Green Static
Buried beneath the war-torn Sprawl, a soldier finds himself trapped in a basement that defies the logic of the conflict above. In the silence between artillery shells, an enemy becomes a mirror, and a broken radio offers a strange, singular moment of grace.
EXT. SECTOR FOUR - DAY
A landscape of ruin under a bruised purple sky. Acidic RAIN streaks down.
SPECIALIST JAVI (20s), encased in heavy, battered environmental armor, wades thigh-deep through a sea of iridescent violet sludge -- the "Creep." It clings to his legs like thick, living oil.
His incinerator unit, a block of stamped steel slung at his side, HUMS. The nozzle glows a dull cherry red, HISSING as raindrops hit the hot metal.
He taps his helmet. Static fills his ears -- not white noise, but a wet, rhythmic THRUMMING. Like breathing.
JAVI
> (Voice cracked, dry)
> Control, this is Specialist Javi. Structural compromise in Grid Nine. The roots... they've eaten through the retaining wall. Over.
Nothing but the breathing static.
A sound cuts through the rain. A sharp CLICK. Mechanical. Precise.
Javi freezes. He scans the desolate highway rubble. The rain slicks his visor. He wipes it with a gauntlet, smearing grime.
The sound again, closer. CLICK-WHIRR.
It's coming from beneath him.
He looks down. The slab of broken concrete he stands on GROANS. Not breaking, but dissolving. Rebar snaps like GUNSHOTS.
The world tilts. Javi shouts as the ground gives way.
He plunges into darkness. A cascade of wet concrete and writhing purple vines falls with him.
INT. MAINTENANCE BUNKER - CONTINUOUS
Javi hits the floor hard. A flash of pain. The air is knocked from his lungs.
Red text flashes across his visor: `SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.` `TOXIC ATMOSPHERE DETECTED.` He swats the warnings away with a gesture, gasping for air that smells of dust and old paper.
His incinerator skitters away, its flashlight attachment sending a wild beam swinging through the dark.
The beam slices across a wall. A shelf. A FACE.
Javi scrambles back, hand fumbling for his sidearm. The holster is jammed with grit. He yanks the pistol free, leveling it. His heart HAMMERS.
The beam stabilizes on a figure sitting calmly in a chair.
It’s a soldier. Matte-black armor, a crimson chevron on the shoulder. An enemy. A Scythe.
The soldier, SENNA (20s), has her helmet off. Her head is shaved, revealing a jagged scar. Her face is smeared with grease, but her pale eyes are clear and steady. She holds a small screwdriver.
JAVI
> (Raspy)
> Don't move.
Senna holds up one hand, palm open.
SENNA
> Your safety is on.
Javi glances down. She’s right. His thumb, trembling, flicks it off.
JAVI
> Drop the tool.
She doesn't drop it. She sets it down gently on a metal table beside her.
SENNA
> You fell twenty feet. Lucky the vines cushioned the landing. If you shoot that thing in here, the ricochet will kill us both. Walls are reinforced duracrete. We're in a bunker.
JAVI
> Hands where I can see them.
She raises her hands slowly. She nods toward his leg.
SENNA
> You're bleeding.
Javi looks. A piece of rebar has torn through his suit. Dark blood mixes with hydraulic fluid. The shock is keeping the pain at bay.
JAVI
> I'm fine.
He tries to stand. His leg buckles. He hits the floor, cursing.
SENNA
> Sit down. The ceiling is compromised. You thrash around, you'll bring the rest of the highway down on us.
Javi drags himself until his back is against a metal cabinet. He keeps the gun up.
JAVI
> Who are you? What are you doing here?
Senna gestures to the name stenciled on his chest plate.
SENNA
> My name is irrelevant to you, Javi. And I'm doing what you were doing. Getting out of the rain.
She turns back to the table, picking up the screwdriver. She works on an old, analog radio box.
JAVI
> Stop moving.
SENNA
> (Without looking up)
> I'm fixing the tragic alignment of this coil. If I stop, the solder cools. Do you have a cigarette?
Javi lowers the pistol an inch, confused.
JAVI
> What?
SENNA
> A cigarette. They stopped issuing them. Said it interfered with the ocular implants. I don't have implants. I just get the withdrawal.
JAVI
> I don't smoke. Kills your lung capacity.
Senna snorts.
SENNA
> The air up there has forty parts per million of pulverized asbestos. I think we're past worrying about lung capacity.
Javi takes in the room. A maintenance sub-basement. Pipes sweat condensation. In the corner, a battery-operated lantern casts a warm, yellow glow. A rolled-up sleeping bag. A stack of cans.
JAVI
> You're a deserter.
SENNA
> I'm on extended leave. And you're a terrible shot. I've been watching your patrol patterns for three days. You walk with a limp. Hip injury?
JAVI
> (Muttering)
> Suit malfunction.
He holsters his weapon. It feels useless.
JAVI
> Why didn't you kill me?
Senna pauses her work.
SENNA
> I needed a battery. My lantern is dying.
Javi lets out a dry, hacking laugh.
JAVI
> You spared me for a battery?
SENNA
> And I was bored. It's very quiet down here. The Creep absorbs sound waves.
Javi reaches down, unclips the auxiliary power cell from his thigh armor. A heavy, warm brick. He tosses it to her. She catches it with one hand, not looking up.
SENNA
> Thanks.
JAVI
> So what is that?
SENNA
> A receiver. Shortwave. Found it in an antique shop before we leveled it.
She pops the back of the radio and jams the battery inside. SPARKS shower the table.
SENNA
> Digital frequencies are jammed. But the old analog waves... the spore layer in the atmosphere acts like a mirror.
JAVI
> Mirror for what? No one's broadcasting analog.
SENNA
> Not stations. Echoes. Ghosts.
She turns a dial. A burst of harsh STATIC fills the room. Javi flinches. She adjusts it again, her touch delicate. The static smooths into a HUM.
Then, a voice. Faint. Garbled.
RADIO (V.O.)
> ...precipitation in the valley... moderate winds... expect clear skies by morning...
Javi stares at the box.
JAVI
> That's a weather report.
SENNA
> From 2040. Maybe 2050. It loops. Trapped.
JAVI
> Why? What's the point?
Senna looks at him and gives a small, tired, crooked smile.
SENNA
> Because he says 'clear skies.' Do you remember clear skies, Javi?
Javi thinks. He was born in the tunnels. The sky has always been this color.
JAVI
> No.
SENNA
> Listen.
She tunes the dial again. The weather report fades. A high-pitched whine drops into a rhythmic THUMPING. Drums. A fuzzy bass line.
Then a SAXOPHONE cuts through the noise. Mournful. Slow. Messy. You can hear the player take a breath.
Javi's own breath hitches.
SENNA
> Jazz. I think.
They sit in the dim light. The pain in Javi's leg recedes to a dull throb. The metallic tang of blood is replaced by the smell of hot copper wire and burning dust.
SENNA
> I have peaches.
Javi blinks. Senna reaches under the table and pulls out a civilian preservation pouch. She tosses it to him. It feels heavy, liquid.
JAVI
> I can't. That's... gold.
SENNA
> Eat it. I'm allergic. I just like the smell.
Javi tears the top off. The scent hits him -- sweet, floral, acidic. His mouth waters. He takes a sip of the thick syrup, then lets a soft slice slide into his mouth.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, he is just a person eating a peach.
SENNA
> Good?
JAVI
> (Whispering)
> My god. It tastes like... color. Like orange.
Senna laughs softly. She leans back, closing her eyes, listening to the saxophone.
SENNA
> My name is Senna.
JAVI
> Javi.
SENNA
> Well, Javi. Welcome to the lounge.
A dull THUD from above shakes dust from the ceiling. Mortar fire. Javi doesn't care.
SENNA
> (Eyes still closed)
> You know, if they find us, they'll court-martial us both. Fraternizing.
JAVI
> They won't find us. The Creep masks thermal signatures.
SENNA
> We could stay. Air scrubbers are good for a week. I have water.
Javi looks at her. At the scar. At the exhaustion etched into her face.
JAVI
> A week. And then?
SENNA
> Then we starve. Or the Creep gets in. Or we shoot each other over the last can of beans.
JAVI
> Sounds better than the surface.
Senna opens her eyes. A look of sharp recognition passes between them.
SENNA
> I have a deck of cards. Missing the Jack of Diamonds, but it works.
JAVI
> I know a game. It's called 'Liar.'
SENNA
> Appropriate.
She shuffles the soft, frayed cards, dealing them onto the table. The SLAP of the cards is loud in the quiet room.
SENNA
> Tell me something real, Javi. Not the propaganda. What do you miss?
Javi looks at his hand. A three, a seven, a Queen.
JAVI
> I miss the silence. Real silence. Not the waiting-for-a-bomb silence. Just... nothing.
SENNA
> I miss dogs. Saw a picture of one once. It looked soft.
JAVI
> I think they're extinct.
SENNA
> I know. That's why I miss them.
They play. They talk. They laugh at things that aren't funny.
Suddenly, the light on the radio flickers and dies. The music cuts out. The silence that returns is heavy, oppressive.
SENNA
> (Tapping the battery)
> Yours was almost dead too.
JAVI
> Standard issue.
The reality of the room rushes back. The cold. The damp. The pain in Javi's leg flares.
JAVI
> I have to go.
Senna doesn't argue. She gathers the cards.
SENNA
> If you stay, the infection in that leg will kill you. You need antibiotics.
Javi struggles to his feet. His suit WHINES. The HUD flashes `POWER CRITICAL.`
JAVI
> What about you?
Senna picks up her screwdriver.
SENNA
> I have work to do. Maybe I can get a signal from the moon.
JAVI
> Senna. Come with me. I can say I took you prisoner. It's better than this.
She gives him that crooked smile.
SENNA
> Processed. That means a camp. Interrogation. No thanks. I like my lounge.
Javi nods. He understands. He limps to the pile of rubble where he fell. A shaft of grey light filters down.
SENNA
> Hey.
Javi turns.
She tosses something to him. He catches it. A playing card. The Jack of Diamonds.
SENNA
> Keep it. For luck.
JAVI
> Luck is a statistical anomaly.
SENNA
> (Gently)
> Get out of here, Javi.
He triggers his jump-jets.
EXT. SECTOR FOUR - CONTINUOUS
With a brutal WHINE and a shove, Javi bursts through the layer of vines, landing hard on the wet asphalt. The rain is heavier. The smell of rot and sulfur is overwhelming.
He looks down at the hole. The purple vines are already moving, slithering across the opening, knitting it shut like a wound. In seconds, the ground is solid purple again. The bunker is gone.
Javi stands there for a long moment, rain drumming on his armor.
He opens his hand. The Jack of Diamonds is damp, peeling at the corners. A soldier with a weapon, looking two ways at once.
JAVI
> (To himself)
> Unexpected.
He carefully tucks the card into the seal of his glove, against his skin.
Then he turns and begins the long, slow walk back to the war.
A landscape of ruin under a bruised purple sky. Acidic RAIN streaks down.
SPECIALIST JAVI (20s), encased in heavy, battered environmental armor, wades thigh-deep through a sea of iridescent violet sludge -- the "Creep." It clings to his legs like thick, living oil.
His incinerator unit, a block of stamped steel slung at his side, HUMS. The nozzle glows a dull cherry red, HISSING as raindrops hit the hot metal.
He taps his helmet. Static fills his ears -- not white noise, but a wet, rhythmic THRUMMING. Like breathing.
JAVI
> (Voice cracked, dry)
> Control, this is Specialist Javi. Structural compromise in Grid Nine. The roots... they've eaten through the retaining wall. Over.
Nothing but the breathing static.
A sound cuts through the rain. A sharp CLICK. Mechanical. Precise.
Javi freezes. He scans the desolate highway rubble. The rain slicks his visor. He wipes it with a gauntlet, smearing grime.
The sound again, closer. CLICK-WHIRR.
It's coming from beneath him.
He looks down. The slab of broken concrete he stands on GROANS. Not breaking, but dissolving. Rebar snaps like GUNSHOTS.
The world tilts. Javi shouts as the ground gives way.
He plunges into darkness. A cascade of wet concrete and writhing purple vines falls with him.
INT. MAINTENANCE BUNKER - CONTINUOUS
Javi hits the floor hard. A flash of pain. The air is knocked from his lungs.
Red text flashes across his visor: `SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.` `TOXIC ATMOSPHERE DETECTED.` He swats the warnings away with a gesture, gasping for air that smells of dust and old paper.
His incinerator skitters away, its flashlight attachment sending a wild beam swinging through the dark.
The beam slices across a wall. A shelf. A FACE.
Javi scrambles back, hand fumbling for his sidearm. The holster is jammed with grit. He yanks the pistol free, leveling it. His heart HAMMERS.
The beam stabilizes on a figure sitting calmly in a chair.
It’s a soldier. Matte-black armor, a crimson chevron on the shoulder. An enemy. A Scythe.
The soldier, SENNA (20s), has her helmet off. Her head is shaved, revealing a jagged scar. Her face is smeared with grease, but her pale eyes are clear and steady. She holds a small screwdriver.
JAVI
> (Raspy)
> Don't move.
Senna holds up one hand, palm open.
SENNA
> Your safety is on.
Javi glances down. She’s right. His thumb, trembling, flicks it off.
JAVI
> Drop the tool.
She doesn't drop it. She sets it down gently on a metal table beside her.
SENNA
> You fell twenty feet. Lucky the vines cushioned the landing. If you shoot that thing in here, the ricochet will kill us both. Walls are reinforced duracrete. We're in a bunker.
JAVI
> Hands where I can see them.
She raises her hands slowly. She nods toward his leg.
SENNA
> You're bleeding.
Javi looks. A piece of rebar has torn through his suit. Dark blood mixes with hydraulic fluid. The shock is keeping the pain at bay.
JAVI
> I'm fine.
He tries to stand. His leg buckles. He hits the floor, cursing.
SENNA
> Sit down. The ceiling is compromised. You thrash around, you'll bring the rest of the highway down on us.
Javi drags himself until his back is against a metal cabinet. He keeps the gun up.
JAVI
> Who are you? What are you doing here?
Senna gestures to the name stenciled on his chest plate.
SENNA
> My name is irrelevant to you, Javi. And I'm doing what you were doing. Getting out of the rain.
She turns back to the table, picking up the screwdriver. She works on an old, analog radio box.
JAVI
> Stop moving.
SENNA
> (Without looking up)
> I'm fixing the tragic alignment of this coil. If I stop, the solder cools. Do you have a cigarette?
Javi lowers the pistol an inch, confused.
JAVI
> What?
SENNA
> A cigarette. They stopped issuing them. Said it interfered with the ocular implants. I don't have implants. I just get the withdrawal.
JAVI
> I don't smoke. Kills your lung capacity.
Senna snorts.
SENNA
> The air up there has forty parts per million of pulverized asbestos. I think we're past worrying about lung capacity.
Javi takes in the room. A maintenance sub-basement. Pipes sweat condensation. In the corner, a battery-operated lantern casts a warm, yellow glow. A rolled-up sleeping bag. A stack of cans.
JAVI
> You're a deserter.
SENNA
> I'm on extended leave. And you're a terrible shot. I've been watching your patrol patterns for three days. You walk with a limp. Hip injury?
JAVI
> (Muttering)
> Suit malfunction.
He holsters his weapon. It feels useless.
JAVI
> Why didn't you kill me?
Senna pauses her work.
SENNA
> I needed a battery. My lantern is dying.
Javi lets out a dry, hacking laugh.
JAVI
> You spared me for a battery?
SENNA
> And I was bored. It's very quiet down here. The Creep absorbs sound waves.
Javi reaches down, unclips the auxiliary power cell from his thigh armor. A heavy, warm brick. He tosses it to her. She catches it with one hand, not looking up.
SENNA
> Thanks.
JAVI
> So what is that?
SENNA
> A receiver. Shortwave. Found it in an antique shop before we leveled it.
She pops the back of the radio and jams the battery inside. SPARKS shower the table.
SENNA
> Digital frequencies are jammed. But the old analog waves... the spore layer in the atmosphere acts like a mirror.
JAVI
> Mirror for what? No one's broadcasting analog.
SENNA
> Not stations. Echoes. Ghosts.
She turns a dial. A burst of harsh STATIC fills the room. Javi flinches. She adjusts it again, her touch delicate. The static smooths into a HUM.
Then, a voice. Faint. Garbled.
RADIO (V.O.)
> ...precipitation in the valley... moderate winds... expect clear skies by morning...
Javi stares at the box.
JAVI
> That's a weather report.
SENNA
> From 2040. Maybe 2050. It loops. Trapped.
JAVI
> Why? What's the point?
Senna looks at him and gives a small, tired, crooked smile.
SENNA
> Because he says 'clear skies.' Do you remember clear skies, Javi?
Javi thinks. He was born in the tunnels. The sky has always been this color.
JAVI
> No.
SENNA
> Listen.
She tunes the dial again. The weather report fades. A high-pitched whine drops into a rhythmic THUMPING. Drums. A fuzzy bass line.
Then a SAXOPHONE cuts through the noise. Mournful. Slow. Messy. You can hear the player take a breath.
Javi's own breath hitches.
SENNA
> Jazz. I think.
They sit in the dim light. The pain in Javi's leg recedes to a dull throb. The metallic tang of blood is replaced by the smell of hot copper wire and burning dust.
SENNA
> I have peaches.
Javi blinks. Senna reaches under the table and pulls out a civilian preservation pouch. She tosses it to him. It feels heavy, liquid.
JAVI
> I can't. That's... gold.
SENNA
> Eat it. I'm allergic. I just like the smell.
Javi tears the top off. The scent hits him -- sweet, floral, acidic. His mouth waters. He takes a sip of the thick syrup, then lets a soft slice slide into his mouth.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, he is just a person eating a peach.
SENNA
> Good?
JAVI
> (Whispering)
> My god. It tastes like... color. Like orange.
Senna laughs softly. She leans back, closing her eyes, listening to the saxophone.
SENNA
> My name is Senna.
JAVI
> Javi.
SENNA
> Well, Javi. Welcome to the lounge.
A dull THUD from above shakes dust from the ceiling. Mortar fire. Javi doesn't care.
SENNA
> (Eyes still closed)
> You know, if they find us, they'll court-martial us both. Fraternizing.
JAVI
> They won't find us. The Creep masks thermal signatures.
SENNA
> We could stay. Air scrubbers are good for a week. I have water.
Javi looks at her. At the scar. At the exhaustion etched into her face.
JAVI
> A week. And then?
SENNA
> Then we starve. Or the Creep gets in. Or we shoot each other over the last can of beans.
JAVI
> Sounds better than the surface.
Senna opens her eyes. A look of sharp recognition passes between them.
SENNA
> I have a deck of cards. Missing the Jack of Diamonds, but it works.
JAVI
> I know a game. It's called 'Liar.'
SENNA
> Appropriate.
She shuffles the soft, frayed cards, dealing them onto the table. The SLAP of the cards is loud in the quiet room.
SENNA
> Tell me something real, Javi. Not the propaganda. What do you miss?
Javi looks at his hand. A three, a seven, a Queen.
JAVI
> I miss the silence. Real silence. Not the waiting-for-a-bomb silence. Just... nothing.
SENNA
> I miss dogs. Saw a picture of one once. It looked soft.
JAVI
> I think they're extinct.
SENNA
> I know. That's why I miss them.
They play. They talk. They laugh at things that aren't funny.
Suddenly, the light on the radio flickers and dies. The music cuts out. The silence that returns is heavy, oppressive.
SENNA
> (Tapping the battery)
> Yours was almost dead too.
JAVI
> Standard issue.
The reality of the room rushes back. The cold. The damp. The pain in Javi's leg flares.
JAVI
> I have to go.
Senna doesn't argue. She gathers the cards.
SENNA
> If you stay, the infection in that leg will kill you. You need antibiotics.
Javi struggles to his feet. His suit WHINES. The HUD flashes `POWER CRITICAL.`
JAVI
> What about you?
Senna picks up her screwdriver.
SENNA
> I have work to do. Maybe I can get a signal from the moon.
JAVI
> Senna. Come with me. I can say I took you prisoner. It's better than this.
She gives him that crooked smile.
SENNA
> Processed. That means a camp. Interrogation. No thanks. I like my lounge.
Javi nods. He understands. He limps to the pile of rubble where he fell. A shaft of grey light filters down.
SENNA
> Hey.
Javi turns.
She tosses something to him. He catches it. A playing card. The Jack of Diamonds.
SENNA
> Keep it. For luck.
JAVI
> Luck is a statistical anomaly.
SENNA
> (Gently)
> Get out of here, Javi.
He triggers his jump-jets.
EXT. SECTOR FOUR - CONTINUOUS
With a brutal WHINE and a shove, Javi bursts through the layer of vines, landing hard on the wet asphalt. The rain is heavier. The smell of rot and sulfur is overwhelming.
He looks down at the hole. The purple vines are already moving, slithering across the opening, knitting it shut like a wound. In seconds, the ground is solid purple again. The bunker is gone.
Javi stands there for a long moment, rain drumming on his armor.
He opens his hand. The Jack of Diamonds is damp, peeling at the corners. A soldier with a weapon, looking two ways at once.
JAVI
> (To himself)
> Unexpected.
He carefully tucks the card into the seal of his glove, against his skin.
Then he turns and begins the long, slow walk back to the war.