EXT. PHILADELPHIA ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
The wind howls through the narrow, brick-lined artery of the city, carrying with it a mixture of sleet, trash, and the distinct, metallic scent of despair. The snow isn't white here; it's a grey, slushy paste that coats the cobblestones like industrial runoff.
CRICKET is waist-deep in a dumpster behind a Wendy's. He looks like a gothic scarecrow that was set on fire and then put out with a shovel. His trench coat is a patchwork quilt of duct tape, unidentifiable stains, and burns. He shivers violently, the tremors rattling the trash around him.
CRICKET (digging frantically, tossing aside a sodden fry container)
Come on... come on... give me a bun. Just a heel. I'll take a heel! A sesame seed! Anything!
He freezes. A sound cuts through the wind. A cry.
Cricket's head snaps up. His neck makes a sickening pop. He looks around wildly, his eyes wide and vibrating with paranoia. He points a shaking finger at a one-eyed stray cat perched on a crate.
CRICKET(hissing)
I didn't do it! I have an alibi! I was smoking PCP in the sewer with a guy who said he was the mayor!
The cry happens again. Louder. More human. It's coming from a pristine, white heavy-duty trash bag nestled between a bag of coffee grounds and a broken fryer basket.
Cricket slowly reaches out. His hand, covered in fingerless gloves that are more hole than wool, trembles. He rips open the bag.
A soft, golden light seems to spill out, cutting through the grime. Inside lies a BABY. Perfectly healthy, swaddled in a clean, expensive-looking cashmere blanket.
Cricket stares. The baby stops crying and blinks up at him with large, judging eyes.
CRICKET(recoiling against the dumpster wall)
Oh. Oh no. No no no. I know this game. This is a trap. This is a Dennis trap. I touch this, and a cage falls on me, and then he sprays me with a hose full of vinegar.
The baby giggles. It reaches a tiny hand toward Cricket's scarred face.
Cricket pauses. He looks up at the slice of night sky visible between the buildings. A single sodium-vapor streetlamp flickers above, buzzing loudly, creating a sickly orange halo in the falling snow.
CRICKET (whispering)
Wait. Is this... karma? Did I finally hit the reset button? Realignment! If I save this kid... maybe the universe pays me back. Maybe my neck heals. Maybe the dog stops calling my cell phone.
He scoops up the baby, tucking it inside his coat against his chest.
CRICKET(grinning, revealing a mouth of chaos)
You're my ticket out of hell, kid. We're gonna find your parents, and they're gonna be rich, and they're gonna give me so many lemons to suck on.
CUT TO TITLE CARD:
"THE GANG DOESN'T FIND THIS DUMPSTER BABY"