INT.  CLEANROOM – DAY 

A transsexual Asian woman sits alone at a table in an electronics cleanroom.  The room is a Faraday cage.  A room specifically designed to prevent electromagnetic interference.  No radio.  No signal.  No wifi.  There is an analog telephone on the table, which begins ringing.  The woman answers it and listens attentively to inaudible dialogue from the other party. She blinks several times, expressing vague irritation, or perhaps even contempt.

WHITE ROSE: I am afraid I cannot help you.

PHONE: [inaudible]

WHITE ROSE: I believe I understand your specific needs very well.  However I regret that this is not a service we are able to provide.

PHONE: [inaudible]

WHITE ROSE: A simple misunderstanding, yes.

PHONE: [inaudible]

WHITE ROSE: Not at all.  Best of luck finding a section of the stadium where you and your relatives will be comfortable sitting, Mr. Cooper.

WHITE ROSE hangs up the phone and checks her watch.  It is 2 p.m. precisely.  She presses a button, and with a hydraulic noise the door to the cleanroom opens.

WHITE ROSE: Come in.

ANDY REID sits down in the empty chair.  WHITE ROSE takes out a small rectangular device and sets it on the table.  She sets a timer for two minutes.

WHITE ROSE: I manage my time very carefully.  Each beep indicates one minute of my time has passed.  I have allotted you no more than two minutes. [she starts the timer]

ANDY REID: So…like a two minute drill?

WHITE ROSE: Something like that, yes.

ANDY REID: Wait…

WHITE ROSE: The concept of waiting bewilders me. There are always deadlines. There are always ticking clocks. That’s why you must manage your time.

ANDY REID: [swallows] Okay, Andy, you can do this.  Um…[glances around in a panic]…Time out, time out!

WHITE ROSE: [clicks tongue] The concept of a “time out” is not something that exists within the framework of this conversation.

ANDY REID: Oh…I know what this is!

ANDY begins pulling chicken wings out of the pockets of his parka one by one and scarfing them down.

WHITE ROSE: This not an eating contest Mr. Reid.  You are turning out to be a grave disappointment.

The timer beeps.

WHITE ROSE: You have one minute remaining.

ANDY REID: [throws challenge flag]

WHITE ROSE: [shakes her head] At this point, Mr. Reid, all reviews are initiated by the booth.

ANDY REID: That can’t be right [picks up challenge flag, throws it again].

WHITE ROSE: [clicks tongue] You have not advanced this conversation.  Do you intend to?

ANDY REID: Slide right Z forty-eight smash.

WHITE ROSE: Finally, you have communicated something.

ANDY REID: It will get us the first down.

WHITE ROSE: That is certainly possible.

ANDY REID: So are you ready to run this or not?

WHITE ROSE: You are the one who is not ready. Does your fullback know his blocking assignment?  Has the additional tackle declared himself eligible to the officals?

ANDY REID: I…

The timer beeps.

—

INT.  OFFICE BUILDING – DAY

We cut to the outer office of an executive suite on one of the upper floors of a Manhattan high rise.  The room is tastefully decorated, elegantly appointed, and spotlessly clean.  A young executive paces back and forth across the carpet.  Although he’s appropriately dressed, wearing an expensively tailored designer suit, he is sweating slightly (whether from his pacing or from nervousness is not clear) and he exudes an aura of desperation.

TYRELL WELLICK: [impatiently, to secretary] I was told he would see me at two o’clock.

SECRETARY: [is totally hot in that seriously classy way] For the third time, Mr. Wellick, he is in a meeting with an important client.  When he is ready to see you, I will let you know.

— [office door flies open] —

FITZPATRICK BATEMAN: [with a manic grin] Tanner!  Good to see you, buddy!

WELLICK: [too preoccupied to care about the mistake] What are you doing here?

FITZPATRICK: Putting the finishing touches on a deal.  Just cleared a cool $12 million!

The two stand regarding each other for a moment.

WELLICK: [grimaces] Your, uh, your nose is bleeding.

FITZPATRICK: [continues grinning, until he realizes that he’s supposed to do something about this and wipes his nose]  Hah!  Rusty pipes!  [reaches out and puts his hand on WELLICK’S upper arm] We’re still on for highballs at The Darby on Thursday, right?

WELLICK: [recoils from his touch] Sure, sure.

SECRETARY: Mr Wellick? Mr. Morris will see you now.

—

EXT.  CONEY ISLAND PIER – DAY

It is a warm afternoon.  A group of skateboarders attempt tricks on the paved surface of the boardwalk.  A car passes on the nearby roller coaster, clattering as it races through a curve. A pair of mechanical figures stand together by the edge of the pier, well separated from the ears and eyes of everyone else. 

BRONCO: Amusement park.  Think about what that means.  A-muse.  The opposite of “to think”.

RQBOCOP is silent, but we see something flash in his eyes.

BRONCO: You’re finally starting to see it?

RQBOCOP: I…

BRONCO: It’s been happening under your nose the whole time.

RQBOCOP: I don’t…

BRONCO: White Rose.  Wellick.  [gestures]  All of this.

RQBOCOP: [eyes widen]

BRONCO: It’s a distraction.

BRONCO takes a step backwards, and speaks over RQBOCOP’s shoulder.

BRONCO: It was all done by DFOcorp.  And it was all just to keep us entertained – amused – until football season starts again.

BRONCO slides the blade of its flipper arm beneath one of RQBOCOP’S heels and without preamble activates its hydraulics, launching RQBOCOP into the air and over the railing.  

BRONCO: [calmly] Sorry about this, buddy.  But you violated one of your directives.

—