A landscape of ruin under a bruised purple sky. Acidic RAIN streaks down.
SPECIALIST JAVI (20s), encased in heavy, battered environmental armor, wades thigh-deep through a sea of iridescent violet sludge -- the "Creep." It clings to his legs like thick, living oil.
His incinerator unit, a block of stamped steel slung at his side, HUMS. The nozzle glows a dull cherry red, HISSING as raindrops hit the hot metal.
He taps his helmet. Static fills his ears -- not white noise, but a wet, rhythmic THRUMMING. Like breathing.
Nothing but the breathing static.
A sound cuts through the rain. A sharp CLICK. Mechanical. Precise.
Javi freezes. He scans the desolate highway rubble. The rain slicks his visor. He wipes it with a gauntlet, smearing grime.
The sound again, closer. CLICK-WHIRR.
It's coming from beneath him.
He looks down. The slab of broken concrete he stands on GROANS. Not breaking, but dissolving. Rebar snaps like GUNSHOTS.
The world tilts. Javi shouts as the ground gives way.
He plunges into darkness. A cascade of wet concrete and writhing purple vines falls with him.
Javi hits the floor hard. A flash of pain. The air is knocked from his lungs.
Red text flashes across his visor: `SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.` `TOXIC ATMOSPHERE DETECTED.` He swats the warnings away with a gesture, gasping for air that smells of dust and old paper.
His incinerator skitters away, its flashlight attachment sending a wild beam swinging through the dark.
The beam slices across a wall. A shelf. A FACE.
Javi scrambles back, hand fumbling for his sidearm. The holster is jammed with grit. He yanks the pistol free, leveling it. His heart HAMMERS.
The beam stabilizes on a figure sitting calmly in a chair.
It’s a soldier. Matte-black armor, a crimson chevron on the shoulder. An enemy. A Scythe.
The soldier, SENNA (20s), has her helmet off. Her head is shaved, revealing a jagged scar. Her face is smeared with grease, but her pale eyes are clear and steady. She holds a small screwdriver.
Senna holds up one hand, palm open.
Javi glances down. She’s right. His thumb, trembling, flicks it off.
She doesn't drop it. She sets it down gently on a metal table beside her.
She raises her hands slowly. She nods toward his leg.
Javi looks. A piece of rebar has torn through his suit. Dark blood mixes with hydraulic fluid. The shock is keeping the pain at bay.
He tries to stand. His leg buckles. He hits the floor, cursing.
Javi drags himself until his back is against a metal cabinet. He keeps the gun up.
Senna gestures to the name stenciled on his chest plate.
She turns back to the table, picking up the screwdriver. She works on an old, analog radio box.
Javi lowers the pistol an inch, confused.
Senna snorts.
Javi takes in the room. A maintenance sub-basement. Pipes sweat condensation. In the corner, a battery-operated lantern casts a warm, yellow glow. A rolled-up sleeping bag. A stack of cans.
He holsters his weapon. It feels useless.
Senna pauses her work.
Javi lets out a dry, hacking laugh.
Javi reaches down, unclips the auxiliary power cell from his thigh armor. A heavy, warm brick. He tosses it to her. She catches it with one hand, not looking up.
She pops the back of the radio and jams the battery inside. SPARKS shower the table.
She turns a dial. A burst of harsh STATIC fills the room. Javi flinches. She adjusts it again, her touch delicate. The static smooths into a HUM.
Then, a voice. Faint. Garbled.
Javi stares at the box.
Senna looks at him and gives a small, tired, crooked smile.
Javi thinks. He was born in the tunnels. The sky has always been this color.
She tunes the dial again. The weather report fades. A high-pitched whine drops into a rhythmic THUMPING. Drums. A fuzzy bass line.
Then a SAXOPHONE cuts through the noise. Mournful. Slow. Messy. You can hear the player take a breath.
Javi's own breath hitches.
They sit in the dim light. The pain in Javi's leg recedes to a dull throb. The metallic tang of blood is replaced by the smell of hot copper wire and burning dust.
Javi blinks. Senna reaches under the table and pulls out a civilian preservation pouch. She tosses it to him. It feels heavy, liquid.
Javi tears the top off. The scent hits him -- sweet, floral, acidic. His mouth waters. He takes a sip of the thick syrup, then lets a soft slice slide into his mouth.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, he is just a person eating a peach.
Senna laughs softly. She leans back, closing her eyes, listening to the saxophone.
A dull THUD from above shakes dust from the ceiling. Mortar fire. Javi doesn't care.
Javi looks at her. At the scar. At the exhaustion etched into her face.
Senna opens her eyes. A look of sharp recognition passes between them.
She shuffles the soft, frayed cards, dealing them onto the table. The SLAP of the cards is loud in the quiet room.
Javi looks at his hand. A three, a seven, a Queen.
They play. They talk. They laugh at things that aren't funny.
Suddenly, the light on the radio flickers and dies. The music cuts out. The silence that returns is heavy, oppressive.
The reality of the room rushes back. The cold. The damp. The pain in Javi's leg flares.
Senna doesn't argue. She gathers the cards.
Javi struggles to his feet. His suit WHINES. The HUD flashes `POWER CRITICAL.`
Senna picks up her screwdriver.
She gives him that crooked smile.
Javi nods. He understands. He limps to the pile of rubble where he fell. A shaft of grey light filters down.
Javi turns.
She tosses something to him. He catches it. A playing card. The Jack of Diamonds.
He triggers his jump-jets.
With a brutal WHINE and a shove, Javi bursts through the layer of vines, landing hard on the wet asphalt. The rain is heavier. The smell of rot and sulfur is overwhelming.
He looks down at the hole. The purple vines are already moving, slithering across the opening, knitting it shut like a wound. In seconds, the ground is solid purple again. The bunker is gone.
Javi stands there for a long moment, rain drumming on his armor.
He opens his hand. The Jack of Diamonds is damp, peeling at the corners. A soldier with a weapon, looking two ways at once.
He carefully tucks the card into the seal of his glove, against his skin.
Then he turns and begins the long, slow walk back to the war.
Share This Script
