A Script for The Chill in the Recital Hall

[SCENE START]

**INT. THE PLAIN - DAY (DREAM)**

SOUND of a dull, constant THRUM

An endless, constructed GREY PLAIN under a simulated, indifferent light. Dust motes dance, always just out of reach.

Countless FACELESS FIGURES move in a slow, undulating current towards an unseen horizon. They are silent. Resigned.

In front of us, a SHIMMERING SCREEN of sickly green light materializes. On it, text appears:

SUPER: SELECT YOUR BURDEN.

A phantom hand, gnarled and old, reaches for the screen. It hesitates, then chooses. The scene instantly RESETS. The figures flow. The screen appears again.

SUPER: SELECT YOUR BURDEN.

The choice is made. The scene resets. Over and over. A torment designed for an eternity.

A JAGGED, SHATTERING SOUND--

SMASH CUT TO:

**INT. MARGOT'S ROOM - MORNING**

MARGOT (70) forces her eyes open. Her face is a roadmap of hard living, her silver hair matted from sleep.

The room is a bare concrete cell. A cot, a chipped enamel basin, a single stool. The air is so cold her breath PLUMES, a fleeting ghost in the gloom. The blankets on her cot are thin, coarse.

Her gnarled fingers twitch, recalling the phantom pressure of the selection interface. She pushes herself up. The ancient springs of the cot GROAN a protest. Her knees CRACK loudly. A sharp wince of pain crosses her face.

She shuffles to the single, grimy window. Outside, a landscape of identical, brutalist concrete towers reaches up like frozen fingers to a perpetually overcast sky. Snow dusts the ledges.

She splashes ice-cold water from the basin onto her face. The shock is a welcome, grounding pain. She runs a hand over her hair, tying it back with a scrap of twine. Her eyes catch a tiny PINHOLE LENS in the wall above the basin. She gives no sign she's seen it.

A low, resonant CHIME echoes through the building. The morning summons.

Margot’s face sets into a familiar mask of weary resignation. She pulls on a worn, thick wool coat, the rough fabric chafing her skin.

**INT. CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS**

The hallway is already filling. A slow, shuffling procession of figures, bundled against the cold, faces averted. They move like automatons.

Margot joins the line, her gaze down. She spots ELDER SERAPHINE (80s), her back stooped but her eyes sharp, darting, assessing everyone. An informant. Margot subtly increases the distance between them.

A fleeting spark of defiance in Margot's eyes, the thought of simply stopping, is instantly extinguished by a deep, ingrained fear. She shuffles on.

**INT. RECITAL HALL - MOMENTS LATER**

A cavernous space, poorly heated. It reeks of stale concrete and damp wool. Rows of hard, backless benches face an enormous, dormant GREY SCREEN that dominates the far wall.

The hall is half-filled with a sea of tired, sallow, resigned faces. A communal grimace.

Margot finds a spot near the back, jamming her hands deep into her pockets. A faint tremor starts in her right hand. She clenches it into a fist.

Elder Seraphine settles two benches ahead, her back ramrod straight. As if sensing she’s being watched, Seraphine’s head swivels slightly. Her pale, sharp eyes meet Margot’s for a brief, unsettling moment. No recognition. Just cold calculation. Margot looks away.

THUD.

A heavy sound from the front of the hall. The residents flinch.

COLLECTOR GRIBBS (40s) stands there. Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence a physical disruption in the stagnant air. His dark grey uniform is crisply pressed. A silver insignia on his chest gleams faintly.

He doesn't speak. His icy gaze sweeps across the assembled residents, lingering, searching for any deviation, any weakness.

The screen flickers to life. Stylized, animated images of a perfect city: clean lines, smiling, robust citizens.

<center>PROPAGANDA VOICE (V.O.)</center>

> (Smooth, artificial)

> ...through communal duty, we find our purpose. Through efficiency, we achieve harmony. Individual desire is the enemy of progress...

The words wash over Margot, a familiar, mind-numbing tide. Her attention drifts.

She notices a YOUNG WOMAN (20s) two rows ahead, her head bowed. The woman meticulously unwraps a small, grey nutrient bar. Her hand TREMBLES.

Her gaze, for a split second, flickers to Gribbs, then back to the bar. Her movements are a quiet, almost reverent act. It feels like a silent scream.

Margot watches, a strange flutter in her own chest.

The broadcast ends with a saccharine JINGLE. The screen goes dark. Gribbs moves, a deliberate, heavy stride towards the exit. The residents begin to shuffle out, a low, tired MURMUR rising.

Margot remains on the bench, watching the Young Woman carefully fold the wrapper and slip it into her pocket.

As Margot finally moves to leave, a shadow falls over her.

Gribbs. He stands beside her bench, his presence a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. Margot’s breath catches.

<center>GRIBBS</center>

> Margot.

She turns slowly to face him. His eyes, the color of glacier ice, bore into hers.

<center>GRIBBS (CONT'D)</center>

> Your attendance. Exemplary, as always.

<center>MARGOT</center>

> (Her voice thin, brittle)

> Thank you, Collector.

He just stares. A long, unnerving beat. His silence is a weapon.

<center>GRIBBS</center>

> Any... observations?

The question hangs in the air, loaded. He isn't asking about the broadcast.

Margot swallows, her throat dry. She keeps her expression perfectly neutral. A shield built over decades.

<center>MARGOT</center>

> Just the cold, Collector. Always the cold.

A muscle twitches in Gribbs’s jaw.

<center>GRIBBS</center>

> Indeed. Carry on, then.

He turns and strides out. His boots ECHO with unnerving finality.

Margot lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The tremor in her hand returns, stronger this time. She pushes herself up, her limbs heavy.

The hall is almost empty. Just the lingering chill.

Her eyes scan the benches, drawn to where the Young Woman sat. Her gaze drops to the floor beneath the bench.

Something small, grey, and crinkled. The nutrient bar wrapper.

She hesitates. A war plays out behind her eyes. Every instinct for self-preservation screams at her to walk away.

She doesn't.

She bends slowly, her old bones protesting, and picks it up. It’s just a flimsy piece of trash.

As she straightens, her cold fingers brush the inside surface. She feels something. An indentation.

She squints, bringing it closer to the weak, bruised light from the window.

CLOSE ON THE WRAPPER

Faintly etched into the foil, almost invisible, is a single, crudely scratched word.

CLOSE ON MARGOT

Her eyes widen. Her vision swims. A lifetime of quiet submission shatters in an instant.

The word is:

`RESIST`

[SCENE END]