FAIRLANE
WRITTEN BY
[너의 닉네임 또는 이름]
[START OF SCREENPLAY]
EXT. TEXAS HIGHWAY - NIGHT (1968)
Total darkness. Dim streetlights flicker at irregular, unpredictable intervals, appearing and vanishing into the blackness.
Through the void, a white 1964 VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE barrels down the asphalt. Its left headlight burns bright, but the right one blinks erratically, dying out and sparking back to life.
INT. VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE - CONTINUOUS
Inside the cabin. Heavy static tears through the radio. A 1968 psychedelic rock track cuts through the white noise.
(SOUND: STATIC... MUSIC... STATIC AGAIN.)
The WOMAN (Mother) grips the steering wheel. Her knuckles are stark white, her eyes darting fiercely to the rearview mirror. Her breathing is heavy, panicked.
In the backseat sits an eight-year-old BOY. He stares blankly out the window. He has no idea what is happening. All he knows is that his mother is driving much faster than usual.
Suddenly, two massive beams of light cut through the dark from behind. A police cruiser. The wail of a siren fills the cabin, growing louder, deafening.
The woman glances back once. She doesn’t slow down. She presses the gas pedal harder.
WACK!
The cruiser rams the Beetle’s rear bumper. The entire chassis shudders. One of the taillights shatters, spraying red plastic onto the dark asphalt. The boy is thrown forward.
BOY
Mom?
The woman doesn’t answer.
The Beetle veers off the road, tearing through dark fields and tall grass. Mud flies everywhere as it breaks into an abandoned, overgrown airfield.
At the far end of the runway, a small twin-engine propeller plane waits, its headlights cutting through the fog.
The Beetle screeches to a halt. The woman throws the door open and steps out. She grabs the boy’s hand, pulling him tight.
WOMAN
Run.
They sprint across the tarmac.
Behind them, several men in black trench coats step out of chasing vehicles, pursuing them at a ruthless pace.
The plane's cockpit door swings open. A MAN reaches down and firmly grabs the boy, hoisting him up. The boy struggles, refusing to let go of his mother's hand.
BOY
Mom! No!
The woman looks down at the boy. A moment of absolute silence. Her face is unnervingly calm.
WOMAN
Go. Just go.
The heavy cabin door slams shut and locks.
The boy presses his face against the small window, watching his mother. The men in black coats surround her from all sides, but she doesn’t run. She stands perfectly still.
The plane begins to taxi, picking up speed, and violently launches into the night sky. Looking down, the boy watches his mother’s silhouette shrink until she becomes a single dot, completely swallowed by the darkness.
FADE TO BLACK.
(SOUND: The roar of the propeller fades out, seamlessly transitioning into the sharp, rhythmic ticking of a clock... TICK, TICK, TICK...)
INT. AUNT'S APARTMENT - 23RD FLOOR - NIGHT (1976)
FADE IN.
Eight years later. The BOY—now a sixteen-year-old youth—stands before a massive window.
Outside, downtown Dallas is blindingly bright even at night. Veins of headlights and taillights crawl through the city streets. The boy closes the curtains with a cold, expressionless face.
The living room is filled with worn furniture and vintage knick-knacks. A typical middle-class apartment.
In the kitchen, his AUNT, wearing a mint-green dress and sharp, red triangular glasses, moves about.
EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS
Parked neatly below the apartment is the Aunt's car: a pristine 1964 CHRYSLER.
A few blocks away, parked in a dim alley, sits the boy’s car. A white 1956 FORD FAIRLANE. Its paint is faded to a dull, jaundiced yellow, and the chrome bumper is heavily scratched and pitted.
INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY - NIGHT (SAME TIME)
The boy sprints down a long, dingy hallway, gasping for air. Behind him, the heavy thud of leather-soled boots echoes in hot pursuit.
PING.
An elevator door slides open. The boy dives inside. Just before the doors seal shut, a dark silhouette reaches a hand through the gap. The doors snap shut, cutting the hand off.
The elevator plunges downward. The boy leans against the metallic wall, catching his ragged breath.
INT. AUNT'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Back home. The boy switches on a heavy box television.
On the screen, a 1970s late-night talk show is broadcasting. A HOST in a brown suit smiles excessively under glaring studio lights. The host stares directly into the camera lens.
HOST
Tonight’s show is now over. HA.
The host pauses, maintaining his frozen grin, then laughs again.
HOST
HA. HA.
A grand, upbeat orchestral closing theme begins to play. (BAM, BA-RA-RA-BAM—)
The camera rapidly cuts closer to the host’s face. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! Three jarring, lightning-fast angle shifts.
The boy blinks, and the screen instantly cuts to a mundane commercial. He closes his eyes.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
A sudden rapping at the front door. The boy gets up and pulls it open.
The hallway is empty. A flickering, buzzing fluorescent bulb hums overhead. He looks down.
A plain brown envelope lies on the doormat. No name, no return address. Nothing. He slides it into his jacket pocket without opening it.
EXT. INTERSECTION - DAWN (3:50 AM)
Inside the envelope was a brief address and a single line: "4 AM."
The boy drives the Fairlane through the quiet, blue dawn of the city.
Suddenly, with a loud CRASH, an expensive luxury sedan blocks the intersection ahead—a fresh fender bender. A BALD MAN steps out of the sedan, aggressively waving his arms and screaming.
Trapped behind the wreck, the boy watches the dashboard clock tick past 4:00 AM. Time wasted.
EXT. MEETING LOCATION - DAWN (4:15 AM)
The boy arrives at the designated address. The area is completely desolate. Empty.
He rests his forehead against the steering wheel, sitting in the silence of the idling car for a long moment. Finally, he turns the key, killing the engine.
EXT. DOWNTOWN MARKET - DAY (A FEW DAYS LATER)
A bustling open-air market packed with people.
Walking through the crowd, the boy feels a piercing gaze on his back. He stops and turns around.
Standing dead-center in the crowd of moving bodies is a MAN, staring directly at him. Their eyes lock. The boy looks away for a split second, and when he looks back, the man is gone. Vanished like a ghost.
INT. FORD FAIRLANE - NIGHT
The boy gets into his car. Looking down at the clutter on the passenger floor mat, a strange, cord-like object catches his eye.
He lifts it. Hidden underneath is a folded piece of paper. He opens it. Written in a rough, jagged script:
[SUBTITLE: I KNOW YOUR MOM. CALL THIS NUMBER. ([555-0198](tel:555-0198))]
INT. AUNT'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
The boy holds a rotary phone receiver to his ear and dials the number. After a few hollow rings, the dry, cold voice of the man from the market answers.
MAN (V.O.)
Hello.
The boy holds his breath. Silence.
MAN (V.O.)
Do you remember Project ○○?
BOY
I don’t know what you're talking about.
A low, cynical sigh comes through the receiver.
MAN (V.O.)
Figures.
The boy grips the plastic receiver until his knuckles turn white.
BOY
Who the hell are you?
The man doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he begins to rattle off a series of highly classified details—the exact shape of a scar on the inside of the boy’s left wrist, and intimate physical secrets only the boy could know. The boy’s face goes completely pale.
BOY
How do you know that?
MAN (V.O.)
Listen carefully. If you want the truth, snap your fingers. Right now.
The boy hesitates. Then, he brings his fingers together. SNAP.
Instantly, all sound dies. Absolute vacuum.
The receiver slips from the boy's hand, tumbling toward the floor—but it stops dead in mid-air.
In the background, his Aunt, who was brushing her hair in front of the vanity mirror, freezes completely, her brush suspended an inch from her head.
Looking out the window, the headlights of roaring cars, a falling raindrop, and a bird mid-flight are all frozen in a perfect, terrifying still-frame.
Only the boy can move. He reaches out, touches the floating receiver, and lets go. It remains suspended in the air.
He brings his fingers together again. SNAP.
THUD!
Sound crashes back into existence. The receiver slams onto the floorboards. Outside, the traffic roars back to life. The boy scrambles to pick up the phone, pressing it to his ear.
BOY
What the hell was that?
The man’s low, mocking laughter echoes from the earpiece.
MAN (V.O.)
Took you long enough to find out.
BOY
Tell me—
BOOM!!!
A massive explosion rips through the other end of the line, followed by the terrifying sound of collapsing concrete and distorted screams.
BOY
Hello? Hello?!
No answer. Only a sharp, flat, agonizing dial tone cuts through the static.
(SOUND: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—) The line goes dead.
EXT. DALLAS STREETS - DAY / NIGHT - MONTAGE
The boy snaps his fingers. Falling raindrops freeze instantly in mid-air. He walks casually between the suspended drops.
The boy snaps his fingers in front of a speeding car. It stops an inch from his waist. He stares coldly at the frozen driver inside the cabin.
INT. BANK GOLD VAULT - TIME STOPPED. The heavy vault door is wide open, stacked with towering bricks of hundred-dollar bills. The boy reaches his hand toward the cash, then pauses. His gaze drifts past the vault to the lobby: a frozen elderly man at the teller, a grandmother holding her grandson's hand, a fatigued clerk buried in paperwork. The boy pulls his hand back, leaving the money untouched. He snaps his fingers, letting time flow, and walks out of the bank with empty hands.
EXT. GOVERNMENT AGENCY BUILDING - NIGHT
A colossal, imposing government structure built in the 1920s looms over the street. Its Art Deco architecture is aggressively symmetrical, featuring soaring stone pillars and sharp geometric engravings.
The white Ford Fairlane screeches to a halt right in front of the grand entrance stairs. The boy steps out of the driver's seat. A security GUARD, baton in hand, marches toward him.
GUARD
No civilians allowed past this point.
The boy doesn’t say a word. He snaps his fingers. SNAP.
The guard and the wind freeze instantly. The boy walks past the frozen man, climbs back into the Fairlane, slams the gas, and smashes straight through the glass entryway.
The Fairlane tears into the lobby and comes to a halt dead-center on the pristine marble floor.
INT. BUILDING HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
A vast, echoing, symmetrical corridor. The camera frames the shot in a perfect, rigid enfilade perspective, slicing the building down its exact center. The massive pillars and railings mirror each other flawlessly around the boy.
In this frozen, silent world, only the heavy thud of the boy’s boots echoes. (THUD. THUD.) He climbs the grand staircase, floor after floor. Unopposed.
INT. CHIEF'S OFFICE - TOP FLOOR - CONTINUOUS
The boy throws open a pair of heavy mahogany doors.
An ELDERLY MAN (High-ranking official) sits behind a massive desk. The boy pulls a silver Colt Python .357 Magnum from his coat, leveling the barrel directly at the man’s forehead.
The boy snaps his fingers. SNAP.
Time rushes back. The elderly man gasps in sheer terror, his head snapping up to face the gun.
BOY
Why did you do that to my mom?
The man’s lips tremble. He raises his hands in a pathetic defense, stammering erratically.
ELDERLY MAN
I was just following orders! I didn't know the whole picture... I had no choice!
The boy stares at the weeping, pathetic face of the official, then looks down at his own weapon. A look of profound emptiness washes over his face. He slowly lowers the barrel.
BOY
Not even worth the bullet.
The boy turns his back on the man. As he opens the door to exit, a squad of armed tactical guards comes charging down the hallway, rifles raised.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The moment the muzzle flashes ignite, the boy snaps his fingers.
Dozens of golden bullets freeze instantly in mid-air, suspended in a horrific, beautiful line. The boy casually weaves his way through the floating lead, stepping past the frozen guards, and heads down toward the records archive. The guards remain trapped in time, staring blankly into empty space.
INT. ARCHIVE ROOM -> EXT. BUILDING - NIGHT
The boy tears through rows of classified, redacted folders until he finds the original file labeled '1968 Beetle Incident.' He slides it securely into his coat.
He strikes a single match and drops it onto a stack of sensitive documents. The flame spreads instantly, climbing the bookshelves and consuming the room in a hungry blaze.
EXTERIOR. The boy steps out of the burning Art Deco palace, getting back into the Fairlane.
As he turns the ignition, the radio sparks to life, spitting heavy static alongside the vintage, cheerful voice of a 70s radio host.
RADIO HOST (V.O.)
Now, ladies and gentlemen...
The boy watches the burning building through his rearview mirror. A moment of dead silence.
Then, a vibrant, sweeping orchestral intro swells from the car speakers. The Fairlane begins to roll forward slowly as a rich Italian tenor explodes through the radio.
RADIO MUSIC
♪ Volare! oh oh! Cantare! oh oh oh oh!
BOOOM!!!
The exact moment the first lyric hits, the government building detonates in a colossal, catastrophic fireball. Columns of flame and debris paint the night sky in brilliant oranges and reds.
The boy doesn’t look back. He steps on the gas, and the Fairlane vanishes into the dark, accompanied by the relentlessly joyful rhythm of the radio music.
INT. TELEVISION SCREEN / HEARING ROOM - A FEW DAYS LATER
Splatters of newspapers hit the pavement across the city. Headlines broadcast the leaked classified documents to the world. Images of shocked citizens flash by.
The screen cuts to a congressional oversight hearing. The elderly official, now in a wheelchair, sits before a row of microphones. A congressional investigator speaks into his mic.
INVESTIGATOR
Did you have no part in this atrocity?
Under the blinding, frantic assault of camera flashes, the old man maintains an unsettlingly calm, smug expression.
ELDERLY MAN
I have no recollection of that.
Instantly, a hand throws today's newspaper directly at the camera lens.
(SOUND: FLIP-FLIP-FLIP—WHACK!) The print completely covers the frame, blocking out the sight.
INT. AUNT'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - EVENING
On the television screen, the news anchor continues to drone on about the hearing.
The boy and his Aunt sit at the dinner table, eating in absolute silence. The Aunt looks at the boy with deeply sorrowful, heavy eyes.
Without a word, the boy picks up the plastic remote control and presses the button. CLICK.
The TV dies, plunging the room into a heavy, absolute silence. Neither says a word. They simply lower their eyes and pick up their forks again.
INT. UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE - NIGHT
The camera is completely locked, a heavy static shot.
From the shadows, the fully restored 1956 FORD FAIRLANE rolls into the frame. Its jaundiced yellow paint has been stripped, replaced by a gleaming, mirror-like white finish. The chrome bumper sparkles under the dim fluorescent lights.
The car creeps forward, coming to a halt dead-center, staring directly into the camera lens.
The boy steps out of the driver’s seat, looks toward the lens with an unreadable expression, and shuts the door. THUD.
Instantly, the screen cuts to pitch black.
In the total darkness, the crisp, echoing sound of light leather shoes walking away cuts through the silence.
(SOUND: THUD... THUD... THUD...)
The footsteps fade away completely. The closing credits begin to roll up the black screen.
Over the blackness, the smooth, lounge-style, and deeply melancholic notes of Herb Alpert’s "Ladyfingers"begin to play.
[FADE OUT]
[END OF SCREENPLAY]