A Script for Cold Stew at Table Four

INT. NORTHGATE ACADEMY CAFETERIA - DAY

A vast, cavernous hall. Oppressive fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the color from everything. The architecture is brutalist concrete. Three hundred STUDENTS in identical grey uniforms eat in a low, monotonous DRONE of chatter and chewing.

The room is a sea of slate grey and sickly green trays.

SOUND of the low, constant HUM of fluorescent ballasts

SIMON (17), quiet, pathologically invisible, carries his tray. His hands are sweaty. The cheap plastic is slick with condensation.

He navigates the aisles, head down.

And the tray slips.

It pivots in his hands—a slow-motion failure of physics.

SOUND of a single, sharp CRACK, like a gunshot

The melamine platter hits the linoleum edge-first. It flips. A wet, heavy SLAP echoes through the hall.

The drone of chatter dies. Instantly. Utter silence.

Lukewarm brown stew and water SPLATTER across the cuffs of Simon’s trousers. A bruised, waxy apple rolls away from the wreckage, an aggressive escapee.

Simon freezes. His heart HAMMERS against his ribs. He stares at the mess on the floor. Grey chunks of mystery meat floating in a brown puddle.

Red creeps up his neck, burning the tips of his ears.

A pair of polished black leather boots enters his vision. They belong to a SENIOR PREFECT (18), face impassive, posture rigid. The prefect doesn't stop walking. He steps neatly over the rolling apple.

<center>PREFECT</center>

> Clean it up.

The Prefect continues on without a backward glance.

Simon drops to his knees. The floor smells of industrial bleach and old milk. He fumbles for napkins from a dispenser on a nearby table. The paper is rough, brown, useless.

His hands shake as he pushes the grease around the floor. He feels every eye in the room on him.

ANGLE ON a security camera in the corner of the ceiling. A small red LED blinks. Unblinking.

A whisper from the next table.

<center>WHISPER (O.S.)</center>

> Leave it, Si.

A clean napkin is kicked gently toward him. Simon doesn't look up. He just scrubs harder, smearing the mess into a sticky film.

Finally, he gets to his feet. He abandons his now-empty tray and walks, head bowed, toward the far corner of the room.

He sits at Table Four. It's wobbly. A folded piece of cardboard is wedged under one leg. On the fake wood laminate surface, someone has carved a single word: *WATCH*. The grooves are black with old dirt.

ANGLE ON the rain-streaked window.

Outside, a deluge. Autumn rain lashes against the tall Victorian glass in vertical sheets, obscuring the perimeter fences and the guard towers beyond.

SOUND of wind HOWLING, rattling the window frames

A chair opposite him SCRAPES back.

Simon doesn't look up. No one sits at Table Four. It's his zone. His camouflage.

A rough, low voice. Familiar.

<center>JIMMY (O.S.)</center>

> Eat.

Simon looks up.

It's JIMMY (17). He looks like he's been wrestling a concrete mixer. A purpling BRUISE blossoms on his cheekbone. A dark scab splits his lower lip. His blazer is soaked, smelling of wet wool, tobacco, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (a breath)

> You shouldn't be here.

Simon's eyes dart across the room. The prefects are by the doors, laughing. But they're still watching. Always.

Jimmy ignores him. He has a tray. On it: a single bowl of the brown stew and a carton of milk. He pushes the bowl across the wobbly table to Simon.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> Eat.

Jimmy stares out the window at the rain blurring the world.

<center>SIMON</center>

> I'm not hungry.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> Don't care. Look busy.

Simon picks up the spoon. It feels heavy. He stirs the gelatinous gravy.

<center>SIMON</center>

> What happened to your face?

<center>JIMMY</center>

> Stairs. Very slippery. Dangerous

> place, this.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Jimmy.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> Shut up, Simon. Just eat.

The tension coming off Jimmy is a physical force. His leg bounces under the table, a frantic jackhammer rhythm that vibrates through the floor.

Simon takes a bite. Salt and burnt onion. He forces it down.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (murmuring)

> They're watching you.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> They're always watching.

Jimmy leans forward, elbows on the table. He winces, a flicker of pain.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> (low)

> But the cameras have a blind spot.

> Here. The pillar blocks the angle

> from the east corner.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Is that why you sat here? To hide?

Jimmy's storm-grey eyes snap to Simon's.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> I sat here because you're the only

> one who isn't a snitch or a

> coward.

Simon flinches. He grips his spoon tighter.

<center>SIMON</center>

> I'm a coward, Jimmy. I'm the

> biggest coward here.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> None of us are getting out. Not

> unless we burn the lock.

Jimmy reaches for his milk carton. His hand brushes Simon's wrist.

His skin is freezing cold.

The touch lingers. A crime in this place. Simon doesn't pull away. He sits frozen, the cold seeping into his own skin.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> (whispering)

> Under the tray.

Simon blinks.

<center>SIMON</center>

> What?

<center>JIMMY</center>

> When you stand up. Take the tray. My

> tray. There's a gap between the

> plastic layers on the underside. I

> wedged it in.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Wedged what in?

<center>JIMMY</center>

> The roster. The real one. The one

> the Director keeps on the offline

> server. It has the deportation

> dates. For everyone. Your mum

> included.

The air leaves Simon's lungs. The cafeteria noise fades to an underwater murmur.

<center>SIMON</center>

> You... you hacked the Director's

> private server? Jimmy, that's...

> that's disappearing.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> I'm already gone, Si. They raided

> my dorm this morning. Found the

> decryption key. They don't know I

> moved the data yet. They think I

> failed.

<center>SIMON</center>

> If they find you...

<center>JIMMY</center>

> They will. I bought you five

> minutes. Maybe ten.

<center>SIMON</center>

> (voice cracking)

> Why?

Jimmy looks at him. Really looks at him. The defiant mask slips. He's just seventeen. And scared.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> Because you like the rain. And

> because you look at me like I'm

> real.

A harsh, rhythmic BUZZER CUTS through the room. The LOCKDOWN BELL.

Chairs SCRAPE. Confused shouts.

<center>STUDENT (O.S.)</center>

> Is it a drill?

Jimmy stands up fast, shoving his hands in his pockets.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> (hissing)

> Go. Take the tray to the return

> rack. Slip the drive out. Then run.

> Don't go to class. Go to the

> perimeter. The section by the old

> power station has a rusted

> calm-clamp on the fence. You can

> kick it loose.

<center>SIMON</center>

> Jimmy, come with me.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> I can't.

Jimmy steps back from the table, turning toward the doors. Making himself a target.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> I have to be the distraction.

<center>SIMON</center>

> No.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> (shouting)

> GO!

Heads turn. The prefects by the door straighten up. They've found their prey.

Jimmy grabs a chair from the next table. He HURLS it.

It doesn't hit anyone. It CRASHES into a stack of trays with a deafening, chaotic CLATTER.

He stands in the middle of the aisle, arms wide, a wild, jagged grin splitting his bruised face.

<center>JIMMY</center>

> (to the prefects)

> HEY! Is that all you've got?

The prefects move. A swarm of black wasps.

Simon doesn't watch. He stands, legs like water. He grabs Jimmy's tray.

He walks. One foot in front of the other. Toward the conveyor belt for dirty dishes.

Behind him: SHOUTS. The sound of a SCUFFLE. A BODY HITTING A TABLE.

He doesn't turn around.

He reaches the racks. The conveyor belt HUMS. He pretends to scrape the bowl. His fingers find the lip of the tray. A razor-thin slit in the plastic.

He digs a fingernail in.

Something hard and metallic slides out into his palm. A USB drive. Small. Heavy. Cold.

He shoves it deep into his pocket, his hand clenching around it.

A bellow from the main entrance.

<center>VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> STUDENT! HALT!

Simon sees a side exit. A fire door. A sign reads *ALARM WILL SOUND*.

The alarm is already sounding.

He hits the bar on the door. It gives way with a rusty GROAN.

EXT. SERVICE ALLEY - CONTINUOUS

The wind hits him like a fist. The rain is freezing, instantly soaking his shirt. The air smells of wet asphalt and rot.

The sky is a bruised, heavy purple.

Simon GASPS, the cold air burning his lungs.

Behind him, through the closing door, he hears one last shout. Defiant. Jimmy's voice.

Then a sickening THUD.

Simon squeezes the drive in his pocket. The sharp edges dig into his skin.

He turns his collar up against the wind and starts to run. His loafers slip on the wet pavement. He runs towards the treeline, away from the only person who ever saw him.