The Index of Lost Selves
In the dusty microfilm room of a public library, a disgraced academic searches for a memory that can clear his name, but finds a truth that could destroy him instead.
INT. CITY ARCHIVE BASEMENT - NIGHT
SOUND of a microfilm viewer's gentle WHIRRING, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights
Dust motes dance in the cones of light cast by green-shaded desk lamps. Endless shelves of cardboard boxes and metal filing cabinets stretch into deep, oppressive shadows. This is a tomb of forgotten history.
DENNY ALLEN (40s), intense and sleep-deprived, sits hunched over a microfilm viewer. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he isn't reading. His hand rests on the plastic reel, fingers tracing its edge, his expression one of deep concentration. He’s listening for something no one else can hear.
He shakes his head, frustrated. Pulls the reel out. Grabs another faded cardboard box from a stack beside him. Label: 'Toronto Star - 1972'. He opens it, lifts a reel. His fingers graze the acetate, searching. Nothing. He shoves it aside.
Across the room, behind a large oak desk piled high with books, JUDY (50s) watches him. She wears a cardigan and sensible shoes. She stamps a book with a quiet, efficient THUD. Her eyes, however, miss nothing.
She rises, her movements economical.
JUDY
Finding everything you need, Mr. Allen?
Denny doesn't look up. He pulls another box from a shelf. The label is faded: 'Regional Council Meetings, Jan-Mar 1988'.
DENNY
Still looking.
He opens the box. Lifts the reel inside. He freezes.
CLOSE ON DENNY'S FINGERS
They tremble slightly. A subtle warmth seems to emanate from the plastic. He can feel a faint, almost imperceptible VIBRATION. This is it. Reel 73B.
A flicker of desperate hope crosses his face. He carries the reel to the viewer, his hands shaking as he threads the film.
Judy shelves books nearby, her presence a silent weight.
JUDY
Big project you're working on.
Denny’s focus is absolute, his fingers moving with practiced speed.
JUDY (CONT'D)
Must be important, spending so much time down here with the dead.
DENNY
(strained)
History is important. Learning from the past.
Judy places a heavy tome on a shelf. The THUD echoes in the silence.
JUDY
Is that what you're doing? Learning?
She turns, her gaze finally locking onto him. It is sharp, knowing.
JUDY (CONT'D)
Or are you trying to rewrite it? The past doesn't like being changed, Mr. Allen. It has a way of pushing back.
Denny ignores her. He turns the crank on the viewer, advancing the film. The screen flickers. Grainy mastheads of forgotten newspapers fly past. Static. He turns faster, a blur of mundane history.
He stops. A series of frames, completely black. An anomaly.
He takes a deep, ragged breath. His hand hovers over the projection lamp switch. Everything rests on this. He flips it.
The weak yellow bulb of the viewer does not light up.
Instead, a vivid, three-dimensional image POURS from the lens, flooding the dark corner of the basement. The air grows cold.
SOUND of the basement fades, replaced by the HISS of gas burners and the anxious BUBBLING of liquid in glass.
**MEMORY - ALCHEMICAL LAB**
The projected light solidifies. Denny is no longer in the archive. He stands, an unseen observer, in a stone-walled laboratory. The air smells of ozone and strange herbs.
In the center of the room, Denny’s MENTOR (60s, academic, frantic) stands before a complex array of bubbling glassware and copper wiring. He argues with ALISTAIR FINCH (50s, sharp suit, greedy eyes).
MENTOR
It's too unstable! We have to abort!
FINCH
We're too close. The client is waiting!
Denny leans forward, his heart pounding in his chest. Vindication. This is the proof he sacrificed everything for.
But the memory is not stable.
THE POV SHIFTS, swinging wildly around the room like a handheld camera. It whips past Finch's greedy face... past his Mentor's panicked expression...
And settles on a third figure standing in the shadows.
A YOUNG MAN (early 20s), barely out of university. He holds a small, intricate metal box.
It is a young Denny Allen.
Denny watches, frozen in horror, as his younger self opens the box.
YOUNG DENNY
(a single, sibilant whisper)
(subtitled)
*Anfractus.*
A wave of PURE DARKNESS erupts from the box. It slams into the alchemical apparatus.
The glassware EXPLODES in a blinding flash of white light.
**END MEMORY**
INT. CITY ARCHIVE BASEMENT - NIGHT
SOUND of a chair CLATTERING against the concrete floor
Denny stumbles backward, away from the viewer, his face a mask of utter devastation. The projected light is gone. The basement is just a basement again.
His reality has shattered. He wasn't the loyal apprentice. He was the saboteur.
He looks up, his mind reeling.
Judy stands directly over him. Her cardigan and librarian demeanor are gone, replaced by a calm, absolute authority. An enforcer.
She isn't holding a book. Her hand is outstretched, palm facing him. Waiting to deliver the past's judgment.
SOUND of a microfilm viewer's gentle WHIRRING, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights
Dust motes dance in the cones of light cast by green-shaded desk lamps. Endless shelves of cardboard boxes and metal filing cabinets stretch into deep, oppressive shadows. This is a tomb of forgotten history.
DENNY ALLEN (40s), intense and sleep-deprived, sits hunched over a microfilm viewer. His eyes are red-rimmed, but he isn't reading. His hand rests on the plastic reel, fingers tracing its edge, his expression one of deep concentration. He’s listening for something no one else can hear.
He shakes his head, frustrated. Pulls the reel out. Grabs another faded cardboard box from a stack beside him. Label: 'Toronto Star - 1972'. He opens it, lifts a reel. His fingers graze the acetate, searching. Nothing. He shoves it aside.
Across the room, behind a large oak desk piled high with books, JUDY (50s) watches him. She wears a cardigan and sensible shoes. She stamps a book with a quiet, efficient THUD. Her eyes, however, miss nothing.
She rises, her movements economical.
JUDY
Finding everything you need, Mr. Allen?
Denny doesn't look up. He pulls another box from a shelf. The label is faded: 'Regional Council Meetings, Jan-Mar 1988'.
DENNY
Still looking.
He opens the box. Lifts the reel inside. He freezes.
CLOSE ON DENNY'S FINGERS
They tremble slightly. A subtle warmth seems to emanate from the plastic. He can feel a faint, almost imperceptible VIBRATION. This is it. Reel 73B.
A flicker of desperate hope crosses his face. He carries the reel to the viewer, his hands shaking as he threads the film.
Judy shelves books nearby, her presence a silent weight.
JUDY
Big project you're working on.
Denny’s focus is absolute, his fingers moving with practiced speed.
JUDY (CONT'D)
Must be important, spending so much time down here with the dead.
DENNY
(strained)
History is important. Learning from the past.
Judy places a heavy tome on a shelf. The THUD echoes in the silence.
JUDY
Is that what you're doing? Learning?
She turns, her gaze finally locking onto him. It is sharp, knowing.
JUDY (CONT'D)
Or are you trying to rewrite it? The past doesn't like being changed, Mr. Allen. It has a way of pushing back.
Denny ignores her. He turns the crank on the viewer, advancing the film. The screen flickers. Grainy mastheads of forgotten newspapers fly past. Static. He turns faster, a blur of mundane history.
He stops. A series of frames, completely black. An anomaly.
He takes a deep, ragged breath. His hand hovers over the projection lamp switch. Everything rests on this. He flips it.
The weak yellow bulb of the viewer does not light up.
Instead, a vivid, three-dimensional image POURS from the lens, flooding the dark corner of the basement. The air grows cold.
SOUND of the basement fades, replaced by the HISS of gas burners and the anxious BUBBLING of liquid in glass.
**MEMORY - ALCHEMICAL LAB**
The projected light solidifies. Denny is no longer in the archive. He stands, an unseen observer, in a stone-walled laboratory. The air smells of ozone and strange herbs.
In the center of the room, Denny’s MENTOR (60s, academic, frantic) stands before a complex array of bubbling glassware and copper wiring. He argues with ALISTAIR FINCH (50s, sharp suit, greedy eyes).
MENTOR
It's too unstable! We have to abort!
FINCH
We're too close. The client is waiting!
Denny leans forward, his heart pounding in his chest. Vindication. This is the proof he sacrificed everything for.
But the memory is not stable.
THE POV SHIFTS, swinging wildly around the room like a handheld camera. It whips past Finch's greedy face... past his Mentor's panicked expression...
And settles on a third figure standing in the shadows.
A YOUNG MAN (early 20s), barely out of university. He holds a small, intricate metal box.
It is a young Denny Allen.
Denny watches, frozen in horror, as his younger self opens the box.
YOUNG DENNY
(a single, sibilant whisper)
(subtitled)
*Anfractus.*
A wave of PURE DARKNESS erupts from the box. It slams into the alchemical apparatus.
The glassware EXPLODES in a blinding flash of white light.
**END MEMORY**
INT. CITY ARCHIVE BASEMENT - NIGHT
SOUND of a chair CLATTERING against the concrete floor
Denny stumbles backward, away from the viewer, his face a mask of utter devastation. The projected light is gone. The basement is just a basement again.
His reality has shattered. He wasn't the loyal apprentice. He was the saboteur.
He looks up, his mind reeling.
Judy stands directly over him. Her cardigan and librarian demeanor are gone, replaced by a calm, absolute authority. An enforcer.
She isn't holding a book. Her hand is outstretched, palm facing him. Waiting to deliver the past's judgment.