INT. WAREHOUSE STUDIO - NIGHT
SOUND of a fierce spring storm -- rain lashing against glass.
A cavernous space in Winnipeg's Exchange District. Exposed brick walls climb into darkness. Pools of amber light from the streetlamps outside fracture through tall, rain-streaked industrial windows.
The room is a chaotic aftermath. Mood boards covered in newspaper clippings and yarn lean against walls. Stacks of surveys and empty coffee cups litter a massive drafting table.
In the shadows, near the grated door of a freight elevator, SIMON (40s, meticulous, his anxiety barely contained) watches.
His focus is across the room: GEORGE (40s, charismatic, radiating a restless energy). George stands at the drafting table, wiping charcoal dust from his forearms with a rag. The act is simple, mundane, but Simon watches with an unnerving intensity.
The silence between them is heavy, charged.
Finally, Simon speaks. His voice is a rough scrape.
<center>SIMON</center>
You're playing a dangerous game.
George doesn't look up. He carefully organizes a stack of surveys, his movements precise.
<center>GEORGE</center>
It's the only game that works.
<center>SIMON</center>
They're kids, George. Not academics.
George pauses. He sets the papers down. Turns. His eyes are sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He crosses the concrete floor, his steps deliberate, closing the distance until he stands directly in front of Simon, invading his personal space. Simon holds his ground, but a muscle in his jaw tightens.
<center>GEORGE</center>
That is precisely the point. Traditional extraction is dead. We don't study them anymore. We work with them.
<center>SIMON</center>
Explain.
<center>GEORGE</center>
(murmuring, conspiratorial)
Youth Participatory Action Research. YPAR. The old model treats them as subjects. Bugs under a glass. We extract data, write papers, and leave. Nothing changes.
Simon gestures with his chin toward the chaotic mood boards.
<center>SIMON</center>
And this?
George leans in, planting a hand on the brick wall next to Simon's head. He's close enough for Simon to feel the heat coming off him.
<center>GEORGE</center>
This is co-research. They aren't just answering questions. They're designing the study. They identified the problem—safety in the back lanes—and they're collecting the data. They have 'lived experience' you and I lost decades ago.
Simon's eyes flicker to George's hand on the wall, then up to his mouth. The air crackles.
<center>SIMON</center>
You think they can analyze it?
<center>GEORGE</center>
(voice drops an octave)
Better than us. They see the patterns we miss. Agency. Voice. They own the process, so they own the solution. It’s about power redistribution.
<center>SIMON</center>
(a whisper)
Power is dangerous.
<center>GEORGE</center>
So is ignorance.
George shifts, stepping closer still. His knee brushes Simon's thigh.
<center>GEORGE</center>
We act as mentors. We provide the scaffold. But they build the building. If we want actual social change in this city, we have to trust the people living the reality.
Simon's professional resolve is visibly crumbling under the intellectual and physical pressure.
<center>SIMON</center>
And if they find something we can't fix?
<center>GEORGE</center>
Then we face it together.
George’s gaze drops to Simon’s lips for a charged beat, then snaps back to his eyes. The moment hangs, electric. Then George breaks it.
<center>GEORGE</center>
The data they brought in tonight... it's not just statistics, Simon. They found something. A pattern in the police reports and the street lighting schedules. It points to corruption.
The romantic tension curdles. Simon stiffens, cold dread washing over his face.
<center>SIMON</center>
Show me.
George pulls a crumpled, folded MAP from his back pocket.
He unfolds it directly against Simon's chest, pinning him against the brick wall. Simon is trapped.
George's finger traces a red-inked line snaking through the downtown core on the map.
<center>GEORGE</center>
Here. They tracked the outages. It matches the patrol gaps perfectly.
Simon stares down at the map pressed against him. The terrifying implication sinks in. This isn't a youth project anymore. It's evidence.
He looks up, his mouth opening to speak, to warn George--
SOUND of a heavy, metallic GROAN.
Across the studio, the massive steel door at the far end of the room CREAKS OPEN, spilling a sliver of dark hallway into the room.
Share This Script
