Ahhh!" The screaming is now Woods' to perform, "Mother fucka' she bit me!" The Haitian's footsteps approach down the hall, and Woods dives across the bed as Colette tries to rush past him. His fingers come out, grasping her by the hood of her sweatshirt and yanking her back like a dog on a leash.
The girl lets out a strangled yelp, coming right off of her feet to thump to the floor, and as she turns around, throwing her hand up with a scream at Woods, the room suddenly erupts into a brilliant colorless light. From the other side of the door, the Haitian stagger back, shielding his eyes with one hand as he hears the pained scream of Woods and not Colette cry out in the radiance. There's one slump and a clunk, and by the time the light has faded, the Haitian has made his way to the door, pushing it open with one hand and his brows raised.
"F— fuck, fuck I think she— fuck I can't bloody fuckin' see!" Blinking his eyes open and closed, Woods staggers around the room, hands pawing at his eyes and head shaking from side to side, disoriented. What he can't see, the Haitian can, a small pool of blood gathered on the floor. There's a furrow of his brows, head tilting to the side, as he moves around the bed to find where Colette has collapsed, no longer screaming. "Haitian hey— man— do my eyes look bad? I alright, yeah?"
Woods doesn't know the Haitian isn't nodding, doesn't know that he's crouching down to turn Colette over onto her back. His lips press together in a thin line, eyes narrowed as he sees the result of what she did. One eye, her right eye, is clouded with the scar of a cataract, blood running out of her tear duct and from around the socket, some trickling out of her right nostril. His hand moves to her neck, fingers checking for a pulse.
As sight comes back to Woods, ever so slightly, he turns around and blinks his eyes repeatedly at the Haitian, then down to Colette. A grimace starts to slowly spread across his face, breath hitching in the back of his throat as he turns to look back at the Haitian. "Did… did anyone say she was— " he just nods to her, lips pursed.
The Haitian slowly shakes his head, and reaches in to his jacket to retrieve a cell phone, holding it out to Woods. The British agent stares down at the phone, then up and the Haitian, and finally down to the young girl crumpled in a heap on the floor, breathing shallow and blood leaking out from her eye. Taking the phone, he dials a number and starts to wander away, still slowly blinking his eyes and rubbing at one with his free hand.
"Yeah, this's Agent Woods," he looks over his shoulder, brows furrowed, "we need a crew at the corner of 2nd and 34th street…" There's a pause, and Woods' nose rankles at something said on the other line. But his response is clear enough:
"No, this's a bag an' tag now."