SOUND of a low, sick DRONE, constant and pervasive
Ferrocrete cracks under the worn combat boots of ZACH (17), a spiderweb pattern spreading with each hurried step. She’s jaded, cynical, moving with a resentful energy.
Overhead, a web of power conduits, thick as synth-boas, pulses with a sickly blue light, casting stuttering, shadow-play movements across the grimy alley. The air tastes of metal and exhaust.
Zach pulls the collar of her augmented jacket higher. Chipped chromework on the right sleeve catches an unwanted gleam from a passing SANITATION BOT.
A synthesized, flat voice CHIRPS from her wrist-comm.
Zach bites back a retort, a sour taste in her throat. She speeds up, passing broken exhaust grates that blast hot air smelling of burnt copper and old cooking oil.
A small, black DRONE, no bigger than a fist, detaches from a wall-mounted sensor. Its single red eye blinks, tracking her. Following.
She reaches a scarred, steel door and shoves through it.
The steel door HISSES shut loudly behind her.
The corridor is mercifully cooler, but smells of stale synth-coffee and ozone-scrubbers fighting a losing battle. She moves quickly down the hall towards a door marked: BETA-9.
The door to Beta-9 hisses open.
The room is a relic. The holo-screens are dark, not flickering with corporate ads. At the front stands PROFESSOR ENNINGS (60s), her posture as rigid as the art installation behind her—a tangled mess of reclaimed circuit boards and data cables, shaped vaguely like a WEEPING ANGEL.
Three other teens are already slumped in their seats:
HIRO (17), looking like he just woke from a nightmare, picks at a loose thread on his sleeve.
LUCY (17), meticulously polishes her glowing AMETHYST cyber-optic implants with a microfiber cloth.
KAI (17), stares out a rain-streaked window at the grey world beyond.
Ennings’s calm, unnerving gaze locks onto Zach.
Zach slides into the nearest chair, the cold synth-leather a shock. She avoids eye contact, focusing on a brown stain on a ceiling panel.
Ennings’s thin lips twitch, the ghost of a smile.
She gestures vaguely towards the circuit-board angel.
Hiro finally looks up, blinking slowly.
Lucy speaks without looking up, her voice flat.
Kai’s voice is a low monotone, his gaze still fixed on the window.
Zach listens, a knot tightening in her stomach. She thinks of the illicit, bioluminescent graffiti tags under the bridge, glowing in patterns too complex for any corporate bot.
Ennings walks to a worn-out data slate on her desk, its casing held together by industrial tape. She taps it.
ON THE MAIN HOLO-SCREEN
A grainy, flickering black and white image appears: a young WOMAN, her face smudged with charcoal, fiercely focused on an unseen canvas.
Hiro yawns. Lucy’s optics click, adjusting their focus to analyze the image’s pixel density. Kai just sighs.
But Zach leans forward. The woman’s eyes in the image, even through the digital decay, are fiercely alive. A spark.
The words are louder than she intended. Ennings turns to her, a flicker of something—hope—in her tired eyes.
Zach shifts. Affirming existence. She thinks of a neon green eye she saw tagged on a crumbling support pillar. It felt like a warning, or a conspiratorial wink.
A genuine, weary smile spreads across Ennings’s face.
SOUND of a thin, reedy SIREN from outside slices through the air.
The fragile mood shatters. Kai flinches, head snapping to the window. Lucy’s implants glow brighter. Hiro’s smile vanishes.
Suddenly, the lights FLICKER violently. The holo-screen dies, flashing a cascade of binary code. The overhead lights dim to a sickly yellow, then brighten erratically.
A heavy THUD vibrates through the floor. Then another, closer.
Ennings’s composure fractures. A rare glimpse of fear in her wide eyes.
The building GROANS, a deep metallic shriek that makes the circuit-board angel tremble. Dust drifts from the ceiling panels.
A new voice, deeper and more authoritative than Glitch, BOOMS from the building’s internal comms.
The message repeats. The calm tone is chilling.
Kai is no longer looking out the window. He stares, pale, at the professor.
Ennings flinches. A sharp intake of breath. Her terrified gaze meets Zach’s. This is no drill.
The steel door to the classroom begins to VIBRATE.
A low, rhythmic THUDDING starts.
It’s a battering ram. Or something with heavy, metallic fists. The sound swallows the ambient hum, the distant siren, everything.
CLOSE ON the students’ faces, one by one. Hiro, Lucy, Kai. Masks of sheer terror.
ANGLE ON Zach. Her eyes dart from the vibrating door to the weeping angel sculpture, its form now seeming less mournful and more terrified.
The THUDDING intensifies, shaking the entire room.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
FADE TO BLACK.
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