Michaela suggests that Ben be inconspicuous to avoid suspicion, but his supervisor, and the other employees, already know all about him. His supervisor greets him as a passenger of Flight 828. A small plastic alien sits atop his cubicle.
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Michaela gives Ben advice
BEN: Early shift?
BEN: Oh, sorry to hear that. Give her my best.
BEN: How would they? It’s the same as if I wanted to snoop on a dirty cop by joining the company the N.Y.P.D. outsources its payroll to. Dirty Harry wouldn’t have a clue.
MICHAELA: Okay, but you’re a passenger. What if word gets out?
BEN: They knew that when they hired me. If they were suspicious, I wouldn’t have gotten the job.
MICHAELA: Still, I’d keep a low profile.
BEN: Of course. I’m just gonna blend in.
Ben meets his supervisor
Scene shifts to the lobby of the JP Williamson building. He is sitting in a chair waiting when one of the company’s supervisors walks up.
RONNIE: Uh, this is for you.
He hands Ben an identification card.
RONNIE: Can’t get anywhere in this place without the company dog tags. Yeah, come on, man. Let me give you the lay of the land and, uh, maybe you can tell me what it was like when you first met the aliens, huh?
BEN: They were nice. Smelled great.
RONNIE: Ha. Classic.
Ben asks questions
Scene shifts to an upper floor office area.
BEN: So, uh, what clients will I be involved with?
RONNIE: Small bites, B. Stone. Tier 4 companies the less-than-$15 million-annually crew.
RONNIE: Tier-one companies are handled by supervisors only, red security and all. It’s a grind. We kiss their butts, spend half our time off-site at their home offices.
BEN: Well, I’d love to tag along sometime, or if you need extra pair of eyes while you work.
RONNIE: Slow your roll, B. Stone. Come on. You just landed. Literally.
Ben accepts a welcoming gift
Ronnie shows Ben his cubicle.
RONNIE: Huh, this is you.
A small blue plastic alien stands on the top edge of the cubicle.
RONNIE: Little welcoming gift for you. Welcome. Oh, and, um, I run a little poker game, middle limit, you know, mostly our department, some logistics guys, I.T. You know. Take over the conference room, sling a little company dirt. If you want, no pressure, brah.
BEN: I’ll check with my wife. Brah. All right.
They bump fists. Ronnie leaves. Ben sits down in front of his computer screan and does a search in the company’s database for “Unified Dynamic Systems.” A large red banner appears which says “Restricted Access—Red Level Security Credential Required”.