by

David S. Goyer

Darkness, BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAMS. Presentation credits roll as we
FADE UP ON:

INT. HOSPITAL, INNER-CITY TRAUMA WARD - NIGHT

It's 1967, the Summer of Love and --

BOOM! Entry doors swing open as PARAMEDICS wheel in a FEMALE BLEEDER,
VANESSA (20s, black, nine months pregnant). She's deathly pale,
spewing founts of blood from a savagely slashed throat --

A SHOCK-TRAUMA TEAM swarms over her, inserting a vacutainer into an
artery to draw blood, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her
arm --

NURSE #1
(with stethoscope)
She's not breathing!

SENIOR RESIDENT
Intubate her!

The RESPIRATORY THERAPIST feeds an endotracheal tube down the woman's
ruined throat, attaches that to an Amblu bag --

RESIDENT
Blood-pressure's forty and falling --

The woman starts spasming violently. It takes three staff members
just to hold her down.

SENIOR RESIDENT
Jesus, her water's broken --
(calling for help)
She's going into uterine contractions --

CAMERA PUSHES IN on the woman as she bolts upright, SCREAMING to wake
the dead. We PLUNGE INTO the darkness of her mouth and find
ourselves --

INSIDE HER BLOODSTREAM

The sound of a HEART BEATING, pounding as we whip-snake through --

CORPUSCLES

floating in amber plasma. Erythrocytes, leukocytes, neutrophils and
eosinophils.

The rhythmic expansion of the artery walls, pulsing with each
successive surge of blood as the HEART BEATS FASTER AND FASTER,
taking us --

IN UTERO,

A CHILD, alive but unborn, shifting in a sea of amniotic fluid,
surrounded by the white, protective substance known as vernix
caseosa. The HEARTBEAT races like a locomotive now. The unborn child
shifts, turns its head towards us --

-- and opens its eyes.

CUT TO:

A SWORDBLADE

cleaving the darkness, radiant light slicing across gleaming Damascus
steel. Words acid-etched in the weapon's fine-tempered surface:

BLADE

Main credits end.

EXT. INNER CITY, INDUSTRIAL GHETTO - NIGHT

A decaying no man's land populated by condemned buildings and HUNGRY
HOMELESS. Steam rises from manhole covers, drifting across the
litter- lined streets. Suddenly --

A black Mercedes 850 appears over the crest of a hill, ROARING past
us, stereo system belting out FILTER.

INT. MERCEDES - NIGHT

Raquel, a wasp-wasted woman, sits behind the wheel. 20s, rich,
sickeningly attractive. Hungry eyes.

Squirming around in the passenger seat is DENNIS, a model/actor boy-
toy with a sub-zero IQ and a "fuck me sideways" grin.

DENNIS
So where we going?

RAQUEL
It's a surprise.

DENNIS
I likes surprises.

Raquel eyeballs Dennis -- "if looks could devour".

RAQUEL
What do you have down there, little
man?

DENNIS
Heat-seeker.

RAQUEL
I'll bet.

Raquel slides a manicured hand up his thigh, squeezes his groin.
Dennis MOANS. She pulls her hand away, downshifts.

EXT. VACANT LOT - NIGHT

The 850 threads a narrow alley into a vacant lot, BRAKES hard. Raquel
and Dennis climb out. She leads him into --

EXT. MEAT PACKING PLANT - NIGHT

Industry never sleeps, and certainly not this grisly facility. Raquel
leads Dennis around the back of the plant, where a host of WORKERS
are loading refrigerated trucks with product.

DENNIS
What the fuck are we doing here?

Raquel just smiles, heads on into the plant via a loading door. The
workers ignore her.

INT. MEAT PACKING PLANT - NIGHT

Dennis follows Raquel through the bowels of the plant, catching
glimpses here and there of carcasses being rendered or hacked apart.

Through one partially open door we see what might be a line of
BODYBAGS being trundled into the back of a truck via a hook and chain
pulley-system. But Dennis doesn't have enough time to be disturbed by
the vision, because he's being pulled away by Raquel, led down --

A STAIRWELL

We are in the basement now. At the end of the hall is a steel door,
with perhaps, just the faintest HINT OF MUSIC heard coming from
beyond. Raquel knocks.

A "peep-hole" slat opens and a BLACK LIGHT shines into Raquel's eyes.
A VOICE behind the door offers a verbal challenge, speaking a
language we've never heard, laced with a devilish cadence.

Raquel responds in kind. The door opens. Raquel gives Dennis a
knowing wink, enters. Dennis follows.

INT. CLUB - NIGHT

Raquel and Dennis move past a hulking DOORMAN, making their way down
a narrow stairway. Dennis is suitably impressed.

THE CLUB

is elite, underground -- an "abattoir-chic" version of an old-time
juke joint with a greasy, dangerous vibe. White-tiled walls and
floors for easy hosing, chromed fittings, run-off gutters, drains. No
bar.

BODIES

writhe on the strobe-lit dance floor. A heavy S&M scene. Leather.
Latex. Tattoos. Body-piercings.

A D.J. wearing head-mounted spotlights orchestrates the tunes on
twin- decks. MUSIC assaults us -- a beat so heavy it could jar the
fillings from your teeth. Brutal "DARKCORE" along the lines of
Prodigy or Underground.

Raquel pulls Dennis out onto the dance floor. They sway.

A lupine-featured GAULTIER GIRL with a streak of white running
through her raven hair moves in behind Dennis, pressing up against
him. Rachel Williams as the Angel of Death -- we'll call her MERCURY.

Mercury flicks her tongue against Dennis' ear -- it's been pierced
with a silver post which clicks against her teeth. Tattooed across
her back in black is a swirling, tribal vortex.

Dennis is now sandwiched between Raquel and Mercury, the three of
them dry-humping their way to every man's glory.

The beat gets LOUDER. The action heavier. The atmosphere more
narcotic. People are stripping off their clothes, sweating like
fiends. It's a virtual orgy.

Dennis laughs, reveling in the hedonism. Everything rises to a fever
pitch --

DENNIS
(over the music)
Fuck, I need a drink!!!