Sample scripts

INT. STATION ONE - CUPOLA - ORBITAL DAY

Silence.

Then, under it, the slow mechanical breath of an air
scrubber. Push. Pause. Push.

A red grease pencil drifts across a scratched viewport.
Beyond the glass, the blue curve of Earth. Cloud moving over
open water, four hundred kilometers down.

A hand comes up and closes around the pencil. Nobody looked.

INES VASQUEZ, 54. Gray hair cropped close and uneven at the
back, like she did it herself with the wrong scissors.
Weathered, wiry. Grease worked into the edges of her nails.

Across her left palm, a thick band of white scar tissue.
Shiny. Puckered at the edges.

She wears an oversized green fleece vest over her
flightsuit. On the chest, a rectangle of darker fabric and a
row of tiny stitch holes where a name tag used to be.

A brass torque wrench rides her right thigh on a short
lanyard. The knurled handle is rubbed bright.

She hooks a toe under a handrail and faces an aluminum
placard bolted to the console.

STATION ONE - DE-ORBIT SEQUENCE - PHASE 1. Twenty-odd lines.
Most already ticked.

Above it, a digital clock: T-MINUS 47:58:12.

She uncaps the pencil with her teeth. Finds her line: CUPOLA
BULKHEAD SEALS - VERIFY/TAG.

She runs her thumb along the window gasket. Presses. Moves
six inches. Presses again. She works her way all the way
around the frame without skipping a section.

One spot she presses twice.

Then she ticks the line. A small, hard mark.

She caps the pencil and sticks it to a strip of Velcro on
the console, next to a row of others, each one worn down to
a stub.

Earth rolls past below her. She doesn't look at it.

She pushes off toward the aft hatch. The wrench swings on
its lanyard and knocks the hatch frame on the way through. A

EXT. GREAT NORTH ROAD - DAWN

Fog to the knees. A tax convoy stands dead on the road: four
wagons, a dozen GUARDS kneeling on the verge, their swords
piled out of reach like kindling.

One man works the strongboxes. ROBIN OF LOXLEY,
mid-thirties, weathered, forearms corded from the bow, a
deep hood over forgettable brown wool. He moves down the
wagon line like a man laying a table for guests.

                           ROBIN
            Step six. The strap, not the lock.
            Locks are for admirers.

His knife parts the strap. Coin sacks slide into panniers on
a grey mare, one at a time, each weighed in his hand before
it drops.

A young CLERK stands by the lead wagon, trembling, charcoal
moving on a scrap of paper anyway -- sketching the robber
out of pure habit.

In the treeline: five armed men crouch in bracken. LITTLE
JOHN, a wall with a beard, mouths: NOW? Beside him WILL
SCARLET, ALAN-A-DALE, MUCH, FRIAR TUCK. Bows strung. Nothing
to shoot.

Robin, without turning his head, lifts a flat palm toward
the trees.

Wait.

John sinks back into the wet ferns. Tuck sneezes into his
sleeve, twice. Nobody blesses him.

                           GUARD SERGEANT
                    (kneeling)
            The escort is a mile back. You're one
            man.

                           ROBIN
            One is the whole trick, sergeant. Two
            men can contradict each other.

He hefts the next sack, frowns at its weight, sets it in the
pannier and tucks a loose coin back under the strap, the way
you'd right a crooked picture on a wall.

                           ROBIN (CONT'D)
            Step seven -- the mare comes with me.
            She's wasted on the exchequer.

INT. EBERHARD'S HALL - DAWN

A clerk's reed pen scratches over a charter. Wax waits in a
brass spoon above a small flame.

LIUTGER OF WEILBURG, late twenties, stands among kin in
travel-stained wool. His right hand bears an empty signet
ring. The hollow face catches firelight.

DUKE EBERHARD OF FRANCONIA sits in the high chair, broad
under a cloak pinned with a boar clasp. Hounds crowd his
boots for scraps from his plate.

                         CLERK
            The lower mill at Nassau, with
            meadow and fishing right, to
            Conrad, son of Adelbert.

A young cousin steps forward. Eberhard presses two fingers to
the boy's brow. The hall murmurs approval.

Liutger keeps his hands folded. A leather cord of account
knots hangs at his belt. His thumb finds one knot, tightens
it.
                         CLERK  (CONT’D)
            The vineyards above Lahnstein,
            owing three carts at harvest, to
            Meinhard.

Another cousin. Younger. Red-cheeked. Landed now.

RUDOLF, a hard-faced count in a clean cloak, watches Liutger
more than the grants.

Eberhard takes the charter. His cloak hem turns in his fist;
something sewn inside clicks against his ring.
                         CLERK  (CONT’D)
            For Weilburg--

Liutger's fingers stop.
                         CLERK  (CONT’D)
            --stewardship remains under ducal
            hand until further counsel.

A small sound moves through the hall. Not shock. Measurement.

Liutger looks at Eberhard.

Eberhard does not look away.

                         EBERHARD
            The house keeps what the house must
            keep.

Rudolf lowers his eyes to hide a smile.

INT. MAINLAND HOSPICE - ROOM 12 - BEFORE DAWN

A vinyl visitor chair stands open beside the bed.

ELIN MORA, late 30s, lean, scrub top under a zipped fleece,
strides in with a steel dish, gloves, a paper cup of crushed
ice. Trauma shears clip her pocket. A penlight rides the
other side.

A DYING MAN lies under a thin blanket. The pump clicks.
Weather crackles from a wall radio in the corridor -- gulls,
then a flat voice under static.

Elin checks the chart at the foot of the bed, finds no pen,
writes a time across the back of her glove.

The dying man's daughter sleeps folded in the chair, chin on
chest.

Elin touches her shoulder.

                           ELIN
            You can use the family room for twenty.

The daughter jerks awake.

                           DAUGHTER
            I was just --

                           ELIN
            He's settled. Go wash your face.

The daughter looks to the bed, to Elin, obeys. She gathers
her cardigan and goes.

The dying man turns his head toward the empty corner by the
wardrobe.

                           DYING MAN
            Hello, love.

Elin follows his eyeline. Wardrobe. Coat hook. Nothing.

                           DYING MAN (CONT'D)
            You're early.

Elin slips on gloves, checks the line, presses the tape down
where it has lifted.

                           ELIN
            Any pain now?

                           DYING MAN
            No. She's wet through.

                    EPISODE 1 -- THE PHOTOGRAPH

INT. DAMIAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

A cleaner's cart blocks the open door. Fresh towels. Tiny
sewing kits. A master key clipped beneath the handle.

IVY, gray uniform immaculate, lifts a silver frame from
beside the untouched bed.

The photograph shows IVY MARCH before the fall, laughing
beneath a March Hotel awning.

She pulls off one glove finger by finger. Her bare thumb
crosses her photographed face.

The bedroom door shuts.

DAMIAN stands against it, white shirt open at the throat.

                           DAMIAN
            That isn't dusting.

Ivy slides the photograph behind her back.

                           IVY
            Your staff handbook permits judgment
            calls.

                           DAMIAN
            Show me.

                           IVY
            It is a photograph.

                           DAMIAN
            Yes.

He waits. Ivy sets it facedown on the nightstand and reaches
for her cart.

Damian turns the lock.

                           DAMIAN (CONT'D)
            Your name.

                           IVY
            Eve Gray.

                           DAMIAN
            Again.