A Script for The Grey Processing

[SCENE START]

**INT. DREAM - THE PROCESSING PLANT - NIGHT**

A low, pervasive HUM. Not a sound, but a VIBRATION that permeates everything.

Through a warped, glass-like filter, we see a CONVEYOR BELT. It isn't metal, but a smooth, grey, biological surface that PULSES with a faint internal light.

On the belt, an endless procession of HUMAN LIMBS. Arms, legs. Perfectly preserved. The skin is waxy, the color of old parchment, with blue-black veins visible beneath the surface. It is unnervingly clean. No blood. No gristle. Just sterile components, gliding into dimness.

We are ETHAN (30s, gaunt, haunted), but we don't see him. This is his POV. He is a paralyzed spectator. He tries to move, to look away, but cannot.

His breath is shallow, thin. He tries to scream. A raw, silent effort. The sound is swallowed by the HUM.

In the periphery, FACES float. Vague, indistinct, their eyes hollow but filled with an unsettling calm. They watch the belt. They watch him.

The belt speeds up, just a fraction. A rhythmic THUD begins, deep and resonant, echoing the belt's journey.

The faces multiply, pressing closer. Their calm eyes now hold a faint, almost imperceptible GLOW. They are no longer just observing. They are waiting.

For him.

**INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - NIGHT**

Ethan’s eyes flutter open.

A thin sliver of GREY LIGHT, the color of diluted ash, cuts past a blackout curtain.

The HUM is still here. A low THUM against his pillow, emanating from a ventilation grate in the ferro-crete wall.

He lies on a thin mattress on a battered cot. His face is slick with cold sweat. His chest aches with a dull pressure. The air is stale, smelling of dust and the faint metallic tang of the dream.

He tries to move. His limbs are leaden, heavy with the dream's inertia. A sharp CRAMP seizes his calf. He grits his teeth.

With a groan, he pushes himself up. The mattress CREAKS in protest.

He stumbles to a small, grimy window. Condensation streaks the inside. Outside, just a grey-white smear against the night. No stars.

**INT. DREAM - RUINED CITY - NIGHT**

SLAM! Ethan is on his feet, RUNNING.

The world is a labyrinth of skeletal, ruined skyscrapers reaching for a sky the color of bruised plums. The air is thick with gritty dust. His vision blurs, like a faulty optical implant.

His worn boots slap against cracked pavement, the sound unnaturally loud.

Behind him, the sound of FOOTSTEPS. Rhythmic. Heavy. A metallic CLATTER breaks the silence. Not human.

He risks a glance over his shoulder. In a shard of broken glass, a distorted reflection: TALL, GAUNT FIGURES in dark, segmented armor. Their faces are smooth, reflective visors, mirroring the desolate sky. THE WATCHERS.

The city shifts. A wall crumbles, blocking his path. A new, claustrophobic alleyway opens to his left. He darts into it.

He stumbles, his knee scraping against jagged rebar. A jolt of pain, sharp and real.

The footsteps are closer now. A cold pressure on the back of his neck. A desperate sob catches in his throat.

He sprints down a narrow passage between two leaning structures. At the far end, a flicker of light. It grows, morphing into a SHIMMERING CURTAIN, almost liquid, just like the one from the processing plant.

With no other choice, he plunges through it.

The sensation of being torn apart. His dream-body disintegrates into a thousand screaming fragments of light and shadow.

**INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - NIGHT**

Ethan JOLTS upright in bed, gasping.

His body is drenched in sweat. The thin bedclothes are twisted around his legs like a shroud.

His bare feet hit the cold, grimy floor with a dull THUD. He looks around the small, grey room. The cot. A faded poster of a pre-Collapse forest—a cruel mockery of green.

His eyes fix on a small digital clock on the wall. The weak red glow reads:

04:17

He shivers, pulling a worn blanket around his shoulders. The dreams are getting worse. Calculated.

**INT. DREAM - THE BLACK STAGE - NIGHT**

INSTANTLY, the room vanishes.

Ethan stands in a void. He is a puppet. His body isn’t his own.

A blur of MOCKING FACES surrounds him, all identical, all smiling too wide, their teeth too numerous, too sharp. Their WHISPERS are a deafening roar.

His limbs jerk. He is forced to his knees. His tongue, not his own, licks the polished black floor. Laughter, not his own, bubbles from his chest.

His eyes, which he cannot close, are wide with horror. He is trapped inside, a screaming witness to his own degradation.

He sees his reflection in the polished surface beneath him. His face is twisted into a grotesque grin.

For a split second, another face is SUPERIMPOSED over his. MARTA (20s). Her eyes are filled with unshed tears, pleading with him.

The shame is a physical blow. His hands, still not his own, reach up—not to tear at the mask of his face, but to perform a ridiculous, jerky dance for the laughing audience.

The dream dissolves. A slow, sickening fade.

**INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - NIGHT**

Ethan is on the edge of his cot, his body trembling.

His hands are clenched into tight fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The sharp pain is a welcome anchor. Real.

He looks at the clock.

04:17

Time hasn't moved.

He swings his legs over the side of the cot. The ever-present HUM of the ventilation unit seems louder now, an irritating drone.

He walks to a flimsy metal desk bolted to the wall. On it sits a small, battered DATAPAD.

He taps the screen. The faint light illuminates the dread in his eyes. The screen flickers with static, then settles on a drab, grey interface.

His designated tasks for the day appear in block letters:

COMPONENT ASSEMBLY, SECTOR 7.

The same as always.

Then, the screen FLICKERS again. This time, it’s not static.

For one shocking moment, a single, stark SYMBOL pulses on the screen. It is BRIGHT GREEN, an alien color in this world of grey. A symbol from the darkest parts of his mind.

It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving the grey interface behind.

Ethan stares, his breath hitched.

CLICK.

A soft, metallic sound from his door. Someone is there. The lock has just been disengaged.

Ethan freezes. His eyes wide, fixed on the door.

The HUM continues, indifferent.

[SCENE END]