Lead Blanket
Stan wasn't just tired; he was geographically fixed to the mattress. Gravity had developed a personal vendetta, and Jeffrey was the only one brave enough to cross the event horizon of Room 304.
INT. STAN'S DORM ROOM - DAY
A room submerged in murky, underwater light. Rain streaks a grimy window. Dust motes hang motionless in the thick, heavy air.
SOUND: Rain tapping nervously against glass; a distant, rhythmic city thrum.
The room itself is a disaster of teenage entropy, but something is fundamentally wrong. The shadows in the corners don't just sit there; they DRIP UPWARDS, pooling like black oil on the ceiling. A poster of the periodic table on the wall seems to BREATHE, the elements expanding and contracting in a slow, rhythmic heave.
A lump under a heavy duvet on a twin bed. This is STAN (17, quiet, carrying an invisible weight). Only a tuft of black hair is visible.
JEFFREY (17, a vibrating wire of kinetic energy) leans in the doorframe. He’s sharp, defined, cut out from a different, brighter reality and pasted here. He holds a small, foil-wrapped object.
JEFFREY
> You’re going to become part of the mattress. Like, biologically fused. A new species of furniture-boy.
A mumble from under the duvet. The words are a vibration against cotton.
STAN
> (muffled)
> That’s the plan. Symbiosis. It’s the future.
JEFFREY
> It’s three in the afternoon, Si.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Time is a construct.
JEFFREY
> Lunch isn't. I brought a bagel.
No movement from the lump. Stan can feel the threads of the pillowcase pressing a grid into his cheek, a tactile map of his own inertia. The duvet feels like it weighs as much as a small sedan.
He cracks one eye open. Jeffrey is irritatingly three-dimensional in his ripped jeans and hoodie.
STAN
> I’m not hungry.
He closes his eye. The darkness behind his eyelids is grey noise.
A low GROWL from under the blanket.
JEFFREY
> Liar. Your stomach just growled. It sounded like a dying bear.
STAN
> That was the plumbing.
JEFFREY
> The plumbing is a better conversationalist than you right now.
Jeffrey’s footsteps are soft on the linoleum, but Stan feels each one as a tiny ripple of kinetic energy shuddering up the bed frame.
STAN
> Go away, Jule. I’m serious. I’m contagious. I have the plague of… of sitting still.
JEFFREY
> Sloth isn't contagious. It’s a sin, though. Father McKinnon would be very disappointed.
STAN
> Father McKinnon can levitate tanks. He doesn't get to have opinions on gravity.
The mattress DIPS near Stan’s feet. Jeffrey has sat down.
The shift in weight is catastrophic. Stan feels the universe TILT. He groans, pulling the duvet higher over his head.
JEFFREY
> We missed you at patrol. Coach asked where you were. I told him you had food poisoning. The tuna casserole from Tuesday.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Creative.
JEFFREY
> Plausible. That casserole was a biohazard. Even the invulnerability kids wouldn't touch it.
Stan tries to shift his leg. It’s like moving through setting concrete.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Did I miss anything?
JEFFREY
> Not really. Stopped a mugging on 5th. Helped a cat out of a storm drain. The usual glamorous life of a junior hero. Oh, and Miller tripped over his own cape and face-planted into a puddle. I got video.
A beat.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Send it to me.
JEFFREY
> I will. If you sit up.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Blackmail. That’s low.
JEFFREY
> I’m a pragmatist.
Jeffrey pokes Stan’s ankle through the duvet.
JEFFREY
> Come on. Up. Verticality is the goal.
Stan squeezes his eyes shut. The signal from his brain to his body is lost in static. He turns the key, but there’s just a click. Nothing catches.
His voice is a whisper, tasting of copper and shame.
STAN
> I can't.
The rain intensifies, drumming harder against the window.
Jeffrey doesn’t offer a platitude. He just sits. A warm, solid, fixed point in Stan’s wobbling reality.
JEFFREY
> Okay. Then we sit here. I’ve got nowhere to be. My speed training isn't until tomorrow, and if I run any more laps today, my calves are going to explode.
STAN
> (muffled)
> You’re vibrating.
JEFFREY
> Am I? Sorry. Too much coffee. Or just… energy.
> (a short, sharp laugh)
> It’s weird, you know? Being this fast. Sometimes it feels like the world is moving in slow motion and I’m just waiting for everyone to catch up. But here…
> (taps the mattress)
> Here, it’s slow. It’s nice. Quiet.
STAN
> (muffled)
> It’s depressing.
JEFFREY
> It’s moody. Atmospheric. Like an indie movie where nothing happens for two hours and then someone cries at a bird.
A twitch under the duvet. The ghost of a smile.
STAN
> (muffled)
> I hate those movies.
JEFFREY
> I know. You like the ones with explosions and terrible dialogue.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Explosions are honest. They don't pretend to be deep.
Stan slowly pushes the duvet down to his chin. The cold air hits his face. He looks at Jeffrey, who is picking at a loose thread on his jeans, his knuckles red and scuffed.
STAN
> Why are you really here? You hate missing training.
Jeffrey shrugs, a jerky motion. He glances at the dripping shadows on the ceiling.
JEFFREY
> Coach was yelling. The weather sucks. And… the room felt wrong. Down the hall. I could feel the pull. It was getting heavy. I figured your dampers were malfunctioning again.
STAN
> They're fine. I'm just… heavy.
JEFFREY
> Yeah. I know.
Jeffrey reaches out, places a hand on Stan’s knee over the blanket. His palm is warm.
CLOSE ON Jeffrey’s hand on the duvet.
The heat seeps through the layers. And with the touch, the room STABILIZES. The shadows retreat into the corners. The periodic table on the wall stops breathing. The air feels a fraction lighter.
JEFFREY
> (softly)
> It’s a bad one, huh?
Stan stares at a water stain on the wall shaped like Africa.
STAN
> The worst in a while. I just… I woke up and the idea of moving felt like… like lifting a building. And then I panicked because I couldn't move, and the panic made me heavier, and… yeah.
JEFFREY
> Feedback loop.
STAN
> Yeah.
JEFFREY
> Well…
> (taps Stan's knee)
> I’m an external force. Isn't that physics? An object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by an idiot with a bagel.
Stan huffs. Half-laugh, half-sigh.
STAN
> That’s Newton. I think.
JEFFREY
> Whatever. Eat the bagel.
He holds out the foil-wrapped package.
With immense, painful effort, Stan extracts an arm from the cocoon. The air hits his skin like ice water. His fingers brush Jeffrey’s. A tiny SPARK of static electricity snaps between them.
STAN
> Ow.
JEFFREY
> Electric personality.
Stan unwraps the bagel. It’s plain, untoasted, a bit squashed. He takes a bite. Chews slowly.
JEFFREY
> Good?
STAN
> Solid. Very dense matter.
JEFFREY
> I thought you’d appreciate that.
They sit in silence. Stan eats. Jeffrey watches the rain. The crushing pressure in the room has eased. It's just a messy dorm room on a rainy Tuesday.
JEFFREY
> You know, you don't have to fix it today. The paralysis thing. You can just… exist. We can watch a movie on your laptop. I can read you the comms logs from patrol so you can laugh at Miller.
Stan stares at the empty bagel wrapper.
STAN
> I should get up. I have to shower. I smell like despair.
JEFFREY
> You smell like sleep. It’s distinct.
STAN
> I need to move, Jule. If I don't move now, I’m never going to.
Jeffrey nods. He stands, stretching. His joints POP like small firecrackers.
JEFFREY
> Okay. Strategy?
STAN
> Small steps. Sit up. Feet on floor. Stand up. Walk to bathroom. Try not to fall over.
JEFFREY
> Sounds like a solid tactical plan. Need an extraction team?
STAN
> No. I got it.
Stan pushes the duvet back. The cold rushes in. He grits his teeth and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
His feet—clad in mismatched socks, one grey, one with little skulls—hit the cold linoleum. A shiver racks his body.
He sits hunched, gripping the mattress, knuckles white. The room tilts.
JEFFREY
> You good?
Jeffrey’s voice is close. He’s hovering, ready to catch.
STAN
> (raspy)
> Dizzy. Blood pressure thing.
JEFFREY
> Take a second. Breathe.
Stan breathes. In. Out. The air tastes of dust and rain. He focuses on the laughing skull on his sock.
STAN
> Okay.
JEFFREY
> Okay.
Stan pushes off the mattress. His knees wobble, threatening to buckle. He sways.
A hand grabs his elbow—steady, firm, anchoring.
JEFFREY
> Gotcha.
Jeffrey’s gaze is critical, assessing, not pitying.
STAN
> I’m up.
JEFFREY
> You are up. Achievement unlocked.
STAN
> Don't patronize me.
JEFFREY
> I'm not. Standing up is hard. I tried to stand up after leg day last week and just sort of… poured myself onto the floor. It was tragic.
Stan leans into Jeffrey’s grip for a second, drawing strength. Jeffrey smells like wet asphalt and energy drinks. The outside world.
STAN
> Bathroom.
JEFFREY
> That way.
STAN
> I know where my own bathroom is.
Stan takes a step. Then another. It’s like walking through molasses, but he’s moving. He reaches the bathroom door and leans against the frame, breathing hard.
JEFFREY
> You want me to wait?
Stan looks back. The bed is a crater, a trap.
STAN
> Yeah. Wait. Don't… don't go yet.
JEFFREY
> I'm not going anywhere.
> (pulls out his phone)
> I haven't sent you the video of Miller yet. You have to see the face-plant. It’s artistic.
Stan nods, then disappears into the bathroom.
INT. STAN'S BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Stan closes the door. The silence here is sharper, colder.
He leans over the sink, gripping its edges. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s a wreck. Dark circles like bruises. Pale, waxy skin.
He turns on the tap. Splashes cold water on his face, gasping at the shock. He scrubs his skin red with a towel.
He’s still heavy. His bones feel like lead pipes.
But Jeffrey is out there. Waiting.
He looks at his reflection again. A kid trying very hard to stay vertical.
STAN
> (to himself, a whisper)
> One thing. Just one thing.
He reaches for his toothbrush.
A room submerged in murky, underwater light. Rain streaks a grimy window. Dust motes hang motionless in the thick, heavy air.
SOUND: Rain tapping nervously against glass; a distant, rhythmic city thrum.
The room itself is a disaster of teenage entropy, but something is fundamentally wrong. The shadows in the corners don't just sit there; they DRIP UPWARDS, pooling like black oil on the ceiling. A poster of the periodic table on the wall seems to BREATHE, the elements expanding and contracting in a slow, rhythmic heave.
A lump under a heavy duvet on a twin bed. This is STAN (17, quiet, carrying an invisible weight). Only a tuft of black hair is visible.
JEFFREY (17, a vibrating wire of kinetic energy) leans in the doorframe. He’s sharp, defined, cut out from a different, brighter reality and pasted here. He holds a small, foil-wrapped object.
JEFFREY
> You’re going to become part of the mattress. Like, biologically fused. A new species of furniture-boy.
A mumble from under the duvet. The words are a vibration against cotton.
STAN
> (muffled)
> That’s the plan. Symbiosis. It’s the future.
JEFFREY
> It’s three in the afternoon, Si.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Time is a construct.
JEFFREY
> Lunch isn't. I brought a bagel.
No movement from the lump. Stan can feel the threads of the pillowcase pressing a grid into his cheek, a tactile map of his own inertia. The duvet feels like it weighs as much as a small sedan.
He cracks one eye open. Jeffrey is irritatingly three-dimensional in his ripped jeans and hoodie.
STAN
> I’m not hungry.
He closes his eye. The darkness behind his eyelids is grey noise.
A low GROWL from under the blanket.
JEFFREY
> Liar. Your stomach just growled. It sounded like a dying bear.
STAN
> That was the plumbing.
JEFFREY
> The plumbing is a better conversationalist than you right now.
Jeffrey’s footsteps are soft on the linoleum, but Stan feels each one as a tiny ripple of kinetic energy shuddering up the bed frame.
STAN
> Go away, Jule. I’m serious. I’m contagious. I have the plague of… of sitting still.
JEFFREY
> Sloth isn't contagious. It’s a sin, though. Father McKinnon would be very disappointed.
STAN
> Father McKinnon can levitate tanks. He doesn't get to have opinions on gravity.
The mattress DIPS near Stan’s feet. Jeffrey has sat down.
The shift in weight is catastrophic. Stan feels the universe TILT. He groans, pulling the duvet higher over his head.
JEFFREY
> We missed you at patrol. Coach asked where you were. I told him you had food poisoning. The tuna casserole from Tuesday.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Creative.
JEFFREY
> Plausible. That casserole was a biohazard. Even the invulnerability kids wouldn't touch it.
Stan tries to shift his leg. It’s like moving through setting concrete.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Did I miss anything?
JEFFREY
> Not really. Stopped a mugging on 5th. Helped a cat out of a storm drain. The usual glamorous life of a junior hero. Oh, and Miller tripped over his own cape and face-planted into a puddle. I got video.
A beat.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Send it to me.
JEFFREY
> I will. If you sit up.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Blackmail. That’s low.
JEFFREY
> I’m a pragmatist.
Jeffrey pokes Stan’s ankle through the duvet.
JEFFREY
> Come on. Up. Verticality is the goal.
Stan squeezes his eyes shut. The signal from his brain to his body is lost in static. He turns the key, but there’s just a click. Nothing catches.
His voice is a whisper, tasting of copper and shame.
STAN
> I can't.
The rain intensifies, drumming harder against the window.
Jeffrey doesn’t offer a platitude. He just sits. A warm, solid, fixed point in Stan’s wobbling reality.
JEFFREY
> Okay. Then we sit here. I’ve got nowhere to be. My speed training isn't until tomorrow, and if I run any more laps today, my calves are going to explode.
STAN
> (muffled)
> You’re vibrating.
JEFFREY
> Am I? Sorry. Too much coffee. Or just… energy.
> (a short, sharp laugh)
> It’s weird, you know? Being this fast. Sometimes it feels like the world is moving in slow motion and I’m just waiting for everyone to catch up. But here…
> (taps the mattress)
> Here, it’s slow. It’s nice. Quiet.
STAN
> (muffled)
> It’s depressing.
JEFFREY
> It’s moody. Atmospheric. Like an indie movie where nothing happens for two hours and then someone cries at a bird.
A twitch under the duvet. The ghost of a smile.
STAN
> (muffled)
> I hate those movies.
JEFFREY
> I know. You like the ones with explosions and terrible dialogue.
STAN
> (muffled)
> Explosions are honest. They don't pretend to be deep.
Stan slowly pushes the duvet down to his chin. The cold air hits his face. He looks at Jeffrey, who is picking at a loose thread on his jeans, his knuckles red and scuffed.
STAN
> Why are you really here? You hate missing training.
Jeffrey shrugs, a jerky motion. He glances at the dripping shadows on the ceiling.
JEFFREY
> Coach was yelling. The weather sucks. And… the room felt wrong. Down the hall. I could feel the pull. It was getting heavy. I figured your dampers were malfunctioning again.
STAN
> They're fine. I'm just… heavy.
JEFFREY
> Yeah. I know.
Jeffrey reaches out, places a hand on Stan’s knee over the blanket. His palm is warm.
CLOSE ON Jeffrey’s hand on the duvet.
The heat seeps through the layers. And with the touch, the room STABILIZES. The shadows retreat into the corners. The periodic table on the wall stops breathing. The air feels a fraction lighter.
JEFFREY
> (softly)
> It’s a bad one, huh?
Stan stares at a water stain on the wall shaped like Africa.
STAN
> The worst in a while. I just… I woke up and the idea of moving felt like… like lifting a building. And then I panicked because I couldn't move, and the panic made me heavier, and… yeah.
JEFFREY
> Feedback loop.
STAN
> Yeah.
JEFFREY
> Well…
> (taps Stan's knee)
> I’m an external force. Isn't that physics? An object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by an idiot with a bagel.
Stan huffs. Half-laugh, half-sigh.
STAN
> That’s Newton. I think.
JEFFREY
> Whatever. Eat the bagel.
He holds out the foil-wrapped package.
With immense, painful effort, Stan extracts an arm from the cocoon. The air hits his skin like ice water. His fingers brush Jeffrey’s. A tiny SPARK of static electricity snaps between them.
STAN
> Ow.
JEFFREY
> Electric personality.
Stan unwraps the bagel. It’s plain, untoasted, a bit squashed. He takes a bite. Chews slowly.
JEFFREY
> Good?
STAN
> Solid. Very dense matter.
JEFFREY
> I thought you’d appreciate that.
They sit in silence. Stan eats. Jeffrey watches the rain. The crushing pressure in the room has eased. It's just a messy dorm room on a rainy Tuesday.
JEFFREY
> You know, you don't have to fix it today. The paralysis thing. You can just… exist. We can watch a movie on your laptop. I can read you the comms logs from patrol so you can laugh at Miller.
Stan stares at the empty bagel wrapper.
STAN
> I should get up. I have to shower. I smell like despair.
JEFFREY
> You smell like sleep. It’s distinct.
STAN
> I need to move, Jule. If I don't move now, I’m never going to.
Jeffrey nods. He stands, stretching. His joints POP like small firecrackers.
JEFFREY
> Okay. Strategy?
STAN
> Small steps. Sit up. Feet on floor. Stand up. Walk to bathroom. Try not to fall over.
JEFFREY
> Sounds like a solid tactical plan. Need an extraction team?
STAN
> No. I got it.
Stan pushes the duvet back. The cold rushes in. He grits his teeth and swings his legs over the side of the bed.
His feet—clad in mismatched socks, one grey, one with little skulls—hit the cold linoleum. A shiver racks his body.
He sits hunched, gripping the mattress, knuckles white. The room tilts.
JEFFREY
> You good?
Jeffrey’s voice is close. He’s hovering, ready to catch.
STAN
> (raspy)
> Dizzy. Blood pressure thing.
JEFFREY
> Take a second. Breathe.
Stan breathes. In. Out. The air tastes of dust and rain. He focuses on the laughing skull on his sock.
STAN
> Okay.
JEFFREY
> Okay.
Stan pushes off the mattress. His knees wobble, threatening to buckle. He sways.
A hand grabs his elbow—steady, firm, anchoring.
JEFFREY
> Gotcha.
Jeffrey’s gaze is critical, assessing, not pitying.
STAN
> I’m up.
JEFFREY
> You are up. Achievement unlocked.
STAN
> Don't patronize me.
JEFFREY
> I'm not. Standing up is hard. I tried to stand up after leg day last week and just sort of… poured myself onto the floor. It was tragic.
Stan leans into Jeffrey’s grip for a second, drawing strength. Jeffrey smells like wet asphalt and energy drinks. The outside world.
STAN
> Bathroom.
JEFFREY
> That way.
STAN
> I know where my own bathroom is.
Stan takes a step. Then another. It’s like walking through molasses, but he’s moving. He reaches the bathroom door and leans against the frame, breathing hard.
JEFFREY
> You want me to wait?
Stan looks back. The bed is a crater, a trap.
STAN
> Yeah. Wait. Don't… don't go yet.
JEFFREY
> I'm not going anywhere.
> (pulls out his phone)
> I haven't sent you the video of Miller yet. You have to see the face-plant. It’s artistic.
Stan nods, then disappears into the bathroom.
INT. STAN'S BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS
Stan closes the door. The silence here is sharper, colder.
He leans over the sink, gripping its edges. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s a wreck. Dark circles like bruises. Pale, waxy skin.
He turns on the tap. Splashes cold water on his face, gasping at the shock. He scrubs his skin red with a towel.
He’s still heavy. His bones feel like lead pipes.
But Jeffrey is out there. Waiting.
He looks at his reflection again. A kid trying very hard to stay vertical.
STAN
> (to himself, a whisper)
> One thing. Just one thing.
He reaches for his toothbrush.