A Script for Charcoal Dreams

by Jamie F. Bell

EXT. SECTOR 7-C ALLEY - DAY

SOUND of a low, sick DRONE, constant and pervasive

Ferrocrete cracks under the worn combat boots of ZACH (17), a spiderweb pattern spreading with each hurried step. She’s jaded, cynical, moving with a resentful energy.

Overhead, a web of power conduits, thick as synth-boas, pulses with a sickly blue light, casting stuttering, shadow-play movements across the grimy alley. The air tastes of metal and exhaust.

Zach pulls the collar of her augmented jacket higher. Chipped chromework on the right sleeve catches an unwanted gleam from a passing SANITATION BOT.

A synthesized, flat voice CHIRPS from her wrist-comm.

<center>GLITCH (V.O.)</center>

> You’re late, Zach-Unit 404. Proceed with expedited velocity. Professor Ennings expects full attendance.

Zach bites back a retort, a sour taste in her throat. She speeds up, passing broken exhaust grates that blast hot air smelling of burnt copper and old cooking oil.

A small, black DRONE, no bigger than a fist, detaches from a wall-mounted sensor. Its single red eye blinks, tracking her. Following.

She reaches a scarred, steel door and shoves through it.

INT. SCHOOL CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS

The steel door HISSES shut loudly behind her.

The corridor is mercifully cooler, but smells of stale synth-coffee and ozone-scrubbers fighting a losing battle. She moves quickly down the hall towards a door marked: BETA-9.

INT. CLASSROOM BETA-9 - CONTINUOUS

The door to Beta-9 hisses open.

The room is a relic. The holo-screens are dark, not flickering with corporate ads. At the front stands PROFESSOR ENNINGS (60s), her posture as rigid as the art installation behind her—a tangled mess of reclaimed circuit boards and data cables, shaped vaguely like a WEEPING ANGEL.

Three other teens are already slumped in their seats:

HIRO (17), looking like he just woke from a nightmare, picks at a loose thread on his sleeve.

LUCY (17), meticulously polishes her glowing AMETHYST cyber-optic implants with a microfiber cloth.

KAI (17), stares out a rain-streaked window at the grey world beyond.

Ennings’s calm, unnerving gaze locks onto Zach.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Zach. Precisely seven minutes and twelve seconds late. Your bio-rhythms indicate elevated stress. Anything… stimulating happen on your transit?

Zach slides into the nearest chair, the cold synth-leather a shock. She avoids eye contact, focusing on a brown stain on a ceiling panel.

> Just the usual. A rogue sanitation drone tried to calibrate my trajectory. And Glitch got chatty.

Ennings’s thin lips twitch, the ghost of a smile.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Ah, Glitch. Our ever-present digital chaperone. A rogue drone… a new form of urban ballet, perhaps?

> (beat)

> Alright, class. If we can call it that. Our last session for the summer cycle. Today, we delve into a topic many consider… archaic. The arts.

She gestures vaguely towards the circuit-board angel.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> In a world optimized for predictable output, where does the chaotic, the inefficient, the purely aesthetic fit? What, if anything, is its positive impact?

Hiro finally looks up, blinking slowly.

> Professor, with all due respect, my father says art is… inefficient data. A waste of processing power. For the recreational units.

Lucy speaks without looking up, her voice flat.

> It’s just another market, isn’t it? Corporate art designed by algorithms to evoke specific consumer responses. Like the nostalgia-wave generator in the new Neo-Corp ad campaigns.

Kai’s voice is a low monotone, his gaze still fixed on the window.

> The Mega-Corp ‘Visionaries’ exhibit last cycle was just pre-Collapse propaganda, repackaged as ‘critical commentary.’ Positive impact for the shareholders, probably.

Zach listens, a knot tightening in her stomach. She thinks of the illicit, bioluminescent graffiti tags under the bridge, glowing in patterns too complex for any corporate bot.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> These are… astute observations. And you’re not wrong. But what of true creation? The impulse?

Ennings walks to a worn-out data slate on her desk, its casing held together by industrial tape. She taps it.

ON THE MAIN HOLO-SCREEN

A grainy, flickering black and white image appears: a young WOMAN, her face smudged with charcoal, fiercely focused on an unseen canvas.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> This is a memory-fragment. From before the Great Optimization. This woman was a street artist. Unpaid. Undirected. Her art was impermanent. But for a brief moment, it existed. And for those who saw it… perhaps it offered something.

Hiro yawns. Lucy’s optics click, adjusting their focus to analyze the image’s pixel density. Kai just sighs.

But Zach leans forward. The woman’s eyes in the image, even through the digital decay, are fiercely alive. A spark.

> What did it offer?

The words are louder than she intended. Ennings turns to her, a flicker of something—hope—in her tired eyes.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Escape, Zach. A moment of pure, unadulterated human connection. A reminder that there is something beyond the endless cycle of production and consumption. A voice that isn’t dictated by profit margins.

> (under his breath)

> Bridges that probably got blown up during the Resource Wars. Or paved over for new transit lines.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Indeed. But the *memory* of the bridge remains. The blueprint. That is the resilience of art. It persists in the collective subconscious, awaiting rediscovery.

> The ‘collective subconscious’ is just a network of shared memory caches. Easily manipulated. Corporate entities reactivate ‘nostalgia protocols’ to sell synth-snacks from your childhood. Is that art?

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> The *intent* is different, Lucy. The soul behind the creation. One is for profit. The other is an offering. A vulnerability. Before language, humans etched symbols onto cave walls. To leave a mark that said, ‘I was here. I felt this.’ That, Zach, is the core positive impact. It affirms existence.

Zach shifts. *Affirming existence.* She thinks of a neon green eye she saw tagged on a crumbling support pillar. It felt like a warning, or a conspiratorial wink.

> So, you’re saying art is… like, a human error? A bug in the system that makes us feel… less like robots?

A genuine, weary smile spreads across Ennings’s face.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Precisely, Hiro. A glorious, magnificent bug. A beautiful inefficiency. It’s what reminds us we are not simply data processors. We are… sentient chaos.

SOUND of a thin, reedy SIREN from outside slices through the air.

The fragile mood shatters. Kai flinches, head snapping to the window. Lucy’s implants glow brighter. Hiro’s smile vanishes.

> What do you call those underground songs, Professor? The ones that… don’t have a clear melody, just sounds? Scratches and hums.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Noise music, perhaps? Glitch-hop. They are, in their own way, incredibly honest expressions of the human condition in a post-digital age.

Suddenly, the lights FLICKER violently. The holo-screen dies, flashing a cascade of binary code. The overhead lights dim to a sickly yellow, then brighten erratically.

A heavy THUD vibrates through the floor. Then another, closer.

> (whispering)

> What was that?

Ennings’s composure fractures. A rare glimpse of fear in her wide eyes.

<center>ENNINGS</center>

> Stay calm. It’s likely just a localized grid fluctuation. The summer surges are…

The building GROANS, a deep metallic shriek that makes the circuit-board angel tremble. Dust drifts from the ceiling panels.

A new voice, deeper and more authoritative than Glitch, BOOMS from the building’s internal comms.

<center>AUTOMATED VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> Attention, Sector 7-C inhabitants. Unauthorized data infiltration detected. Security protocols initiated. All non-essential personnel are advised to shelter in place. Remain calm. Corporate assets are securing the perimeter.

The message repeats. The calm tone is chilling.

> Perimeter securing… that usually means a lockdown. Or worse.

Kai is no longer looking out the window. He stares, pale, at the professor.

> (a whisper)

> Professor… is this about… the archive?

Ennings flinches. A sharp intake of breath. Her terrified gaze meets Zach’s. *This is no drill.*

The steel door to the classroom begins to VIBRATE.

A low, rhythmic THUDDING starts.

THUD.

Louder.

THUD.

More insistent.

THUD.

It’s a battering ram. Or something with heavy, metallic fists. The sound swallows the ambient hum, the distant siren, everything.

CLOSE ON the students’ faces, one by one. Hiro, Lucy, Kai. Masks of sheer terror.

ANGLE ON Zach. Her eyes dart from the vibrating door to the weeping angel sculpture, its form now seeming less mournful and more terrified.

The THUDDING intensifies, shaking the entire room.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

FADE TO BLACK.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.