JACK (V/O): If you ask Google, you'll be told that the peregrine falcon is the fastest bird in the world. However, its high-speed dive is just that: a dive. If you want speed, you need to look at level flight, also known as horizontal speed. Wikipedia will tell you that the white-throated needletail is the fastest bird in the world by that metric at 105 miles per hour. It will note, pedantically, that the methods employed to measure this speed have never been published.

A white-throated needletail approaches the eastern coast of the United States. As we zoom in, we begin to see that it is approaching New York. It swoops over Coney Island as a few children call out in amazement. It slows down as it skips past apartment building after apartment building and comes to rest on the railing of a balcony. Shrinking in stature until it is but a common pigeon, it hops down from the railing and waddles into the apartment, which is empty. The owner appears to have forgotten to close the window. Zooming in further, we see that the feathers to either side of its beak are discoloured.

JACK (V/O): Now, I don't know whether the white-throated needletail is the fastest bird in the world, but it's fast enough for me.

The curtains flutter behind the pigeon. It begins to shift and warp, the feathers receding into skin, until a pale, black-haired man is squatting on the floor of the apartment. He is completely naked. As he stands, we see that he has a pair of horrendous facial scars to either side of his mouth.

JACK (V/O): Home sweet home.

He is joking. He has never been in this apartment before. Turning, he walks through the sole corridor in the apartment and opens the cupboard, rummaging through its contents. He pulls out a harlequin-green shirt and slides it on over his shoulders, then dons some underwear and a pair of trousers. A pair of socks follow. He pulls open a drawer and peels off a face-mask, fitting it onto his face.

JACK (V/O): What do you know? Fits like a glove.

There is a safe at the bottom of the cupboard. JACK turns the dial this way and that, moving on instinct, and exhales as it unlocks. He pulls out a wad of banknotes and frowns.

JACK (V/O): No license?

He reaches into the back of the safe and pulls out a gun.

JACK (V/O): Good enough.

Walking out into the apartment again, JACK heads for the door. There is a mat by the door. It holds a pair of sneakers. It is the only pair of shoes in this apartment. JACK puts them on, opens the door, and shuts it behind him. Then, he heads to the neighbouring unit and knocks smartly. After a few seconds, the door opens, revealing a white-haired ELDERLY MAN in a singlet and a pair of boxer shorts.

ELDERLY MAN, grouchily: Waddaya -

JACK seizes him by the throat and lifts him easily into the air, walking into the apartment as his other hand shuts the door neatly behind him. The ELDERLY MAN runs out of air in seconds, eyes rolling back into his head, and is soon unconscious. JACK continues to strangle him until he is dead, at which point he dumps him back onto his recliner and enters his room to riffle through his belongings.

JACK (V/O): A car key! Brilliant.

He returns to the living-room and sees an envelope on the old man's table, a letter opener beside it. The ELDERLY MAN must have been preparing to open it. JACK tears the envelope open, revealing a driver's license with an edited photograph of his face on it. There is no return address.

JACK (V/O): I always tell the deliverymen to drop off their packages on vibes. Works every time.

Whistling behind his mask, JACK takes the lift down to the carpark and begins fiddling with the key fob, head snapping to the side as a sound rings out. He finds a black Chevrolet Cavalier, opens the door, and settles into the driver's seat. Running his hands over the steering wheel, he starts the engine and drives out into the streets of New York. With his right hand, he adjusts the radio. Julius Fucik's "Entry of the Gladiators" is playing.

JACK: Fuck's sake.

He changes the station. Jimmy Durante's "Smile" is playing.

JACK (V/O): Every single fucking country I'm in. Same few goddamn songs. Still, I'm willing to look past it. I may be unlucky now, but I'm lucky enough where it counts. I'd rather be plagued by a million minor inconveniences than suffer a single major accident.

CUT TO: JACK in his new Chevrolet Cavalier. There is a checkpoint. A blockade has been imposed, and men dressed in the uniforms of the National Guard are standing around, peeking into the windows of cars. JACK joins the queue and rolls down the window when it's his turn.

NATIONAL GUARDSMAN: State your name.
JACK, holding up his driver's license: Charles Geiger.
NATIONAL GUARDSMAN: Please remove your mask.

JACK sighs and removes his mask. The NATIONAL GUARDSMAN blanches at the sight of his face.

NATIONAL GUARDSMAN: Purpose of travel?
JACK: Visiting friends. It's a surprise.

The NATIONAL GUARDSMAN looks doubtful.

JACK: No, I'm not playing a sick joke on them. No, it's not make-up. I got in a nasty fight down in Harlem, but my appointment finally went through, and I'm seeing a surgeon in Indianapolis in about forty-eight hours. Once that's over, I'm dropping by their place. A surprise, remember?
NATIONAL GUARDSMAN: Right. Sure. We're just, uh, looking for certain individuals.
JACK, looking around worriedly: Oh, dear. You know, I killed a man back in NYC. It's been some forty years, though, so I don't think anyone's looking for me anymore.

There is a long silence. JACK laughs. The NATIONAL GUARDSMAN winces as his grin pulls his scars apart grotesquely.

JACK: I'm joking, bud. I'm twenty-five. Think I'd last a day out in the wild with scars like this? People'd peg me in a heartbeat. Can I go now?
NATIONAL GUARDSMAN: Sure. Thank you for your cooperation.
JACK: No, thank you for putting up with my shitty jokes. You have a nice day, you hear?
NATIONAL GUARDSMAN, clearly eager to get this interaction over and done with: Yes. Thank you.

JACK drives his car past the blockade and turns up the volume on the radio. He adjusts the rearview mirror and nods at the NATIONAL GUARDSMAN's retreating silhouette.

JACK (V/O): Oh, I'm visiting friends alright. I'm going to spring a surprise on them that they won't forget any time soon.

CUT TO: JACK, driving along a lonely road. Night has fallen. The radio crackles. He's removed his mask. "Party in the U.S.A." is playing.

JACK, softly: So I put my hands up, they're playin' my song... the butterflies fly away...

A girl looms out of the darkness. Asiatic. Serious. Dressed for speed, not for comfort. Canvas bag on her shoulder. A hitchhiker, thumb out. JACK furrows his brow, leaning forwards, and smiles.

JACK, softly: I'm nodding my head like yeah... movin' my hips like yeah...

He brakes and waits for the girl to catch up, slipping his mask on as she appears in the window.

JACK: Yeah?
GIRL: I'm looking for a ride.
JACK: You sure? Don't think I could fit you in the boot. And I'm all out of duct tape.

The girl's face goes flat and hostile. The hair on the back of JACK's neck prickles. Beneath his mask, JACK's smile widens.

JACK: I'm joking. Come on in.