A quiet street. Tidy gardens, sensible cars. The world is a palette of soft greens and gentle greys under an overcast sky.
The peace is violated by a WHISTLE, high-pitched and wheezing, like a dying kettle.
A DRONE, painted an offensive LIME GREEN, wobbles into frame. It descends with the grace of a brick.
It clips the high branches of a VULNERABLE OLD OAK TREE in front of a neat, brick house. A shudder runs through the tree, showering the pavement in pollen and nascent leaves.
The drone gives up. It plummets.
EVY (70s), sharp, observant, a woman whose stoicism is a well-honed shield, pauses mid-sip of Earl Grey. She watches from her pristine window.
Through the window, the drone hits the tarmac with a resounding, metallic CRUNCH.
The drone’s payload explodes outwards. A chaotic snowfall of synthetic flower petals—FUSCHIA, ELECTRIC BLUE, DAFFODIL YELLOW—and a blizzard of confetti-sized squares of paper.
Back in her window, Evy lowers her teacup. A flicker of amusement crosses her face.
She watches as the wind catches the manufactured spring, plastering the tacky petals against the grey concrete. Bureaucratic dandruff.
Evy straightens her floral housecoat, a relic from a more sensible decade. She heads for the door. An event of such public ridiculousness demands a witness.
Evy steps outside. The air smells of damp earth, magnolia, and now, a faint, acrid tang of burning plastic. Her slippers sink into a drift of synthetic blossom.
The mangled drone lies near her prize-winning azalea bush. Its rotors are bent at painful angles. A circuit board SPARKS faintly, a dying firefly.
A voice cuts through the absurdity.
Evy looks up. A virulent pink petal is stuck to her eyebrow.
ANDY FINCH (70s), tweed jacket, sensible shoes, approaches from next door. He clutches a dustpan and brush like instruments of war. His meticulous, orderly world has been violated.
She gestures vaguely at the colourful detritus. Andy winces.
He prods a stubborn blue petal with the toe of his shoe. It squishes, unyielding.
Andy lets out a dry, rusty chuckle. He begins sweeping, the bristles making a loud SHUSHING sound against the plastic.
She plucks a blue petal from her own cheek, examining its waxy texture.
They work. Andy, with methodical zeal, fills a small bin. Evy, more curious, begins collecting the paper fragments, placing them in a canvas tote bag.
She holds a tiny square up to the light.
She picks up another. Squints.
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile threatens to break through. Andy straightens up, wincing as his back protests.
Andy shakes his head, a wry smile finally appearing.
Evy lets out a short, sharp laugh, surprising even herself.
They share a look. A moment of shared, weary appreciation for the absurd.
A sleek, black ELECTRIC SEDAN glides to the curb. Silent. Ominous.
The door opens with a soft thwip.
COUNCILLOR FRANKLIN (late 50s) steps out. His suit is immaculate, his smile a well-practiced electoral asset. He surveys the scene, the smile faltering as his gaze lands on the mangled drone.
His voice booms with affected gravitas. He plucks a stray blue petal from his shoulder with a pristine handkerchief.
Franklin’s smile snaps back into place, a little too wide. He finally acknowledges them.
He gestures broadly at the mess, as if they’re part of a performance art piece.
Andy steps forward, clearing his throat.
Andy holds up a piece. The words ‘PRIVILEGED AND CONFIDENTIAL’ are clearly legible.
Franklin’s eyes dart to the paper. His composure cracks.
Evy snorts. A delicate, but unmistakable sound.
Franklin’s smile vanishes. A nervous AIDE materializes from the sedan.
Franklin’s gaze narrows. He mutters something about “uncooperative elements” and retreats to his car, making an exaggerated show of a phone call.
The black sedan hums away.
Evy and Andy watch it go. A quiet sense of triumph settles between them.
Andy laughs, a full, hearty sound this time.
He gestures to the remaining debris. As he does, Evy’s eye catches something in her tote bag, amidst the paper fragments.
Not a petal. A glint of metal.
She reaches in and pulls it out. It’s a small, metallic DATA DRIVE. Hard, geometric. Decidedly not biodegradable.
She holds it in her palm. It HUMS faintly. A low, unnerving vibration that feels alien in the quiet morning air.
Evy and Andy look from the drive to each other. The plastic petals were just a distraction. The true blight is only just beginning to unfurl.
FADE OUT.
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