Olson stands up and takes a high, dramatic leap from the bleachers. Time slows as Olson hangs in the air, gracefully landing in a seated position onto the platform. Israel is not impressed.
ISRAEL
Tsk. Wow, dude. Really?
FALCON
Proceed.
Plumley, in his defensive stance, cautiously inches forward. Olson gently motions the fingers on his right hand, flicking and tossing his wrist as if drawing on an invisible canvas. Then Olson stops abruptly and points at Plumley, his voice echoing into a deep, dreamy tone.
OLSON
Sick. I feel sick. So nauseous. Queasy. Can barely hold it down.
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