LAST EDITED ON Jan-02-17 AT 01:30 AM (EST)
(with apologies to Brad Bird)
INT. DAY. A large, well-appointed bedroom on a moderately high floor of an urban building. Outside the window, the façade of another tall, modern-looking building can be seen across the street.
GERTRUD BARKHORN stands before a dressing mirror, tying the ribbon of one of her pigtails. She's wearing the full dress uniform of a major general in the Karlsland Luftwaffe, with all the medals, and looks to be about thirty.
Suddenly the room shakes, rattling the framed portraits of the KAISER and HANNELORE VON HAMMER on the wall near the dressing table, as a GIANT ROBOT walks past the window, heading down the street outside. We don't get a look at very much of it, just enough to convey the impression that it is very large indeed. A trio of jet-equipped WITCHES follow, cannons blazing. TRUDE looks up, startled, runs to the window for a better look, then hurriedly turns around and darts back to the dressing table. With a decisive sweep of her hand, she knocks some of the clutter of cosmetics and whatnot out of the way and presses a button, then turns around as the opposite wall unfolds to reveal a plotting table, a radar ground station console, and a Striker launch stage. The Striker stage is empty.
N.B. All of HARTMANN's lines are shouted from another room, off-camera.
Where's my Striker Unit?
Outside the window behind TRUDE, one of the PURSUIT WITCHES spins past, out of control, her Striker on fire. She BAILS OUT and parachutes to safety just before it slams into the building across the street. TRUDE whirls to look at the sound of the crash.
I uh... put it away!
(gazing in horror at the fireball, which is reflected in her eyes and on the interior wall behind her)
Why—do you need—to know?
I need it!
She runs into a closet and starts throwing shoeboxes, clothes, and other oddments out of it.
Nuh-uh! Don't you even think about flying off to do any derring-do. We've been planning this dinner for two months!
TRUDE bursts out of the closet, unknowingly draped in a couple of mismatched socks and a bra that, based on its size, is probably not hers.
The public is in danger!
My evening is in danger!
TRUDE loses her patience; her magic releases as she slams a fist sideways into the wall next to the closet door, cratering the plaster.
Will you tell me where my Striker is, woman?!
Avalon 17 Presents
Friday nights at 8:30