ENTER: A nondescript, middle-class townhouse on a nondescript, middle-class street. ZOOM IN on the townhouse's basement, which, despite its ostensibly civilian appearance, has been subtly modified and reinforced considerably. After a few seconds of silence, the door creaks open and a dark blur whips out into the night, scaling the fence and descending to the street.
We follow TOM as he picks a random direction and starts to run, bobbing and weaving between cars, too fast to track with the naked eye. Once he judges that he's lost his pursuers, he begins to slow, then ducks into an alleyway and swiftly ascends a fire escape to give himself a vantage point. He is panting, and dressed in little more than a collection of bloodstained rags. Most of his wounds - with the exception of several injuries inflicted by depleted uranium rounds - have already begun to heal.
TOM (V/O): Regeneration. It's more useful than you think. It wasn't my trump card, but it helped a lot. What really helped me, though, was my resistance to magic and my speed. Desperation, I think, helped too. It made me more savage. Less civilized. More willing to spill blood. How much of that was due to the blood conditioning, and how much of that was me? I don't know. I don't really care.
He scales the fire escape until he reaches the roof and checks to see if he can enter the building from there. No dice. As he turns, his nostrils flare and his eyes widen. He dashes back across to the fire escape, descending halfway down the building as a trio of winged humanoids pass by overhead, barely visible against the night sky. They're gone in the blink of an eye.
TOM (V/O): The Fallen. I learnt more about them from the vampires. They taught me a lot. It was something of a crash course, to be honest. They punished me harshly when I slipped up. I was motivated to succeed.
He returns to the roof and hops over to the next building, trying each fire escape in turn until he finds a door that works. His faith is eventually rewarded; the tenements in this area are typically ill-maintained. Down he goes, descending into the gloom. His nostrils flare.
TOM (V/O): Others. There's one or two every few floors.
He picks a floor with no Others and shifts into the form of a woman - white, well-endowed, and attractive despite the grime. She picks a door at random and begins to pant, trying to make her chest bounce enticingly. The door creaks open slightly.
MAN, warily: Waddaya want?
TOM, desperately: Please, sir, I need help...
MAN: I don't want any trouble.
TOM: Oh, no, I just want to use your phone for a moment. I'll be out of your hair -
The door slams. TOM takes a deep breath, smooths her brunette locks down, and returns to the stairwell, then picks another floor. The process repeats itself several times until she finds an overweight NERD who lets her in cautiously, eyes fixed on TOM's impressive, heaving cleavage.
TOM, almost in tears: Oh, thank you so much.
NERD, uncomfortably: N-no worries. Ma'am.
The interior of his apartment is ill-furnished and has a distinct smell. The NERD makes as if to lead TOM to his corded telephone, but stumbles as a flood of caustic bile cascades down his exposed neck. A low keening noise escapes his mouth as he topples forwards. TOM - who has shifted back - grasps the NERD by his ponytail and slams his head into the floor until he is unconscious. Then he takes a knife from the kitchen and neatly severs his Achilles tendons.
TOM (V/O): He was my size. If I'd believed in a higher power, I'd have said that it was divine providence.
CUT TO: The NERD, sitting on the couch, head tipped back. His forehead is bloody. One of his eyes is swollen shut. His nose is broken. Slowly, he regains consciousness. TOM is seated directly across from him, having taken another form (which is still not his true form). He's wearing one of the NERD's T-shirts and a pair of his jeans. They are baggy on his slim frame.
NERD, groggily: W-what...
TOM: Hello, Gregor.
The NERD tries to move his legs and realizes, to his slowly dawning horror, that he cannot.
NERD: Who are you?
TOM: I'm an interested individual. I'm interested in you.
NERD: W-why me? I'm nobody.
TOM: No, Gregor. That's me. I'm nobody. I don't have a name. I don't have a face. You, on the other hand... you're somebody. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise, you hear?
TOM (V/O): Let's just skip this part.
CUT TO: TOM, digging in with gusto into a thyroid gland. The NERD is nowhere to be seen. There are a few bloodstains by the couch. Moving through the NERD's apartment, it is clear that a minor renovation has taken place. Several unpleasant posters have been removed from the walls, and the NERD's collection of slightly slimy anime figurines has disappeared.
TOM (V/O): Gregor didn't have much of a social network, but he had an apartment. Even better, he had savings. And, of course, he had a job, which primarily involved providing IT support to various corporates. His notes were especially helpful in this regard, but not helpful enough. I'm expecting to be fired any day now.
CUT TO: TOM, hands on his hips as he stares down at his backpack. Atop the immense pile of items which have been stuffed inside, he places a single notepad, to which a ballpoint pen has been clipped. Lipps Inc.'s Funkytown begins to play.
LIPPS INC.: GOTTA MAKE A MOVE TO A TOWN THAT'S RIGHT FOR ME
TOM stops beside a homeless man and speaks to him. The homeless man looks up at him, eyes narrowed. TOM keeps talking. Eventually, the homeless man stands up and allows TOM to buy him a meal.
LIPPS INC.: TOWN TO KEEP ME GROOVIN', KEEP ME GROOVIN' WITH SOME ENERGY
TOM's back is turned. He is busy with a cadaver. As he pauses for a break, he pops a thyroid gland into his mouth.
LIPPS INC.: WELL, I TALK ABOUT IT, TALK ABOUT IT, TALK ABOUT IT, TALK ABOUT IT
TOM is now being filmed from above. As he stands back, a corpse becomes visible. There are a few tiny cuts on its neck where its thyroid gland has been removed. They are almost unnoticeable - the fruit of long hours of practice. Looking chipper, he tosses his stiletto in the air. He fails to catch it by the handle; the blade scores a long, bloody line through his palm. The cut seals up near-instantly, leaving no scar tissue behind.
LIPPS INC.: TALK ABOUT, TALK ABOUT, TALK ABOUT MOVIN'
Disguised once again as an attractive woman, TOM knocks on a door. It creaks open slightly and TOM begins to speak. After a few moments, the door slams shut. TOM moves on.
LIPPS INC.: GOTTA MOVE ON
TOM is speaking to a sleazy-looking man dressed in a wifebeater. The man looks her up and down, leering, and invites her into his apartment. As the door swings shut, TOM shifts back while the man isn't looking and reaches into his backpack.
LIPPS INC.: GOTTA MOVE ON
TOM is sitting at the man's table, leafing through his documents and diligently copying down certain key morsels of information into his notebook. They primarily pertain to the man's wife, who works as a waitress at a diner. As a key turns in the lock, TOM rises to his feet and shifts into the man's form.
LIPPS INC.: GOTTA MOVE ON
Several different scenes skip by at a rapid clip. All involve TOM talking his way into someone's home followed by a swift cut to him leafing through their documents thereafter. The music cuts off.
TOM (V/O): These incidents provided me with a decent amount of thyroids - enough to keep me going for a while. They also yielded a number of contacts. But the procedure was not sustainable, and the contacts, while potentially useful, were not exactly of high quality. Criminal or working-class, in other words. Useful in a pinch, but hardly well-resourced.
CUT TO: TOM at a funeral parlor. He is speaking quietly with a shifty-looking zombie by the name of SWEENEY.
TOM (V/O): That's why I eventually decided to take the easy way out and get in touch with the zombies. None of the lowlifes whose contacts I had acquired seemed to have access to a steady stream of dead bodies, and I was not yet desperate enough to start grave-robbing. It would have to do.