The Regulator
In a steam-choked, frozen Winnipeg, a teenager navigates the brutal cold and his own scattered thoughts to trade a piece of scrap that might save his winter.
EXT. PORTAGE AND MAIN - MORNING
A brutal, ceaseless wind scours the icy cobblestones. It carries grit and snow that moves horizontally.
CALEB (17), face obscured by goggles and a brass-rimmed respirator, runs. He’s thin, wrapped in layers of worn canvas and wool. A clunky, hydraulic KNEE-BRACE on his left leg whirs and leaks a thin trail of black fluid onto his pants.
His breath snap-freezes on the respirator’s rim like sugar glass. He tastes cold copper.
He sprints, boots with crude spikes slipping and catching on the ice. He’s running for his life.
Around the corner, an 11-B STEAM-TRAM, a two-story behemoth of riveted iron and frosted glass, screeches to a stop. It hisses steam from a dozen vents, throwing sparks from its steel wheels like angry fireflies.
A cluster of men in top hats and greatcoats huddle under a heat-lamp awning, their breath puffing in synchronized bursts. They ignore Caleb.
The tram’s CONDUCTOR leans out, slamming a wrench against a jammed door mechanism.
CONDUCTOR
> Move it or lose it!
The warning is thin, nearly swallowed by the wind and the roar of the tram’s boiler.
Caleb pushes harder. He leaps.
His knee-brace screams a metallic protest. He grabs a freezing iron handrail, the cold burning through his leather glove. He hauls himself up the steps.
The pneumatic doors behind him HISS shut, slicing off the wind like a guillotine.
INT. STEAM-TRAM - CONTINUOUS
Sudden, relative silence. The thrum of the engine. The wet-wool smell of fifty bodies. Coal dust. Burnt sugar.
Caleb shoves his way through the packed crowd.
GRIM MAN
> Watch it.
The GRIM MAN has a cracked mechanical eye-piece.
CALEB
> Sorry.
Caleb finds a corner to lean in. A hot flash of panic. He pats the heavy canvas of his coat. Feels a hard lump. Relief washes over his face. The regulator valve.
The tram LURCHES forward, gears grinding like gnashing teeth.
Caleb leans his forehead against the cold glass. Frost ferns creep across the inside of the pane. His gaze drifts across the car, landing on SASHA (17), a girl from his class. She clutches an old wooden violin case like a life raft. He looks away quickly.
The heater vent at his feet blows lukewarm air that smells of old socks. He can’t feel his toes.
His refurbished, brick-sized COMMUNICATOR buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles it out with gloved hands. A message from JULES.
`U on the 11?`
Caleb types back, clumsy.
`Yeah. Back corner. Smells like feet.`
`Coming.`
A loud THUMP from the roof of the tram. A few passengers look up, startled. Caleb just sighs.
The rear emergency hatch pops open. JULES (17) drops inside, grinning, a cloud of steam billowing in with him. He wears a pilot’s cap with ear flaps and a clunky, worn-down hydraulic exosuit. He slams the hatch shut.
The Conductor yells something unintelligible from the front.
CALEB
> You’re insane.
JULES
> (Wiping snow from his goggles)
> Did you see the air I got? The hydraulics on the legs are primed, man. I flew.
CALEB
> You dented the roof. I heard it.
JULES
> Battle scars. Adds character.
Jules squeezes in next to him, smelling of grease and cinnamon. He pulls a squashed, lint-covered pastry from his pocket.
JULES
> Want a bite?
CALEB
> Pass.
JULES
> (Taking a huge bite)
> Suit yourself. So. You got the thing?
Caleb pats his pocket.
CALEB
> Yeah. Taking it to Old Man Miller’s shop. Hoping he gives me forty bits for it.
JULES
> Forty? You’re dreaming. It’s a Type-4 regulator. Common as muck. You’ll get twenty. Maybe twenty-five if you smile and show him your dimples.
CALEB
> I don’t have dimples.
JULES
> You have emotional dimples. You look sad. People pay for sadness. Pity tax.
CALEB
> Shut up.
Caleb looks out the window. Grey buildings crusted with ice. External steam pipes pulse like veins. In the distance, the Golden Boy statue on the legislative building spins wildly in the wind.
They pass a homeless shelter. A line of people huddle over a steam grate, wrapped in grey blankets. A man tries to light a cigarette, the wind killing the flame again and again. Caleb looks away.
JULES
> Hey. Look at that.
Jules points toward the front of the car. At Sasha.
JULES
> That’s the girl from the orchestra. The one you were staring at during assembly.
CALEB
> I wasn’t staring. That’s not her.
JULES
> It is. It’s... what’s her name? Clara? Sarah?
CALEB
> Sasha.
Caleb regrets it instantly. Jules gets a wolfish grin.
JULES
> Sasha. Right. You know her name. Creep.
CALEB
> She’s in my History of Mechanics class. It’s not creepy.
JULES
> Go talk to her.
CALEB
> No.
JULES
> Why? You’re trapped in a metal box together. It’s fate. It’s destiny. It’s--
A deafening SCREECH of tearing metal. The tram lurches violently. Passengers stumble and fall. Caleb slams into the Grim Man.
GRIM MAN
> Watch it, kid!
The lights flicker. Die. The engine hum cuts out. Silence, except for the HOWL of the wind outside.
CONDUCTOR (V.O.)
> (Over a crackly intercom)
> Ladies and Gentlemen. Boiler pressure drop. Main seal blew. We’re stuck until the repair crew gets here. Could be an hour. Could be two.
A collective GROAN fills the car. The temperature is already dropping. Breath fogs in the air.
JULES
> Great. Just great. I have Physics next. If I’m late, Ms. Hersch is going to dismantle me. Literally.
CALEB
> I’m walking. I can’t wait. Miller closes at noon on Tuesdays.
JULES
> Walking? Are you nuts? It’s five blocks to the Exchange. In this?
Jules gestures to the window. The snow is a horizontal blur.
CALEB
> I have to.
JULES
> Fine. I’m coming with you. My suit has heaters.
CALEB
> Your suit leaks.
JULES
> Only a little. Come on.
They push to the doors. The Conductor has manually cranked them open a few feet.
EXT. DOWNTOWN STREET - CONTINUOUS
A blast of cold hits them like a physical blow. Tears freeze in the corners of Caleb’s eyes.
They step out into drifting snow. Caleb’s knee-brace whirs and locks, stabilizing him. They hunch their shoulders and start walking, heads down against the screaming wind.
JULES
> (Yelling over the wind)
> Why do we live here?! We could move to the bio-domes in Vancouver! Or Mars! Mars is warmer than this, right?!
CALEB
> (Yelling back)
> Mars has no atmosphere!
JULES
> Details!
They trudge past an antique shop. Inside, golden light illuminates a cat sleeping on a velvet chair. A different universe.
Ahead, a dark lump in the snow.
Caleb stops. Jules bumps into him.
JULES
> What?
CALEB
> Someone’s down.
Caleb hurries forward. An OLD WOMAN (70s) is on her knees, trying to gather spilled apples from the grey slush with BARE HANDS.
Her fingers are waxy and white.
Caleb grabs her arm. She looks up, face pale, eyes milky. Her teeth are chattering violently.
OLD WOMAN
> (Whispering)
> My apples... for the pie.
CALEB
> Leave them. You have to get up. Where are your gloves?
OLD WOMAN
> I had them... took them off. The knot was tight.
Jules is there now.
JULES
> We gotta get her inside. Look, her fingers.
CALEB
> (Pointing)
> The bank. There’s an ATM vestibule. It’s heated.
They haul the bird-light woman to her feet. She weakly reaches for the apples.
OLD WOMAN
> Cost so much... special treat.
JULES
> I’ll get them. Go. Take her.
Caleb half-drags, half-carries the woman toward the bank, fighting the wind every step.
INT. BANK VESTIBULE - CONTINUOUS
Caleb kicks the door open. The warmth inside is a shock. It smells of dust and receipt paper. He guides the Old Woman to a corner, where she slides down the wall.
OLD WOMAN
> (Whimpering)
> My hands.
She stares at her rigid, white fingers. Caleb rips his own gloves off and begins rubbing her hands, trying to create friction.
CALEB
> It’s okay. It’s okay.
The door opens and Jules stumbles in, carrying a handful of bruised, wet apples. He dumps them in her lap.
JULES
> Got ‘em.
A streak of snot is frozen on his lip. The Old Woman looks at the apples, then at the boys. Tears leak from her eyes.
OLD WOMAN
> Thank you. You boys. Thank you... I have bits. Credits.
CALEB
> No. Keep it.
JULES
> Just... make the pie. Save us a slice.
They wait. The pink slowly, painfully returns to her fingers. She winces. Pain means she’s alive.
CALEB
> We have to go.
EXT. PRINCESS STREET - MOMENTS LATER
Caleb and Jules hurry down a narrow street. Miller’s shop is ahead, a storefront with a sign made of gears. The sign is flipped to read: CLOSED.
Caleb stops dead.
CALEB
> No.
He runs to the door, rattles the handle. Locked. He cups his hands to the glass. Dark inside.
JULES
> Knock. Maybe he’s still in the back.
Caleb hammers on the glass with his fist.
CALEB
> Mr. Miller! Hey! I have the part!
Nothing. Just the wind whistling through the brickwork.
Caleb slumps against the door, defeated. He slides down to sit on the step, the cold seeping through his pants. He pulls the brass regulator valve from his pocket. It glints, beautiful and useless.
SASHA (O.S.)
> Hey.
Caleb looks up. It’s Sasha. The violin case is strapped to her back. She’s wrapped in a coat too big for her.
SASHA
> You’re from the tram.
Caleb scrambles to his feet.
CALEB
> Uh. Yeah. The one with the... yeah.
SASHA
> I saw you get off. You and your friend. I was watching. I saw you help that lady. With the apples.
CALEB
> Oh. That. Yeah. She was... stuck.
SASHA
> That was nice. Most people just walked by.
JULES
> People are busy. And cold. Cold makes people mean.
Sasha nods, then looks at the valve in Caleb’s hand.
SASHA
> What’s that?
CALEB
> Junk. I was trying to sell it. Shop’s closed.
SASHA
> Oh. Is it a Type-4 regulator?
Caleb blinks.
CALEB
> Uh, yeah. How do you know?
A small smile cracks the cold from her face.
SASHA
> My dad’s a mechanic. I grew up sorting rivets. Actually... my violin case latch is broken. The spring mechanism. It needs a small tensioner. The one inside that regulator is the exact size.
CALEB
> You... need this?
SASHA
> I can’t pay you much. I only have my lunch money and... well, I have a spare transit pass. It’s got a week of credit on it.
A week of credit. A lifeline.
CALEB
> I’ll trade you.
SASHA
> Really?
CALEB
> Yeah. Absolutely.
She digs into her pocket and hands him a blue plastic card. It’s warm from her body. He hands her the valve. Their fingers brush. A tiny spark of heat in the frozen world.
SASHA
> Thank you. You just saved my recital. If the case opens in the cold, the wood warps. I’m Sasha, by the way.
CALEB
> Caleb. And this is Jules.
SASHA
> Hi Jules.
> (to Caleb)
> See you in History of Mechanics, Caleb.
She turns and walks away, boots crunching in the snow. Caleb watches her go.
Jules punches his arm. Hard.
CALEB
> Ow.
JULES
> You got the pass. And you got the girl. Well, you talked to the girl. Progress.
Caleb looks at the transit card. Salvation. He grins.
CALEB
> Let’s go. My toes are gone.
JULES
> Cinnamon buns first?
CALEB
> Yeah. Cinnamon buns first.
They start walking. The streetlights flicker on, amber globes buzzing against the early twilight. Little suns on a wire.
The wind still howls, but it doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
JULES
> Race you.
CALEB
> You have an exosuit.
JULES
> And you have hope, Caleb! The most powerful fuel of all!
Jules laughs and takes off, metal legs clanking.
Caleb runs after him. His knee-brace clicks. His lungs burn. The cold air tastes like iron and victory.
A brutal, ceaseless wind scours the icy cobblestones. It carries grit and snow that moves horizontally.
CALEB (17), face obscured by goggles and a brass-rimmed respirator, runs. He’s thin, wrapped in layers of worn canvas and wool. A clunky, hydraulic KNEE-BRACE on his left leg whirs and leaks a thin trail of black fluid onto his pants.
His breath snap-freezes on the respirator’s rim like sugar glass. He tastes cold copper.
He sprints, boots with crude spikes slipping and catching on the ice. He’s running for his life.
Around the corner, an 11-B STEAM-TRAM, a two-story behemoth of riveted iron and frosted glass, screeches to a stop. It hisses steam from a dozen vents, throwing sparks from its steel wheels like angry fireflies.
A cluster of men in top hats and greatcoats huddle under a heat-lamp awning, their breath puffing in synchronized bursts. They ignore Caleb.
The tram’s CONDUCTOR leans out, slamming a wrench against a jammed door mechanism.
CONDUCTOR
> Move it or lose it!
The warning is thin, nearly swallowed by the wind and the roar of the tram’s boiler.
Caleb pushes harder. He leaps.
His knee-brace screams a metallic protest. He grabs a freezing iron handrail, the cold burning through his leather glove. He hauls himself up the steps.
The pneumatic doors behind him HISS shut, slicing off the wind like a guillotine.
INT. STEAM-TRAM - CONTINUOUS
Sudden, relative silence. The thrum of the engine. The wet-wool smell of fifty bodies. Coal dust. Burnt sugar.
Caleb shoves his way through the packed crowd.
GRIM MAN
> Watch it.
The GRIM MAN has a cracked mechanical eye-piece.
CALEB
> Sorry.
Caleb finds a corner to lean in. A hot flash of panic. He pats the heavy canvas of his coat. Feels a hard lump. Relief washes over his face. The regulator valve.
The tram LURCHES forward, gears grinding like gnashing teeth.
Caleb leans his forehead against the cold glass. Frost ferns creep across the inside of the pane. His gaze drifts across the car, landing on SASHA (17), a girl from his class. She clutches an old wooden violin case like a life raft. He looks away quickly.
The heater vent at his feet blows lukewarm air that smells of old socks. He can’t feel his toes.
His refurbished, brick-sized COMMUNICATOR buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles it out with gloved hands. A message from JULES.
`U on the 11?`
Caleb types back, clumsy.
`Yeah. Back corner. Smells like feet.`
`Coming.`
A loud THUMP from the roof of the tram. A few passengers look up, startled. Caleb just sighs.
The rear emergency hatch pops open. JULES (17) drops inside, grinning, a cloud of steam billowing in with him. He wears a pilot’s cap with ear flaps and a clunky, worn-down hydraulic exosuit. He slams the hatch shut.
The Conductor yells something unintelligible from the front.
CALEB
> You’re insane.
JULES
> (Wiping snow from his goggles)
> Did you see the air I got? The hydraulics on the legs are primed, man. I flew.
CALEB
> You dented the roof. I heard it.
JULES
> Battle scars. Adds character.
Jules squeezes in next to him, smelling of grease and cinnamon. He pulls a squashed, lint-covered pastry from his pocket.
JULES
> Want a bite?
CALEB
> Pass.
JULES
> (Taking a huge bite)
> Suit yourself. So. You got the thing?
Caleb pats his pocket.
CALEB
> Yeah. Taking it to Old Man Miller’s shop. Hoping he gives me forty bits for it.
JULES
> Forty? You’re dreaming. It’s a Type-4 regulator. Common as muck. You’ll get twenty. Maybe twenty-five if you smile and show him your dimples.
CALEB
> I don’t have dimples.
JULES
> You have emotional dimples. You look sad. People pay for sadness. Pity tax.
CALEB
> Shut up.
Caleb looks out the window. Grey buildings crusted with ice. External steam pipes pulse like veins. In the distance, the Golden Boy statue on the legislative building spins wildly in the wind.
They pass a homeless shelter. A line of people huddle over a steam grate, wrapped in grey blankets. A man tries to light a cigarette, the wind killing the flame again and again. Caleb looks away.
JULES
> Hey. Look at that.
Jules points toward the front of the car. At Sasha.
JULES
> That’s the girl from the orchestra. The one you were staring at during assembly.
CALEB
> I wasn’t staring. That’s not her.
JULES
> It is. It’s... what’s her name? Clara? Sarah?
CALEB
> Sasha.
Caleb regrets it instantly. Jules gets a wolfish grin.
JULES
> Sasha. Right. You know her name. Creep.
CALEB
> She’s in my History of Mechanics class. It’s not creepy.
JULES
> Go talk to her.
CALEB
> No.
JULES
> Why? You’re trapped in a metal box together. It’s fate. It’s destiny. It’s--
A deafening SCREECH of tearing metal. The tram lurches violently. Passengers stumble and fall. Caleb slams into the Grim Man.
GRIM MAN
> Watch it, kid!
The lights flicker. Die. The engine hum cuts out. Silence, except for the HOWL of the wind outside.
CONDUCTOR (V.O.)
> (Over a crackly intercom)
> Ladies and Gentlemen. Boiler pressure drop. Main seal blew. We’re stuck until the repair crew gets here. Could be an hour. Could be two.
A collective GROAN fills the car. The temperature is already dropping. Breath fogs in the air.
JULES
> Great. Just great. I have Physics next. If I’m late, Ms. Hersch is going to dismantle me. Literally.
CALEB
> I’m walking. I can’t wait. Miller closes at noon on Tuesdays.
JULES
> Walking? Are you nuts? It’s five blocks to the Exchange. In this?
Jules gestures to the window. The snow is a horizontal blur.
CALEB
> I have to.
JULES
> Fine. I’m coming with you. My suit has heaters.
CALEB
> Your suit leaks.
JULES
> Only a little. Come on.
They push to the doors. The Conductor has manually cranked them open a few feet.
EXT. DOWNTOWN STREET - CONTINUOUS
A blast of cold hits them like a physical blow. Tears freeze in the corners of Caleb’s eyes.
They step out into drifting snow. Caleb’s knee-brace whirs and locks, stabilizing him. They hunch their shoulders and start walking, heads down against the screaming wind.
JULES
> (Yelling over the wind)
> Why do we live here?! We could move to the bio-domes in Vancouver! Or Mars! Mars is warmer than this, right?!
CALEB
> (Yelling back)
> Mars has no atmosphere!
JULES
> Details!
They trudge past an antique shop. Inside, golden light illuminates a cat sleeping on a velvet chair. A different universe.
Ahead, a dark lump in the snow.
Caleb stops. Jules bumps into him.
JULES
> What?
CALEB
> Someone’s down.
Caleb hurries forward. An OLD WOMAN (70s) is on her knees, trying to gather spilled apples from the grey slush with BARE HANDS.
Her fingers are waxy and white.
Caleb grabs her arm. She looks up, face pale, eyes milky. Her teeth are chattering violently.
OLD WOMAN
> (Whispering)
> My apples... for the pie.
CALEB
> Leave them. You have to get up. Where are your gloves?
OLD WOMAN
> I had them... took them off. The knot was tight.
Jules is there now.
JULES
> We gotta get her inside. Look, her fingers.
CALEB
> (Pointing)
> The bank. There’s an ATM vestibule. It’s heated.
They haul the bird-light woman to her feet. She weakly reaches for the apples.
OLD WOMAN
> Cost so much... special treat.
JULES
> I’ll get them. Go. Take her.
Caleb half-drags, half-carries the woman toward the bank, fighting the wind every step.
INT. BANK VESTIBULE - CONTINUOUS
Caleb kicks the door open. The warmth inside is a shock. It smells of dust and receipt paper. He guides the Old Woman to a corner, where she slides down the wall.
OLD WOMAN
> (Whimpering)
> My hands.
She stares at her rigid, white fingers. Caleb rips his own gloves off and begins rubbing her hands, trying to create friction.
CALEB
> It’s okay. It’s okay.
The door opens and Jules stumbles in, carrying a handful of bruised, wet apples. He dumps them in her lap.
JULES
> Got ‘em.
A streak of snot is frozen on his lip. The Old Woman looks at the apples, then at the boys. Tears leak from her eyes.
OLD WOMAN
> Thank you. You boys. Thank you... I have bits. Credits.
CALEB
> No. Keep it.
JULES
> Just... make the pie. Save us a slice.
They wait. The pink slowly, painfully returns to her fingers. She winces. Pain means she’s alive.
CALEB
> We have to go.
EXT. PRINCESS STREET - MOMENTS LATER
Caleb and Jules hurry down a narrow street. Miller’s shop is ahead, a storefront with a sign made of gears. The sign is flipped to read: CLOSED.
Caleb stops dead.
CALEB
> No.
He runs to the door, rattles the handle. Locked. He cups his hands to the glass. Dark inside.
JULES
> Knock. Maybe he’s still in the back.
Caleb hammers on the glass with his fist.
CALEB
> Mr. Miller! Hey! I have the part!
Nothing. Just the wind whistling through the brickwork.
Caleb slumps against the door, defeated. He slides down to sit on the step, the cold seeping through his pants. He pulls the brass regulator valve from his pocket. It glints, beautiful and useless.
SASHA (O.S.)
> Hey.
Caleb looks up. It’s Sasha. The violin case is strapped to her back. She’s wrapped in a coat too big for her.
SASHA
> You’re from the tram.
Caleb scrambles to his feet.
CALEB
> Uh. Yeah. The one with the... yeah.
SASHA
> I saw you get off. You and your friend. I was watching. I saw you help that lady. With the apples.
CALEB
> Oh. That. Yeah. She was... stuck.
SASHA
> That was nice. Most people just walked by.
JULES
> People are busy. And cold. Cold makes people mean.
Sasha nods, then looks at the valve in Caleb’s hand.
SASHA
> What’s that?
CALEB
> Junk. I was trying to sell it. Shop’s closed.
SASHA
> Oh. Is it a Type-4 regulator?
Caleb blinks.
CALEB
> Uh, yeah. How do you know?
A small smile cracks the cold from her face.
SASHA
> My dad’s a mechanic. I grew up sorting rivets. Actually... my violin case latch is broken. The spring mechanism. It needs a small tensioner. The one inside that regulator is the exact size.
CALEB
> You... need this?
SASHA
> I can’t pay you much. I only have my lunch money and... well, I have a spare transit pass. It’s got a week of credit on it.
A week of credit. A lifeline.
CALEB
> I’ll trade you.
SASHA
> Really?
CALEB
> Yeah. Absolutely.
She digs into her pocket and hands him a blue plastic card. It’s warm from her body. He hands her the valve. Their fingers brush. A tiny spark of heat in the frozen world.
SASHA
> Thank you. You just saved my recital. If the case opens in the cold, the wood warps. I’m Sasha, by the way.
CALEB
> Caleb. And this is Jules.
SASHA
> Hi Jules.
> (to Caleb)
> See you in History of Mechanics, Caleb.
She turns and walks away, boots crunching in the snow. Caleb watches her go.
Jules punches his arm. Hard.
CALEB
> Ow.
JULES
> You got the pass. And you got the girl. Well, you talked to the girl. Progress.
Caleb looks at the transit card. Salvation. He grins.
CALEB
> Let’s go. My toes are gone.
JULES
> Cinnamon buns first?
CALEB
> Yeah. Cinnamon buns first.
They start walking. The streetlights flicker on, amber globes buzzing against the early twilight. Little suns on a wire.
The wind still howls, but it doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
JULES
> Race you.
CALEB
> You have an exosuit.
JULES
> And you have hope, Caleb! The most powerful fuel of all!
Jules laughs and takes off, metal legs clanking.
Caleb runs after him. His knee-brace clicks. His lungs burn. The cold air tastes like iron and victory.