A Script for The Data Scraps

[SCENE START]

**EXT. OMNICORP BIO-FOREST - DAY**

A BRUTAL, UNYIELDING SUN beats down. The air shimmers with heat above perfectly uniform rows of BIO-TIMBER, trees with synthetic-looking bark.

The high-pitched SCREAM of a VIBRO-SAW tears through the humid air.

NORM (20s), lean and weary, wrestles with the saw. The vibration rattles up his arms, his jaw clenched tight. Gritty sweat tracks down his temples, stinging his eyes. He blinks it away, focused.

This is the sixth tree. Each breath he takes tastes metallic.

The bio-timber shudders, groans, and TOPPLES with a sickening CRACK. It hits the chemically-treated ground with a dull THUD that sends a tremor through Norm’s boots. His shoulders and back ache with a deep, familiar throb.

A few metres away, SARA (20s), her dark hair plastered to her forehead, slams the side of her sputtering vibro-saw with the heel of her hand.

<center>SARA</center>

> (muttering)

> Piece of junk.

The saw COUGHS, then WHINES back to life.

Norm wipes his brow with a grimy, gloved hand. He drags the severed timber towards an AUTOMATED COLLECTION RIG, a squat, insectoid machine humming impatiently.

The rig’s MOUTH clacks open, ingests the trunk, and whirs. A sullen ORANGE light on its chassis flashes: OVERHEATING.

Norm leans against the rig’s cool metal side, letting the vibrations seep into his bones.

<center>NORM</center>

> (hoarse)

> Rig’s cooked.

Sara looks over, lowering her saw. Her expression is grim.

<center>SARA</center>

> Again?

She kills her saw. The sudden quiet is oppressive, filled only by the hum of the forest’s unseen systems. The heat haze ripples.

<center>SARA</center>

> Maybe we push further. There’s that old access path… the one the drone maps always scrub out.

Norm hesitates, the warning of his older brother, Alex, echoing in his mind.

<center>NORM</center>

> Alex says they scrub them for a reason. Their reasons, not ours.

<center>SARA</center>

> And I say standing here for three hours is a worse reason.

She gives him a look. The thought of waiting in this heat is worse than a minor infraction.

<center>NORM</center>

> (grunts)

> Fine. But you lead.

A thin, humourless smile from Sara. She gestures inland.

**EXT. FORGOTTEN PATH - CONTINUOUS**

They move past the uniform rows. The ground changes. Processed substrate gives way to REAL DIRT. The air smells different—decaying leaves and a sharp, metallic tang, like burning copper.

The path narrows. Real branches with actual THORNS scrape at their arms. Norm winces as one pricks his forearm. The sunlight struggles to get through a dense, tangled canopy, creating patches of stark shadow and blinding light.

Sara stops dead. She doesn’t turn.

<center>SARA</center>

> (whispering)

> You smell that?

The acrid, metallic tang is stronger now. Oily. Sweet. It makes Norm’s stomach churn. He pushes past her, peers through a curtain of thick, fibrous vines and his breath catches.

**EXT. JUNKYARD - CONTINUOUS**

It’s not a path. It’s a SCAR.

A massive gash in the earth, filled with a landscape of twisted metal. A true, chaotic GRAVEYARD of forgotten tech stretches as far as the eye can see. Mountains of corroded chrome. Towers of rust-coloured circuit boards.

A faint, GREENISH-YELLOW HAZE shimmers over the wreckage. The smell is overwhelming: burning plastic, wet asphalt, sulphur.

<center>SARA</center>

> (a low whistle)

> Well, look at this.

They start down, picking their way over rusted panels and jagged shards of shattered data screens. Every step CRUNCHES.

Norm stumbles, catching himself on a piece of rebar that digs into his palm. He hisses, pulling his hand back. A thin line of blood wells up.

The heat intensifies, trapped between the metallic giants. The air is thick, heavy. A scruffy BIRD flits out from a hole in a broken panel, startling Norm. He yelps.

Sara snorts, a small smirk on her lips, but her eyes never stop scanning.

Deep within a hollow formed by two colossal stacks of salvaged chassis, Norm sees it. A FLICKER. A faint, pulsing green light.

<center>NORM</center>

> (low, breathless)

> Over there.

They move carefully towards it, their boots sinking into soft, oily dirt. The pulsing light grows stronger.

It’s an OMNICORP DRONE. A scout model. Damaged. Its optical sensors are cracked, a flight fin mangled. But the primary power indicator—that green pulse—is still active.

Norm kneels, brushing away debris. He finds a DATA PORT, corroded but intact.

<center>SARA</center>

> (whispering)

> Why would they dump this? It’s still got power. Still got… data, probably.

Norm pulls a compact DATA-READER from his utility belt. His fingers fumble with the corroded port, slick with heat and grime. He forces the connector into place. A faint CLICK.

The reader’s small screen flickers to life. STATIC. Then, a progress bar, agonizingly slow. Sara kneels beside him, her presence a small comfort.

The bar stalls. A jumble of corrupted files cascades down the screen. Then, a few lines resolve.

<br>

**INSERT - DATA-READER SCREEN**

Clear, blocky text appears amidst the digital noise:

`Project Chimera`

`Disposal Zone Epsilon`

`Data Overwrite Protocol... FAILED`

<br>

Norm’s heart HAMMERS against his ribs. He knows that name.

<center>SARA</center>

> Chimera? Isn’t that what your brother’s company is defending OmniCorp against?

Norm nods, his throat suddenly dry. This isn’t a junkyard. It’s a cover-up. The screen beeps, displaying another fragment.

<br>

**INSERT - DATA-READER SCREEN**

`Unauthorized waste dispersal.`

`Toxic runoff indicators: ELEVATED.`

`Containment breach: CONFIRMED.`

<br>

The words slam into him. His hand trembles. This data could ruin OmniCorp. And it would make them look for who found it.

That’s when he hears it.

A faint, rhythmic THRUMMING. Low, vibrating through the ground more than the air. Growing louder. Closer.

A patrol drone.

Sara’s head snaps up, eyes wide, scanning the metallic peaks around them.

<center>SARA</center>

> (strained whisper)

> Did you…

The THRUMMING is a steady, mechanical PULSE now. Closer.

Panic flares in Norm’s chest. He RIPS the data-reader from the port. The connection breaks with a painful electronic SCREECH.

<center>NORM</center>

> We need to go!

He scrambles to his feet.

The THRUMMING is directly overhead now, a WHIRRING, CHOPPING sound that echoes off the metal walls.

Sara is already moving, darting between two rusting tanks.

<center>SARA</center>

> (shouting)

> This way!

Norm follows, lungs burning. He scrambles over a pile of flattened data screens, his boots slipping. A shower of broken glass rains down. A shard grazes his cheek, drawing blood. He doesn’t stop.

The DRONE’S SHADOW, enormous and predatory, sweeps over the junkyard. Its SEARCHLIGHT cuts through the haze.

Norm flings himself behind a leaning wall of salvaged server racks, pressing himself against the cold metal. He holds his breath.

The drone—a heavy-duty security model—hovers directly over their last position. Its powerful thrusters kick up a cloud of acrid dust. Its optical sensors, two glowing RED PINPRICKS, sweep the area. Methodical. Chilling.

Norm’s heart pounds a frantic drum against the metal wall. He can feel the drone's engines vibrating through the ground.

The drone lingers. An eternity.

Then, slowly, it begins to move on, continuing its sweep towards the far side of the junkyard. Its thrumming fades slightly.

Norm risks a quick dash, staying low, following Sara’s path. He sees her weaving through the wreckage ahead. She glances back, their eyes meeting in shared terror.

He reaches her, collapsing behind another pile of scrap. He’s panting, his chest heaving.

<center>SARA</center>

> (gasping)

> Got it?

Norm nods, holding up the data-reader. Its screen glows with the partially recovered files. A death sentence.

The setting sun paints the rusted landscape in hues of grim orange and purple. Long shadows stretch like grasping fingers.

Norm clutches the device, still warm in his palm. The faint pulse of the screen is a silent, terrible promise of the storm that is now heading their way.

[SCENE END]