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( 000 ━ I KNOW HER )
Introducing ⟡ Murphy McAllister.

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JOHN B.  [ V.O. ]

Murphy? Yeah, I know her. She's one of us. Maybe not for her entire life, but she is now. Once a Pogue, always a Pogue, and Murphy's no different.

SCREEN CUTS to the skeletal beach of the Boneyard, it's sandy shores darkened by the recent night, all except for the brilliant light of a large bonfire. Around it sat a group of down-at-the-heel–looking kids, their faces lit up by the warm glow of the flames, laughter cutting through the night air as they pass around a half-empty bottle. When it reaches her, a dark eyed girl (MURPHY MCALLISTER) brandishes the bottle high in the air, holding it out of reach of JJ MAYBANK, who wears his face in an impish grin. Murphy and JJ, like the rest, are Pogues. It doesn't matter to them that some of them didn't used to be.

JOHN B.  [ V.O. ] [ CONT. ]
You see that girl right there? The one with the booze in hand, a curse on her tongue? That's Murphy. Murphy's a tough case. Figuratively and literally. Even though she wasn't born on the south side of the island, like us, she's the sharpest edge in the Cut. Quick with her words, quicker with her fists. Like Kie, she grew up on the wrong side of the Outer Banks, living the cushy life with the rest of the fat cats on Figure Eight, but unlike Kie, she didn't choose to be a Pogue.

CAMERA PANS to a new group of teenagers entering the beach, a flood of red solo cups and polo shirts in pastel colors. They shout and laugh obnoxiously, their voices carrying across the sand as they stumble and shove each other into one another. The unmistakable sound of a Bluetooth speaker cuts through the quiet and the Pogues turn to watch. Figure 8's king, TOPPER THORNTON leads the way, alongside RAFE CAMERON, and Murphy's smile fades. Her eyes, darker than the night, are like glass, reflecting the light of the fire as she takes a swig of what one can only assume is vodka. Tension thickens the air as both Pogues and Kooks regard each other; two separate sides of a growing feud.

JOHN B.  [ V.O. ] [ CONT. ]
None of us could give two shits about where Murphy comes from, but not every thinks the same. The Kooks, the same people she grew up with, they treat her a lot differently now because she's a Pogue. Like she was never one of them to begin with—comes with the territory, I guess. We try not to bring it up. But let's just say a lot can change in a year.

SCREEN CUTS to the INT. of a large house in a gated community within Figure Eight. A small child with a mop of dark ringlets—a younger Murphy—hides in her father's office, tucked away beneath a stately oak bureau. She grips a chain around her neck and a circular pendant, solid like a gold coin, rests in her palm. Light from the hallway reflects off it's golden surface.

In a flash, there's a montage of the McAllister's life behind closed doors. An empty side of a bed, cold glares, screaming matches and words that cut deeper than a knife; the sights and sounds of a marriage on the brink of extinction.

JOHN B.  [ V.O. ] [ CONT. ]
It's been three years since the accident. Not a lot of folks around here like to bring up what happened, Murphy least of all. There are rumors, of course, whispered on both sides. Some are nastier than others—like the ones that say her dad's drinking was the cause of it. That he was reason the whole thing was swept under the rug to protect the family name. Some people even say her old man was mixed up in something darker, something that might've had more to do with bloodstains than booze. But nobody talks about it. Not even Murphy.

SCREEN FADES TO BLACK. At first, there is silence, but it is abruptly interrupted by the roar of a blazing inferno as the CAMERA CUTS to the the charred remains of the McAllister estate on fire. Fourteen year old Murphy stands on the lawn, her face pale and grief stricken, as she watches the flames devour her house and snake high into the darkening sky. She's holding the same golden pendant, her palm covered in ash.

JOHN B.  [ V.O. ] [ CONT. ]
No one knows the whole story. Not even the Pogues. Hell, we're all still trying to figure out who Murphy really is. But if there's one thing I can tell you—it's that she's got a chip on her shoulder the size of a wrecking ball, and she'll tear anyone apart who tries to take it from her.

CAMERA CUTS BACK to the Boneyard. The fire burns brightly, its flames crackling and dancing in the night air. Kooks and Pogues take up separate sides of the beach, but it doesn't matter. The tension is still there. The air swells with whispers and snickers as contemptuous glances are shared over plastic cups and pre-rolled joints. The bottle is passed around once more between the Pogues, from KIARA CARRERA to POPE HEYWARD and back to John B., this time for support rather than enjoyment.

When it reaches JJ, he hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking from the bottle to Murphy and back. Her stance is rigid, eyes locked on the group of Kooks across the beach. JJ, always the first to act when things go sideways, takes a long swig, his expression hardening. He doesn't need to say anything.
Everyone can feel it.

JOHN B.  [ V.O. ] [ CONT. ]
I know Murphy as well as I can. She's not an open book by any means, but who is these days? Everyone on this island has something to hide, no matter what side you're on.

What I do know for certain is Murphy is looking for answers, and whether or not she finds them is a question that nobody can answer but her. But the problem with digging up the truth, especially as a Pogue, is that trouble normally follows.

And out here, in the Outer Banks?
She's sure to find it.

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