The Grime Under a Fractured Sky
Joey navigates the alien avenues of Xylos, a city of unsettling beauty and pervasive unease. Strange architecture and the whisper of the unseen deepen his isolation, leading to a brief, unsettling encounter.
TITLE: THE GRIME UNDER A FRACTURED SKY
EXT. ALIEN CITY - DAY
A BRUISED-PLUM SKY, fractured with veins of sickly yellow light, hangs over a city of impossible geometry.
SOUND: A low, pervasive HUM. Not a noise, but a pressure, a vibration felt in the teeth, in the bones.
JOEY (30s), wearing a practical but worn explorer's suit, walks alone. His boots make no sound on the ground—a seamless expanse of polished, dark glass that reflects the sky above. It’s like walking on an inverted void.
Immense, silent BUILDINGS rise around him. Their surfaces, made of a material that shimmers with internal light, shift from deep violet to rust to a dull, flat grey. They seem to BREATHE, their facades undulating in a slow, deliberate rhythm. No windows. No doors.
Joey presses the heels of his hands to his temples. The hum is relentless.
He passes a recessed planter. Inside, GELATINOUS FLORA pulse with a faint bioluminescence, their tendrils swaying without a breeze. A sweet, acrid scent hangs in the air, like burnt sugar and cleaning solvent. As he passes, the hairs on his arm stand on end. A subtle static charge.
He rounds a curve where the architecture shifts to a series of interlocking, smaller structures, like petrified beehives.
And there—a flaw.
A patch of peeling, iridescent film on one of the hive-like structures reveals DULL, RUSTED METAL underneath. An imperfection. Joey stops, a flicker of relief on his face.
He reaches out, running a gloved finger over the exposed metal. It’s cold. Rough.
The moment his finger makes contact, a low TREMOR runs through the entire structure. He snatches his hand back.
The hum in the air INTENSIFIES.
Joey’s eyes dart around. The feeling of being watched, once a vague paranoia, is now a palpable certainty. Every smooth, shimmering wall feels like an eye. He is alone, but not un-seen.
EXT. ALIEN PLAZA - DAY
A vast, open square bordered by the rippling, breathing buildings. In the center, a solitary figure is hunched over a small, glowing pedestal.
PINEY. Slender, elongated, with limbs that bend at too many angles. Its skin is the color of unpolished brass. Its head is hairless, dominated by large, dark eyes that absorb the light.
Piney meticulously arranges tiny, CRYSTALLINE SHARDS that pulse with an inner glow on the pedestal.
Joey watches for a long moment, then takes a breath and walks toward it. The silence needs to be broken.
His footsteps remain silent on the glass-like ground. He stops a few feet away.
JOEY
> Excuse me?
His voice is rough, alien in the stillness.
Piney freezes. Then, slowly, it uncoils, its movements like old machinery. Its large, dark eyes fix on Joey, utterly devoid of expression.
PINEY
> (a rasp, like grinding pebbles)
> A query. Unusual. And... loud.
Joey manages a tight, hopeful smile.
JOEY
> Loud? I try to be articulate. My name is Joey. I'm new here.
Piney tilts its head. The gesture is mechanical, an adjustment.
PINEY
> 'New' is an interesting designation for one who is, by all observable metrics, entirely unprecedented.
JOEY
> Well, I'm certainly not from around here. Which, I imagine, is painfully obvious. Do you have a name? Or a designation?
PINEY
> I am Piney. And I exist. These, the Lumina Shards, are my concern.
> (taps a shard)
> They have a tendency to realign in patterns of inconvenient chaos.
Joey steps closer, looking at the glowing pedestal.
JOEY
> Lumina Shards. They're beautiful. What are they for?
Piney emits a sound like a creak of old metal. A sigh.
PINEY
> For the observation of inherent probabilities. For the gentle nudging of outcomes. For the occasional, entirely accidental, explosion of minor star systems. Standard market fare.
Joey blinks.
JOEY
> Right. Standard. So, just a casual Monday for you then?
PINEY
> Mondays are arbitrary constructs. All moments are equally burdened by their potential. Your presence, for instance, represents a significant deviation in the local probability field. A very large, very un-ignorable deviation.
A knot forms in Joey's stomach.
JOEY
> Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Piney pauses, its multi-jointed fingers hovering over the shards.
PINEY
> Good and bad are primitive concepts. Here, we merely observe the ripples. And your ripples, Joey, are quite extensive.
JOEY
> Are there others like me here? Other... humans?
Piney’s dark eyes seem to deepen.
PINEY
> You are unique. A solitary resonance. Which, again, contributes to the deviation.
Joey's forced humor evaporates. He needs a real answer.
JOEY
> Okay, Piney. If I'm such a 'deviation,' what should I actually be doing here? Is there a way off Xylos?
Piney stops its work. It slowly straightens to its full, unnerving height. Its gaze lifts from the shards, scanning the vast, empty square, and then settles on Joey. The intensity is chilling.
PINEY
> (voice suddenly smoother, colder)
> Your path is not yet inscribed. But the city watches. It listens. And it learns. It has a purpose for every anomaly. For every misplaced particle of dust.
> (beat)
> Especially for one as incandescently out of place as you.
Without another word, Piney bends back over the pedestal. Its fingers resume their meticulous work, realigning the glowing shards as if the conversation never happened.
Joey stands frozen. The hum in his bones resonates with a new, colder frequency. An intelligent frequency.
He is not lost. He is a specimen.
CLOSE ON JOEY'S FACE. Terror dawns in his eyes. He looks down at the Lumina Shards. Their erratic, beautiful glow now looks like a collection of tiny, captured stars, each one struggling against its inevitable, programmed alignment.
FADE TO BLACK.
EXT. ALIEN CITY - DAY
A BRUISED-PLUM SKY, fractured with veins of sickly yellow light, hangs over a city of impossible geometry.
SOUND: A low, pervasive HUM. Not a noise, but a pressure, a vibration felt in the teeth, in the bones.
JOEY (30s), wearing a practical but worn explorer's suit, walks alone. His boots make no sound on the ground—a seamless expanse of polished, dark glass that reflects the sky above. It’s like walking on an inverted void.
Immense, silent BUILDINGS rise around him. Their surfaces, made of a material that shimmers with internal light, shift from deep violet to rust to a dull, flat grey. They seem to BREATHE, their facades undulating in a slow, deliberate rhythm. No windows. No doors.
Joey presses the heels of his hands to his temples. The hum is relentless.
He passes a recessed planter. Inside, GELATINOUS FLORA pulse with a faint bioluminescence, their tendrils swaying without a breeze. A sweet, acrid scent hangs in the air, like burnt sugar and cleaning solvent. As he passes, the hairs on his arm stand on end. A subtle static charge.
He rounds a curve where the architecture shifts to a series of interlocking, smaller structures, like petrified beehives.
And there—a flaw.
A patch of peeling, iridescent film on one of the hive-like structures reveals DULL, RUSTED METAL underneath. An imperfection. Joey stops, a flicker of relief on his face.
He reaches out, running a gloved finger over the exposed metal. It’s cold. Rough.
The moment his finger makes contact, a low TREMOR runs through the entire structure. He snatches his hand back.
The hum in the air INTENSIFIES.
Joey’s eyes dart around. The feeling of being watched, once a vague paranoia, is now a palpable certainty. Every smooth, shimmering wall feels like an eye. He is alone, but not un-seen.
EXT. ALIEN PLAZA - DAY
A vast, open square bordered by the rippling, breathing buildings. In the center, a solitary figure is hunched over a small, glowing pedestal.
PINEY. Slender, elongated, with limbs that bend at too many angles. Its skin is the color of unpolished brass. Its head is hairless, dominated by large, dark eyes that absorb the light.
Piney meticulously arranges tiny, CRYSTALLINE SHARDS that pulse with an inner glow on the pedestal.
Joey watches for a long moment, then takes a breath and walks toward it. The silence needs to be broken.
His footsteps remain silent on the glass-like ground. He stops a few feet away.
JOEY
> Excuse me?
His voice is rough, alien in the stillness.
Piney freezes. Then, slowly, it uncoils, its movements like old machinery. Its large, dark eyes fix on Joey, utterly devoid of expression.
PINEY
> (a rasp, like grinding pebbles)
> A query. Unusual. And... loud.
Joey manages a tight, hopeful smile.
JOEY
> Loud? I try to be articulate. My name is Joey. I'm new here.
Piney tilts its head. The gesture is mechanical, an adjustment.
PINEY
> 'New' is an interesting designation for one who is, by all observable metrics, entirely unprecedented.
JOEY
> Well, I'm certainly not from around here. Which, I imagine, is painfully obvious. Do you have a name? Or a designation?
PINEY
> I am Piney. And I exist. These, the Lumina Shards, are my concern.
> (taps a shard)
> They have a tendency to realign in patterns of inconvenient chaos.
Joey steps closer, looking at the glowing pedestal.
JOEY
> Lumina Shards. They're beautiful. What are they for?
Piney emits a sound like a creak of old metal. A sigh.
PINEY
> For the observation of inherent probabilities. For the gentle nudging of outcomes. For the occasional, entirely accidental, explosion of minor star systems. Standard market fare.
Joey blinks.
JOEY
> Right. Standard. So, just a casual Monday for you then?
PINEY
> Mondays are arbitrary constructs. All moments are equally burdened by their potential. Your presence, for instance, represents a significant deviation in the local probability field. A very large, very un-ignorable deviation.
A knot forms in Joey's stomach.
JOEY
> Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Piney pauses, its multi-jointed fingers hovering over the shards.
PINEY
> Good and bad are primitive concepts. Here, we merely observe the ripples. And your ripples, Joey, are quite extensive.
JOEY
> Are there others like me here? Other... humans?
Piney’s dark eyes seem to deepen.
PINEY
> You are unique. A solitary resonance. Which, again, contributes to the deviation.
Joey's forced humor evaporates. He needs a real answer.
JOEY
> Okay, Piney. If I'm such a 'deviation,' what should I actually be doing here? Is there a way off Xylos?
Piney stops its work. It slowly straightens to its full, unnerving height. Its gaze lifts from the shards, scanning the vast, empty square, and then settles on Joey. The intensity is chilling.
PINEY
> (voice suddenly smoother, colder)
> Your path is not yet inscribed. But the city watches. It listens. And it learns. It has a purpose for every anomaly. For every misplaced particle of dust.
> (beat)
> Especially for one as incandescently out of place as you.
Without another word, Piney bends back over the pedestal. Its fingers resume their meticulous work, realigning the glowing shards as if the conversation never happened.
Joey stands frozen. The hum in his bones resonates with a new, colder frequency. An intelligent frequency.
He is not lost. He is a specimen.
CLOSE ON JOEY'S FACE. Terror dawns in his eyes. He looks down at the Lumina Shards. Their erratic, beautiful glow now looks like a collection of tiny, captured stars, each one struggling against its inevitable, programmed alignment.
FADE TO BLACK.