Cold Open on a sparse loft apartment.
-Panning shot-
Out of the windows, we see many tall buildings, a very urban surrounding(Boston).
In the corner of two connecting walls, facing the window-view of the city, sits a silent, busy man sitting in a plain chair at a plain table.
-Camera stops on man-
From a point of view over the mans shoulder, we see that on this plain table is an assortment of pistols, knives, watches, envelopes and non-descript boxes.
Voice-over, as the man cleans one of his firearms and interjected with shots of the man's face and flashbacks to his childhood. Shots of his parents in their bakery in the sun, happy and smiling. Burning buildings and explosions. His brother leading him out of the store and through the war-torn city. His brother being dragged away in the dark. Being found by Heinz:
My name is Alexi. I was born in Osijek, Croatia. My father and mother ran a bakery. They were there when the Serbs starting raining down artillery on the city. I was sent out of the city with my older brother, to try and keep me safe. My parents stayed behind to care for those "brave" Croatians defending our new nation. At least that is what they tell me. I do not remember much, I was young. Just the darkness, my brother screaming. Me being cold and alone. I was found by an American CIA agent in country monitoring the situation for American and it's NATO allies. I knew him only as Heinz. He took me in, gave me food, kept me warm. I guess he assumed I was a refugee, an orphan. He never asked me my name or about my family. Not even where I originally came from. I spent a few months with this man before I was smuggled out of the country to the United States. I grew up in America. I consider myself America if I am anything at all. I was part of a project called Project Daedalus. I was a child with no country, apparently. According to them anyway. I grew up with a legion of tutors. Tutors for education, language, fighting. Except I was never really acknowledged by my new home nation. I wasn't given a new family. I wasn't shown love or affection. Just training. My only family were the countless instructors who taught me to be a killer. My only real possession was my name, Alexi Petrova.
Shot of Alexi with newly cleaned Heckler & Koch P30, admiring his work.
-Opening Credits-
Digital map, which zooms in on Boston, Massachusetts.
Cut to Alexi, walking down a crowded Boston street. People walking in every direction.
Voiceover, Alexi, with shots of fights he has been in and kills he has made. Meeting a businessman at a dinner party and spiking his drink with arsenic as he wasn't looking. Shooting a tobacco lobbyist and making it look like suicide. Beating a gang leader to death in an alley. Snapping a seemingly helpless professor looking type's neck. No elaboration on why these people were killed:
I don't know the extent of Project Daedalus. I don't know if I was the only one or if there are more like me. I do know I don't actually exist. My social security number belongs to a kid who drank himself into the ground at his first high school party. I don't have any access to my superiors. I get mail. Mail with forged school transcripts. Fake college degrees. Passports. I once received a cell phone. I can't make calls on it. I only get text messages from burner phones. These text messages only have an internet address. The links, which I occasionally try to find the origin of, are bounced off a thousand different servers, impossible to track to it's source. They lead to pages with everything I need to know about my targets...their schedules, security, routines, even their favorite foods and interests. The target pages are only open for 8 minutes, and then disappear from cyberspace forever, I guess for deniablity. I am paid through a Cayman Islands account that is somehow linked to a local bank. I am well compensated. Just by going over my targets, I have been able to figure out that I am not only employed by the United States. Some of them would have no value to America. Uncle Sam loans me to who they see fit. They are like my pimp.
