The Ten-Second Machine
A wrong pickup saddles a bike courier with a device that shows glimpses of the near future. He thinks it's a prank, until he watches a disaster unfold exactly as predicted.
EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT
Rain slicks the asphalt, turning neon signs into watercolor blurs.
BENJI (20s), lean and wiry in waterproof gear, weaves his fixie bike through honking, gridlocked traffic. An earpiece is nestled in his ear.
SOUND of hissing tires on wet pavement, city din
He glances down at his courier bag. Zipped into the front pouch is a small, heavy, featureless CUBE of black metal. It emits a low, rhythmic vibration he can feel against his ribs.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> (Clipped, angry)
> That's not the one. The manifest code is wrong. Read it again.
Benji swerves hard to avoid a taxi.
BENJI
> I'm reading what's on the box, man. X-7-T-4. Just like the dispatcher said.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> Negative. It should have been Y-9-G-2. Where did you pick it up?
BENJI
> (Grunting with effort)
> Alley off Bishop. Taped under the third drainpipe, just like the instructions said.
Rain begins to fall harder.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> Abort. Take it back. Right now. Do not open it.
The line goes dead. A sharp CLICK.
BENJI
> (Under his breath)
> Shit.
He pulls his bike over, sheltering under the faded red-and-white striped awning of a closed BUTCHER SHOP. Rain drips from the canvas edge.
He unzips the pouch. He pulls out the BLACK BOX. It's seamless, cold. A cheap label with "X-7-T-4" is stuck to its surface.
He peels the label back.
Underneath, etched into the metal, is a different code. And below it, a single, recessed BUTTON.
The vibration is stronger in his hand. A low, resonant HUM.
The Handler's words echo: "Do not open it."
But there's nothing to open. Just the button.
Benji looks around. The street is a mess of headlights and hurried pedestrians under umbrellas. No one sees him. Just another drowned rat.
He presses the button.
The surface of the box doesn't open. It shimmers. A section transforms into a SCREEN.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
The image is grainy, unstable, like an old video feed. It shows the street corner from Benji's exact point of view.
A RED CITY BUS rumbles past. An ad on its side: "Visit the Aquarium!"
A WOMAN with a bright YELLOW UMBRELLA steps off the curb.
A BLUE COURIER VAN accelerates towards the intersection, clearly not planning to stop for the red light.
The screen cuts to static, then goes blank. The entire vision lasted less than ten seconds.
**END POV SHOT**
Benji stares at the box, confused. A camera? A prank?
SOUND of a large engine rumbling closer.
He looks up.
A red city bus lumbers past him. On its side: the aquarium ad.
His stomach clenches.
A woman under a yellow umbrella steps into the street.
Benji's eyes dart to the intersecting street. A blue courier van is speeding towards the red light.
BENJI
> Hey!
It's a useless, instinctive cry.
The van blows through the intersection.
SOUND of a blaring HORN, a sickening CRUNCH of metal, the SQUEAL of tires, and the SHATTER of glass.
The bus swerves, hitting the van. The woman with the yellow umbrella SCREAMS and leaps back onto the pavement just in time.
Benji stands frozen, the black box cold and silent in his hand. He just watched it happen. Twice.
People are shouting, running towards the crash.
SOUND of distant SIRENS beginning to wail.
Panic seizes him. He shoves the box into his bag, zips it up, leaps onto his bike and pedals away, legs pumping on pure adrenaline.
EXT. NARROW STREET - LATER
Benji races through the city, his face a mask of terror. The kinetic, handheld camera stays with him, capturing his frantic breathing.
He risks a glance over his shoulder. The chaos of the crash recedes.
He needs to get somewhere safe. He needs to think.
He fumbles in his bag, pulling the box out again with one hand, keeping the other on his handlebars. He has to know. He presses the button.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
His point of view, from the bike. The back of a BLACK SALOON CAR is just ahead.
The car swerves suddenly, cutting him off.
He sees his own gloved hands losing their grip on the handlebars.
Static. The screen goes dark.
**END POV SHOT**
Benji looks up from the box.
A hundred meters ahead, a black saloon is pulling away from the curb, directly into his path.
He squeezes his brakes. His back wheel skids on the wet tarmac.
The car doesn't just pull out. It stops, blocking the entire road.
The doors open.
TWO MEN IN DARK SUITS get out. They move with a calm, predatory purpose. They aren't surprised to see him. They look at him with cold recognition.
They know he has the box.
Benji doesn't think. He wrenches his handlebars right, jumping the curb and onto the pavement. He pedals furiously, weaving between startled pedestrians.
SUITED MAN #1 (O.S.)
> Hey!
Benji doesn't look back. He just rides.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - LATER
Benji skids to a halt behind a row of overflowing bins, gasping for air, his lungs burning. He's cornered, trapped.
He pulls the box out. His hand is shaking.
He has to see what's coming next. One last time.
He presses the button.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
The image is dark, shaky. He can see his own legs, his bike lying on its side on the grimy pavement.
SOUND (from screen): Heavy, deliberate FOOTSTEPS approaching.
A man's hand reaches down, grabbing the front of his jacket.
The screen is filled with the face of SUITED MAN #1 from the car. He isn't angry.
He is smiling.
**END POV SHOT**
The screen on the box goes black.
But the SOUND of the heavy footsteps continues, now echoing in the real alley around him. Getting closer.
Benji's eyes widen in absolute terror. He looks up from the dead screen.
Shadows fall over him.
FADE TO BLACK.
Rain slicks the asphalt, turning neon signs into watercolor blurs.
BENJI (20s), lean and wiry in waterproof gear, weaves his fixie bike through honking, gridlocked traffic. An earpiece is nestled in his ear.
SOUND of hissing tires on wet pavement, city din
He glances down at his courier bag. Zipped into the front pouch is a small, heavy, featureless CUBE of black metal. It emits a low, rhythmic vibration he can feel against his ribs.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> (Clipped, angry)
> That's not the one. The manifest code is wrong. Read it again.
Benji swerves hard to avoid a taxi.
BENJI
> I'm reading what's on the box, man. X-7-T-4. Just like the dispatcher said.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> Negative. It should have been Y-9-G-2. Where did you pick it up?
BENJI
> (Grunting with effort)
> Alley off Bishop. Taped under the third drainpipe, just like the instructions said.
Rain begins to fall harder.
HANDLER (V.O.)
> Abort. Take it back. Right now. Do not open it.
The line goes dead. A sharp CLICK.
BENJI
> (Under his breath)
> Shit.
He pulls his bike over, sheltering under the faded red-and-white striped awning of a closed BUTCHER SHOP. Rain drips from the canvas edge.
He unzips the pouch. He pulls out the BLACK BOX. It's seamless, cold. A cheap label with "X-7-T-4" is stuck to its surface.
He peels the label back.
Underneath, etched into the metal, is a different code. And below it, a single, recessed BUTTON.
The vibration is stronger in his hand. A low, resonant HUM.
The Handler's words echo: "Do not open it."
But there's nothing to open. Just the button.
Benji looks around. The street is a mess of headlights and hurried pedestrians under umbrellas. No one sees him. Just another drowned rat.
He presses the button.
The surface of the box doesn't open. It shimmers. A section transforms into a SCREEN.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
The image is grainy, unstable, like an old video feed. It shows the street corner from Benji's exact point of view.
A RED CITY BUS rumbles past. An ad on its side: "Visit the Aquarium!"
A WOMAN with a bright YELLOW UMBRELLA steps off the curb.
A BLUE COURIER VAN accelerates towards the intersection, clearly not planning to stop for the red light.
The screen cuts to static, then goes blank. The entire vision lasted less than ten seconds.
**END POV SHOT**
Benji stares at the box, confused. A camera? A prank?
SOUND of a large engine rumbling closer.
He looks up.
A red city bus lumbers past him. On its side: the aquarium ad.
His stomach clenches.
A woman under a yellow umbrella steps into the street.
Benji's eyes dart to the intersecting street. A blue courier van is speeding towards the red light.
BENJI
> Hey!
It's a useless, instinctive cry.
The van blows through the intersection.
SOUND of a blaring HORN, a sickening CRUNCH of metal, the SQUEAL of tires, and the SHATTER of glass.
The bus swerves, hitting the van. The woman with the yellow umbrella SCREAMS and leaps back onto the pavement just in time.
Benji stands frozen, the black box cold and silent in his hand. He just watched it happen. Twice.
People are shouting, running towards the crash.
SOUND of distant SIRENS beginning to wail.
Panic seizes him. He shoves the box into his bag, zips it up, leaps onto his bike and pedals away, legs pumping on pure adrenaline.
EXT. NARROW STREET - LATER
Benji races through the city, his face a mask of terror. The kinetic, handheld camera stays with him, capturing his frantic breathing.
He risks a glance over his shoulder. The chaos of the crash recedes.
He needs to get somewhere safe. He needs to think.
He fumbles in his bag, pulling the box out again with one hand, keeping the other on his handlebars. He has to know. He presses the button.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
His point of view, from the bike. The back of a BLACK SALOON CAR is just ahead.
The car swerves suddenly, cutting him off.
He sees his own gloved hands losing their grip on the handlebars.
Static. The screen goes dark.
**END POV SHOT**
Benji looks up from the box.
A hundred meters ahead, a black saloon is pulling away from the curb, directly into his path.
He squeezes his brakes. His back wheel skids on the wet tarmac.
The car doesn't just pull out. It stops, blocking the entire road.
The doors open.
TWO MEN IN DARK SUITS get out. They move with a calm, predatory purpose. They aren't surprised to see him. They look at him with cold recognition.
They know he has the box.
Benji doesn't think. He wrenches his handlebars right, jumping the curb and onto the pavement. He pedals furiously, weaving between startled pedestrians.
SUITED MAN #1 (O.S.)
> Hey!
Benji doesn't look back. He just rides.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - LATER
Benji skids to a halt behind a row of overflowing bins, gasping for air, his lungs burning. He's cornered, trapped.
He pulls the box out. His hand is shaking.
He has to see what's coming next. One last time.
He presses the button.
**BEGIN POV SHOT - THE BOX SCREEN**
The image is dark, shaky. He can see his own legs, his bike lying on its side on the grimy pavement.
SOUND (from screen): Heavy, deliberate FOOTSTEPS approaching.
A man's hand reaches down, grabbing the front of his jacket.
The screen is filled with the face of SUITED MAN #1 from the car. He isn't angry.
He is smiling.
**END POV SHOT**
The screen on the box goes black.
But the SOUND of the heavy footsteps continues, now echoing in the real alley around him. Getting closer.
Benji's eyes widen in absolute terror. He looks up from the dead screen.
Shadows fall over him.
FADE TO BLACK.