SCENE 1 — PRISON TRANSFER

The interior of the prisoner transport van is dim, lit only by a pulsing red emergency strip running along the ceiling.

Metal restraints clink as the vehicle rattles over uneven pavement. Your wrists and ankles are locked into reinforced transport chairs, state-issued jumpsuits stiff with recycled fabric and old sweat.

The air smells of oil, metal, and something disinfectant that never quite works.

No one has spoken since you were loaded in.

The van slows. Turns sharply.

You feel the descent — a long, spiraling ramp downward — before the engine cuts and the vehicle comes to a stop.

Somewhere nearby, a heavy security gate slams shut.

The rear doors unlock.

PAUSE FOR PLAYER REACTION

The doors swing open to reveal a concrete underground garage washed in harsh white light.

Half a dozen figures in tactical gear stand outside the van, faces masked, weapons lowered but ready. One of them raises a handheld device — the moment it activates, the faint hiss of the security radio up front dies in a burst of static.

Then a man steps forward.

He’s thin, black, wearing a high-collared trench coat that looks expensive in a way that doesn’t ask permission. A synth-cigar glows dimly in his right hand as he puffs a few times.

He smiles — crooked, confident — and looks directly at you.

“Name’s Mr. Slate. And as of about ten seconds ago, you’re no longer inmates — you’re assets.”

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be a chalk outline and a paperwork problem.”

“I pulled some very expensive strings to get you outta that van. Which means one thing — you’re good at what you do.”(He gestures to the operatives.)
“Go on. Unlock ’em.”

Mr. Slate circles slowly, hands clasped behind his back.

“Look, I know trust isn’t exactly the currency of choice in this city. But here’s the deal — you do one job for me, and your records disappear. Transfers wiped. Charges evaporated. You walk out free.”

“The job’s dangerous. The payday’s obscene. And if you say no…”

(He shrugs.)

“I put you right back in that van and forget you ever existed.”

“So. Who wants to be somebody?”