A Script for The Stain of Ochre

[SCENE START]

**EXT. BOREAL FOREST - DAY**

SOUND of wind, sharp and clean

The sky is the color of unwashed tin, glimpsed through a skeletal canopy of bare maples and bone-white birches.

BRIAR (40s), face weathered by cold and vigilance, moves through the oppressive quiet. Her worn wool scarf is pulled tight, her heavy coat unable to keep out the deep chill.

Her boots CRUNCH over frost-glazed moss, the only sound in the vast, muted landscape. Her movements are efficient, precise. A predator, or prey.

Her breath PLUMES, a fleeting ghost.

Her gloved hand rests on the rough fabric of her satchel. She feels the small, dense weight within. A metallic cylinder. A burden. Her eyes constantly scan the treeline. Every snapped twig, every distant CROW’S CRY, registers in a subtle tightening of her jaw.

She adjusts course, veering from a faint, overgrown path towards a cluster of stunted pines. Pushing aside a curtain of skeletal branches, she stops.

Dead still.

Something is wrong. Not a sound. A sight.

A sudden, jarring visual. A burst of something utterly alien to this dying world.

COLOUR.

An impossible, defiant smear of it deep amongst the greys and browns.

Briar’s breath catches, freezing in her throat. Her hand instinctively drops to the cold hilt of the blade tucked into her belt.

She moves closer, silent as a wraith, each step deliberate. The frost CRUNCHES like shattered glass under her boots.

Stretched taut between two ancient birches is a repurposed TARPAULIN. Lashed with scavenged wire.

And on it, painted with brutal, desperate strokes: a VISAGE. Not a face, but the suggestion of one. Eyes, wide and raw, stare out from a swirl of violent color.

Ochre. Cadmium red. A startling, electric blue.

A scream made visible.

Briar’s gaze sweeps the area. A trap? A sensor? Nothing. Only the deep quiet.

The painting is nestled in a small natural alcove. Below it, on a smoothed stone, lies a single JAY FEATHER. Impossibly blue. An offering.

The sheer audacity of it. Art is treason. A death sentence.

CRACK!

A branch snaps behind her.

Briar spins, blade half-drawn from its sheath, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

A young man stands there. JESSE (late 20s). A thick hood obscures his face, but his posture is a strange mix of apprehension and fierce resolve. His clothes are scavenged, like hers. A streak of dried blue paint marks the elbow of his jacket.

His eyes, wide and startlingly bright, meet hers from the shadows.

<center>JESSE</center>

> You shouldn't be here.

His voice is a low whisper, barely carried on the wind. It’s not a threat. A statement of fact.

Briar’s hand stays on her blade. Her voice is steady, betraying nothing.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> Neither should this.

She gestures with her chin towards the painting.

Jesse steps forward, out of the deepest shadow. He has fine lines around his eyes, etched by vigilance. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of his chapped lips.

<center>JESSE</center>

> It’s meant to be seen. Even here.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> It’s suicide.

The words are blunt. Wasteful sentiment has no place here.

Jesse doesn’t flinch.

<center>JESSE</center>

> Maybe. But what’s the alternative? Living... without this?

Briar stares at him. She thinks of the cold, metallic cylinder in her satchel. The sterile, essential work of survival. This is... something else. Reckless. Beautiful.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> Who are you?

<center>JESSE</center>

> Jesse.

Just the name. He doesn't ask for hers. He understands the rules. He nods toward the canvas.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> This... is yours?

<center>JESSE</center>

> (nods)

> One of them. There are others. Small spots. Little blazes in the dark. We find the quiet places.

A network. Not of couriers and jammers. Of art. The sheer, utter folly of it is breathtaking.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> (a whisper)

> Others?

<center>JESSE</center>

> Younger ones. Older, too. We make things. With what we find. Scrap metal, old wood. Paint... from anywhere we can get it.

Briar’s eyes drift back to the painting. She sees it anew. The texture of the canvas, the rough, organic pigments. Not factory-made. Scavenged. Pure, unadulterated spirit.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> Why?

The question slips out, surprising her.

Jesse looks at her, his bright eyes cutting through her practiced neutrality.

<center>JESSE</center>

> Because if they take that too... if they take our colour... what's left? What are we fighting for then? Just grey?

The words hit Briar like a physical blow. A forgotten echo resonates deep inside her. The smell of turpentine. The rough feel of charcoal in her hand. A life she buried long ago.

She sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes and immediately shutters her expression. The shield goes back up. A courier doesn't get sentimental.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> You're alone here?

Her voice is steel again.

<center>JESSE</center>

> For now. We share the sites.

He kicks at a loose stone, a small, nervous gesture that betrays the calm facade. He's not fearless. He's just doing it anyway.

<center>JESSE</center>

> We’re planning something. Bigger. A collective piece. In the old Hydro facility.

Briar’s mind calculates the risk. High. Impossible.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> That’s foolish.

<center>JESSE</center>

> (shrugs)

> Maybe. But the young ones... they need to see it’s possible. Maybe *especially* here.

He turns to face her fully, his gaze unwavering.

<center>JESSE</center>

> We need help. Materials. Wires, scraps of metal. And... knowledge. Of the quiet routes. The blind spots. You know them.

The proposition hangs in the frosty air. A direct violation of every rule. It jeopardizes everything. The network. Her life.

But the painting pulls at something ancient within her.

<center>BRIAR</center>

> I can't.

The word is a struggle. A lie.

Jesse just nods slowly, a shared understanding passing between them. He digs into his pocket and produces a small, smooth RIVER STONE. He flips it over.

A crudely scratched symbol is on its surface: a stylized tree with roots spreading wide.

<center>JESSE</center>

> This. If you see it, it's us. If you leave something... near it... we'll find it.

He holds it out.

Briar looks from the stone to the painting, then back to Jesse's earnest, hopeful face.

Her mission. The parcel. The logical fight for survival.

And this. The illogical fight for a soul.

A cold gust of wind TEARS through the trees, rattling the bare branches. In the distance, the faint, sterile HUM of the world beyond.

She hesitates for a long beat, the two worlds warring behind her eyes. Then, her gloved fingers close around the smooth, cold stone. She slips it into her pocket without another word.

She turns and walks away, leaving Jesse standing by his defiant splash of colour.

Her boots CRUNCH on the frost. Each step away feels heavier than the last. In her pocket, the stone is a tiny, cold weight. In her satchel, the cylinder is a massive one.

[SCENE END]