A vast, hostile landscape of snow-dusted shale and skeletal birch trees. The light is flat, grey, already bruising into purple at the horizon.
SOUND of a relentless, mournful WIND
PAT (40s), rugged and worn, bundled in layers of faded gear, struggles through ankle-deep snow. His face is raw with cold, his breath a ragged plume snatched away by the gale.
His boot slips on an ice-slicked rock.
He pitches forward, a raw GRUNT torn from his throat. The camera goes HANDHELD, a chaotic blur of white and grey as he slams into the ground.
He lies there for a beat, chest heaving. Snow dusts his eyelashes. He pushes himself up, his gloved hands scraped and numb. The air bites his lungs.
He scans the ravine, his gaze weary, bloodshot. Another dead end. The frustration is etched on his face.
Then, he stops. A glint.
Not the bright reflection of ice. Something duller. Oily.
CLOSE ON a small patch of clear ice. Beneath it, a dark, metallic shape is partially visible.
Pat’s exhaustion is replaced by a flicker of intense focus. He crawls closer, his numb fingers fumbling at the edge of the ice sheet. It’s too thick.
He uses the heel of his boot, a measured tap. Then another. A spiderweb CRACK spreads across the ice. The sound is sharp, brittle in the vast silence.
He kneels, ignoring the cold seeping through his trousers, and works the shards of ice away. He reveals a smooth, dark surface.
He pulls the object free. A disc, palm-sized, made of a charcoal-colored metal that seems to absorb the light.
CLOSE ON THE DISC
Impossibly precise symbols are etched into its surface. Swirls and lines, not quite script, not quite pictograms.
Pat runs a gloved thumb over them.
SOUND of a low, subtle HUM, almost sub-audible, like static electricity.
Pat’s brow furrows. He turns the disc over. The back is smooth, save for a single, raised concentric circle. He brings it closer, his mind racing, trying to place it.
A voice, thin and strained by the wind, cuts through the air.
Pat’s head snaps up.
IDA (40s), a bundled form in a crimson parka, picks her way carefully down the ravine wall. She clutches a thermal flask.
She slips, catches herself with a flailing arm.
She reaches him, her cheeks flushed with cold, her glasses slightly fogged. Her worried eyes immediately lock onto the disc in his hand. Her expression shifts. Professional curiosity replaces concern.
She leans closer, the scent of cinnamon tea and damp wool cutting through the cold. She reaches out a mittened finger, hovering just over the strange symbols.
He holds it out to her. She takes it, her expression turning analytical. She turns it over, tilting her head.
She pauses. Her thumb finds the raised concentric circle on the back and presses.
INSERT - THE DISC
For a split second, a faint, internal light, like embers under ash, PULSES within the dark metal. Then it’s gone.
Ida’s eyes widen behind her glasses.
Ida pulls a small, laminated map from an inside pocket, spreading it on a flat rock. She pulls out a waterproof notebook and a pencil, quickly sketching the symbols from the disc.
She stops sketching. Her pencil hovers over a specific symbol. Her breath catches.
She looks up from the notebook, her eyes bright, locking with his.
As she speaks, Pat’s gaze drifts past her shoulder. He squints into the dimming light.
He sees them. Emerging from a clump of skeletal alders.
TRACKS.
Deep impressions in the fresh snow. Wider than a person’s. An odd, claw-like pattern at the front. They lead straight up the ravine, towards the most treacherous, unmapped section of the forest.
She follows his gaze. Her breath fogs in front of her face. She sees the tracks. Her academic confidence vanishes, replaced by a primal fear.
The tracks lead towards a thin, dotted line on her map labeled 'RESTRICTED ACCESS – HAZARDOUS'.
A cold dread mixes with a strange, fierce excitement in Pat’s gut.
Ida shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks from the tracks, to the disc in her hand, to Pat's desperate, determined face.
She looks at the disc in her palm. The faintest shimmer of internal light, a mere ghost of a pulse, emanates from the etchings.
She lets out a long, slow breath of resignation.
Pat nods, a tight knot of tension in his chest easing. He takes the disc. Its unsettling weight feels solid in his palm.
They turn, facing the unnatural tracks that scar the pristine snow, leading into the deep gloom of the forest.
Pat glances down. The disc in his hand emits a barely perceptible shimmer, a silent, ancient beacon.
Pat manages a weak smile. They take their first steps, following the tracks into the unknown.
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