The formatting doesn't transit from my FINAL DRAFT screenplay application but you can see what is going on so don't comment on the format. Below is the first 4 pages. I hope you like my project.
THE ASSASSINS CODE 1
FADE IN:
EXT. MILITARY TRAINING GROUND - DAY
In the open terrain, artillery shells explode in the
distance. Icy wind sends leaves through the air across the
iron faces of TEN SOLDIERS marching as a squad.
SUPER:
“Military Training Area, Sennelager, Germany 1973”
ARROWSMITH, or “ARROW”, 30, white, leads the squad. 220lbs of
flint-hearted paratrooper and Military Intelligence Officer
wearing the beige beret of the SAS. Geronimo incarnate.
With chiselled good looks and piercing green eyes Arrow looks
back at his men... steel cut confidence on each face.
BARRY “MESSTIN” MESTON, 32, a Combat Engineer marching along;
another big guy with blonde hair under his beret. If eyes are
the window to the soul, this man doesn’t have one. Violence
is just a wrong look away.
They march along the trail into a forest toward a complex of
wooden huts, hidden and protected from the wind by trees.
SERGEANT MAJOR, WINDY GALE, 55, awaits them. Arms akimbo. He
looks like a screaming lunatic, which is exactly what he is.
His facial expression alone can kick your ass.
WINDY GALE
I can’t hear your fucking boots!
Left, right, left, right! Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck... Now I hear you.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...
Windy falls in step with the squad. Lowers his voice.
WINDY GALE (CONT’D)
You lot take the piss. Strolling
along like a bunch of fucking
handbags. Wake up! The fucking
general is here today! Farra the
fucking Para is here... Now fucking
brace up! Sqa-a-ad halt!
The squad halts; not a movement or a sound. They wait.
WINDY GALE (CONT’D)
Fall out!
The squad breaks ranks, heads for the wooden building.
Messtin barges through men, muttering.
WINDY GALE (CONT’D)
Stand still!
All ten men stand to attention; motionless, solid.
Windy Gale points his pace-stick at Messtin’s nose.
WINDY GALE (CONT’D)
You fucking great lump of elephant
shit! I oughta shove this right up
your fucking arrogant arse.
Messtin’s eyes narrow, giving him his Great White look.
Windy Gale stares right back - harder.
Neither man intimidated by the other.
WINDY GALE (CONT’D)
You are not allowed to speak to
each other. You are not allowed to
know each other. You are here to be
trained as a secret squirrel. But
you, you big twat, are more like a
secret fucking elephant with a
bull’s-eye on your fucking arse...
And I don’t fucking trust you.
Total silence as Messtin locks eyes with Windy Gale.
MESSTIN
Lucky for you, Sergeant Major, you
don’t have to... nor do any of
these fucking handbags, but I spent
years in the jungle with
Arrowsmith, and I can’t odds that.
I know him.
WINDY GALE
No you fucking don’t! You don’t
know any fucker... no one!
Especially any fucker in this
fucking squad. You don’t know me.
You don’t even know your fucking
self, you shifty bastard... Get
inside and take your seats!
The soldiers double-time into the...
INT. TRAINING WING - DAY - CONTINUOUS
Arrow, Messtin and the eight others sit front row.
FARRA THE PARA, or “FARRA” paces the stage in front of them.
His Parachute Regiment cap badge glints in the light of the
lectern. Serious, stern. Probably pisses paint stripper.
2.
FARRA
You are all aware the Geneva
Convention does not apply to any of
you should you be captured. You
will die a most atrocious death and
be disposed of like a dead dog. No
priest; no last rites, just a hole
in the ground, or a bonfire in an
Irish backyard or bog.
Farra looks down into the iron faces one by one. As each pair
of unblinking eyes meet his, he studies them... Warriors.
FARRA (CONT’D)
You are nearing the end of your
training, so you can all feel good
about surviving this selection
course...
Farra’s words fade into silence. Only moving lips. Arrow’s
eyes glaze over as he loses interest... A load of bollocks.
INT. TRAINING WING OFFICE - DAY
Windy Gale sits behind his desk looking into Arrow’s face. He
shuffles papers, scoops them up, reads them.
WINDY GALE
I’m fucked if I know why you’re
going to Berlin. Above my pay
grade. Anyway, fuck off and good
luck, you’ll fucking need it.
Arrow pockets the papers, heads for the door. He turns back.
ARROW
Why’d you pick on Messtin?
WINDY GALE
‘Cause he’s a prick.
ARROW
(snarls)
Who picks on you, then?
INT/EXT. MAIN RAILWAY STATION (BERLIN) - NIGHT.
The British Military Train pulls into the platform and the
passengers; some in uniform, some in civvies, rush for taxis
as others head for the bars and cafes.
Arrow stands in the carriage doorway looking over the heads
of the crowd to the exit.
