The Retreat

EXT. DIRTY BACK ALLEY SOMEWHERE IN LOS VEGAS TWO MEN laboriously, painfully turn over in a pile of spilled garbage bags in front of a tipped over bin. One reeks of YUPPY GONE TO POT, pop-collared salmon shirt smeared across a big belly borne of beer, while the other might've dropped straight off the nearest REDNECK FARMER catalog, all jeans and plaid shirt and baseball cap (Go Braves!). CAPTION: MIKE JEONATHON, 80's LEFTOVER MIKE (yuppy) Oh, Jesus. He promptly vomits into a nearby corner. CAPTION: BUTCH WALLAR, ETERNAL REDNECK CHAMPION BUTCH Well, that could'a been way worse, Mike. I mean, look up there. That's, what, three, four stories? Dayum, could'a been ugly. Mike makes it to his feet unsteadily. One hand on the tumbled bin, he walks toward Butch. The second is a little steadier. The third brings him close enough to PUNCH Butch right in the jaw. Butch stumbles back a few steps and rubs at the redness. BUTCH I may...

INT. CARGO BAY Boxes, colour coded by content, some as big as a small car, some the size of a fist, stacked in magnetic racks that leave little room to move around, lit brightly by light that spills from behind and around. Where you can see the walls, they're industrial white and marked with the omnipresent signage of space. TWO MEN load one a flat platform with both mag-latches and straps. They both wear suits which, while not bulky, add a certain girth, like medieval armour. The unmistakable lines of augmentative EXO-FRAMES run along the sides of their limbs, giving them many times their expected strength. One of the men, the name ROBINSON is blazed across his upper back and down one leg as well as his upper chest, pushes off the floor toward one of the upper stacks. Zero gravity. The other, VALIENT, grunts in effort as he sets the hooks at the sides of his wrists into one broad BOX COLOURED GREEN for foodstuff. He swings it in that peculiar way you shift t...

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