ef722cf82033c8e66197209f06a9cb9754be78d9
movie
http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Blade-Runner.html
if ( window
. THE END
 In Los Angeles in November 2019, ex-police officer Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) is detained by officer Gaff (Edward James Olmos) and brought to his former supervisor, Bryant (M. Emmet Walsh). Deckard, whose job as a "Blade Runner" was to track down bioengineered beings known as replicants and "retire" (a euphemism for killing) them, is informed that four have come to Earth illegally. As Tyrell Corporation Nexus-6 models, they have only a four-year lifespan and may have come to Earth to try to extend their lives.
Deckard watches a video of a Blade Runner named Holden administering the "Voight-Kampff" test designed to distinguish replicants from humans based on their emotional response to questions. The test subject, Leon (Brion James), shoots Holden after Holden asks about Leon's mother. Bryant wants Deckard to retire Leon and the other three replicants: Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), Zhora (Joanna Cassidy), and Pris (Daryl Hannah). Deckard initially refuses, but after Bryant ambiguously threatens him, he reluctantly agrees.
Deckard begins his investigation at the Tyrell Corporation to ensure that the test works on Nexus-6 models. While there, he discovers that Dr. Eldon Tyrell's (Joe Turkel) assistant Rachael (Sean Young) is an experimental replicant who believes herself to be human. Rachael has been given false memories to provide an "emotional cushion". As a result, a more extensive test is required to determine whether she is a replicant.
Events are then set into motion that pit Deckard's search for the replicants against their search for Tyrell to force him to extend their lives. Roy and Leon investigate a replicant eye-manufacturing laboratory and learn of J.F. Sebastian (William Sanderson), a gifted genetic designer who works closely with Tyrell. Rachael visits Deckard at his apartment to prove her humanity by showing him a family photo, but after Deckard reveals that her memories are implants from Tyrell's niece, she leaves his apartment in tears. Meanwhile, Pris locates Sebastian and manipulates him to gain his trust.
While searching Leon's hotel room, Deckard finds a photo of Zhora and a synthetic snake scale that leads him to a strip club where Zhora works. Deckard kills Zhora and shortly after is told by Bryant to also retire Rachael, who has disappeared from the Tyrell Corporation. After Deckard spots Rachael in a crowd, he is attacked by Leon, but Rachael kills Leon using Deckard's dropped pistol. The two return to Deckard's apartment, and during an intimate discussion, he promises not to hunt her; as she abruptly tries to leave, Deckard physically restrains her, forcing her to kiss him.
Arriving at Sebastian's apartment, Roy tells Pris the others are dead. Sympathetic to their plight, Sebastian reveals that because of "Methuselah Syndrome", a genetic premature aging disorder, his life will also be cut short. Sebastian and Roy gain entrance into Tyrell's secure penthouse, where Roy demands more life from his maker. Tyrell tells him that it is impossible. Roy confesses that he has done "questionable things" which Tyrell dismisses, praising Roy's advanced design and accomplishments in his short life. Roy kisses Tyrell, then kills him. Sebastian runs for the elevator followed by Roy, who then rides the elevator down alone. Though not shown, it is implied by Bryant via police radio that Roy also kills Sebastian.
Upon entering Sebastian's apartment, Deckard is ambushed by Pris, but he manages to kill her just as Roy returns. As Roy starts to die, he chases Deckard through the building, ending up on the roof. Deckard tries to jump to an adjacent roof, but misses and is left hanging precariously between buildings. Roy makes the jump with ease, and as Deckard's grip loosens, Roy hoists him onto the roof, saving him. As Roy's life runs out, he delivers a monologue about how his memories "will be lost like tears in rain"; Roy dies in front of Deckard, who watches silently. Gaff arrives and shouts across to Deckard, "It's too bad she won't live, but then again, who does?" Deckard returns to his apartment and finds the door ajar, but Rachael is safe, asleep in his bed. As they leave, Deckard notices a small tin-foil origami unicorn on the floor, a familiar calling card that brings back to him Gaff's final words. Deckard and Rachael quickly leave the apartment block.
In Los Angeles in November 2019 , ex-police officer Rick Deckard ( Harrison Ford ) is detained by officer Gaff ( Edward James Olmos ) and brought to his former supervisor , Bryant ( M. Emmet Walsh ) . Deckard , whose job as a Blade Runner was to track down bioengineered beings known as replicants and retire ( a euphemism for killing ) them , is informed that four have come to Earth illegally . As Tyrell Corporation Nexus-6 models , they have only a four-year lifespan and may have come to Earth to try to extend their lives . Deckard watches a video of a Blade Runner named Holden administering the Voight-Kampff test designed to distinguish replicants from humans based on their emotional response to questions . The test subject , Leon ( Brion James ) , shoots Holden after Holden asks about Leon s mother . Bryant wants Deckard to retire Leon and the other three replicants : Roy Batty ( Rutger Hauer ) , Zhora ( Joanna Cassidy ) , and Pris ( Daryl Hannah ) . Deckard initially refuses , but after Bryant ambiguously threatens him , he reluctantly agrees . Deckard begins his investigation at the Tyrell Corporation to ensure that the test works on Nexus-6 models . While there , he discovers that Dr. Eldon Tyrell s ( Joe Turkel ) assistant Rachael ( Sean Young ) is an experimental replicant who believes herself to be human . Rachael has been given false memories to provide an emotional cushion . As a result , a more extensive test is required to determine whether she is a replicant . Events are then set into motion that pit Deckard s search for the replicants against their search for Tyrell to force him to extend their lives . Roy and Leon investigate a replicant eye-manufacturing laboratory and learn of J.F . Sebastian ( William Sanderson ) , a gifted genetic designer who works closely with Tyrell . Rachael visits Deckard at his apartment to prove her humanity by showing him a family photo , but after Deckard reveals that her memories are implants from Tyrell s niece , she leaves his apartment in tears . Meanwhile , Pris locates Sebastian and manipulates him to gain his trust . While searching Leon s hotel room , Deckard finds a photo of Zhora and a synthetic snake scale that leads him to a strip club where Zhora works . Deckard kills Zhora and shortly after is told by Bryant to also retire Rachael , who has disappeared from the Tyrell Corporation . After Deckard spots Rachael in a crowd , he is attacked by Leon , but Rachael kills Leon using Deckard s dropped pistol . The two return to Deckard s apartment , and during an intimate discussion , he promises not to hunt her ; as she abruptly tries to leave , Deckard physically restrains her , forcing her to kiss him . Arriving at Sebastian s apartment , Roy tells Pris the others are dead . Sympathetic to their plight , Sebastian reveals that because of Methuselah Syndrome , a genetic premature aging disorder , his life will also be cut short . Sebastian and Roy gain entrance into Tyrell s secure penthouse , where Roy demands more life from his maker . Tyrell tells him that it is impossible . Roy confesses that he has done questionable things which Tyrell dismisses , praising Roy s advanced design and accomplishments in his short life . Roy kisses Tyrell , then kills him . Sebastian runs for the elevator followed by Roy , who then rides the elevator down alone . Though not shown , it is implied by Bryant via police radio that Roy also kills Sebastian . Upon entering Sebastian s apartment , Deckard is ambushed by Pris , but he manages to kill her just as Roy returns . As Roy starts to die , he chases Deckard through the building , ending up on the roof . Deckard tries to jump to an adjacent roof , but misses and is left hanging precariously between buildings . Roy makes the jump with ease , and as Deckard s grip loosens , Roy hoists him onto the roof , saving him . As Roy s life runs out , he delivers a monologue about how his memories will be lost like tears in rain ; Roy dies in front of Deckard , who watches silently . Gaff arrives and shouts across to Deckard , It s too bad she wo n't live , but then again , who does ? Deckard returns to his apartment and finds the door ajar , but Rachael is safe , asleep in his bed . As they leave , Deckard notices a small tin-foil origami unicorn on the floor , a familiar calling card that brings back to him Gaff s final words . Deckard and Rachael quickly leave the apartment block .
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blade_Runner
Blade Runner
<html>
<head><title>Blade Runner Script at IMSDb.</title>
<meta name="description" content="Blade Runner script at the Internet Movie Script Database.">
<meta name="keywords" content="Blade Runner script, Blade Runner movie script, Blade Runner film script">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1" />
<meta name="HandheldFriendly" content="true">
<meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1">
<meta http-equiv="Content-Language" content="EN">

<meta name=objecttype CONTENT=Document>
<meta name=ROBOTS CONTENT="INDEX, FOLLOW">
<meta name=Subject CONTENT="Movie scripts, Film scripts">
<meta name=rating CONTENT=General>
<meta name=distribution content=Global>
<meta name=revisit-after CONTENT="2 days">

<link href="/style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css">

<script type="text/javascript">
  var _gaq = _gaq || [];
  _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-3785444-3']);
  _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);

  (function() {
    var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
    ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
    var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
  })();
</script>

</head>

<body topmargin="0" bottommargin="0" id="mainbody">

<table width="99%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" class="body">
  <tr> 
    <td valign="bottom" bgcolor="#FF0000"><a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/logo_top.gif" border="0"></a></td>
    <td bgcolor="#FF0000">
	<center>
	    <font color="#FFFFFF"><h1>The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)</h1></font>
</center>
  <tr> 
    <td background="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2"><a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/logo_middle.gif" border="0"></a></td>
  <tr> 
    <td width="170" valign="top" class="smalltxt"> <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="The Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/logo_bottom.gif" width="170" border="0"></a> 
      <br>
	<center><span class="smalltxt">The web's largest <br>movie script resource!</span></center>
	</td>
    <td>	
    <script type="text/javascript"><!--
	 e9 = new Object();
     e9.size = "728x90";
     //--></script>
    <script type="text/javascript" src="//tags.expo9.exponential.com/tags/IMSDb/ROS/tags.js"></script>
   </td>
  </tr>
</table>


<br>
<table width="99%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" class="body">
  <tr> 
   
    <td width="180" valign="top">

<table class=body border=0 cellspacing=0 cellpadding=2 width="100%">
<tr> 
          <td colspan="2" class=heading>Search IMSDb<tr>
<form method="post" action="/search.php">
            <td width="180"> <div align="center">
                <input type="text" name="search_query" maxlength="255" size="15">
                <input type="submit" value="Go!" name="submit">
              </div></td>
</form>
</table>

<br>
<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td colspan=9 class=heading>Alphabetical
<tr align="center">
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/0">#</a> 
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/A">A</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/B">B</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/C">C</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/D">D</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/E">E</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/F">F</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/G">G</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/H">H</a><tr align="center"> 
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/I">I</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/J">J</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/K">K</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/L">L</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/M">M</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/N">N</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/O">O</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/P">P</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/Q">Q</a><tr align="center"> 
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/R">R</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/S">S</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/T">T</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/U">U</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/V">V</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/W">W</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/X">X</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/Y">Y</a>
        <td><a href="/alphabetical/Z">Z</a>
</table>
<br>
<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td colspan=3 class=heading>Genre
<tr> 
	<td><a href="/genre/Action">Action</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Adventure">Adventure</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Animation">Animation</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/genre/Comedy">Comedy</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Crime">Crime</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Drama">Drama</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/genre/Family">Family</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Fantasy">Fantasy</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Film-Noir">Film-Noir</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/genre/Horror">Horror</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Musical">Musical</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Mystery">Mystery</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/genre/Romance">Romance</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Sci-Fi">Sci-Fi</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Short">Short</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/genre/Thriller">Thriller</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/War">War</a>
	<td><a href="/genre/Western">Western</a>
</table>

<br>
<table class=body border=0 cellspacing=0 cellpadding=2 width="100%">
<tr> 
 <td colspan="2" class=heading>Sponsor<tr>
 <td width="300" bgcolor="#FFFFFF">
 <script type="text/javascript"><!--
	e9 = new Object();
    e9.size = "300x250";
 //--></script>
 <script type="text/javascript" src="//tags.expo9.exponential.com/tags/IMSDb/ROS/tags.js"></script>
 </td>
</table>


<br>
<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td class=heading>TV Transcripts
<tr> 
	<td><a href="/TV/Futurama.html">Futurama</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/TV/Seinfeld.html">Seinfeld</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/TV/South Park.html">South Park</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/TV/Stargate SG1.html">Stargate SG-1</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/TV/Lost.html">Lost</a><tr>
	<td><a href="/TV/The 4400.html">The 4400</a>
</table>

<br>
<table width="100%" class="body">
<tr>
<td colspan=3 class=heading>International
<tr> 
	<td><a href="/language/French">French scripts</a>
</table>

<br>
<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td class=heading>Movie Software
<tr>
    <td><a href="/out/dvd-ripper"><img src="/images/a/dvd-ripper.jpg" alt="DVD ripper software offer"></a>
<tr>
	<td><a href="/software/rip-from-dvd">Rip from DVD</a>
<tr>
	<td><a href="/software/rip-blu-ray">Rip Blu-Ray</a>
</table>

<br>
<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td colspan=3 class=heading>Latest Comments
<tr>
<td><a href="/Movie Scripts/Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith Script.html">Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith<td>10/10<tr>
<td><a href="/Movie Scripts/Star Wars: The Force Awakens Script.html">Star Wars: The Force Awakens<td>10/10<tr>
<td><a href="/Movie Scripts/Batman Begins Script.html">Batman Begins<td>9/10<tr>
<td><a href="/Movie Scripts/Collateral Script.html">Collateral<td>10/10<tr>
<td><a href="/Movie Scripts/Jackie Brown Script.html">Jackie Brown<td>8/10<tr>
</table>
<br>

<table width="100%" border=0 cellpadding=2 cellspacing=0 class=body>
<tr>
<td class=heading>Movie Chat
<tr> 
<td align="center">
<SCRIPT LANGUAGE="Javascript" TYPE="text/javascript" SRC="https://www.yellbox.com/ybscript_enhanced.js"></SCRIPT>
<iframe class="yellbox" frameborder=0 name="ybframe" height=170 marginwidth=0 marginheight=0 src="https://www.yellbox.com/yellbox.php?name=imsdb">
</iframe>
<form class="yellbox" action="https://www.yellbox.com/addmessage.php" method="post" target="ybframe" name="yellform"> 
 <input type="hidden" name="sub_username" value="imsdb">
 <input class="yellbox" name="sub_name" value="Name" size=21 maxlength=10 onFocus="if(this.value == 'Name')this.value = ''; return;"><br>
 <textarea class="yellbox" cols=15 rows=4 name="sub_message" wrap onFocus="if(this.value == 'Message')this.value = ''; return;">Message</textarea>
 <table><tr><td>
 <button onClick="javascript:makeNewWindow(); return false;"><img src="https://www.yellbox.com/images/smiley.gif" width=16 height=16></button>
 <td><button type="submit" value="Post" onClick="return clearMessageBox();">Yell !</button></table>
</form> 
</table>


<div align="center"><br><br>
      <a href="https://www.imsdb.com/all%20scripts">ALL SCRIPTS</a><br><br>
</div>

<td width="10"></td>
<td valign="top">
<br> <table width="100%"><tr><td class="scrtext">

<pre><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>Blade Runner - By Hampton Fancher</title>
</head>
<pre>

<b>                                
</b><b>                                BLADE RUNNER
</b>


                               Screenplay by

<b>                              HAMPTON FANCHER
</b>








        July 24, 1980                    Brighton Productions Inc.
                                         1420 No. Beachwood Drive
                                         Hollywood, Calif. 90028

<b>                                ****************
</b>
<b>        INT. TYRELL CORPORATION LOCKER ROOM - DAY               1
</b>
<b>        THE EYE                                                 2
</b>
        It's magnified and deeply revealed.  Flecks of green
        and yellow in a field of milky blue.  Icy filaments
        surround the undulating center.

        The eye is brown in a tiny screen.  On the metallic
        surface below, the words VOIGHT-KAMPFF are finely
        etched.  There's a touch-light panel across the top
        and on the side of the screen, a dial that registers
        fluctuations of the iris.

        The instrument is no bigger than a music box and sits
        on a table between two men.  The man talking is big,
        looks like an over-stuffed kid.  "LEON" it says on
        his breast pocket.  He's dressed in a warehouseman's
        uniform and his pudgy hands are folded expectantly in
        his lap.  Despite the obvious heat, he looks very cool.

        The man facing him is lean, hollow cheeked and dressed
        in gray.  Detached and efficient, he looks like a cop
        or an accountant.  His name is HOLDEN and he's all
        business, except for the sweat on his face.

        The room is large and humid.  Rows of salvaged junk
        are stacked neatly against the walls.  Two large fans
        whir above their heads.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Okay if I talk?

        Holden doesn't answer.  He's centering Leon's eye on
        the machine.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  I kinda get nervous when I
                  take tests.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Don't move.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Sorry.

        He tries not to move but finally his lips can't help
        a sheepish smile.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Already had I.Q. test this year --
                  but I don't think I never had a...

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                         (cutting in)
                  Reaction time is a factor in this,
                  so please pay attention.  Answer
                  quickly as you can.

        Leon compresses his lips and nods his big head eagerly.
        Holden's voice is cold, geared to intimidate and evoke
        response.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  You're in a desert, walking along
                  in the sand when all of a sudden
                  you look down and see a...

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  What one?

        It was a timid interruption, hardly audible.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  What?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  What desert?

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Doesn't make any difference what
                  desert -- it's completely
                  hypothetical.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  But how come I'd be there?

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Maybe you're fed up, maybe you
                  want to be by yourself -- who
                  knows.  So you look down and
                  see a tortoise.  It's crawling
                  towards you...

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  A tortoise.  What's that?

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Know what a turtle is?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Of course.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Same thing.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  I never seen a turtle.

        He sees Holden's patience is wearing thin.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  But I understand what you mean.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  You reach down and flip the
                  tortoise over on its back, Leon.

        Keeping an eye on his subject, Holden notes the dials
        in the Voight-Kampff.  One of the needles quivers
        slightly.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  You make these questions, Mr.
                  Holden, or they write 'em down
                  for you?

        Disregarding the question, Holden continues, picking
        up the pace.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  The tortoise lays on its back,
                  its belly baking in the hot sun,
                  beating its legs trying to turn
                  itself over.  But it can't.  Not
                  without your help.  But you're
                  not helping.

        Leon's upper lip is quivering.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Whatcha mean, I'm not helping?

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  I mean you're not helping!
                  Why is that, Leon?

        Leon looks shocked, surprised.  But the needles in
        the computer barely move.  Holden goes for the inside
        of his coat.  But big Leon is faster.  His LASER BURNS
        a hole the size of a nickel through Holden's stomach.
        Unlike a bullet, a laser causes no impact.  It goes
        through Holden's spine and comes out his back, clean
        as a whistle.  Like a rag doll he falls back off the
        bench from the waist up.  By the time he hits the
        floor, big slow Leon is already walking away.  But he
        stops, turns and with a little smile of satisfaction,
        FIRES at the machine on the table.

        There's a flash and a puff of smoke.  The Voight-Kampff
        is hit dead center, crippled but not destroyed; as
        Leon walks out of the room, one of its lights begins
        to blink, faint but steady.

<b>        EXT. DESERT - NIGHT                                     3
</b>
        The horizon marked by a thin copper line that maybe
        the end, of the beginning of a day.

        The train that follows, cuts through the night at 400
        miles an hour.

<b>        INT. TRAIN - NIGHT                                      4
</b>
        No clickitty-clack of track-bound noise, it's a long,
        insulated Pullman of contoured seats and low-keyed
        lighting, coloured to soothe,and empty, except for
        the passenger half way down.

        His eyes closed, head rested against the glass.  Ten
        years ago, DECKARD might have been an athlete, a
        track man or a welter-weight.  The body looks it, but
        the face has seen some time -- not all of it good.

<b>        INT. TRAIN - REFRESHMENT DISPENSER - NIGHT              5
</b>
        Deckard comes down the aisle, slips a coin into the
        mechanism, receives a beer and returns to his seat.

<b>        INT. TRAIN - NIGHT                                      6
</b>
        Tired of the program, he takes off the headset and
        drops it next to three empty beer bottles and a
        sandwich wrapper, adjusts his position and winds up
        staring at his reflection in the window.  Runs a
        hand over his face, it could use a shave.  He leans
        closer and peers through the glass.

        Out there in the black a sign flashes past:  SAN
<b>        ANGELES, THREE MINUTES.
</b>
<b>        EXT. PLATFORM - NIGHT                                   7
</b>
        The train slides in, smooth as an eel, and stops with-
        out a sound.  Carrying a bag and umbrella, Deckard
        disembarks ahead of the other passengers and into the
        sweltering night.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT                                   8
</b>
        Deckard has got his coat swung over his shoulder, his
        shirt already damp, as he walks down the long, hollow
        passage under orbs of yellow light.

<b>        EXT. TERMINAL - NIGHT                                   9
</b>
        Deckard unlocks his car and gets in.  Turns the ig-
        nition and hits a sensor.  The dash console glows
        and Deckard sits back waiting for the air unit to cool
        things off.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  It was 97 degrees in the city and
                  no hope of improvement.  Not bad
                  if you're a lizard.  But two hours
                  earlier I was drinking Acquavit
                  with an Eskimo lady in North East
                  Alaska.  That's a tough change to
                  make.  It was so good, I didn't
                  want to leave, so I left a day
                  early.

        A little detached, Deckard taps another sensor on the
        panel, lights up a cigarette and watches as his mes-
        sages flash across the viewer stating date, time and
        caller.  The last one is repeated five times.  Deckard
        sighs, switches off the viewer and gets on the radio.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Contact.  This is Blade Runner One
                  calling Com-fast 27.

        The SOUND OF A CHIME precedes the mechanical female
        voice that answers.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  Blade Runner One, stand by please.

        A pause.  Followed by a husky male voice.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  Deckard.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yah, Gaff.

<b>                                GAFF (VOICE)
</b>                  Where the hell you been?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You know where I been.  I been on
                  vacation.

<b>                                GAFF
</b>                  Next time you go on vacation,
                  do me a favor, let us know where
                  it is.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What's up?

<b>                                GAFF
</b>                  Holden got hit.

        There is a pause.  That was bad news.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Bad?

<b>                                GAFF
</b>                  Severed spine.  You'd better get
                  in here.  Bryant's waiting for you.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'll see you in a minute.

        The ENGINE REVS, the wipers rake two weeks of dust off
        the windshield and Deckard jams out of the lot.

<b>        INT. THE HALL OF JUSTICE - NIGHT                        10
</b>
        An enormous grey vault of a building.  A businesslike
        Deckard strides down a long corridor with his brief-
        case and police ID pinned to his coat.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  I-X-4-P-D referred to as a Nexus-6,
                  The Tyrell Corporation's new pride
                  and joy.  Holden was administering
                  the Voight-Kampff test when one
                  nailed him.

        The door in front of Deckard slides open and he walks
        through.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  The Nexus-6 must be fast because
                  Holden was as quick as they come.
                  The report said there were six of
                  them.  Three males and three female.
                  Led by a combat model called Roy
                  Batty.

<b>        INT. INSPECTOR BRYANT'S OFFICE - NIGHT                  11
</b>
        The INSPECTOR is in his fifties.  The deep creases in
        his face, the broken capillaries in his nose say
        brawler, spoiler, drinker, but the diplomas on the
        wall say something else.  Bryant's kneeled at his safe
        trying to open it.  Deckard it sitting on the edge of
        the desk reading the print-out.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  They escaped from the colonies
                  two weeks ago.  Killed twenty-
                  three people and jumped a shuttle.
                  An aerial patrol found the ship
                  in the desert.  No crew.

        Bryant gets the safe open and brings out a bottle of
        whiskey.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  Bryant's got a liver problem.  A
                  couple years back he handed me a
                  bottle and said have a drink for
                  another man.  I been drinking
                  for him ever since.

        Deckard sets down the report and takes the shot Bryant
        just poured for him.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Six, huh?

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Five.  Three nights ago one of
                  them managed to break into the
                  Tyrell Corporation.  Killed two
                  guards and got as far as the
                  Genetic Sector before he got
                  fried going through an electro-
                  field.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What was he after?

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  There wasn't much left of him,
                  so we can't be sure.  But bio-
                  chemical data and morphology records
                  of the Nexus-6 were reported
                  missing.  Going on the possibility
                  they might try to infiltrate we
                  send Holden in to run Voight-Kampff
                  tests on the new employees.  Guess
                  he found himself one.

        A grim pause.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You got a machine on it yet?

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  We're using Esper -- a 231 -- that
                  picked up Holden's alarm.  Its
                  guess is that all five are in
                  the city.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Where do we start?

        Bryant's back at the safe locking up his bottle.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  The Tyrell Corporation has a
                  demo model.  Check it out on the
                  Voight-Kampff.  There's a chance
                  the Nexus-6 is beyond out ability
                  to detect.  If that's the case,
                  everybody's up shit creek.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What was the cover on the one that
                  got Holden?

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Industrial refuse.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Garbage man?

        Bryant nods.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Did personnel have an address on
                  him?

        Bryant fishes a piece of paper out of his pocket,
        copies down a number and hands it over.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'll go take a look.

        Deckard stands and holds up his drink.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Thanks.

        Like a sick boy looking out of the window, Bryant
        watches Deckard down the whiskey.  Deckard puts down
        the glass and turns to leave.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  The big incentive to emigrate was
                  still free labor.  If the public
                  found out that their door-prizes
                  might kill them, they might not be
                  so hot to go up there.  This was
                  one of the worst one's we had and
                  Bryant was worried.  He wanted to
                  tell me to be discrete or something.
                  But I didn't give him a chance.

<b>        EXT. LEON'S HOTEL ENTRANCE - NIGHT                      12
</b>
        An electrical storm is brewing.  Deckard stands out-
        side the entrance to an old hotel holding an umbrella,
        as people scuttle into doorways to avoid the sudden
        downpour.

<b>        INT. LEON'S HOTEL LOBBY - NIGHT                         13
</b>
        A heavy metal maze of cubicles and perilous iron
        balconies, peopled with rejects from the surface world;
        Mato Grosso Indians in white man's clothes and other
        lower echelon welfare recipients.  Drop city is crowded,
        cramped and darkly alive.

        Deckard steps out of an elevator and moves through the
        crowd.  A cloud of steam drifts up through  a grating
        as two old men, clad in towels descend a flight of
        stairs under a neon sign that says bath house.

        A musty subterranean wind ripples Deckard's clothes as
        he turns into an alcove.  He stops in front of a door
        that says, MANAGER and pushes the buzzer.  It's opened
        by an emphysema victim with an oxygen tank lashed to
        his hip.  Deckard flashes his ID and speaks some words
        which are inaudible due to the TUBA MUSIC down the hall.
        The man grabs a key from his wall, hands it over and
        shuts the door.

<b>        INT. LEON'S HOTEL CORRIDOR - NIGHT                      14
</b>
        The companion ways below deck of a big ship are no
        more bewildering than the ups and downs and ins and
        outs of this establishment.  But Deckard finds the door
        he's looking for.  He pauses a moment, listens, then
        knocks.  He inserts the key and with a hand on his gun
        opens it.

<b>        INT. LEON'S ROOM - NIGHT                                15
</b>
        An empty room.  A cot and not much else.  He steps in
        and stands quiet as a hunter sensing the signs.  For a
        place surrounded by greasy hovels it is surprisingly
        clean.  Spartan in fact.  The towel by the spotless
        basin is perfectly folded.

        Deckard runs two fingers over a shelf.  No dust.  He
        looks in the waste basket.  Wadded up candy wrappers.
        The bed by the window is neatly made.  Deckard looks
        under it, then runs his hands along both sides of the
        mattress.

        The closet.  There's one suit in it.  He pats it down.
        Nothing. A show box on the floor.  He stoops, takes
        out what looks like a pen from his pocket and care-
        fully traces it over the box.  Assured of its harm-
        lessness, he lifts off the lid.

        It contains a little stack of photos bound with a
        rubber band.  Deckard removes them, goes to the lamp
        by the balcony window and turns it on.

        A touching collection of family snapshots.  The kind of
        anonymous stuff sold by the bunch in dusty junk shops.
        The family dog.  Junior on the pony squinting in the
        sun.  Uncle Ben clowning with the kids.  The faded
        polaroid of Christmas morning.  Simple pictures of
        simple folks celebrating the family bond.  A curious
        collection for the likes of Leon and Deckard studies
        them with interest.

<b>        EXT. STREET BELOW - NIGHT                               16
</b>
        Oblivious to the cloudburst, a blue-eyed albino stands
        in the doorway, peddling candy and artificial flowers
        looking like he'd never been touched by the light of
        day.

        Leon is standing behind him, staring up at his room,
        watching Deckard at the window.  He's still wearing
        his coveralls, but he looks different.  His face is
        more intent, smarter and angry.

<b>        EXT. STREET BELOW - NIGHT                               17
</b>
        For one seething moment it looks like Leon might mash
        something, but suddenly he swings away and disappears
        into the crowd.

<b>        INT. LEON'S ROOM - NIGHT                                18
</b>
        Deckard pockets the pictures and moves away from the
        window.

<b>        EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT                                      19
</b>
        Leon's got a neck like a fire hydrant and legs to
        match, but he's a graceful runner.  Looks like he could
        do it for days.  And he could.  He's put a lot of alley
        behind him and he's not out of breath.

<b>        EXT. CHINATOWN - NIGHT                                  20
</b>
        Slowing down he cuts into an opening and comes out onto
        a narrow street.  The Asian Quarter.

<b>        INT. CHOP SUEY HOUSE - NIGHT                            21
</b>
        A seamy as well as steamy little place.  Counter and
        small tables.  Old slant-eyed enders humped over their
        fuming bowls jabbering and slurping.

        The only voice coming out clear is from the big three-
        D TV on the back wall.  As the mellow-mouthed TV
        announcer delivers the message, a Latin-looking beauty
        in a well-fitted maids uniform does a twirl, flashes
        a beguiling smile and glides OUT OF FRAME.

<b>                                ANNOUNCER'S VOICE
</b>                  Choose from a variety of seventy
                  nine different personality types.
                  Each and every one a loyal trouble-
                  free companion given to you upon
                  your arrival absolutely free...

        The Latin beauty is replaced by an impeccable Ray
        Bolger type gentleman's gentleman who clicks his heels,
        snaps to attention and struts off to make room for the
        next.

<b>                                ANNOUNCER'S VOICE
</b>                  To use as personal body servant
                  to tireless field hand -- the
                  custom tailored humanoid robot,
                  designed especially for your
                  needs.

        The Chinese are paying no attention, but the man and
        the woman seated at the table by the window are.

        The woman is pretty, a touch of gray in her hair, kind
        and blue-eyed.  MARY looks like an American dream mom,
        right out of "Father Knows Best."

        The man also resembles a tradition: the gym instructor,
        short cropped hair with the body of a drill sergeant,
        but the eyes are grey and chilling.  ROY BATTY is a
        presence of force with a lazy, but acute sense of what
        goes on around him.

        Leon has just come through the door behind them.  Try-
        ing not to be the bull in a china shop, he approaches
        their table and kneels .  Batty doesn't bother to look
        at him, which amplifies the note of sarcasm in his
        quiet voice.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Did you get your precious 'things'?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Somebody was already there.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Police.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Just a man.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Police man.

        Leon looks sullen.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Why don't you have a seat.

        There's one next to him.  Leon pulls it over and sits.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Enjoy the view.

        From the pot on the table, Mary pours tea and they sit
        so quiet and still in this noisy place that they seem
        almost invisible.  The view they're "enjoying" is
        through the window.  Outside the neon side in the win-
        dow directly across the street says:  HANNIBAL CHEW,
<b>        MEMBERS.
</b>
<b>        INT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S SHOP - NIGHT                       22
</b>
        Chew is a spindly old man of precision, his veiled
        eyes are shrewd and Chinese, but the rest of him
        looks like a Charles Dickens invention.

        He's got a jewelers' glass stuck in his eye, lurched
        over a lamp, squinting at something in his hand.  After
        a moment his lips peal back into a sour, belligerent
        smile.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  Well, you're right.  This little
                  honey has a couple of defective cones.

        He snaps off the lamp and swings round to face his
        client.

        SEBASTIAN'S face is almost young, but something has
        gone too far, too fast.  Premature old age has made
        his bones brittle and his co-ordination slow.  The
        house may be dark but there's a light on in it.  Se-
        bastian is a closet genius.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  You're a regular perfectionist,
                  Sebastian.

        Sebastian's apologetic, especially around the acerbic
        Mr. Chew.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  It's gotta be right for my
                  customer.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  Your customer, eh?

        Chew snickers and beckons.  Sebastian follows his down
        a high narrow hall to a heavy insulated door.  There's
        a moth-eaten full length fur coat hanging by it.  Chew
        tugs it on and they go through.  The big door slams
        shut behind them.

<b>        INT. COLD STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT                          23
</b>
        Except for the work table with its sharp gleaming in-
        struments, the room is as barren and sterile as a
        morgue.  The glass-doored compartments in the walls
        look like crypts.  Some of them small as post office
        boxes.  From one of the Chew removes a vacuum, packed
        box.  Carefully separating the seal, he reaches into
        the purple jell and with a pair of tweezers extracts
        an eye.

        Through the jeweler's glass, which he has not bothered
        to remove, Chew holds the eye up to the light and
        studies it a moment.  His other hand searches through
        his pockets.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  You got a pocket-charger, boy?

        Quick to accommodate, Sebastian removes a pencil-like
        device from a row of such things in his breast pocket
        and steps closer.  The back of the eye is touched with
        the pencil and the pupil moves.  Suddenly its staring
        back at them.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  Is that good enough for your
                  customer?

        Anxious to leave, Sebastian nods.  Chew reseals the
        eye taking his time.  He can afford to, he's wearing
        his coat.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  How much is he paying you?

        In place of an answer, Sebastian clears his throat,
        stares at the bag like he didn't hear.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  Well, when do you get paid?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Soon as I finish the job.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  When might that be?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Day after tomorrow.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  Oh!  Day after tomorrow.

        Sebastian nods.  Chew stares at the poor bastard, con-
        cerned in spite of himself.

<b>                                CHEW
</b>                  The rich hate to pay, Sebastian.
                  A guy like Tyrell keeps you waiting.
                  Pay the little guy last.  You should
                  charge twice as much.  It'll make
                  him feel better.

        Sebastian nods his head like that's exactly what he'll
        do.  Chew sees it's hopeless and hands him the bag.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Thanks, Mr. Chew.

        Chew pulls the door open for him and Sebastian goes
        through quick as a dog.

<b>        EXT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S STORE - STREET - NIGHT             24
</b>
        Sebastian may lack co-ordination but he got what he
        came for and there's a hopeful spring to his walk as
        he heads for his truck.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S AMBULANCE - NIGHT                      25
</b>
        It's an old panel job with ambulance siren and lights.
        The lettering on the side reads "J.R. SEBASTIAN -
        ANIMOID EXPRESS."  Sebastian gets in, starts up the
        engine and suddenly realizes he's not alone.  It's a
        jolt that causes him to yelp.

        PRIS is sprawled on the seat next to him, and wakes up
        with a yelp of her own.  They stare at one another for
        a startled instant, and she jumps out and starts walk-
        ing.

        But she's forgotten her little beat-up overnight case.
        Sebastian puts the truck in gear, drives next to her
        and opens the door.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Hey!  You forgot your...

        He holds up the bag.  Hesitantly she reaches for it.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  How come you were in my truck?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I was tired and didn't have any
                  place to go.

        She stares at him, hand on her case, looking lost.
        Sebastian isn't good at this, but he tries.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You can get back in if you want...

        She can't make up her mind.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Don't worry, I won't hurt you.

        She gets in.  Both of them are silent.  People are not
        Sebastian's medium -- usually he's too shy, but this
        girl is shyer still, plus they're about the same age --
        it gives him courage.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  What's your name?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Pris.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Mine's J.F. Sebastian.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Hi.

        So pleased with the way that went, he forgets for a
        while what comes next.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Oh!  Where do you want to go?

        She shrugs.  That leaves him a lot of responsibility.
        He throws her side-long glances, but she's not helping.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You want to go home?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I don't have one.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Oh.

        What do you do with a teenage beauty who looks like
        she's lost out of some "Welcome to Sunny Arizona"
        poster?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Where are your folks?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  They left.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  What about friends?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I have some, but I have to find
                  out where they are staying.

        She leans forward and rests her elbows on the dash.
        Her body would win prizes, from any angle.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Well, where should I take you?

        She looks at him,a shadow of enticement in her clear
        blue eyes.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  We scared each other pretty good
                  didn't we?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  We sure did.

        She giggles and laughs.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I'm hungry, J.F.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I've got stuff.  If you wanna go
                  to my place?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I was hoping you'd say that.

        Sebastian's face is normally on the grey side, but it
        just turned red.  He turns on the ignition and they
        pull away from the curb.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S CAR - FREEWAY - NIGHT                    26
</b>
        Speeding along the freeway.  The terminal in the com-
        munications console lit.  Deckard's right hand just
        finished a punch-up.  The screen flashes back.

<b>        REQUEST
</b>
        Deckard punches up.  Letters flash across the screen:

<b>        ESPER
</b>
        Screen flashes back:

<b>        CLEARANCE
</b>
        Deckard punches up.

<b>        BLADE RUNNER ONE CODE ML-33
</b>
        Pause.

        Screen flashes:

<b>        STAND BY.
</b>
        Deckard's voice has been heard over the preceding.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  Machines can be helpful sometimes,
                  but they can also be a pain in the
                  ass.  Ask for a trace on a forger
                  and you might wind up at a steel-
                  mill.  I don't mind a bum-steer once
                  in a while -- it's their personalities
                  that usually get me.  Somebody once
                  said that man makes machines in his own
                  image.  If that's true, whoever made
                  Esper should have been shot.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  This is Esper and I'm ready.  Go
                  ahead please.

        Esper's deep melodious voice is anxious to please, and
        oiled with a touch of self-pity.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You equipped for random questions?

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Why, yes, of course.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You start.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  The five in question are third
                  generation Nexus Sixes, constructed
                  of skin-flesh culture, selected
                  enogenic transfer conversion
                  capable of self-perpetuating
                  thought, para-physical abilities
                  and developed for emigration
                  program.  Are you with me?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  How do I stop one?

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Unlike a five, they can sustain
                  massive traumas to several parts
                  of the body without debilitating
                  another.  Sever a leg and it will
                  perform quicker on the remaining leg
                  than the fastest man can run,

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Okay, but...

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  I'm coming to that.  Vulnerable
                  zone is the base of the skull,
                  the occipital bone.  A direct hit
                  is a positive retirement.

        The communication is interrupted by a BELL which is
        immediately followed by a stern, MECHANICAL VOICE.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  You are in violation of traffic
                  ordinance M-139 statutory freeway
                  limit restricted by one-hundred
                  and eighty kilometers.

        In his rear view mirror Deckard sees two black-clad
        motorcycle cops coming up behind him like the hounds
        of hell.  They draw silently alongside.  Deckard
        presses his I.D. to the window.

        The cop tosses a salute to Deckard and he and his
        partner accelerate, vanish in the night.  And Deckard's
        car does too.

<b>        EXT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT                              27
</b>
        A district of silence and ruin.  The street is strewn
        with refuse.  The building looks vacant.  A ten storey
        condo gone to shit.  The vandals have come and gone
        long ago.

        Sebastian's little white ambulance parked at the curb.
        MR. DEETCHUM, the old Watchman, sitting in the building
        entry in a straight backed chair, is reading a comic
        book.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                      28
</b>
        Well stocked with items of survival, all labeled and
        stacked.  And shelved along the walls and hung from the
        ceiling is a menagerie of animoids.  Like so many broken
        toys awaiting resurrection from Sebastian's wise hands.
<b>        
</b>        Sebastian is seated at a large work-table, bent over a
        stereo scope.  The tool in his right hand is a sensor
        probe and he's using it with the delicacy of an en-
        graver.

        The object of his concentration is a maze-like chip
        configuration no bigger than a thumbnail, but magnified
        under the scope, it looks like an aerial view of a
        large city.  The needle-like sensor probe moves care-
        fully over the contours of the configuration, testing
        the bonds.

        Suddenly a blue flash erupts from one of the junctures.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Oh!

        Pris is light on her feet.  She's standing behind him
        with a half-eaten sandwich in her hand.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Whatcha doin'?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You scared me.

        But he's happy to see her.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I'm working.

        She's changed her dress and made up her face.  Looks a
        little older and sexier.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You look... better.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Just better.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Beautiful.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Thanks.

        He watches her as she prowls around the room, looking
        at this and that, eating her sandwich.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  And you live in this building all
                  by yourself?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Yeah, I live here pretty much
                  alone right now...

        Trying to make light of it.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  No housing shortage around here...
                  plenty of room for everybody.

        She sprawls on the couch studying him.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  How old are you?

        He can't meet her eyes.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Twenty.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  What's your problem?

        It's not an easy subject.  His voice is barely audible.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Methuselah Syndrome.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  What's that?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  My glands.  They grow old too fast.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Is that why you're still here?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Yes.  I couldn't pass the test.

        There is a silence.  He steals a glance at her.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I like you just the way you are.

        Under the desk he bats his knees together.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Ah, you get hold of your friends?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  As a matter of fact I did.  They've
                  got some work to do tonight, but
                  they're gonna come tomorrow.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Good.

        The implications catch up.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I can sleep on the couch.

        A little gray mouse on the shelf above his head bobs
        up.

<b>                                MOUSE
</b>                  Don't let the bed bugs bite!

        Taking their cue from the mouse, some of the more
        talented animoids toot, flap and wheel about.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                        29
</b>
        It's dark except for the glow of the terminal.  A tired
        Deckard sits in front of it.  Esper sounds like he's
        been talking for hours.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Nexus designated Leon:  incept
                  date April 10th, 2015 -- to be
                  used in military experiments to
                  determine how hyper metabolism
                  functions in deep space.
                  Nexus designated Batty incept
                  data April 10th, 2015, combat
                  model, level of self-sufficiency,
                  optimum.

        A long pause.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Here's something you might find
                  interesting.  They have been built
                  to emulate the human in every way
                  except in its emotional spectrum.
                  However, after a period of time
                  it is only logical that such a
                  'mechanism' would create its own
                  emotional responses, hate, love,
                  fear, anger, envy.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I know all that.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  What about a summary then.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I think we're through for the night.

        Deckard starts to reach for the panel.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Mr. Deckard.

        Hesitates.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yes?

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Do you have something against
                  science?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Not if it works.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  And what in your estimation works?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  The umbrella.

        Deckard picks up the umbrella and with it stabs the
        terminal off button before Esper can respond and the
        machine goes dead.  He sits there for a moment then
        flips on the lamp.  Leon's snap-shots are spread out
        before him.

<b>        INT. SPINNER - DAY                                      30
</b>
        A police marked spinner makes a sharp bank, drops into
        a steep curve and slides towards the Tyrell Corporation.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  Every government that could was
                  racing to populate their colonial
                  territory.  But emigrants needed
                  incentive.  Over-population and
                  the greenhouse factor didn't seem
                  to be enough; but owning a human
                  look-a-like had lots of appeal.
                  It was big industry, the competition
                  was stiff and Tyrell was top of the
                  line.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL CORPORATION - DAY                           31
</b>
        The spinner gently touches down.  The hatch drops open
        and Deckard steps out.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  His claim to fame was making a
                  product more human than human and
                  sometimes the 'more' turned out to
                  be a problem.  This wasn't just an
                  escaped andy who broke his owner's
                  arm -- there were twenty-eight
                  people dead and the pressure was
                  on.

<b>        INT. TYRELL CORPORATION - DAY                           32
</b>
        Deckard walks up to a desk, hands his I.D. to a guard
        who checks it against a list on a screen.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  But so far they'd always managed
                  to keep it quiet.  Not to say
                  that once in a while there wasn't
                  bad publicity.  Some fanatic
                  bitching about equal rights for
                  andies or an occasional trade union
                  proclaiming it was aun-American for
                  automatons to take jobs away from
                  humans on the colony.

        The guard hands Deckard back his I.D., pushed a button
        and Deckard walks away.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  But what's more American than good
                  old supply and demand?  The
                  Government needed them, industry
                  made them and the church backed
                  them.  The big religious boys
                  said that Androids, no matter how
                  human, were objects; only God
                  could make people. I'm not religious,
                  but I was inclined to agree.
                  Otherwise I'd be out of a job.

        The elevator door slides open.  The young lady inside
        would look right standing on a cliff, hair blowing in
        the wind, looking out to sea in a 19th Century painting.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Hello, Mr. Deckard.  My name is
                  Rachael.

        Deckard tips his head to her and steps in.

<b>        INT. TYRELL CORPORATION ELEVATOR - DAY                  33
</b>
        No woman can be all things to all men, the Rachael comes
        closer than most.  The only trouble is she's all busi-
        ness.  Formidable without really trying.  Some beauty
        is better avoided and Deckard looks straight ahead.

<b>        INT. TYRELL CORPORATION CORRIDOR - DAY                  33A
</b>
        The door slides open and they continue down the corri-
        dor.

<b>                                 RACHAEL
</b>                  It seems your department doesn't
                  believe out new unit is to the
                  public benefit.

<b>                                 DECKARD
</b>                  A humanoid robot is like any other
                  machine, it can be a benefit or a
                  hazard.  If it's a benefit, it's
                  not our problem.

<b>                                 RACHAEL
</b>                  But because your department can't
                  do an adequate job in detecting
                  the miniscule number at large,
                  it's a problem.  Correct, Mr.
                  Deckard?

<b>        INT. TYRELL CORPORATION - AIR-FILTERED CORRIDOR - DAY   33B
</b>
        They pass into a canopied, air-filtered corridor.
        Deckard doesn't answer the question because he's looking
        at the animals.  Small northern animals in neat "en-
        vironmental" cages.  He looks at the rabbit, the raccoon
        and the squirrel, but the owl asleep on its perch stops
        him.  The armed guard at the exit never takes his eyes
        off them.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You like our owl?

        Deckard nods.  Rachael claps her hands.  The owl opens
        its yellow eyes and blinks at them.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  It's artificial?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Of course not.

        Hands thrust in her pockets, she strides off towards
        the exit without looking back.

        The exit is another tube.  Just big enough for two.  No
        room for excess.  He tries to ignore her cool appraising
        stare.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You're in a very unique position,
                  Mr. Deckard.  You could affect the
                  future of this entire organization
                  according to how you work your
                  little test.

        Deckard has nothing to say.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Are you apprehensive?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Why should I be?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  For the responsibility of your
                  power.  Being a police bureaucrat,
                  you've got more than your share.

        The door slides open.  Deckard looks down at her.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You got it wrong, girl.  I work
                  with the bureau not for them.

        He lets it sink in.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  My job isn't to detect
                  malfunctioning andies, it's to
                  eliminate them.  The more the
                  better.

        He walks out of the elevator first.

<b>        INT. INNER SANCTUM OF DR. TYRELL - DAY                  34
</b>
        The office is dimly lit, but highlights of resilience
        reside in the luster of the antique furnishings, like
        glimmers of gold in a darkened mine.  Dr. Tyrell is a
        fragile man of power, with that look of "youth" obtained
        from steroids and surgery.  Dapper and trim, he leans
        against the desk looking at an old fashioned pocket
        watch.  The only sound is the insidious PERKING of COFFEE
        BREWING in the background.

        Tyrell taps a sensor on his desk.  The door in front of
        Deckard and Rachael slides open.  They enter a vestibule
        and face another door, this one befitting the decor of
        the office, Tyrell slips the watch into his pocket as
        they enter.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Mr. Deckard.  Dr. Eldon Tyrell.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  How do you do, Mr. Deckard.  Please
                  sit down.  Would you care for a cup
                  of coffee?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Thanks.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Black?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Please.

        Tyrell pours from an old time sylex into small china
        cups and hands one to Deckard.  The congenial light in
        his eyes could almost pass for warmth -- dragon warmth.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Somehow, I didn't expect that the
                  man who did the dirty work would
                  be the man to do the technical
                  work.  Here you are, Mr. Deckard.

        He hands Deckard a cup of coffee.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Is this to be an empathy test?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yes.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Capillary dilation of the so-called
                  blush response?  Plus fluctuation
                  of the pupil, plus involuntary
                  dilation of the iris?

        Deckard nods.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  May I ask a personal question?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Go ahead.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Have you ever retired a human by
                  mistake?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  But in your profession that is a
                  risk.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Nothing is infallible, but so far
                  the Voight-Kampff scale bas been
                  foolproof.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Like you said, Mr. Deckard, a
                  machine can be a hazard.  The
                  Voight-Kampff scale is a machine,
                  isn't it?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  One that relies on human
                  interpretation.  Where's the
                  subject?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Sitting next to you.

        Deckard stares at Rachael, then back at Tyrell.  Delighted,
        Tyrell takes a cup of coffee.

        Accepting the challenge, Deckard opens his briefcase and
        starts fishing out the apparatus.

<b>        THE VOIGHT-KAMPFF                                       35
</b>
        Rachael's eye fills the screen, the iris brilliant, shot
        with light, the pupil contracting.

<b>                                DECKARD'S VOICE
</b>                  Ready.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Go ahead.

        In the soft green glow of the dials, the needles in both
        gauges are at rest.  Dr. Tyrell stands silhouetted behind
        Deckard, who sits in front of Rachael, a pencil beam
        trained on her eye.  Wire mesh discs are attached to her
        cheeks.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You're given a calfskin wallet
                  for your birthday.

        The needles in both gauges swing violently past green to
        red, then subside.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I wouldn't accept it.  Also, I'd
                  report the person who gave it to
                  me to the police.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You have a little boy.  He shows
                  you his butterfly collection, plus
                  the killing jar.

        Again the gauges register, but not so far.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'd take him to the doctor.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You're watching T.V. and suddenly
                  you notice a wasp crawling on your
                  wrist.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'd kill it.

        Both needles go to red.  Deckard makes a note, takes a
        sip of coffee and continues.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  In a magazine you come across a
                  full-page photo of a nude girl.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Is this testing whether I'm an
                  android or a lesbian?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You show the picture to your husband.
                  He likes it and hangs it on the wall.
                  The girl is lying on a bearskin rug.

<b>                                RACHEL
</b>                  I wouldn't let him.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Why not?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I should be enough for him.

        Deckard frowns, then smiles.  His smile looks a little
        like a grimace or the other way around.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You become pregnant by a man who
                  runs off with your best friend,
                  and you decide to get an abortion.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'd never get an abortion.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Why not?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  That would be murder, Mr. Deckard.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  In your opinion.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  It would be my child.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sounds like you speaks from
                  experience.

        He notes the needles.  One goes green and the other
        remains inert.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Last question.  You're watching
                  an old movie.  It shows a banquet in
                  progress, the guests are enjoying
                  raw oysters.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Ugh.

        Both needles swing swiftly.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  The entree consists of boiled
                  dog stuffed with rice.

        Needles move less.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  The raw oysters are less acceptable
                  to you than a dish of boiled dog.

        Deckard moves the adhesive discs from her cheeks and
        switches off his beam.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Lights please.

        The lights come on.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Well?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  If she is, the machine works.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  The machine works.  She is.

        Rachael sits very still.  Except her eyes -- they go to
        Tyrell and hang on.  He stares back at her as he speaks.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  How many questions did it take?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Thirteen.

        Rachael sits rigidly in her chair, as the ground crumbles
        around her, her big mermaid eyes locked with Tyrell.
        His voice is quiet and strong, mesmerizing.  She's hang-
        ing by a thread.

        Deckard watches with a bas taste in his mouth.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  She didn't know?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Memory implant.  She was programmed.
                  But I think she has transcended
                  her conditioning.  I think she was
                  beginning to suspect.

        Rachael nods fixedly.  Careful not to let go her grasp.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  How many questions does it usually
                  take, Mr. Deckard?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Five, maybe six.

        Slowly, carefully, Tyrell unlocks his gaze from Rachael
        and turns towards Deckard, who is starting to put away
        his equipment.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  You're going to have to be on your
                  toes, my friend.

        Deckard glances back at him.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  It's a complex problem and we
                  wouldn't want anything to happen
                  to you.

        Less of a man might shrink at the end of Deckard's look,
        but not Tyrell.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  For the good of all, I recommend
                  you take Rachael with you.
                  Considering her uniqueness, I'm
                  sure she could prove quite helpful.

        Deckard almost smiles at the nasty power of Tyrell's
        style.  He turns away and starts packing up the Voight-
        Kampff.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No thanks.

        Deckard is ready to go.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  And how is it one man will be able
                  to cover so much ground?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Discreetly.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  All pertinent information is
                  being fed into your departmental
                  computer, an Esper 231 -- I
                  believe -- and a photo over-lay
                  packet is being produced.

        Deckard opens the door.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Mr. Deckard, I think it would be
                  wise to reconsider my offer.

        Rachael sits there very pale and expressionless, her
        feet flat on the floor, alone is the word.

        Trying to keep the fury out of it, Deckard's voice
        comes out in a whisper.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I work alone.

        On the last word, Rachael glances up at him and Deckard
        turns away. The outer door slides open and he goes
        through it.

<b>        INT. TUNNEL - NIGHT                                     36
</b>
        As seen through the windshield from the passenger side
        of a vintage Dusenberg.  The headlights cut through the
        dark, illuminating a narrow strip of mountain road.  A
        downgrade.

        A sign slides by stating:  "Caution Curves Ahead."
        Good advice considering the sheer nightmare of a drop
        to the right and the wall of solid rock to the left.

        The steady HUM of the ENGINE and the HISS of the TIRES
        will remain, but the location suddenly changes to:

<b>        INT. ROOM - NIGHT                                       37
</b>
        A pleasant place of soft light and domestic charm.  The
        young lady in the short dress is vacuuming the rug.
        Her back to the viewer.  As she bends over to vacuum
        beneath the couch, exposing her beautiful ass, an
        admonishment from a resonant and slightly tired MALE
        VOICE intercedes.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  Let's keep our eyes on the road,
                  Deckard.

<b>                                DECKARD'S VOICE
</b>                  Sorry.

        Abruptly the VIEW FLASHES BACK TO:

<b>        INT. TUNNEL - NIGHT                                     38
</b>
        The moon is up there slicing through the trees, strobing
        over the hood of the car.  The road is getting steeper
        and the corners sharper.  Rags of mist skim by as the
        Dusenberg picks up speed.  It is becoming a riveting
        ride, but the passenger's mind moves elsewhere.

<b>        EXT. WOODS - DAY                                        39
</b>
        Swift, soft clouds overhead.  In the cold shine of
        the icy light,the viewer walks down an aisle of maples
        and beeches, their clean hard limbs deflecting the
        frosty light, and underfoot the crisp, blue-white snow,
        melted through in spots, exposing soggy patches of rich
        brown earth.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  Come on, stay with the machine.

<b>        INT. TUNNEL - NIGHT                                     40
</b>
        The Dusenberg is going faster now, headlights eating
        up the road.  Rushing the corners in gut wrenching four-
        wheel drifts.  Not a pleasant sensation if you don't
        like roller-coasters.

        The Dusenberg slides out of a corner and faces a couple
        hundred yards of straightway leading to the next bend.

        Good place for a breather, but the driver shifts into
        high and screws on.

<b>        EXT. LAKE - DAY                                         41
</b>
        Cold and gray.  The current running strong.  The nose
        of a kayak points through the swells, the viewer paddling
        for the shore.

        This is cold remote country, wild and untouched.  A sky
        bluer than the Madonna's cloak.  The kayak banks and
        the viewer steps out, moving over the sandy beach
        towards a little camp.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  We're going to have to start the
                  sequence again if you don't stay
                  with me, Deckard.  Concentrate.

<b>                                DECKARD'S VOICE
</b>                  How do you know I'm not?

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  You're not responding to the
                  stimulus.  I can see right here,
                  I'm not getting a reading.

<b>                                DECKARD'S VOICE
</b>                  I'm tired of this.

<b>                                VOICE
</b>                  Almost through.

<b>        INT. TUNNEL - NIGHT                                     42
</b>
        In the Dusenberg the driver turns to look at the passen-
        ger, his specter-like face obscured by shadow, but by
        the glint of teeth, he must have just smiled.  And the
        passenger's view snaps back to the road.

        Suddenly another pair of headlights round the approach-
        ing bend.  Large ones, of a bus or a truck.  Blinding.

        The Dusenberg is going too fast to stop.  No room to
        pass.  HORNS BLAST.  The Dusenberg brakes, goes into a
        broadside skid.  The hands of the passenger reach out
        and grip the mahogany dash.  Brakes locked, TIRES
        SCREAMING, skidding.  The Dusenberg tears through the
        railing and plunges into space.  The last view of the
        passenger is pure vertigo.  Silence.

<b>        INT. DOCTOR WHEELER'S OFFICE - AFTERNOON                43
</b>
        The good doctor is bending over his glass-top desk which
        resembles a pin-ball machine.  Displayed under its
        surface is a network of crisp electronic symbols and
        read-outs indicating the results of the test.

        Deckard detached the patches from his forehead, which
        it a little damp, but other than that, he looks no
        worse for wear, stands up to stretch and walks over to
        the doctor's desk.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  So how did I do?

        Dr. Wheeler is a thin boney man, aloof but a promise
        of compassion in his sunken eyes.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  Nerves of steel.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No rust?

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  I didn't say that.  Your motivity
                  rate checked out a little slower
                  than last time.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Meaning?

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  Meaning you don't run as fast as
                  you used to.

        Deckard starts to dress.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  During the road test...

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah?

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  Your mind kept wandering.  That
                  bothered me.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Huh huh.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  Considering the nature of your
                  work, that could be unhealthy.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  True.

        Wheeler studies his "desk" for a moment and his finger
        comes down on the section illuminating Deckard's simple
        statistics.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  You got a birthday coming up.

        Deckard bends over slipping on his shoes.  Wheeler looks
        up, concerned.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  But you haven't put in for
                  emigration.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Nope.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  You're going to be over the limit.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Listen, I could make you a long
                  list of complaints about this
                  fucken city but I still rather be
                  here than up there.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  What if you change your mind?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  They'll change the limit before
                  I change my mind.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  You sure?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Never been more sure of anything
                  in my life.

        Deckard is ready to go.  Looking at Wheeler, a little
        touched with his concern.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Why didn't you go?

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  Too old.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  But if you could?

        Wheeler considers it a moment, smiles and shakes his head.

<b>                                WHEELER
</b>                  My job is here.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Me too.

        They shake hands and Deckard walks.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - LATE AFTERNOON             44
</b>
        The referee is bouncing around the ring, trying to keep
        up with the two Mexican light-weights pounding the shit
        out of each other.  If not for the fuzz and the silence,
        the audio on the holoscope is off, you might think
        you were ringside at the Garden.  It's a good fight but
        Pris isn't watching.

        She's got her feet up on the couch painting her toe
        nails.  The room is so quiet you can almost hear the
        polish.  She starts on her fourth toe when a NOISE
        form above STOPS HER

        It sounded like a CREAKING of a FLOOR, but so quiet,
        sudden and over so fast it's hard to be sure.  She
        stares at the ceiling a moment, then glances at
        Sebastian.

        On the other side of the room, in his own world,
        Sebastian is peering into his magnifier, soldering
        gossamer strands with a laser.

        Pris has crossed the floor and is closing the door
        quietly behind her.  If the animoids nestled around
        the ledges of the room are capable of noticing, they'd
        be the only ones in the room who did.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - LATE AFTER-     45
</b><b>        NOON
</b>
        Pris moving smoothly past the doors, some of them open
        and warped offering sights and shadow and decay.

<b>        INT. FIRE STAIRS - SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - LATE AFTER-  46
</b><b>        NOON
</b>
        The gloom in here is like the light of the empty well.
        Her feet against the metal steps reverberate in the
        hollow silence.

<b>        INT. THE FLOOR ABOVE SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - LATE       47
</b><b>        AFTERNOON
</b>
        She's running now, down the hall, stops at the apart-
        ment directly above Sebastian's and opens the door.

<b>        INT. APARTMENT ABOVE SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - LATE       48
</b><b>        AFTERNOON
</b>
        Mary turns her head as Pris comes in.  She's sitting in
        a chair.  The only piece of furniture in the room.
        It's broken and tilts at a funny angle.  She nods and
        Pris nods back.

        Batty is lying on his back, rolling his head slightly
        from side to side like he's soothing a stiff neck.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What's going on down there?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  He's not ready yet.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  When?

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Tomorrow, he says.

        Batty nods he can't wait.  Pris glances at Mary and
        gives a frigid little smile.  Pris backs out and closes
        the door behind her.  Batty blows air through his
        nostrils.  Like an animal.

<b>        EXT. DECKARD'S CAR - FREEWAY - NIGHT                    49
</b>
        The sky is streaked with remnants of a lingering dusk.
        Prisms of light flash over the sheen of Deckard's car
        as he cuts off the freeway and sweeps down the off-
        ramp curve.

<b>        EXT./INT. CAR - STREETS - NIGHT                         50
</b>
        Moving through the dark city streets.  Deckard turns a
        corner and guns it up a long, steep hill.

<b>        EXT. STREET - DECKARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT               51
</b>
        At the top of the hill the car pulls into a drive and
        disappears into the subterranean garage of a high-rise.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR DECKARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT               52
</b>
        He's coming down the hall carrying a foil wrapped
        plastic plate and stops in front of his door.  It's
        riddled with locks.  He slips a small device out of
        his pocket, aims it at the door and the locks unlock,
        the bolts slide open.  He walks in and kicks the door
        shut behind him.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                        53
</b>
        He slips on the light and crosses the front room.
        Deckard is a pack rat -- hard to tell if he just moved
        in or is just moving out.

        As he enters the kitchen, the SOUND of SOMEBODY BEHIND
        him causes him to whirl around fast, hand snapped out
        in front of him, gun already in it.  Rachael almost got
        shot.  But she's unruffled, a little pale maybe, but
        direct as ever.  There's a long, chilly moment, then
        she almost smiles as her eyes move to the plate on the
        floor.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Was that your dinner?

        Deckard looks down at the over-turned plate and nods.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'm sorry.  I called and found out
                  you were on your way home.  These
                  were already delivered to your
                  department but I thought you
                  should have copies as soon as
                  possible.

        She's holding out a cassette the size of a cigarette
        pack.  But it's taking Deckard's adrenalin time to
        recede.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  It's the Nexus information you
                  wanted.

        He takes the cassette, but a man with so many locks
        must be wondering how they were gotten through so easily.
        He doesn't even want to ask.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Thanks.

        He realizes he's still got the gun aimed at her and
        sticks it back in his belt and they're left staring
        at each other.  The situation makes awkward silence.
        At least for him.  She's looking at him like she's
        got something to say but isn't saying it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Is there anything else?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I know you think it complicates
                  your work, but I'm here to help.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I've already got more help than
                  I need.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I think you need more help than
                  you've got.

        He doesn't, but she's not backing off.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  There's two reasons a man rejects
                  help.  Either because he's so good
                  at what he does he doesn't think
                  he needs it, or he's so insecure
                  he can't admit it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sounds like I'm an ass-hole either
                  way, but the answer is still no.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Two of us might be more effective
                  than one.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I work alone.

        She smiles.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  No you don't.

        She lets it sink in.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You use your equipment, don't you?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  So?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  So, I'm a piece of equipment.
                  Use me.

        It's a strong look that passes between them -- a long
        one.  Maybe if he were on firmer ground he might do
        something about such an offer but...

        Deckard's eyes follow her down as Rachael bends to
        the floor and starts picking the food off the rug, put-
        ting it back on the plate.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  That's okay, I'll get it...

        He bends down to help, but she's already done it.
        Their heads a few inches apart.  Something in her eyes
        diminishes the distance even more.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Do I make you nervous?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'm sorry.

        And she is.  And suddenly he is too.  She hands him the
        plate and they stand.  She's looking at the floor,
        almost shy, then she looks up and he's watching her.
        She says it plain and simple.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  It's strange to suddenly realize
                  that what you thought was your
                  life is actually someone else's
                  fabrication.

        Deckard nods.  He feels it, but doesn't know what to
        do about it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I can imagine.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Can you?  I couldn't.

        These are not some of Deckard's finer moments.  But she
        doesn't seem to notice.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  A part of me is glad.  I think I
                  feel more.  I don't like who I was
                  before.

        Deckard nods, waits the respectable interval and is
        glad to have a plate to take into the kitchen.

        In the scrambled sanctuary of his kitchen Deckard looks
        around for a place to put the plate, but things have
        piled up on him in here.  He contemplates the refrig-
        erator.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  So why do you think they were
                  after their records.

        He's a lot more comfortable talking shop.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  They probably want to find out
                  when they were made.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Right.

        He dumps his dinner in the garbage and comes back out.
        She's writing something on a card.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I guess the date of your birth is
                  important if you know you're not
                  made to last.

        No way he can keep his foot out of it.  She looks up and
        hands him the card.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  That's my number.  If you need me.

        She goes to the door, opens it but hesitates before
        going through.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You better get better locks --
                  if you want to keep me out.

        She looks back at him and smiles -- the smile says
        she's talking about all kinds of locks.  Deckard looks
        like he might ask her to stay, but...

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Good night.

        And she's gone.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Night.

        He looks down at the number.  It's the back side of a
        snapshot.   He turns it over.  The picture of a man
        and a woman.  The little girl between them looks like
        a six-year old Rachael.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                        54
</b>
        He's sitting in front of his console studying pictures
        of Nexus Sixes at they appear, blank-faced, hairless
        and unadorned on his monitor.

        The over-lay machine is transforming each image with
        instant attributes; hair, moustaches, teeth, eye colors,
        age, youth, hats, glasses, etc.  All in rapid succession,
        running the gambit from ominous to beautiful.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  The possibilities were infinite.
                  They could change their appearances
                  but not their future.
                  Like she said, it was short.
                  Longevity is what they were after.
                  The garbage man even wanted a past.
                  Poor fuck.  I'd check it out but
                  I knew she was right.  The market
                  worked on turn-over.  Built-in
                  obsolescence was the name of the
                  game.  That meant her too.  It
                  was something I didn't want to
                  think about.

        On top of the monitor there's an open can of beans with
        a spoon stuck in it.  Deckard puts out his cigarette
        and reaches for them as the PHONE RINGS.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Bryant here.  Regarding the
                  rundown you requested on job
                  applicants, Esper's concluded that
                  the only irregular category that
                  Tyrell's got is the entertainment
                  section.  You better get on it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I was just about to have my dinner.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  If you hurry you'll get back
                  before it gets cold.  I got a
                  spinner on your roof in five
                  minutes.  Good luck.

        Deckard hangs up and looks at the beans.  He didn't
        want them anyway.  He gets up and walks to the bedroom.
        Looks through the pile of clothes on the floor, finds
        his ankle laser and straps it on.

<b>        EXT. CITY - BIRD'S EYE VIEW - NIGHT                     55
</b>
        The spinner skirts through the canyons of the city.
        Deckard, sitting in the contoured seat, watches the
        maze of suspension bridges, platforms and catwalks
        swing by below.  The tops of larger buildings shimmer
        with advertisements and weather announcements.

<b>        INT. SPINNER - OVER CITY - NIGHT                        56
</b>
        Deckard is cruising low and slow over the city listen-
        ing to Esper.

<b>                                EPSER
</b>                  Nexus designated Rachael is a
                  prototype.  Created for in-house
                  use by special mandate form the
                  Scientific Development Regulatory
                  Committee.  Will live conventional
                  term -- no para-physical abilities.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What is a conventional term?

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Four years.  Which would make her
                  termination date...

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Never mind.  Do they have that
                  knowledge?

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Longevity is classified.  No.

        Back to business.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Okay, gimme a run-down on the
                  three females.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Nexus designated Mary:  incept
                  November 1 2017, domestic
                  conditioning non competitive,
                  trained for day care position.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Next.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Nexus designated Pris:  incept
                  data December 13 2017, competitive,
                  programmed to provide pleasure
                  for long term spacers.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Number three.

<b>                                ESPER
</b>                  Nexus designated Zhora:  incept
                  June 13th 2017, athletic
                  conditioning, highly competitive,
                  special abilities in the
                  entertainment field.

<b>        EXT./INT. SPINNER - LANDING AREA - NIGHT                57
</b>
        Deckard taking it down.  About to pull it in an already
        crowded lot, but the sign flashes "FULL."  Deckard
        doesn't believe in signs; is about to set it down any-
        way when a Chicano in a fluorescent coat runs out and
        waves him off.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Fuck.

        Pissed, Deckard veers away and buzzes low over and
        around the roof tops, all dark and cramped -- not a
        lot of room around here.

<b>        EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT                                      58
</b>
        Finally brings it down between two buildings hardly
        enough clearance, but he jockeys the machine into an
        alley, touches down and runs it slowly along the surface
        -- parking it by a sign that says "NO PARKING."

<b>        EXT. STREET - TAFFEY'S BAR - NIGHT                      59
</b>
        Not many people.  Wind blowing.  A nest of garish
        small-time clubs.

        Deckard emerges from one, goes into the next.  The
        pulsing neon over the entry says "TAFFEY'S BAR."

<b>        INT. TAFFEY'S BAR - NIGHT                               60
</b>
        Crowded in here.  BONGO MUSIC.  Deckard is at the bar
        sitting next to a big-bellied man in a black beard who's
        looking through a viewer.  On the small stage in the
        background AMAZING RAMA is eating razor blades, a part
        of her juggling routine.

        Deckard leaves the bar and walks down a hall towards a
        door at the rear.

<b>        INT. TAFFEY'S OFFICE - NIGHT                            61
</b>
        Taffey's what's referred to in the trade as a "Chicken
        Hawk" collector of young girls.

        It must be so, there's one in the bed.  Thin, pale,
        about thirteen years old, eyes rolled up under her
        fluttering eyelids, wires attached to her forehead,
        lying flat on her back in Taffey's crowded little
        room.

        Taffey's a little fella with wide hips and narrow
        shoulders, wears a jet black toupe and has a face like
        a seal.  But at the moment he's not present.

        There's a KNOCK at the DOOR, then the SOUND of a TOILET
        FLUSHING.  Taffey comes out of the bathroom, heart
        pounding under his polyester bathrobe, and approaches
        the door like the guilty fucker he is.  He looks through
        the peeper.

        Deckard is out there holding up his I.D.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Taffey Lewis?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Yes?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Can I come in?

        There is a pause lasting the time it takes Taffey not
        to think of a way to say no.  The door opens and Deckard
        enters.  Except for the drool coming out of the corner of
        her mouth, and the fluttering eye-lids, Venus doesn't
        move a muscle.

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Excuse my niece there... She's
                  studying for an exam.

        Deckard takes the  Identikit hard copies our of his
        pocket and pushing some junk out of the way, fans them
        out on the table.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'd like  you to take a look at
                  these pictures.

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Of course.

        Taffey bends down really close, peering at the pictures
        from about two inches away.

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  You see I lost my contacts a
                  couple of days ago around here
                  somewhere and my sight is a
                  little... What am I supposed
                  to be looking for?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Do you recognize any of
                  them?

        He stops at Zhora.

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  This one looks familiar, but
                  I don't know.  Naw.  There's
                  one came in today looks a
                  little like this one but...

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What did she want?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Who?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  The girl that doesn't look
                  like that girl.

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Nothing.  She wanted to know
                  about suck night.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What night?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  I didn't know if I wanted to
                  handle her -- I already got
                  a snake act.  But my partner
                  goes down there to the Opera
                  House on suck night to book
                  the good ones.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What's suck night?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  That's what we call in the
                  trade, audition free-for-
                  alls and most of it sucks.
                  Bit I don't think that's
                  her.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You talking about the Opera
                  House on the Main?

        Taffey nods.  Deckard goes to the door and turns.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Book the good ones for where?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Lots of places.  The tours,
                  the clubs, the Silicone shows,
                  private parties.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What shows?

<b>                                TAFFEY
</b>                  Silicone Valley.  Lots of
                  these science guys never
                  leave that place.  We book
                  two shows a month in there.
                  Those big time techs and bio-
                  guys might be real high zoners
                  up here, but when it comes
                  to the arts, they like it loud
                  and lewd.

        It's starting to get a little gooey.  Deckard tips his
        head good night and backs out of the door.

<b>        INT. THE OLD OPERA HOUSE - NIGHT                        62
</b>
        Onstage four Mexican acrobats, in matching metallic
        jumpsuits roll head over heels in their rendition of
        a human wheel.  From the P.A. system the Announcer's
        voice blares through the cavernous theatre.

<b>                                ANNOUNCER'S VOICE
</b>                  Let's hear it for the Hermano
                  Brothers.

        Scattered APPLAUSE.  Hand in hand, the Hermano Brothers
        bow deeply, spring up and trot offstage.

<b>                                ANNOUNCER'S VOICE
</b>                  Next we're gonna see a little
                  charmer who keeps her dancing
                  partner in a basket!  She
                  comes to us all the way from
                  exotic Casablanca.  'Salome.'

        The old boys in the pit strike up a tinny version
        of "In a Persian Market" as SALOME dances onstage.
        She's a black-haired beauty in a scant belly dancer
        costume, a couple of pounds overweight but all in
        the right places.  She kneels ceremoniously center
        stage and sets the basket down before her.  Carefully
        removing the lid, she reaches in and lifts out a four-
        foot harlequin-patterned python.  Grinding her hips
        to the music, she rises, holding the coiling snake out
        like an offering.  Sounds of approval from the audience.
        The gold coins covering her breasts jingle and shimmer,
        as she weaves sensuously around the floor.

<b>        INT. BACKSTAGE - NIGHT                                  63
</b>
        To scattered APPLAUSE, HOOTS and WHISTLES, Salome
        flounces offstage, the snake hung around her shoul-
        ders, looking limp, and makes her way through the
        narrow corridor to her dressing room.  She's about
        to enter when:

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Excuse me, Miss Salome.

        She turns.  Deckard's posture and attitude suggest hum-
        ble, sleazy persistence.  He comes closer with his
        shit-eating grin.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'd like to have a word with you
                  if I could.

        Salome stands almost six feet high in her high heels
        -- she looks down on him with the haughty suspicion
        of a chick who knows how to handle cheap hits.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Yeah?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'm with the American Federation
                  of Variety Artists...

        He holds up a hand as if to stop her from protesting.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Don't worry, I'm not here to make
                  you join -- that's not my department.

        He glances around like a guy who's not supposed to be
        there.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'm an investigator for the
                  Confidential Committee on Moral
                  Abuses.

        She nods, taking it a little more seriously.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  There's been reports of management
                  sexually abusing the artists in
                  this place.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  I don't know nothing about it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You haven't felt yourself to be
                  exploited by the management in any
                  way?

        She's definitely puzzled.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  How do you mean 'exploited'?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Like to get this position.  Did
                  you or were you asked to do anything
                  lewd or unsavory or otherwise
                  repulsive to your person?

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Are you for real?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Oh, yeah.
                  You'd be surprised what goes on
                  around here.  I'd like to check
                  the dressing room if I could.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  What the fuck for?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  For holes.

        This guy might be an asshole but he's funny.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  I don't believe this.

        She shrugs and they go in.

<b>        INT. DRESSING ROOM - NIGHT                              64
</b>
        Musty and cramped.  A portable shower, a dressing table
        and not much else.  Salome takes the snake from around
        her shoulders and lays it on the dressing table.  Deck-
        ard watches it undulate into the warmth of the lights.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  It that mother real?

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Of course he's not real.  You think
                  I'd be working here if I could
                  afford a real snake?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  It's a good job.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  You mean the snake.

        Deckard nods.  There's not much costume to take off but
        she's doing it.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  The best.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Does it eat?

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Come on.

        His hand reaches out to touch it.  As his fingers make
        contact there's an electric "snap."  He jerks his hand
        back from the shock.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Jeezus!

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sorry.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  Hey!  Do your job but don't wreck
                  mine, huh?

        She slides behind the screen and turns on the shower.
        Deckard starts creeping around pacing around the room
        like he's inspecting the walls.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  They have their ways of doing
                  their dirty work without the
                  victim knowing what's going on.

        His eyes are moving over everything she's got.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You'd be surprised what a guy'll
                  go through to get a glimpse of a
                  beautiful body.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  I bet I would.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Little dirty holes the bastards
                  drill in the wall so they can
                  watch a lady undress.

        And to his amazement he actually spots one.  It's down
        low on the wall.  Not a good idea to turn his back on
        work but he can't resist.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  And what if somebody did try to
                  'exploit' me?  Who do I go to?

        Through the hole Deckard is looking at a pair of fat
        legs.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Me.

<b>                                SALOME
</b>                  And who do I go to about you?

        He looks back.  She's some out of the shower dripping
        nude.  She's taken off her black wig.  Her hair is
        short and blonde.

        Deckard recognizes her immediately from the identikit.
        He stares at her a moment too long.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Hmmmmm?

        Deckard grins and she returns it.

        She takes a towel off the table and starts to dry her
        body.  The snake noses through the cosmetics, tongue
        flicking trying to get back to its mistress.  Absently,
        she reaches out to stroke the snake and suddenly laughs.

<b>                                ZHORA
</b>                  You ever get the feeling things
                  aren't the way they seem?

        Her hand closes around the snake's head.  Deckard sees
        it coming but can't move fast enough.  She strikes him
        so hard it knocks him off his feet.  Before he hits the
        floor, she kicks him in the stomach.  The snake whistles
        through the air again as Deckard rolls out of the way.
        It slams down so hard it ruptures against the floor.
        He goes for his laser, but she's already out the door.

<b>        INT. PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT                                 65
</b>
        Deckard bounds out of the room and sees her go through
        a door at the other end of the hall.  He sprints after
        her, arrives at the door and flings it open.  Black-
        ness.  The SOUND of her high heels CLATTER down the
        metal steps.

<b>        EXT. STREET - OPERA HOUSE - NIGHT                       66
</b>
        It's raining heavily.

        The front of the Opera House is open only to foot traf-
        fic these days.  A bizarre place on a Friday night,
        hawkers and whores, the rabble, the poor and the cur-
        ious mill around the randy-built platforms and brightly
        lit stands.   Zhora, in just a raincoat, is not out of
        place in this flea market atmosphere.  Trying not to
        run, she slices through the mob as quickly as she can.
        Deckard is not far behind, dodging and side-stepping,
        trying to move against the tide of people scurrying for
        shelter.

        She comes to an intersection and turns out of the mall
        onto a less crowded street.  She glances over her
        shoulder as she breaks into a run and runs right into
        a couple of pedestrians.  All three go down.

        Deckard comes out of the crowd in time to spot her get-
        ting to her feet.  She sees him and runs.  The two ped-
        estrians are in his line of fire.  He runs past them
        and drops to one knee, leveling his laser.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Stop or you're dead!

        She doesn't.  The beam flashes through the air, but
        she's already around the corner.

        With his bottom lip between his teeth, it hurts to move
        so fast, Deckard jack-legs it into the street and jumps
        in front of the first car coming.  It screeches to a
        stop.  Deckard scrambles for the door, but the guy be-
        hind the wheel has other ideas.  He peels out fast.

        The next car slows down and swerves trying not to hit
        him.  Deckard goes for the door and before the old ma-
        tron inside can lock it, Deckard's yanked it open and
        jumps in.  She screams as he pushes her into the pas-
        senger seat and jams the car into a wrenching about
        face.  The lady squeals like a pig as the momentum
        plasters her against the door.

        Deckard slams it around the corner and guns it down the
        street.  It's long and it's empty and it's going by fast.
        Nothing the old lady cares to see -- she's got her hands
        over her eyes, whimpering, hoping she'll faint before
        she dies.

        Deckard takes the next left so hard he almost lays it
        over.  As the car bounces off the curb he floors it.

        Zhora's a hundred yards ahead, halfway down the street,
        trying to make it back into the crowded mall.  She's
        running fast, but the car is faster.

        As he passes her, Deckard hits the brakes and skids
        broadside seventy feet.  The door flies open and he
        rolls out FIRING.

        Zhora's ducking it with no where to go, except...

        The showcase window on her left EXPLODES as she crashes
        through.

        It's a corner shop joined to a series of stores, front-
        ing the mall.  Deckard runs to the opening she's made
        and pours FIRE through the tunnel of her jagged wake as
        Zhora breaks through one window after another, getting
        sliced, getting shot, trying to get away from Deckard's
        laser.  But she doesn't.

        His last shot burns a hole through the base of her
        skull.  It kills her but doesn't stop her.  Her speed
        takes what's left of her through the last two windows
        and into the street where she runs into a parked car
        with such force that she embeds herself in the side of
        it.

        Hunched over, breathing hard, Deckard comes slowly for-
        ward.  The crowd starting to gather.  There's something
        for everybody and they're coming from all directions.

        Deckard moves through them, edging to have a look.

        It's not a good thing to see.  It looks like Salome
        and the car tries to eat each other.  A bloody feast
        of metal and flesh.

        Deckard bows his head, sick, exhausted.  So much commo-
        tion he doesn't notice THREE COPS closing in from
        behind.

<b>                                COP
</b>                  Drop it!

        Deckard has his back to them.  They're fanned out and
        crouched, ready to fire.  Deckard drops his laser.  Two
        of them rush up, spin him around while the third does a
        frisk.

        TWO MORE COPS arrive, wary and wild-eyed, pushing the
        people back -- his is not a good place for cops.

        Deckard's ankle laser is discovered by the Cop frisking
        him.  With a snarl he pulls it out and hands it back to
        the SERGEANT covering the action.

<b>                                SERGEANT
</b>                  On your belly!

        Deckard's not in the mood for it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Listen, Sergeant...

        He's reaching for his ID.  The Cop with the rubber
        billy hits him in the head.

        One thrill after another.  Somebody in the crowd YEOWLS.
        The last thing Deckard hears as he falls.  The Cop
        reaches inside Deckard's coat for the concealed weapon
        they missed, but it's an ID card.  He looks at it for a
        moment, then looks up.

<b>                                COP
</b>                  Hey, Sarge, this guy's a cop.

        An embarrassing situation.

<b>                                SERGEANT
</b>                  Clear this fuckin' crowd.

        The Cops start pushing.  And for one split second one
        of the crowd looks a lot like Leon.

<b>        INT. OLD OPERA HOUSE - MEN'S ROOM - NIGHT               67
</b>
        Your standard low class crapper.  Bryant is planted
        firmly on the cracked tile floor next to the urinals
        rubbing his face, trying not to pop the clutch in his
        anger.  This is a public place, he doesn't want to
        yell.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Just because it's a Nexus 6 doesn't
                  change procedure.  A little known
                  fact can become a well-known fact
                  and part of our job, Deckard, is
                  to make sure that doesn't happen.
                  Now how can be do that if you blow
                  one away in front of a fuckin'
                  audience.

        It's not the sort of question that expects an answer.
        Deckard's washing his face in the basin hoping it'll
        all go away.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Well?

        Deckard looks up dripping, reaches for a paper towel.
        Bryant slaps one in his hand.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  She was gonna get away.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Then let her get away.  I thought
                  you were a pro -- you're supposed
                  to be a fuckin' tracker!

        Bryant takes a couple of deep breaths.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  I'd say you got a little carried
                  away.

        Deckard's voice is barely audible.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I didn't like her.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  You didn't like her!?

        He slams the handle on one of the urinals.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  You start liking or disliking
                  andies it's time to hang it up.

        The PLUMPING ROARS and SUCKS and DIES.  There's nothing
        to do but nod.  Deckard nods.  Poor bastard has had a
        rough night.  Bryant pulls a flask out of his coat and
        hands it to him.  Deckard puts it to his mouth and
        Bryant watches Deckard's Adam's apple like he's count-
        ing the swallows.  Deckard hands it back empty.  Bryant
        caps it, puts it back in his pocket.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Look, go home.  Get some rest.
                  Take an aspirin.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

        Bryant shuffles out like an old bear.

<b>        INT. OLD OPERA HOUSE - BAR - NIGHT                      68
</b>
        Cheap whiskey and bad wine.  That's the kind of place
        this is.  It's near closing.  But still a few at the
        bar.  Alcoholic silhouettes.

        In the b.g. Deckard comes down the passage from the
        men's room and stops at the phone.  He gets a number
        out of his pocket and calls it.  As he talks he leans
        against the wall, his body language intimate and chummy.

        Not much action at the bar other than somebody snoring
        and a dipso down at the end having a conversation with
        himself.

        Deckard hangs up, walks to the bar and straggles a
        stool.  The BARTENDER's a big lady with tits like sand
        bags and a voice that plays no favorites.

<b>                                BARTENDER
</b>                  I can't protect your drinks,
                  mister; while you was in the
                  potty, this hummer snatched it.

        Deckard glances at his stool-mate.  A huge MAN, slumped
        over the bar like a beached whale.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No problem.  Gimme another.

        The whale doesn't move, but it speaks, with a gravelly
        Russian accent.

<b>                                RUSSIAN
</b>                  Forgive me.  I thought was free
                  drink.  I will pay.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Forget it.

        But the big man's digging through his pockets.  Deck-
        ard's drink arrives and the Russian raises his head.
        It's a big melancholy face with a glint of warmth in
        his red-rimmed eyes and a smile that could melt your
        heart.  But it's Leon.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  I think I have no money.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  It's okay.  Forget it.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  But I would like to buy you drink.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'll but you one.  What'll you
                  have?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Vodka!

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Shot of vodka, please.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Thank you very much.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  My pleasure.

        Deckard brings out his smokes.  Offers one.  Leon takes
        it and they light up.  The drinks come.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Prosit.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Prosit.

        Down the hatch.  Leon slaps his glass on the bar, reach-
        es into his pocket, brings out a little match box and
        slaps that down too.  It's done with such pride that
        Deckard has to look.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  You want to see my friends?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sorry, don't have the time.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  No problem.

        Leon smiles broadly and with ceremonious care opens the
        box and dumps three live cockroaches on the bar.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Those cockroaches?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Ya.

        Deckard looks interested.  One of them starts to scamp-
        er away, but Leon walls off the next with his huge hand.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  How long you had these guys?

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Two months.  But this one is not
                  guy.  It is girl.  His girl.

        Leon leans closer like he doesn't want the cockroaches
        to hear.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Usually Blackie waits until Igor
                  is eating; then, when his back is
                  turned, he tries to take advantage
                  of Anna.

        Deckard nods, definitely interested.  He signals the
        bartender for another round.  The drinks arrive.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Prosit.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Prosit.

        Down the hatch.  Their eyes meet at the bottom.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  You never saw a cockroach make
                  love?

        Deckard shakes his head, but he'd like to.

        Leon smiles slyly.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  We will try.

        Leon brings a cube of sugar out of his pocket and puts
        it on the bar.  They both lean down and watch intently.
        The drinks come and are put away, but the cockroaches
        are not cooperating.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  It must be that he is not hungry
                  or maybe she is not hot.

        Leon is catching the roaches and one by one puts them
        back in their box.  He holds up the last and kisses it.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  You like to kiss her goodbye.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No thanks.

<b>                                BARTENDER
</b>                  Make sure you take your girlfriends
                  with you when you leave.

        What neither of them notices is that between Leon's
        fingers, his stub of his cigarette is burning his flesh.

        Deckard lifts his glass, it is empty.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  I like you.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I like you too.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  One more, eh?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I gotta piss.

        Deckard gets on his feet, leans forward like a man in
        a stiff wind and stops.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I think I'll piss outside.

        Leon watches his walk a perfect straight line through
        the bar down the passage and out of the rear exit.

<b>        EXT. ALLEY - OLD OPERA HOUSE - NIGHT                    69
</b>
        Deckard reels out.  The door swings shut and he's sober
        as hell and moving fast.  Around the big trash dumpster
        alongside the building, he plasters himself against the
        wall and his gun is out, aimed at the door.  He's in a
        good spot with a perfect line of fire.  Moments go by
        and he's glad for the time to steady himself.  The
        SOUND of his BREATHING, the HUM of the city and the
        quiet.

        Suddenly from behind, Deckard is swept off his feet and
        twirled around in Leon's bear-trap embrace.

        Leon lets go and Deckard hits the pavement, skidding
        hard enough to tear clothes and burn skin, but he rolls
        out of it and comes up with gun in hand; but Leon is so
        fast he's already there and kicks it out of his hand.

        Leon moves towards him, backing Deckard against the wall.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  How come you know where Zhora was
                  so quick?

        His hand is lightning.  It shoots out, grabs Deckard's
        hair.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I showed pictures.  Somebody
                  recognized her.  I went to see.

        Deckard is pale.  The sweat is starting to run.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  How old am I?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I don't know.

        The grip tightens and twists.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  My birthday is April 10, 2015.
                  How long do I live?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Four years.

        He lets go.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  More than you.

        Deckard's knees come up fast.  Leon's fist comes down
        faster, like a hammer.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Painful to live in fear, isn't it.

        Deckard is doubled over, hugging his thigh.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  But that's how it is to be a
                  slave.  The future is sealed off,
                  he grovels, he waits.

        Even hurt, Deckard is fast.  He goes for his ankle gun,
        but Leon's got it out of his hand before he can even
        raise it and throws it down the alley.

        Deckard hurls forward, knocking him off balance, and
        scrambles to get away.  Leon grabs him by the foot,
        drags him back and jerks him off the ground.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  Sex, reproduction, security, the
                  simple things.  But no way to
                  satisfy them.  To be homesick
                  with no place to go.  Potential
                  with no way to use it.  Lots of
                  little oversights in the Nexus 6.

        He slams Deckard into the wall.

<b>                                LEON
</b>                  I tell you, nothing is worse
                  than having an itch you can never
                  scratch.

        Deckard slides down the wall to his knees and huddles,
        protecting his head with his arms, waiting for the next
        one.

        Leon folds his big hands together and raises them over
        his head, pausing just a second to savor the satisfac-
        tion of smashing Deckard's skull.

        The spasm that runs through Leon's face is not from
        satisfaction.  It's the bullet that went through his
        neck.  He hits the ground hard, his big teeth biting
        the air like a rabid dog.  Dead.

        Rachael is standing in the alley.  Deckard lies there
        looking at her.  She comes slowly and quietly forward
        and drops Deckard's gun by his side.

        Deckard gets to his hands and knees and tries to get
        up, but can't quite manage it.  He looks up at her,
        panting, spits blood and almost smiles.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Like I said, I don't need your
                  help.

        After a long moment, she bends down to touch him.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You look terrible, you know that?

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT             70
</b>
        He's lying in the tub with a drink, eyes half mast,
        water up to his chin, bruised and beat, but looking
        just a little wicked in his balmy luxury.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  I knew a cop once who was involved
                  in a high-speed chase.  They shot
                  out one of his tires and he went
                  over a cliff at hundred and fifty
                  miles an hour.  They found him in
                  the morning with a broken skull,
                  six fractured ribs and second-
                  degree burns.  On the way to the
                  hospital he made a play for the
                  nurse.

        He takes a drink and clears his throat.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Hey!  I thought you were supposed
                  to be taking care of me.

<b>                                RACHAEL'S VOICE
</b>                  What do you need?

        He doesn't answer.  Lies there sipping his drink.
        Rachael comes in a little uncertain, a little droll,
        and stands there looking down at him.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Don't just stand there looking at
                  me.  It's not polite.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  What do you want me to do?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sit.

        She sits on the edge of the tub.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Gimme your arm.

        She's wearing a short-sleeved dress.  It's a long, del-
        icate arm and Deckard holds it, inspecting it like a
        maestro with a Stradivarius.  He looks up at her.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You ever take a bath with a man
                  before?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  There's a lot I haven't done with
                  a man before.

        He's got her hand in the water and had begun to soap
        her arm.  Starting with her wrist and running the bar
        to her elbow, up and down, slow and slippery.  She
        watches, not quite sure of the ritual.

        He pulls her closer, and runs his hand up higher, mould-
        ing and pressing, working around her flesh, up and under
        her arm into the privacy of her dress.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You're getting me wet.

        Oh, yes.  For a moment Deckard stares at her like some
        furry-legged satyr in rut, the fingers of his other
        hand rake through her hair and into the water she comes.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - MORNING            71
</b>
        The bed looks like it was hit by a storm and Deckard
        looks like something that was washed up in it.  He's
        spread out flat, face creased and puffed.

        His eyes squint open, but only for a moment.  His
        hands are more reliable.  They search over the bed,
        but find it bare.  He edges his head over the side,
        looking around for signs, but she's all gone.  He
        gets up in two stages, sits and then stands.  Then
        sits again, resting his head in his hands.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - BATHROOM - MORNING           72
</b>
        Deckard's got his face in the mirror shaving it.  It's
        been a long night.  Nothing a new tongue and a trans-
        fusion wouldn't put right.  He moves a couple of inches
        to the left so his eyes have a view of the tub.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - MORNING        73
</b>
        Deckard is on the edge of the couch with the phone on
        his knees, the card with Rachael's number in his lap
        and having no luck.

<b>                                RACHAEL'S VOICE
</b>                  Sorry, I am not in at the moment,
                  but if you'll leave your name and
                  number I'll return your call as
                  soon as I can.

        That's not soon enough.  Deckard hangs up, puts the
        phone on the floor and leans back on the couch.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Fuck you, then.

<b>        INT. MR. DEETCHUM'S APARTMENT - MORNING                 74
</b>
        The rooster perched on the chair spreading its scrawny
        wings, strains from the tips of its toes, crowing at
        the ceiling.  Between crows there's a TAPPING at the
        door.

        You might call this a "barnyard" apartment.  There's
        straw on the floor and several hens roosting against
        the back wall.  The front door opens a few inches and
        Sebastian pokes his head in.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Mr. Deetchum?  Hello?

        Nobody seems to be home except his chickens.  As Sebas-
        tian enters, closing the door behind him, a goose
        charges out of the bedroom hissing and honking.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Now, now, Waddles.

        Seeming to recognize Sebastian as no intruder, Waddles
        veers off from the attack.  As Sebastian crosses the
        room a pig peeks out from behind the couch.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Hello, Wrigley.

        He goes to the chickens and collects some eggs, putting
        them into a bowl he's brought.  He puts down the bowl
        and reaching into his pocket carefully counts out the
        payment and puts the money on a plate.  He's about to
        leave but notices there's no water in the dispenser.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Mr. Deetchum isn't taking very
                  good care of you people.

        Pouring from a jug on the table, he fills the dispenser
        with water, scatters a little grain on the floor, gets
        his bowel of eggs and leaves.

        Wrigley grunts and comes out from behind the couch for
        a long drink.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - SEBASTIAN'S FLOOR - MORNING             75
</b>
        Sebastian arrives on his floor, walks down the hall to
        his apartment, opens the door, walks in.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - DAY                        76
</b>
        He turns to close door, comes face to face with Roy
        Batty.  Sebastian drops his bowl of eggs.  Batty's
        hand flashes out and catches it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Whoops.

        Smiling, Batty hands them back to Sebastian, who is
        too startled to speak.

        Pris runs up and gives Batty and Mary a big hug, steps
        back effusing and smiling, everybody's favorite teen-
        ager.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  This is my Uncle Roy, Sebastian.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Hello, glad to meet you.

        He pumps Sebastian's free hand.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  And my Aunt Mary.

        Sebastian turns and there's Aunt Mary, modest and warm.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  And this is my savior, J.F. Sebastian,
                  everybody.

        Sebastian stands there with his eggs, bashful and ex-
        cited, the hero of this little family's warm attention.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Can't thank you enough, Mr. Sebastian.
                  If you hadn't come along...

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  We were worried to death.  It's
                  awfully kind of you.

        Sebastian is nodding and smiling.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  We're not used to the big city.
                  Where we come from it's not so
                  easy to get lost.

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  You certainly have a nice place
                  here.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Well stocked.

        Batty looks around admiringly.  Sebastian mumbles some-
        thing that sounds like "Thank you."

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Sebastian doesn't like to go out
                  too much.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I keep a lot of provisions right
                  here.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I like a man who stays put.  An
                  admirable thing to be able to
                  sustain yourself in these times.
                  You live here all by yourself, do
                  you?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Well, no, not really.  There's
                  Mr. Deetchum, he's the watchman,
                  he lives on the first floor.

        Everybody nods.  A long pause.

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  We haven't found it easy, Mr.
                  Sebastian.

        They glance around the room, waiting for Sebastian to
        pick up the ball.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  How about breakfast, I was just
                  going to make some.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  If it wouldn't be too much of a
                  bother... a little bite to eat
                  would be...

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Oh, no bother, I'd be glad to.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Well, actually

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  We're famished.

        Sebastian is truly happy.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Okay, then.  You make yourselves
                  comfortable and I'll bring the
                  food right out.

        He disappears into the kitchen.  Batty looks happy with
        the way things are going.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Charming.

        Pris comes up close.  Her tone muted but demanding.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Well?

        Batty finds her attitude amusing, which makes her even
        more pugnacious.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I want to know what's going on.

        There's a punitive edge to Batty's response.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  There's only three of us left.

        Pris is shocked.  Her whisper comes out a hiss.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Then we're stupid and we'll die.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Not if everybody is doing their
                  job here at home.  How are things
                  at home?

        A little spotted pig on the table sits up.

<b>                                PIG
</b>                  Home again, jiggidy jig.

        They all turn and stare at the pig.  Batty is delighted.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I don't trust him.  I don't think
                  he knows what he's doing.

        The BELL-TONE from the microwave goes off in the kitchen.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  He knows what he's doing.

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  If he won't cooperate?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Mr. Sebastian is a host who wants
                  to be appreciated.  We'll
                  appreciate him and he'll cooperate.

<b>        INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR AND ROOM - DAY                   77
</b>
        Holden is laid out in an apparatus that resembles an
        iron lung.  A little above his head, facing him, is a
        bank of bio-feedback lights registering body functions.

        Deckard is in a chair sitting next to his friend.

        Holden has lost weight, his face is grey, he can't
        move his head, but he's smiling like the cat who ate
        the canary.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  How are you doing, old man?

        Holden's voice is just a whisper -- the kind of whisper
        that comes out of the joker at the back of the class.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  I'm great.  I mean, I know I'm
                  not really great, but I feel just
                  great.  How you like my new suit?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Well, you don't have to worry
                  about getting it wrinkled.

        Holden's eyes close, his smile gets bigger and little
        spasms of laughter pump out of his mouth.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Don't make me laugh.  It makes me
                  pee.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Sorry.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Hey, it's okay.  I like to pee.
                  So how are you doing?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'm doing okay.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  From what I hear you're doing
                  great.  Bryant tells me you're
                  going like a god damn one-man
                  army.  Making a lot of money, huh?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.
                         (pause)
                  But that's what I wanted to talk
                  to you about.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Money?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No.  I got a problem.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Let's hear it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I think I'm starting to empathize
                  with these Nexus-sixes.

        Holden giggles.  Starts to laugh again.  A blue light
        on the panel begins to turn very bright.  They both
        notice it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What's that?

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  I'm taking a piss.

        They wait for the light to abate.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Let me ask you something, Deck.
                  You been having intimate relations
                  with one of these units?

        Deckard doesn't deny it.  Holden smiles like a cherub.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  That's what I thought... one of
                  the liabilities of the trade --
                  you has sex with your prey, old
                  buddy.  That's bound to create
                  problems, unless you're a black
                  widow.

        Deckard has to wait for him to stop giggling.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What about -- not sex -- but love?

        Holden bites his bottom lip to keep the laugher out of
        his voice, but he can't.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Love is just another name for sex.
                  Love is sexy and sex is lovely --
                  I don't care what you call it, an
                  android can't have it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  These aren't just...

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  I know what they are, Deck --
                  Look, maybe they can pretend to
                  feel, but far as the raw, hot
                  emotions of the old heart -- no
                  way.

        Holden stops talking for a moment to get some air.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Believe me, take it from an old
                  pro, no matter how good we get,
                  we're never gonna make an
                  artificial anything that can
                  feel.  It's a contradiction.
                  You might as well go fuck your
                  washing machine.

        Holden laughs, Deckard doesn't.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Just go out there and keep up
                  the good work.

        Holden's whispers have become harder to hear.

<b>                                HOLDEN
</b>                  Got to save it, Deck, I'm getting
                  sleepy.  It's been good talking
                  to you.

        Deckard stands.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Thanks.

        But he's already asleep.  Deckard stands there a moment
        looking at him, then walks out.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT - DAY                          78
</b>
        He's sitting on the couch, glum, contemplative.
        There's a SOUND.  His eyes move to the door.  Those
        locks are opening again.  Rachael comes in.  Looks
        surprised to see him.  Him too.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I told you I'd come back.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You did?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You didn't hear me.  You were
                  sleeping.

        He likes that.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Are you glad I'm here?

        He is.  She's spunky.  Hasn't seen this place in the
        daytime.  Pleased, he watched her move around the mess.
        She spots a little framed photograph.  Picks it up.
        It's a man with a shotgun and a boy holding up a quail.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Who is this?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Me and my dad.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Where is he?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Dead.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Oh.

        She puts it down and comes to him.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  How come you're not on the job?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I am.  Part of my job is to sit
                  on a couch and try and figure
                  things out.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  How are you doing?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Not too good.

        She sits next to him.

        Pleased as hell, they both sit there staring straight
        ahead.  He looks at her.  She looks at him.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  What do people do in the afternoon?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  If they are smart, they take
                  naps.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S BEDROOM - DAY                            79
</b>
        They're under the sheet.  Rachael is on her back, look-
        ing at the ceiling, hair sprawled like sea grass over
        the pillow.  Deckard lies next to her, a man studying
        a treasure.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Do you dream?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.  Sometimes.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I wish I could.

        His hand moves over her shoulder.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Wishing is a kind of dreaming.

        His hand goes under the sheet.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I mean asleep.

        She feels good.  He moves closer.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Did you cry when your father
                  died?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  That's another thing I can't
                  do.

        He kisses her lightly on the cheek.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Nobody is freer than when he
                  dreams.  I read that.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  It wasn't very good last night,
                  was it?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I don't know, I have nothing
                  to compare it to.  I guess I
                  thought there was something
                  more to it.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I don't know... I think I missed
                  something.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Like?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  I'm not sure.  Is there a
                  secret?

        Her face is close.  She's looking right at him.  Her
        lips are right there.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I don't know.  If there is I'd
                  like to find it.

        Slowly their lips touch and his arms slide under her
        body.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - DAY                        80
</b>
        Batty, Pris and Mary sit at the table staring at their
        host.  Sebastian is staring back, his fork halfway to
        his mouth, looking from face to face.  Although nothing
        is being said, he's totally comfortable, as much at
        home with them as he is with his animoids.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Why are you staring at us?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You're just all so... so different.

        Batty nods his head, smiling, sending home the fact and
        Sebastian is certainly getting it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What, Sebastian?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You're androids.

        A long pause.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  What makes you think so?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You're all so perfect.

        Sebastian is smiling from ear to ear.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  What generation are you?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Nexus - 6.
<b>        
</b>        Sebastian whistles.  Mary's head is shaking slightly.
        Pris gets up and moves to the couch.  Batty couldn't
        be more pleased.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  We can trust Sebastian, ladies.
                  He's been working with mechanisms
                  all his life.  He's a wizard and
                  a very perceptive man.

        Sebastian looks like a kid on Christmas Eve.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Could you...

        His voice is trembling.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Show me something?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Like what?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Like...

        Like a million things, but he's too excited to think of
        one.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  We're not computers, Sebastian,
                  we're physical.

        Pris perks up proudly.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I think, therefore I am.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Very good, Pris.  Now show him why.

        It's a command Pris is pleased to obey.  She sits quiet-
        ly a moment, hands folded in her lap, prim and proper.
        Mary doesn't like these displays, but Batty is beaming.

        Those hands in Pris' lap suddenly move, almost faster
        than the eye can see and slam down on either side of
        her, digging into the material with such ferocity that
        Sebastian jumps.  She plunges into the guts of the couch
        up to her elbows and comes up holding springs and stuff-
        ing.  Except for the clenched teeth, she is smiling like
        an angel.

        Sebastian is riveted, his eyes wide and astounded, like
        he's just seen the devil.  He laughs nervously, glad
        that the devil is a friend.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  We have a lot in common.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  You mean that you can't come here
                  and I can't go there?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Not only that, but we have smiliar
                  problems.  Accelerated decrepitude.
                  But we don't want to die quite yet.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Of course not.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  You could help us.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I don't know much about biomechanics,
                  Roy.  I wish I did, but you're out
                  of my league.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  If we don't find help soon, Pris
                  hasn't got long to live.

        Sebastian sneaks a glance.  Pris is staring at him with
        big childlike eyes, Sebastian looks back at Batty, moved
        but helpless.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What about your friend, the man
                  who owns this building?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Dr. Tyrell?

        Batty nods.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  He's not really my friend.  I just
                  do a job for him now and then.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Tyrell could help us, Sebastian.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  He could?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  His company made us.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  I'd be happy to mention it to him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Be better if I could talk to him
                  in person.  But he's not an easy
                  man to get to.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  No.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  When do you deliver your project?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  This afternoon.

        Batty leans forward and looks right into Sebastian's
        eyes.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Will you help us?

        There's no way Sebastian could say no, even if he
        wanted to.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Yes.

        Pris sits up smiling.  Mary sighs a breath of relief
        and Batty leans back nodding in gratitude.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I'm sure glad you found us,
                  Sebastian.  What do you think,
                  Mary?

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  I don't think there is another
                  human being in this whole world
                  who would have helped us.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Pris?

        Pris gets up and comes to Sebastian and kisses him.

        That has a lot of impact.  Sebastian looks around try-
        ing to keep the tears from coming.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  You're our best and only friend.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Thank you.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S APARTMENT BEDROOM - DAY                  81
</b>
        Rachael is lying across the bed in one of Deckard's
        shirts, her chin over the edge, her eyes moving around
        the room.  Deckard lies next to her.  Looking like a
        man who died a voluptuous death.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  When was the last time you cleaned
                  this place?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Hmmm?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Have you ever cleaned your
                  apartment?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Don't be fooled by appearances.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  It appears to be dirty -- why don't
                  you get somebody?

        He rolls over to admire her legs.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Because they would ruin the
                  arrangement.

        He kisses the back of her thigh.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  They could clean around the
                  arrangement.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I don't like people snooping around
                  my stuff.

        He kisses her other thigh, gets up and goes into the
        bathroom.

<b>                                DECKARD'S VOICE
</b>                  There's a vacuum in the front room
                  closet is you wanna give it a try.

        Rachael lies there a moment, then gets up and goes into
        the front room and opens the closet door.  The vacuum is
        not easy to get to, but finally she wrestles it out.  As
        she starts to plug it in --

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Oh no, don't do that.

        He's wrapped in a sheet, watching her from the doorway.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  But if I don't plug it in how can
<b>                  I...
</b>
<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Never mind the plug, just go
                  through the motions.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  But then how can you...

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I don't like the noise.  Just
                  practice.  Practice makes perfect.

        She stares at him like he's nuts.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I'm serious.  Go ahead.  Show me
                  how you would do it.

        Reluctantly she makes some half-hearted passes with the
        thing.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  How about under the couch there.
                  Come on.

        She bends over to get it.  Deckard pulls up a chair and
        sits down with his chin in his hands.  She looks back
        at him.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  This feels stupid.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Good for a smart girl to feel
                  stupid.  Part of your education.

        She drops the vacuum and sits on the floor.  Deckard
        gets up and comes towards her.  Her eyes travel halfway
        down his sheet and she leaves.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You're sick, Deckard.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  I never felt better.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL PRESERVE - DUSK                             82
</b>
        Mansion and opulent grounds.  Sebastian's humble truck
        parked among richer relations, including a spinner and
        a 1928 Dusenberg.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL MANSION - DUSK                              83
</b>
        The den.  It contains a collection of big game trophies,
        and among all this sits Sebastian very straight and
        proper with an "egg" the size of a basketball in his
        lap.

        Old Hannibal Chew was right, the rich make you wait.
        Sebastian stands and carefully makes his way between
        the trophies to a window with a view of the grounds.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL MANSION POOL - DUSK                         84
</b>
        Tyrell's young WIFE sits on the diving board watching
        her husband in the pool with their youngest TOT.  And
        two older LADS swim around trying to outdo each other
        for their dad's attention.

        From the sidelines an old servant pauses to watch the
        fun, then continues with a tray of mugs towards the
        house.

<b>        EXT. PLATEAU - DUSK                                     85
</b>
        And beyond on a plateau overlooking the grounds, a
        figure stands watching, waiting like a bird of prey.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL PRESERVE - DUSK                             86
</b>
        On a gravel path between shrubs of winter roses, Tyrell
        turns to observe the last quiet light over his kingdom.
        The moment is sweetened by the LOW PLAINTIVE BELLOW of
        one of the animals.

        He strolls by an old gardener who tips his cap, pro-
        ceeds up the steps and into his mansion.

<b>        INT. TYRELL DEN - NIGHT                                 87
</b>
        Next to a tray of cookies and milk, Sebastian sits pa-
        tiently with the "egg" in his lap.  As the door opens
        he gets to his feet expectantly.  It's STYLES, Tyrell's
        bodyguard.  He could play the Giant in Jack and The
        Beanstalk.

<b>                                STYLES
</b>                  Okay, I'll take that now.

        Sebastian would rather put it in the boss's hands, but
        Styles takes it and is almost through the door when
        Sebastian stops him.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Wait!

        He almost forgot.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Can't fly without the pilot.

        Sebastian hands him a little box.  Styles stuffs it in
        his pocket and shuts the door behind him.

<b>        EXT. TYRELL PRESERVE - NIGHT                            88
</b>
        Motionless and monumental, six buffalo stand like stat-
        ues in the grass.  Suddenly they swing their shaggy
        heads to watch something pass.

        In the dark silence Batty stops to look at the curious
        beasts and then moves soundlessly towards the mansion.

<b>        INT. TYRELL DINING ROOM - NIGHT                         89
</b>
        It's a medieval-sized hall.  The piece de resistance is
        an 18th Century, English painting of an Arab stallion,
        gleaming like coal over the CRACKLING fireplace.

        The entire family is seated at the table which glitters
        for the festive occasion.  Presents gathered around the
        oldest child.

        Styles hands the "egg" to Tyrell.  A hush falls over
        the table.  This is Dad's big present.  Tyrell sets is
        down before the boy.

        IAN is a fresh, slim lad who is ten today.  He looks up
        at his father, then, beaming, pries open the "egg's"
        hinged lid.  Tyrell's hand goes to his pocket and the
        griffon steps out of the shell.

<b>                                IAN
</b>                  Oh!

        Basically an avian invention, it has wings and plumage,
        the head of an eagle, the body of a lion and weighs no
        more than eight pounds.  It cranes its neck and testing
        its balance, stands on one leg and then hops to the
        edge of the table and into the air.

        The littlest tot claps her hands as the griffon beats
        its wings rapidly and rises towards the ceiling.  Turn-
        ing in a forty-five degree, it suddenly drops into a
        dive.

        Delighted, the children shriek and scream as the griffon
        swoops over their crouching heads and sails the length
        of the hall -- its silhouette flickering briefly over
        the ancestral portraits of the Tyrell clan.

        Reaching the end of the room, it banks sharply and
        flies back towards the table, cups its wings, spreads
        its tail and comes in for an awkward landing.  They're
        laughing and clapping as it waddles down the table and
        knocks over a glass and stops in front of Ian.

<b>                                IAN
</b>                  Papa!  Did you make this?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  No.  We can make man, but not a
                  griffon.

        He bends down and kisses his wife.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Have to give the cottage industry
                  a chance too.

        Pleased he excuses himself and heads for the den.

<b>        INT. TYRELL DEN - NIGHT                                 90
</b>
        Tyrell comes in and sits behind his desk.  Sebastian
        hands down the invoices.  Tyrell glances over them and
        writes out a check.

        He looks up to hand it over when he sees Batty against
        the wall, by the door.  For a fraction of a second he's
        shocked, but recovers fast.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  A friend of yours, Sebastian?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Yes, this is someone who wants to
                  talk to you, Dr. Tyrell.

        Batty smiles.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  The name is Batty.  Roy Batty.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Oh?

        Very slowly Tyrell's hand moves towards the back side
        of the desk.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  To act without understanding could
                  lead to the very thing the act
                  seeks to avoid.

        What's in Batty's eyes completes the warning.  Tyrell
        decides to heed it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  A little talk it all I need.

        Tyrell looks at Sebastian.  Considers consequences.
        Back to Batty.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Would you like to talk in private
                  then.

        Batty thinks it over.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Yeah.  It might be better if we
                  talk in private, Sebastian.  Why
                  don't you go home.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Here's your check, my boy.  Thank
                  you.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Thank you, Dr. Tyrell.  I'll see
                  you later.

        He slips out closing the door behind him.  Opens it
        again and sticks his head it.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Was everything okay?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Just beautiful.

        He's gone.

        If Tyrell is scared he's doing a good job of concealing
        it.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  I'm surprised you didn't come to
                  me sooner.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  It's not an easy thing to meet
                  your maker.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  And what can he do for you?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Can the maker repair what he makes?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Would you like to be modified?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Had in mind something a little more
                  radical.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  What's the problem?

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Death.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  I'm afraid that's a little out of
                  my...

        Batty cuts in with a whisper.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I want more life, fucker.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Come here.

        Batty walks forward.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Sit down.

        Batty does.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  The facts of life.  I'll be blunt.
                  To make an alteration in the
                  evolvement of an organic life
                  system, at least by men, makers
                  or not, it fatal.  A coding sequence
                  can't be revised once it's
                  established.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Why?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Because by the second day of
                  incubation any cells that have
                  undergone reversion mutation give
                  rise to revertant colonies -- like
                  rats leaving a sinking ship.  The
                  ship sinks.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What about E.M.S. recombination?

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  We've already tried it -- ethyl
                  methane sulfonate is an alkylating
                  agent and a potent mutagen -- it
                  creates a virus so lethal the
                  subject was destroyed before we
                  left the table.

        Batty nods grimly.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Then a repressor protein that blocks
                  the operating cells.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Wouldn't obstruct replication, but
                  it does give rise to an error in
                  replication, so that the newly
                  formed DNA strand carries a
                  mutation and you're got a virus
                  again... but all this is academic
                  -- you are made as good as we could
                  make you.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  But not to last.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Put it this way.  Rolls Royces are
                  made to last -- as least they were.
                  But I'm afraid you're a Ferrari.
                  A high strung racing car -- built
                  to win, not to last.

        Batty smiles bitterly.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Also you're too valuable to
                  experiment with.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I am?

        Tyrell can't help a flash of pride.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  The bast of all possible androids.
                  We're proud of our prodigal son --
                  glad you're returned.  You're quite
                  a prize.

        Shoulders hunched, Batty looks down, an uncharacteristic
        note of guilt in his voice.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I've done some questionable things.

<b>                                TYRELL
</b>                  Also extraordinary things.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Nothing the God of biomechanics
                  wouldn't let you in heaven for.

        They share a laugh.  In spite of himself, there's a look
        of relief in Tyrell's face as Batty extends his hand.
        Tyrell takes it and they shake.  The reverence in Bat-
        ty's eyes caused Tyrell a fatherly smile.  The smile
        turns into a growl as he feels the bones in his hands
        crack.  Before the scream comes out of his mouth, Batty
        stifles it.

        Tyrell claws at the iron fingers, but they're sinking
        into his face.  Placing his other hand behind Tyrell's
        head, Batty squeezes them together and squashes the
        man's head like a melon.  The mess is not small.

        Palms up, like a surgeon, Batty walks to the drapes and
        wipes off the gore and without looking back, strolls out
        of the room.

<b>        INT. TYRELL - HALL TO KITCHEN - NIGHT                   90A
</b>
        Styles is coming down the hall.  He sees Batty coming
        towards him.  Styles looks at him curiously, this is not
        one of the guests.  As they close, Batty smiles.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Could you tell me where the
                  bathroom is?

        Styles doesn't get a chance to answer.  Batty's hand has
        torn into his crotch.  The man is lifted off the floor,
        up the wall and held a moment.  Whatever is encased in
        his pelvis is pulverized.  Batty lets go.  Styles hits
        the floor.  He died of shock.  Grinding his teeth, Batty
        continues towards the SOUNDS OF THE FESTIVITIES.

<b>        INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT                                91
</b>
        The birthday cake has arrived, the candles lit.  They're
        waiting for Dad.  Mrs. Tyrell looks around to find Batty
        observing from the doorway.

        A little startled, a little curious, but ever the cor-
        porate wife, she smiles.

<b>                                MRS. TYRELL
</b>                  May I help you?

        Batty smiles back and shakes his head in mock regrets.

<b>        INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT                                    92
</b>
        In the sink the faucet is on.  The water pink with
        blood.  Batty is washing his hands.

        A portly maid emerges from the pantry.  Batty looks up.
        She stops, embarrassed at being caught.  Her eyes no-
        tice drops of blood on the floor and follow them to the
        door.  When she looks back, Batty is right in front of
        her.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S BEDROOM - NIGHT                          93
</b>
        Books scattered on the bed.  Rachael sitting cross-
        legged with one in her lap, looking through exquisite
        shots of nature.  Deckard is next to her, watching her
        like a lover, like a father.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  She'd never seen the great outdoors.
                  Never even seen books on the
                  subject.  She went through
                  everything I had, and we talked.
                  And there were subjects we didn't
                  discuss and they were words we
                  didn't say, I couldn't say, like
                  death, like future, like real.  But
                  it was hard because she was curious
                  and full of questions.  She was
                  more alive than anyone I'd ever
                  known.

        She looks up stunned by the beauty of a photo, but with
        no need to comment.  It's in her eyes.  She stares at
        him, a revelation taking shape.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You and I are good friends, huh?

        He considers it and she stares at him, smiling at the
        wonder of it.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  It's so easy.

        Convinced and not convinced, he nods his head.  She
        laughs at his solemnity.  She's irresistible.  Deckard's
        pretty irresistible himself.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Have you ever known anybody a long
                  time?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  You mean a woman?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Uh-huh.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What's a long time?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Ten years.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Nope.  Nobody could stand me that
                  long.

        The CHIME on the PHONE next to the bed GOES OFF.  He
        reaches out and brings it to his ear.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  This is Bryant.  Are you alone?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  She's not with you?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Who.

        A pause.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Take a number.  Canapt 1700, tenth
                  floor, Villa Vita District, Olympia
                  South.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Got it.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Okay, here it is.  Eldon Tyrell, his
                  family and half his staff were just
                  massacred.  The cat is about to get
                  out of the bag.  Pressure is
                  definitely on.  The Nexus program
                  is terminated.  When you finish
                  there, locate Nexus designated Rachael
                  and retire.

        Deckard says nothing.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  If you don't, we will.  It has to
                  be total, Deckard.  That's an order
                  from as high as it comes.  Got it?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Yeah.  I got it.

<b>                                BRYANT
</b>                  Go.

        He hangs up the receiver and gets up.  She watches him
        from the bed.  The gun goes into his belt.  He loads
        the ankle job and straps it on.  She watches every move.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Why do you call it retire, why
                  don't you call it murder?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Because it's not.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Don't you think anything that can
                  suffer deserves to be considered?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Andies only simulate suffering --
                  if they're programmed for it.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  Do you think I simulated what
                  happened between us?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  No, I don't.

        Without looking at her, he puts on his jacket.

        He's standing in the middle of the floor with his back
        to her.  He turns and they're facing one another.
        Neither of them moves.

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Don't leave here.  Don't open the
                  door, don't answer the phone.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  What difference will it make?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Just wait here.

        He goes to the door.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You know what I think?

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  What?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  That some of the folks around here
                  are more programmed then me.

        He has to laugh.

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  You know what else I think?

<b>                                DECAKRD
</b>                  What?

<b>                                RACHAEL
</b>                  This was the best day of my life.

        He turns and goes through the door.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                      94
</b>
        Sebastian is putting his work table in order, but his
        mind is not with it and his hands are trembling.

        Batty, Pris and Mary are on the other side of the room
        talking:  their voices low.

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  Let's go while there is still
                  time.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Where?

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  Anywhere.

        Batty smiles.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What's the point?

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  Not to be trapped.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  You underestimate the trap, Mary.

        Sebastian has almost reached the door.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Where are you going, Sebastian?

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Just thought I'd...

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  No, you stay here with us.  Out
                  last night together.

        They all watch.

        Sebastian walks away from the door.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Think of yourself as a light, Mary.
                  Shine before you're turned off.

        She's too fragile for that logic, but it appeals to
        Pris.  She and Batty hold a look that burns.

        Sebastian is by the window.

<b>                                SEBASTIAN
</b>                  Someone is coming here.

        Batty goes to the window and looks down.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  One man.
                         (he smiles)
                  He must be good.

<b>                                MARY
</b>                  Then go get him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  That wouldn't be very sporting.

        Sebastian looks ready to bolt.  Batty puts an arm
        around him.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  I want to do it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Okay, but don't kill him.  Save a
                  little for everybody.  A
                  masterpiece.

        A pause.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Turn out the lights, Pris.

<b>        EXT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT                      95
</b>
        In the dim, nocturnal light, Deckard crosses into the
        courtyard fronting the building and stops.  He looks
        around.  Nobody there, just silence.

        He comes closer to the building and stands in the sha-
        dows off to one side of the entry.

        His head jerks up to the SOUND OF CRASHING GLASS.

        Sebastian comes hurtling down and explodes into the
        pavement thirty feet below.

        Deckard's eyes move up the line of descent, the shat-
        tered window on the next-to-top floor.

<b>        INT. SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT LOBBY - NIGHT                96
</b>
        Not much to see, But Deckard misses none of it as he
        crosses the floor and positions himself in the spot of
        least exposure.  He looks around.  Elevator and stair-
        well.

        Close to the wall, he moves towards the elevator, keep-
        ing an eye on the stairwell door.

        Stepping to one side, he hits the button.  The elevator
        door slides open.  He reaches in, presses a button and
        as the doors slide shut, Deckard slips a pen between
        the doors, jamming the operation.

        Deckard's shoes and soundless as he quickly crosses the
        lobby floor.  He pauses a moment in front of the stair-
        well door, then pushes it open and:

<b>        INT. STAIRWELL, SEBASTIAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT           97
</b>
        Steps into the dark on the other side.  Suddenly he
        spins, dropping to the floor, and FIRES three times in-
        to the figure hovering to his left.

        The man is hanging off the floor, his arms locked into
        the railing, neck broken -- with three holes in his
        chest... but he was already dead.

        Deckard stares at the corpse.  It's Mr. Deetchum, the
        old watchman.  That RUSTLING SOUND are rats who were
        feeding on him, scampering for safer places, Deckard
        gets to his feet.

        The stairway rectangles ten stories up.  As his foot
        touches the first step, a raw, terrified SCREAM shatters
        the air.  It came from below.  It's the cry of a young
        girl -- it GROWS TO A PIERCING SHRIEK AND ABRUPTLY
        STOPS.  Deckard ejects the half-used cartridge from his
        laser, inserts a fresh one and quiet as the silence,
        descends the basement stairs.

<b>        INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT                                   98
</b>
        At the bottom he faces a corridor.  The FAINT HUM OF
        MACHINERY comes from the double doors at the far end.
        The HUM BECOMES A RATTLE by the time he gets there.
        Each door is fitted with a small window.  Deckard
        steps to the side and peers through.

<b>        INT. GYM - NIGHT                                        99
</b>
        It's a gym.  The mirror-lined walls are cracked and
        tarnished, the equipment atrophied from lack of use.
        The heavier barbells have sunk into the floor.  Two
        weight-reducing machines are flapping and grinding away
        like idiots.  Deckard's eyes stop on the woman.

        She dangles a few feet off the floor, hung by the
        shoulders through rings suspended from the ceiling.
        Her head is slung forward, her body limp and slightly
        swaying.

        Deckard pushes open one of the doors until it touches
        the wall.  Slowly, he advances toward the hanging figure,
        keeping an eye on the mirror to cover surprises from the
        door.  He's not breathing hard.  His heart isn't pound-
        ing.  Deckard's in his element.

        Close enough to look up into her face, he stops.  It
        isn't grisly death that causes the reaction in his
        eyes.  It's the innocence of her angel face.

        It's not something he has time to consider.  In the
        mirror behind him, he sees the door starting to open.
        Deckard spins.  He shouldn't have.  Pris' legs snap up,
        crack the laser out of his hand and clamp around his
        neck.

        Slowly, the door swings closed, but Deckard doesn't
        notice.  His carotid artery is no longer sending blood
        to the brain.  He jerks up his foot and reaches down.
        As his fingers close around the ankle laser, Pris'
        fingers close around his wrist.  Deckard's hand opens
        like a flower.  The laser drops to the floor as his
        eyes roll back into his head.

<b>                                PRIS
</b>                  Naughty, naughty.

        She lets go, but before he can fall, she rams a foot
        into his back.  He's propelled fifteen feet across the
        room, slams into a machine and falls to the floor.
        Pris flies off the rings and comes at him.

        Deckard reaches out to pull himself up, but she's al-
        ready there.  Not too hard and just in the right place,
        she kicks him in the stomach.  He goes back to the
        floor, gagging for air.  Oh-so-precisely she reaches
        out with a long index finger and flips the switch on
        the machine.

        It's a flab eliminator with a vibrator belt.  Normally
        an innocuous piece of equipment, but the motor housing
        on this one is missing.  Lots of GRINDING METAL.  A
        bad place for flesh and bone.

        But that's where Deckard's hand is going.  An eight-
        year-old against a full-down man.  In two more seconds
        his hand will be ground round.  Deckard tries to pull
        his hand loose.  It won't come.  He yanks hard, but
        it's welded in hers.

        His face is twisted and strained as he raises a leg,
        wedges his foot against her chest and pushes with all
        his might.  The hold breaks.  They topple back.  Deckard
        hits the floor gulping to catch his breath.  Pris is up
        and coming for him again.  She hovers over him.  Deckard
        rolls out of the way as she comes down like a pile
        driver.

        Reflexively Deckard raises his arm to protect himself.
        Pris just smiles, takes hold of his foot and drags him
        across the floor.  She doesn't like to leave a piece of
        work unfinished.  They're going back to the machine.

        He goes by a weight-stand of dumbbells and grabs hold.
        It doesn't stop him.  He's sliding over the floor like
        it was ice, weight stand in tow.

        Pris gets to the machine, yanks his foot up and forces
        it toward the opening.  Deckard sits up, a five-pound
        dumbbell in his hand, and clobbers her in the back.  It
        knocks her off balance, but she doesn't let go of his
        foot.  She hooks out with a fist but misses.  He gets
        her with a roundhouse in the face.

        She goes to the floor and Deckard's up, the dumbbell
        over his head, coming down with it.  Fighting for her
        life now, Pris drives a foot into his chest.  It lifts
        him off the floor.  He flies back across the gym and
        lands in a heap.

        No more games.  Pris is furious and moving fast.  She
        rips a steel bar out of the wall and, holding it over-
        head, charges him like a samurai.  As she comes down
        for the kill, she freezes.

        Deckard landed near the laser.  He crawls towards it.
        As in a nightmare, it takes forever.  But he gets there.

        He reaches out and grabs the laser, rolls over and
        takes careful aim.  She charges towards him, screaming
        her rage.  He FIRES as she comes.

        The shot amputates her left arm at the shoulder, but
        her hand doesn't let go of the bar.  It dangles crazily
        in front of her as she charges forward.

        He PUTS THE NEXT ONE through her neck.  Pris hiccups a
        rope of blood as she flies through the air and crashes
        next to Deckard.  Dead.

        He lies next to her, chest heaving.  Slowly he rolls
        over and gets to his hands and knees.  Panting, he stag-
        gers to his feet and stands over her, swaying slightly.
        The sound that escapes his throat is raspy and dry.  It
        might not sound like a war cry, but it is.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT                                   100
</b>
        Laser in hand, Deckard kicks open the swinging doors
        and walks into the corridor, a dangerous man.

<b>        INT. STAIRWELL - NIGHT                                  101
</b>
        Deckard arrives at the main floor landing, checks his
        loads and continues up the stairs.  He's going to shoot
        the next thing that moves and find out later if he was
        right or wrong.

<b>        INT. STAIRWELL - SECOND FLOOR - NIGHT                   101A
</b>
        On the next landing he throws the door open.  His eyes
        move down the hall, looking for prints in the dust.
        None.  He continues up the stairs.

<b>        INT. NINTH FLOOR - NIGHT                                102
</b>
        On the ninth floor he finds what he's looking for.
        Footprints coming and going from a door halfway down the
        hall.  He stops to the side of it and listens.  Silence.
        Deckard FIRES three quick shots through the door.  If
        somebody were on the other side of it, they aren't now.

        He kicks the door open and dives through head first
        and hits the floor in a roll, POURING FIRE into the
        far corners of the room but the room is empty.  There's
        a kitchen bar, a closet and a bedroom door, both
        closed.  Deckard's breathing is the only sound.  No
        response from either door.

        Maybe it was a sound, maybe intuition, but suddenly
        Deckard twists around and FIRES several shots into the
        closet.  The smouldering door slowly creaks open.

        Mary is huddled in the rear of the closet.  Her hand
        out like somebody about to catch a ball but afraid of
        it.  In her other hand she clutches a button-eyed
        monkey.  Her face is bewildered, frozen in fear, her
        body riddled with holes.  No recognition gap here.
        Deckard SHOOTS her through the neck to make sure.  Mary
        falls to the floor, like a puppet with her strings cut.

        Deckard backs away from the pathetic figure in the
        closet and sits on the sofa, unable to take his eyes
        off her.

        Deckard lays the laser down next to him, holds out his
        hand and looks at it.  It's steady.  He drops it in
        his lap, closes his eyes and leans back.

        A TAPPING from the ceiling.  Deckard looks up.

        A KNOCK -- with the proverbial DOUBLE RAP at the end.
        A pause.  Deckard jumps out of the way as the ceiling
        gives in.  Chucks on concrete and plaster hit the
        couch where he was sitting.  The hole is a couple feet
        in diameter -- beams cracked through, exposing the
        apartment above.  Silence.  Deckard wipes the plaster
        dust from his eyes and mouth, then whispers:

<b>                                DECKARD
</b>                  Hello, Roy.

<b>        INT. STAIRWELL - NINTH AND TENTH FLOOR - NIGHT          103
</b>
        Deckard comes out onto the landing.  Taking his time,
        he climbs the steps to the next floor, the last floor.
        He SHOOTS the hinges out of the big stairwell door,
        pushes it with his foot and it comes down with a BANG.
        The REVERBERATIONS turn into silence.  The corridor is
        empty.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - TENTH FLOOR - NIGHT                     104
</b>
        Moving fast but cautious, he passes each door until he
        gest to the apartment above Sebastian's.  Slowly he
        turns the know and pushed open the door.

<b>        INT. APARTMENT - TENTH FLOOR - NIGHT                    105
</b>
        Except for the hole in the middle of the floor, there's
        nothing to see.  Back against the wall, he moves to-
        wards the bedroom, but stops at the NOISE.  It sounds
        like the HOOTING OF AN OWL and it's coming from the
        hallway.

<b>        INT. CORRIDOR - TENTH FLOOR - NIGHT                     106
</b>
        Deckard looks around the corner of the door down the
        hall.  Batty's at the other end.  Except for jockstrap
        and gym shoes, he's nude.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  You wanna play?

        Deckard FIRES.  Batty's fast.  He ducks into a doorway.
        Pops out again.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Not very sporting to fire on an
                  unarmed opponent.  I thought you
                  were supposed to be good.  Aren't
                  you the man?!

        The makeup on Batty's face is somewhere between a Coman-
        che warrior and a transvestite.  The immensity of his
        insolence awesome -- the muscles of his body are swol-
        len, trembling from the thrill of it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  This is how we do it up there, lad!
                  Come on!

        In a blue of lightning-like action, Batty whips down the
        hall, zigzagging off the walls towards Deckard so fast
        that Deckard gets only three SHOTS off before the blur
        crashes through the wall on his left with a laugh.

        Deckard stands there a moment -- digesting the impact
        of it, then edges up to the gaping wall.  Batty is be-
        hind him.

        He knees Deckard in the back and slaps him in the head.
        Deckard goes to his knees, then over on his face.
        Batty kneels next to him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Not hurt, are you?  You better get
                  it up or I'm going to have to kill
                  you.  Unless you're alive you can't
                  play.  And if you don't play, you
                  don't get to be alive.

        Deckard's eyes are closed, mouth bleeding.  He exhales
        and makes and effort.  He slides his hands up even with
        his chest and starts to push.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  That's the spirit.

        Like a matador, Batty walks away.  By the time Deckard's
        on his feet, Batty's disappeared through one of the
        doors.

        Deckard wipes the blood from his mouth, bends down and
        picks up his laser, reloads and looks down the hall,
        towards the jeering voice.

<b>                                BATTY'S VOICE
</b>                  Come on, Deckard, show me what you
                  got!  I'm right here on the other
                  side of the door.  But you gotta
                  shoot straight 'cause I'm fast!

        Deckard gets to the door, BLASTS it, kicks it open and
        FIRES at Batty.  But it's only the reflection of Batty.

<b>        INT. ROOM - TENTH FLOOR - NIGHT                         107
</b>
        The full length mirror on the other side of the room
        SHATTERS.  Batty's next to him, grabs Deckard's hand
        and steps in closer.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Straight doesn't seem to be good
                  enough.

        They're face to face.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  You don't have a chance, do you?

        In an exaggeration of weary disappointment, Batty drops
        his head to the side.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Looks like I'm gonna have to scale
                  it down for you.  Give you a
                  handicap.  I won't run through any
                  more walls.  Okay?  I promise to
                  use the doors.  Okay?

        Deckard stares back at him, but doesn't respond.  Sud-
        denly fury storms through Batty.  He throws Deckard out
        the door, knocking him down, grabs him by the collar
        and rams his head into the wall.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Come on, let's use that brain!

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR CORRIDOR - NIGHT                       108
</b>
        He drags him down the hall, on his knees and bangs his
        head into the wall again.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Think!  We need a little
                  resilience around here!

        He yanks him further and bashes his head again.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Where are those balls of yours?!
                  Let's see a little bravery!

        The storm passes.

        Deckard hangs in Batty's hand like a bag of laundry.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  That was irrational of me -- not
                  to mention unsportsmanlike.  Won't
                  happen again.

        He drops him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  I'll be down the hall when you're
                  ready.

        Betty walks off and disappears through one of the doors.

        Deckard gets to his knees, leans against the wall a mo-
        ment, then punches it with his fist.

        On his feet he's a little wobbly.  Holding his breath
        so he can hear above his own breathing, he listens.  No
        sound.  No sign of Batty.  The laser is laying nearby.
        He doesn't bother.

        Deckard is backing down the hall, quiet as he can.  He
        had a job to do.  He would like to have done it, but
        he's not insane.  He gets to the landing and turns.

        On the first step down, he stops.  Batty's on the land-
        ing below, looking up at him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Where you going?

        He wait a moment for Deckard's answer.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  No cheating.  A promise is a
                  promise.  I'll honor the
                  handicapped, but we gotta play on
                  the top floor.  You go get your
                  laser gun now.  And I'll give you
                  a few seconds before I come.

        Deckard turns back into the hall.  Batty smiles.

        Deckard's running down the corridor.

<b>                                BATTY'S VOICE
</b>                  One!

        Halfway down the hall he finds his laser.

<b>                                BATTY'S VOICE
</b>                  Two!

        Deckard darts into the nearest door.  The apartment
        above Sebastian's, with the hole in the floor.  Deckard
        considers it.

<b>                                BATTY'S VOICE
</b>                  No fair jumping through holes.  You
                  might get hurt doing that!  THREE!

        Deckard dashes back into the hall, chooses another door
        and goes in.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR APARTMENT - NIGHT                      109
</b>
        His eyes skim over everything, looking for an advantage.
        He throws open a door.  The bathroom.  The plumbing is
        dismantled, walls stripped, revealing brick, nails
        protruding.  Too small.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR STAIRWELL - NIGHT                      110
</b>
        Batty's coming up the steps.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Five!

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR APARTMENT - NIGHT                      111
</b>
        Deckard's looking for a corner -- a place that covers
        the angles.  He chooses the far side of the room with
        a line to the door.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR HALL - NIGHT                           112
</b>
        Batty's coming down the center, listening at the doors.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Six!

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR APARTMENT - NIGHT                      113
</b>
        Deckard's crouched in the corner and aimed.  He looks at
        his hand.  It's trembling.

<b>                                BATTY'S VOICE
</b>                  Seven!

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR HALL - NIGHT                           114
</b>
        Batty's standing in front of a door, listening.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Oh, I wonder where he is.  Not in
                  here, I don't think.  Eight!

        He goes to the next door.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Maybe here.  Doesn't sound like
                  it.  Nine!

        Batty moves to the next.  The door to Deckard.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR APARTMENT - NIGHT                      115
</b>
        Deckard's crouched lower, holding his breath -- talk
        about a hair trigger... Silence.  Batty's FEET are heard
        CREAKING AWAY.  Deckard looks around.  Runs a hand over
        the wall behind him.  Batty's FEET COME BACK.  A pause.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Ten!

        The door explodes!

        A shape hurtles across the room.  Deckard pivots, fol-
        lowing it with RAPID FIRE.  It's a TV.  He spins back.
        but Batty's already on him.  He gets one SHOT off be-
        fore Batty's got his hand.  There's a hole over Batty's
        right eye.  Blood running down his face, dripping on
        Deckard.  The right side of his face isn't working too
        good.  The corner of his mouth doesn't quite shut --
        his voice comes out slurred, a little hollow.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  One point for you.

        The would doesn't minimize his omnipotence, just makes
        it more malignant.  He throws Deckard against the far
        wall.  Deckard FIRES.  Hits Batty in the shoulder.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Ho ho!  Try it again!

        He comes at Deckard, jerking back and forth, a cobra in
        fast motion, faking, weaving, yelping with excitement
        as Deckard tries to get a shot, FIRING AWAY until his
        laser's empty.  Bloody and crazed, Batty pushes up
        against him.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What's wrong?  Don't you like me?
                  I'm what we've made!

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR HALL - NIGHT                           116
</b>
        He's backing Deckard out the door.  Deckard trips and
        falls.  There's fear on his face.  The strength is gone.
        Something is starting to crack.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  What's wrong?  Aren't you a lover
                  of Faster, Bigger and Better?!

        Deckard's pedaling backwards over the floor.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  It's time to die.

        Deckard throws the laser at him.  It misses.  Batty
        throws his head back and laughs.  A one-eyed colossus
        about to eat the world.  Suddenly he stops.  His eye
        moves over the wall.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Ah!

        He reaches out and pinches something.  His lips compress
        as he yanks it out of the wall.  It's a ten-penny nail.

        He holds it out to Deckard and drops it.  Deckard
        catches it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  That's for you.

        One side of Batty's face smiles savagely.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Stick it in your ear and push.
                  If that doesn't work, try the
                  eye.

        Deckard stares at the nail in his hand, then up at
        his executioner.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Believe me, it'll be better
                  for you than what I'm about
                  to do.

        Batty watches him, hoping the stimulus might inspire
        his victim to more action.  It doesn't look like it.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Well?

        Deckard springs to his feet and bolts.  But instead of
        going for the stairwell he turns in the first available
        door.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR APARTMENT #2 - NIGHT                   117
</b>
        Provocation accomplished. Batty smiles and walks lei-
        surely towards the door.  Deckard's terrified scream
        and the SOUND of GLASS CRASHING stop him.  Batty speeds
        up and moves into the room.

        The window pane is splattered, curtains sucked out,
        bellowing in the wind.

<b>                                BATTY
</b>                  Crap.

        He walks up to the window.  Deckard comes away from the
        wall, inching up behind him, laser in both hands, aimed
        at the base of Batty's skull.  Batty starts to lean
        over, but even before his eyes see the pavement, he
        knows.  He spins...

        Deckard FIRES again.  This one goes home.  Batty falls
        like he was poleaxed, hits the floor dead weight.

        Deckard starts to tremble.  His arms go limp as his
        head tilts back and he closes his eyes.  He can breathe
        again.
<b>        
</b>        On the floor, Batty's hand is crawling toward Deckard's
        ankle.

        With the unsuspected abruptness of a man slipping on a
        banana peel, Deckard comes down.  Face knotted in hor-
        ror, he EMPTIES THE LASER in Batty's body -- but the
        hand holds on.  With a screech of frustration he drops
        the laser and like an animal claws at Batty's dead
        fingers -- but the fingers are welded shut.

        Deckard starts to crawl, pulling Batty behind him.  He
        struggled through the door and stumbles to his feet.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR HALL - NIGHT                           118
</b>
        Deckard plunges down the corridor dragging Batty along.
        He falls, gets to one foot, falls again and crawls the
        last couple feet to the stairwell.

<b>        INT. TENTH FLOOR STAIRWELL - NIGHT                      119
</b>
        Groaning, he tugs and pulls, hauls and heaves Batty's
        body to the edge of the landing.  He pauses for breath,
        then lays back, wedging his feet against Batty's shoul-
        ders and pushes.  Inch by inch the body goes over the
        edge.  Then all at once it drops.  But the hand holds
        and the weight of the body takes Deckard with it.  As
        Deckard slides over the edge, he grabs hold of the
        railing.

        Deckard's hanging three hundred feet over the basement
        floor, supporting himself and Batty's corpse -- almost
        four hundred pounds of stress on his fingers.
<b>        
</b>        With his free foot he chops away at Batty's hand, try-
        ing to break it loose.  But it's not working.  Deckard's
        fingers are starting to slip.

        His face is a mask of agony as he wedges his heel over
        Batty's thumb.  With the help of gravity and everything
        he's got in his right leg to push with, he pushes.  The
        thumb breaks loose.  Batty falls.

        The SOUND OF HIS BODY HITTING BELOW sounds good, but
        Deckard doesn't notice.  He's in an awkward position.
        He must reverse the way he's facing to pull himself up.
        He lets go with his right hand and crosses it over the
        left.  Then turns the left around so he's got an over-
        hand grip.

        Like a man doing his last pull-up... the one that can't
        be done, Deckard pulls himself up, throws a foot over
        the edge and grapples and heaves and wiggled himself
        onto the cold solid steel of the stairwell landing.

        And lies there, body jerking spasmodically, slowly
        clenching and unclenching his cramped hand, but it's
        his burning cheek against the cool metal he's most aware
        of.

        Dizzy, hot, lungs on fire, he stands -- and putting one
        foot in front of the other, Deckard descends the stairs.

<b>        EXT. SEBASTIAN'S BUILDING - DAWN                        120
</b>
        Slowly the door pushes open and Deckard comes out into
        the morning.  The sun isn't yet risen, but the sky has
        begun to pale.  It's a brooding gray stew of a dawn not
        very pretty, but even though he can't show it, Deckard
        is glad to see it.

        For a moment he tilts his head back and takes some
        breath, then walks across the courtyard towards the
        street, so dead on his feet he hasn't the energy to
        fall.

        Deckard slumps into the shelter of his car.  The col-
        lapses on the front seat.

<b>        INT. DECKARD'S BEDROOM - DAWN                           121
</b>
        In a corner of the dimness Deckard sits slumped on a
        chair, facing the pearly gray light of the window.  The
        only SOUND in the room is the soft steady BREATHING
        that comes from the bed.

        Quietly he gets up and walks over to her.  Rachael lies
        sleeping, one delicate arm exposed from under the sheet.

        Deckard stands there, bettered and grim, staring down
        at her.

        Moments go by and finally he sits gently on the edge of
        the bed.

        Rachael opens her eyes, and looks up at him, she smiles.

<b>        EXT. COUNTRYSIDE (MONTAGE) - DAY                        122
</b>
        Deckard's car is skimming over the narrow highway.  He
        and Rachael in the front seat.  Except for the occasion-
        al glance, their faces are still and quiet in the cold
        shine of an icy dream.

        The clouds overhead are soft and swift.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  She wanted to go to a place I knew.
                  Out of the city.  Like one of those
                  pictures she saw.  Where there were
                  trees but no buildings.

        Rachael's face in the window watching the woods stream
        by.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  We had a good time.  She told me a
                  funny story and I taught her a
                  song.  A song about monkeys and
                  elephants.  And it made us laugh so
                  hard we couldn't sing.

<b>        EXT. WOODS (MONTAGE) - DAY                              123
</b>
        Deckard and Rachael walking.  The land lays white and
        hushed before them.

        Down an aisle of maples and beeches.  The frosty light
        slanting through the clean, hard limbs.

        The crisp, blue-white snow underfoot melted through in
        spots exposing soggy patches of rich brown earth.

        Rachael stops and faces him.  Her lips are parted, her
        warm breath turning the cold air to vapor.  Looking
        lithe and fragile by these barren-rooted trees, she
        stands in the crisp white snow looking at Deckard.
        Nothing in her retreats, even now her eyes insist on
        knowing.

<b>        EXT. WOODS - DAY                                        124
</b>
        Deckard walking over the snow.  Alone.  He walks slowly,
        mechanically through the cold, unaffected by it.  His
        gaunt face, empty of expression except for the tears
        running down his pale cheeks.

        But for the SQUEAK of his wet shoes over the crusted
        snow, there is no sound.  And Deckard recedes into the
        silence of the freezing white landscape.

<b>        EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT                                    125
</b>
        Deckard's car, solid, THROBBING, GUNNING along like
        some metal animal.  Headlights piercing the dark of the
        long, flat road.  WHISTLING speed of air and tires spin-
        ning THRUM.  And then silence.  And the silence
        astounded by the CRACK OF A GUN.

<b>        INT. CAR - NIGHT                                        126
</b>
        Deckard is behind the wheel, face in shadow, eyes star-
        ing straight ahead.

<b>                                DECKARD (V.O.)
</b>                  I told myself over and over again,
                  if I hadn't done it, they would
                  have.

                  I didn't go back to the city, not
                  that city, I didn't want the job.

                  She said the great advantage of
                  being alive was to have a choice.
                  And she chose.  And a part of me
                  was almost glad.  Not because she
                  was gone but because this way they
                  could never touch her.

                  As for Tyrell -- he was murdered,
                  but he wasn't dead.  For a long
                  time I wanted to kill him.  But
                  what was the point?  There were too
                  many Tyrells.  But only one Rachael.
                  Maybe real and unreal could never
                  be separated.  The secret never
                  found.  But I got as close with
                  her as I'd ever come to it.  She'd
                  stay with me a long time.  I guess
                  we made each other real.

        And the ruby lights of Deckard's car disappear into
        the darkness.
<b>        
</b><b>        
</b><b>        
</b><b>        					THE END
</b>
</pre>
</pre><br>
<table width="85%" border="0" align="center" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" class="body" style="BORDER-TOP: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 1px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 1px solid;">
  <tr> 
	<td align=center>
	<td><h1>Blade Runner</h1><br><br>
	    <b>Writers</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/writer.php?w=Hampton Fancher" title="Scripts by Hampton Fancher">Hampton Fancher</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/writer.php?w=David Peoples" title="Scripts by David Peoples">David Peoples</a><br>
    	<b>Genres</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Action" title="Action Scripts">Action</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Drama" title="Drama Scripts">Drama</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Sci-Fi" title="Sci-Fi Scripts">Sci-Fi</a><br><br><br>
		
		<a href="/Movie Scripts/Blade Runner Script.html#comments" title="Blade Runner comments">User Comments</a>
	</td>
</table>
<br><br>
<div align="center">
<a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database"><img src="/images/lilbutton.gif" style="border: 1px solid black;"  alt="Internet Movie Script Database" border=1><br>
Back to IMSDb</a>
</div><br>
<br><br>
  </tr>
</table>
<br><br>
</table>

<table width="99%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" class="body">
  <tr> 
  <td background="/images/reel.gif" height="13" colspan="2">
</table>

<div align="center">
 <a href="https://www.imsdb.com" title="Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)">Index</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/submit" title="Submit scripts">Submit</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/links" title="Other sites">Links</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/link to us" title="Link to IMSDb">Link to us</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/feeds" title="IMSDb RSS Feeds">RSS Feeds</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/disclaimer">Disclaimer</a> 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
 <a href="/privacy">Privacy policy</a> 
</div>

<br />

</body>
</html>
Who is the ex-cop in 2019 ?
Who is the ex-cop in 2019 ?
Rick Deckard
Rick Deckard
rick deckard-harrison ford
rick deckard-harrison ford