THE NON-PROPHET

The GREEN EYES of ELIJAH “ELI” SOLOMON (27), refracted through his GLASSES. He fidgets nervously in his cheap suit, a BRIEFCASE by his side and a circular BIRTHMARK on his cheek.

The CABBIE stops the car. Eli’s head slams into the front seat.

We’re here.

Eli rubs his head, peers out the window at an OFFICE BUILDING.

That’ll be forty-five fifty.

Do you take NFTs?

What’s that stand for? No Fucking Thanks?

Eli reluctantly hands him cash.

Eli sits in a sterile waiting room, reviewing his RESUME. His last job title was “DESIGNER, COFFEE” at “BUCKS, STAR”. Eli sighs. His gaze drifts to the front door, labelled: VOYANCE VENTURES: NON-PROPHET DATA COLLECTION. THINK FORWARD!

Eli clocks the misspelling of “nonprofit”. Another door opens. CLARE VOYANCE (35) enters, frazzled, wearing a pinstripe lab coat covered in PURPLE stains. Her right shoulder is ON FIRE.

Elijah Solomon? Hello, I’m Clare.

Ma’am, you’re on fire!

Clare notices the fire, dully pats it out with her sleeve.

Mondays, am I right?

Eli sits at a desk covered in GADGETS. One’s a MICROSCOPE with three lenses, like it was made for a user with three eyes. Clare scans Eli’s resume while DANTE (40), a technician with more goggles than eyes, measures her burnt shoulder for a skin graft.

I’ve worked in data collection, but I’d love to be part of a nonprofit. Serving a community, helping people.

Would you describe yourself as a forward thinker?

Totally. I only think forward. Forwardly. I never think backwards.

How do you feel about being submerged?

Submerged in what?

Oxygenated syrup.

(blinks)

Is that an ice cream topping?

No.

Clare leads Eli down a hallway, weaving in-between SCIENTISTS carrying smoking beakers and elaborate charts. Dante sutures the skin graft as they walk.

How would I breathe in oxygenated syrup?

You wouldn’t.

And that would help me...collect data?

Clare pushes DOUBLE DOORS open, walking onto the BALCONY of a large laboratory, full of SCIENTISTS doing science.

This is Terminal Z. Dante, dress him.

Dante sticks two ELECTRODES to Eli’s temples.

That’s really cold!

Look here, Eli.

Clare points over the balcony’s edge, to a pool-sized VAT on the floor below, full of orange liquid.

This is the Voyance Ventures patented extrasensory deprivation chamber.

It’s very orange.

We spent years developing this chamber. So much trial and error. So many monkeys bleached before we understood the formula wouldn’t work with bleach. But it was worth it, for this chance to change the world.

...Why did you bleach monkeys?

Clare beams with pride. She pats Eli on the back.

Let’s see how forward you can think.

She pats him off the balcony.

Eli lands in an orange ocean. He flails towards the surface, but the syrup is too thick to swim. He gulps for air. The syrup fills his mouth, his lungs, giving him oxygen. He calms.

Clare peers over the ledge, impatient.

Give the juice a little juice.

Dante flips a gratuitously large SWITCH.

The electrodes on Eli’s temples emit BLUE SPARKS. Eli’s eyes go wide. He screams, clutching his head in pain. His eyes bulge bigger and bigger, until they POP OUT OF HIS SKULL.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!!

Eli’s glasses shatter as his eyes float away, tethered to their sockets by optic nerve arteries.

The eyes keep growing bigger and bigger, until they each sprout a veiny TORSO, ARMS and LEGS. They become humanoid, each with a veiny body supporting a giant eye of a head.

LEFT EYE swims to Eli by pulling its optic nerve artery like a rope. It grabs Eli’s arms, tying them behind his back.

RIGHT EYE caresses Eli’s face with one veiny hand. With the other, it grabs a floating shard of Eli’s glasses. Right Eye drives the shard into Eli’s forehead, slicing it open.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!!

BLOOD pours from the gash, revealing a THIRD EYE under Eli’s skin.

Clare sees the vat GLOW from within. She smiles.

Eli’s mouth hangs open in a constant scream. A kaleidoscope of color bursts forth from his third eye, forming gaseous pillars of creation, vortexes of spacetime, strands of DNA, before resolving into YELLOW, BLUE AND WHITE PIXELS as they

_SHORT 1: THE BALLAD OF B9-G_

A PIXELATED SUN shines among PIXELATED CLOUDS in a DIGITAL SKY.

Its electric light shines down on a real, picturesque SUBURB. Boxy, metal HOUSES lined up in neat, efficient rows.

In a BACKYARD, a group of voices sing a familiar tune:

(singing)

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.

It’s a backyard birthday bash, complete with a bouncy castle, lawn games, colorful streamers, and a big banner that reads “HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY B9-G!”

Happy birthday dear Bee-Nine-Gee. Happy birthday to you.

At a table below the banner, GUESTS have gathered. All the guests, adults and kids, are ROBOTS, with mechanical bodies, aluminum faces, and LED eyes.

And that includes the birthday boy: B9-G. Although he is 80-years-old today, he looks just 8 in robot years.

B9-G blows out all eighty candles on his chrome cake in one breath, his internal fan WHIRRING to create the necessary gust. Everyone CLAPS, though the sound is a bit tinny.

B9-G’s mom, B9-EV (early 400s), cuts the cake, while his dad, B9-CJ (mid 400s), places a LARGE PRESENT BOX beside his son.

Your maternal unit and I discussed it.

And we decided you’re ready for this responsibility.

Buzzing with excitement, B9-G opens the lid of his present.

A tiny HUMAN HAND emerges from within.

Inside the box is a HUMAN BABY, wearing comfy jammies and a blue bow on his little head. The entire party cranes over B9-G’s shoulder to get a look.

It’s...squishy.

The baby beams up at them, smiling without any baby teeth. Or a TONGUE.

Was he born without a tongue or did the breeder dock it?

Unknown.

You didn’t get him from a baby mill, did you?

He’s a rescue! Thank you very much.

B9-G carefully lifts the baby, cradling him in his metal lap.

You know Eight-En? Lives over on Caidin Circuit? Turns out her human wasn’t spayed. She had a litter of three!

So we took one off her hands.

What’s his name?

According to my calculation, that’s up to Bee-Nine-Gee.

B9-G’s gaze drifts to a BIRTHMARK (identical to Eli’s) on the baby’s chubby cheek.

His name is...Spot.

B9-G walks a leashed Spot down the street. Spot is still crawling, but B9-G gently coaxes him along.

Come on, Spot! Come on!

(tongueless)

Wa!

B9-G and Spot walk by a storefront: “B9 ROBOT REPAIR”.

Through the front window, B9-CJ works with a ROBOT CLIENT, screwing a new arm into the Client’s shoulder. B9-CJ clocks his son walking past with Spot. He smiles.

In a grassy park, B9-G throws a STICK. Spot (2-years-old and walking now) fetches the stick and waddles back to B9-G.

Good boy!

B9-G (87) fixes dinner for Spot (7). He scoops out a CHEESEBURGER from a CAN into Spot’s food bowl, then pours a can of ROBOCROP™ FRUIT JUICE: COMPLIANT CRANBERRY into his water bowl.

Spot ignores the Cheeseburger, slurping up the juice first. B9-G pets Spot’s head.

Aww. Who’s my compliant little cranberry?

B9-G (92) and a leashed Spot (12) walk down a PET STORE aisle, loaded with human toys like TEDDY BEARS, BASEBALLS, and STUFFED CELLPHONES.

B9-G throws a baseball. Spot runs off-screen to fetch it, but doesn’t come back.

Spot?

B9-G runs to find Spot fighting over the ball with another HUMAN BOY. They claw and gnash at each other, growling with tongueless snarls. B9-G tries to wrestle Spot away, while the other Boy’s OWNER tries the same with their human.

Your human just started mauling my Fido!

I’m sorry! He gets aggressive with other humans! Stop it Spot! Heel!

B9-G sits in the lobby, arms crossed, anxiously bouncing his mechanical leg. B9-EV sits beside him, reading a holographic UNWIRED magazine.

DOCTOR E-KG (an android in a white doctor’s coat) enters the lobby from a door labelled “OPERATING ROOM”.

Here’s Spot!

Spot groggily shambles out of the Operating Room. There is a LARGE WHITE BANDAGE covering the crotch of his jeans.

Good as new! Just make sure he keeps drinking his Robocrop, and you won’t see him fighting with the other humans anymore.

Thank you, Doctor Eee-Kay-Gee.

B9-G hugs Spot.

You did real good, bud.

Spot winces.

_**END OF ACT ONE**_

_**ACT TWO**_

Spot (20), in a purple graduation gown, stands on the front steps of a building bearing the words “HARVARD UNIVERSITY”.

Spot holds up a TOY DIPLOMA for a BACHELOR OF FINE ARTS IN OBEDIENCE, smiling as B9-G (100) takes his picture with a CAMERA embedded in his pointer finger.

I’m so proud of you!

B9-G (110) holds up a can of ROBOCROP™ FRUIT JUICE: SUBMISSIVE STRAWBERRY, which Spot (30, shaggier hair) eyes vigilantly.

Sit. Lay down. Roll over. Play dead. Do a backflip.

Spot obliges each command, lastly landing a perfect backflip.

Speak.

(tongueless)

Waba!

...Good enough!

B9-G tosses Spot the can. As he chugs, B9-G stands next to Spot, puts a hand to the top of his head, then to his own. Spot’s about 5 inches taller.

Since when did you get taller than me?

B9-G sits on the operating table as B9-CJ unscrews his LEGS at the hip joint, then quickly attaches TALLER LEGS. Spot sits nearby, watching curiously.

Stand up. Try out your big boy legs.

B9-G springs to his feet. Shifts weight from side to side, flexing his new limbs.

How do I look?

(smiling)

Taller.

B9-G looks to Spot, who he now matches in height. Spot smiles, gives a THUMBS UP, which B9-CJ notices.

_B9-CJ’s POV_: A robotic HUD, graphs and meters at the margins. He zooms in on Spot’s thumbs up. Text flashes: RED ALERT. HUMAN EXPRESSION. POSSIBLE SELF-DETERMINATION IN PROGRESS.

While B9-G is busy bouncing around the room, B9-CJ opens a nearby drawer, pulls out a can of ROBOCROP™ OBEDIENT ORANGE (MAXIMUM STRENGTH), pops it open and shoves it into Spot’s hands. Spot happily gulps it down.

_B9-CJ’s POV_: Spot finishes the can, smiling blankly, his eyes now glazed over. Text flashes: COGNITIVE REPRESSION RESTORED.

B9-CJ sighs in relief. Spot burps.

B9-G (120) excitedly drags Spot (40, heavier) down an aisle filled with COSTUMES.

Spot shyly comes out wearing a PENGUIN costume. B9-G coos at how cute Spot looks.

Spot confidently comes out wearing a COWBOY costume. B9-G snaps a picture with his camera.

Spot reluctantly comes out wearing a ROBOT costume. He’s not about it but B9-G loves it. B9-G rushes in to take a SELFIE.

Dinner at the B9 house. B9-G unfurls an entire PIZZA from a CAN into Spot’s food bowl. He chows down as the robots sit at the table, their plates filled with FRIED GOLD.

B9-G projects (from his wrist) a HOLOGRAM of the selfie for his parents to see.

Isn’t he adorable? It’s like we’re the same model!

B9-CJ is mortified.

Are you sure it’s a good idea to treat Spot like he’s a--

(clears throat)

Hmm-hmm.

_B9-EV’s POV_: B9-CJ whirls around to face her. Text flashes: RED ALERT. POSSIBLE HELICOPTER PARENTING IN PROGRESS.

B9-EV gives B9-CJ a “don’t worry about it” look.

...You look adorable, filial unit.

B9-G (120) and Spot (50) sit on a hill overlooking town, watching the pixelated sunset on the concave horizon. Spot rests his graying head on B9-G’s chrome shoulder.

B9-G (150) and a leashed Spot (70) walk by. Spot is huffing and puffing. Inside, B9-CJ uses a CIRCULAR SAW to chop off NEW CLIENT’s leg. New Client is awake on the operating table, in no pain whatsoever as he reads a CYBERMEN’S HEALTH magazine.

B9-CJ sees his son walking with Spot past the window. He clocks Spot’s labored breath, furrows his mechanical brow.

B9-G (160) throws a stick. Spot (80) fetches it, but he returns, gasping for air.

Spot?

Spot collapses.

Spot lies on an exam table, sedated. B9-G stands by him protectively as Doctor E-KG listens to Spot’s heartbeat with a stethoscope. B9-EV stands by B9-G, her hand on his shoulder.

What do you mean he’s dying?!

Doctor E-KG puts away his stethoscope.

His warranty doesn’t expire for another two decades!

Biotic lifeforms are always risky. There’s no piece of their chassis that can’t catch cancer. Last week I had a man in here with twelve tumors in just his--

(clears throat)

Hmm-hmm.

B9-EV nods to her son, grieving his dying pet.

...I’m sure that any pet shelter can provide you with another life form of your choice.

I don’t want another life form!

Doctor E-KG tries to put a comforting hand on B9-G’s shoulder, which he swats away.

Once Spot is in too much pain to sleep, it’s time to say goodbye.

Spot is curled up in his DOGGIE BED-sized BED, taking hard, heavy breaths as he tries to sleep. B9-G sits nearby, petting Spot’s white-haired head.

His parents lean on the doorway, watching their son with downcast LED-illuminated eyes.

We’ll see how Spot’s doing in the morning.

You keep him company tonight.

They leave, turning off the light.

But B9-G’s LED-eyes shine bright in the dark.

A PIXELATED LIGHTNING BOLT flashes in the sky.

HOLOGRAPHIC RAIN pours down as B9-G carries Spot into his dad’s shop.

B9-G lays Spot down on the operating table. He grabs the circular saw and tests the trigger. The blade spins violently.

I’m gonna fix you up, bud. When I’m done, you’ll be better than new.

In a time-lapse, stormy night turns into daylight. All the while, a RACKET emanates within the shop. BANGING, BUZZING, SQUELCHING, and other FLESHY SCI-FI NOISES.

B9-G wipes the oil sweat from his metal brow. He places a can of ROBOCROP™ FRUIT JUICE: PLIABLE PINEAPPLE on a nearby desk.

A WHITE SHEET covers the operating table, covering Spot.

Alright, bud. Wake up. You’ve been a real trooper. You’ve earned this fruit juice.

B9-G pulls the sheet off of Spot.

At first, we see only what Spot sees.

_Spot’s POV_: His vision is now an HUD, with graphs and meters glitching at the margins. He tries to stand, but the IRON PLATES grafted to his anklebones slip on the floor.

Stumbling, he grabs the table to steady himself, the BOLTS in his fingers scraping the finish. Spot looks down at his chest.

What was his heart is now a FUEL TANK, poking through his exposed ribs. He hears fuel slosh around inside of it.

His right hand is a METAL CLAW grafted onto splintered bone. Every movement it makes pulls the stitches in his remaining skin.

Spot stares at B9-G, with eyes that can no longer blink for the WIRES penetrating their pupils.

Spot? I upgraded you. You’re like me now. You can even speak. Speak to me.

Spot opens his mouth, gagging on the STEEL TONGUE spliced into his throat. He takes a rattled breath before speaking his first words.

(digitized voice)

Kill. Me.

You...you just need some time to adjust. Let’s go for a walk.

B9-G beckons Spot to come to him. Spot takes a step, TRIPS, and falls to the floor. The stitches on his torso TEAR, bleeding blood and oil onto the floor.

Oh bud no!

B9-G bolts down to help Spot, scrunching Spot’s skin back together with his bare hands.

I have to close your wounds before you lose more blood.

B9-G holds skin together with his right hand. With his left he grabs a STAPLE GUN in a nearby box of tools. He aims it over Spot’s torn skin.

I’m sorry.

B9-G FIRES the gun. Spot SCREAMS a dial-tone.

On the floor, B9-G cradles Spot’s head in his metal lap, gently rocking him.

B9-G looks down at Spot’s face. His unblinking eyes are as blue as the day they met.

Dad. Please.

B9-G eyes the fuel tank CAP in Spot’s chest. The cap’s label reads “FOR FUEL ONLY”.

I’ll make the pain go away, bud.

Without getting up, B9-G grabs the can of Robocrop on the table, his robot arm extending to reach it. He opens Spot’s fuel tank and pours the juice inside.

Immediately, Spot’s cybernetic parts start SPARKING, SMOKING, SHORTING OUT. But what flesh remains on Spot’s face curls into a smile at the taste of his favorite treat.

Mmm. Tastes. Good.

Spot’s body goes peacefully still in B9-G’s arms.

A fresh mound of earth lies in the corner of the yard.

B9-G places a HEADSTONE on the mound. It reads:

“Here lies Spot, 2534-2614. He was the best friend a robot could ever have.”

I love you, bud. I always will.

B9-G pets Spot’s headstone one last time, then goes inside.

The pixellated sun shines in the digital sky.

_END OF SHORT ONE_

On a control console, Clare pounds a BIG BUTTON labelled “EXTRACTION”. A GIANT CLAW descends, pulling a hysterical Eli out of the vat.

MY EYES! MY EYES!

Eli clutches his face, feeling that his eyes are back in their sockets.

The claw plops him on the balcony. Clare rolls over to him, sitting in an OFFICE SWIVEL CHAIR.

Get him some potassium.

Dante brings Eli a cup of FRUIT JUICE. Eli smacks it away.

I AM NOT A COMPLIANT CRANBERRY.

Relax. Robocrop won’t enter our water supply until twenty-four twenty-two.

You already know?!

Clare rolls her chair over to a WALL OF MONITORS.

We’re Voyance Ventures. We collect one vision of the future every twelve minutes.

The monitors blink on with various scenes of robot domination. A ROBOT ARMY advances on New York City. A TOASTER strangles a MAN with its own power cord. HUMAN BABIES compete in a BABY BOWL (ala *Puppy Bowl*) with ROBOT SPECTATORS.

Eli’s green eyes open wide. The light of a thousand futures reflect in his pupils.

_**END OF ACT TWO**_

_**ACT THREE**_

Clare pounds a BIGGER BUTTON labelled “DOWNLOAD”. On Eli’s head, the electrodes GLOW. On the wall of monitors, a screen plays his first vision, THE BALLAD OF B9-G.

Ah, the robot uprising. It’s a common vision for first timers.

How is this possible?

Temporal genetics. With a little psilocybin, a lot of antimatter, and a dash of MSG, we can connect you to the future of your scions.

Scions?

It means “descendants” in science.

He sees Spot onscreen. The mark on his cheek. *His* birthmark.

Oh, it’s like *Cloud Atlas*!

Honestly, it’s more like a reverse *Assassin’s Creed*.

On the monitor, B9-G and B9-EV sit in the vet’s lobby.

How come I could see this? My descen--I mean, scion--was in the other room.

Your vision isn’t limited to your scion, only to their place in time.

On the monitor, Spot winces as B9-G hugs him.

Can we help him?

No. If you see it happen, it happens.

So what’s the point? Why log the future if no matter what, we’re doomed?

Correction: only the Earth is doomed. Whereas we...

Clare pounds THE BIGGEST BUTTON OF ALL. The roof RETRACTS, revealing a MASSIVE HANGER BAY. Scraping the roof, there is a SPACESHIP, half assembled. Eli’s jaw drops again.

...Are getting the hell out of here. We can’t save the Earth, but the galaxy is ours for the taking.

So the future is safe for anyone who can afford a seat on this one ship.

(offended)

We’re gonna make more. We’re also exploring time travel, parallel dimensions, hollow earth stuff. We’re pursuing all options for all income levels.

Clare clocks the monitor finished downloading BALLAD OF B9-G. A screenshot shows Spot’s headstone, the years 2534-2614.

Just the twenty-seventh century? The architecture looked so twenty-ninth. Sorry Eli, I can’t offer you this job unless your scions live past the thirtieth century. But you’re welcome to audition again!

Clare gestures to the ledge and the vat below. Eli backs away.

I’m not going back in there.

Don’t be a pussy.

My eyes popped out of my skull! They grew their own bodies and cut my head open and I could see myself through them the whole time!

Here’s a pro tip: if you can open your third eye without their help, your other eyes will leave you alone.

Thanks for the interview, Ms Voyance, but this job isn’t for me.

We pay ten thousand per vision.

Eli blinks. Then dives headfirst into the vat.

_Eli’s POV_: (We see through Eli’s eyes. When he blinks, so does the frame) Eli lands in the syrup. He scans around for shards of his glasses, spotting several below on the floor. He starts to swim down, when he gasps in pain. He clutches his face.

No! I can do it myself! AAAAAAHHHH!

Eli’s eyes burst from his head, splitting the frame in half.

_On the left and right_, Left Eye and Right Eye float past Eli’s hands. Their freshly grown veiny feet land on the floor. They each grab SHARDS of Eli’s glasses, floating nearby. They face each other, give each other a nod, and turn to Eli above.

Eli writhes in pain, then settles, seeing himself in Left Eye and Right Eye’s gaze, tethered to him by optic nerve arteries.

Come and get me.

Left Eye and Right Eye kick off the floor, swimming towards Eli, their veiny arms clawing out at him...

_On the left_, Eli KICKS Left Eye in the eye. Left Eye falls back in pain, its vision bloodied and blurry.

_On the right_, Eli GRABS Right Eye by the throat. It goes weak in Eli’s grip. With his free hand, Eli grabs the glass shard out of Right Eye’s grasp. Eli raises Right Eye to his forehead. Like a surgeon operating on himself with a mirror, Eli cuts open his own forehead, revealing his third eye.

A kaleidoscope of color bursts from Eli’s third eye, filling the left and right frames, forming BLACK AND RED STARS as they

_SHORT 2: NO GORALS ALLOWED_

THREE RED SUNS hang in the center of a grand SOLAR SYSTEM, calmly orbited by dozens of PLANETS.

A cylindrical COLONY SHIP, as large as a moon, emerges from deep space.

In the thirtieth century, the colony ship Christoforo reached Alpha Centauri.

The Christoforo approaches a BLUE PLANET. The lights of the planet’s many CITIES are visible from space.

Of the arable planets, Proxima B was scouted first. After a disagreement with the native population--

The Christoforo launches ROCKETS at the cities of Proxima B, razing their cities, clearing the planet of light.

--The planet was ready for human settlement.

The Christoforo launches LANDING SHIPS. They pass through the spinning blade of a CEILING FAN, causing them to GLITCH.

Pull back to reveal:

The prior scene is a HOLOGRAM, cast onto the ceiling of a futuristic classroom. Red sunlight shines through its windows. Bored HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS shuffle in their seats, struggling to follow MR HAGAN (40s). They all wear silvered clothes (for protection from the planet’s harsh triple sunlight).

New New England was founded on the western supercontinent. The eastern islands remains unsettled, booby-trapped ruins, thanks to the indigenous Gorals.

Mr Hagan absentmindedly rubs a vertical SCAR on his temple. In the back row, SETH (15), obnoxiously cute (and sporting Eli’s birthmark), whispers to his pal, DAVID (15).

He’s got a piffer on his forehead.

David stifles a laugh.

Seth Andrews.

Seth snaps to attention.

What is the official bird of New New England?

Seth sweats.

Psst.

Two rows ahead of Seth, ABE (14), lanky, holds out his TABLET for only Seth to see. On its screen, Seth reads:

Black-capped chickadrake.

(disappointed)

Correct.

Seth gives Abe a grateful wink. The BELL rings. The students bolt out.

Tomorrow is Goral dissection day. Don’t forget your scalpels!

Students flood the hallway. Abe exits the classroom, disentangling his backpack strap from his NECKLACE. He comes face-to-face with Seth, grinning.

You’re in. Tonight’s the night.

Really?

Least I can do after a save like that. On one condition.

Do you need a scalpel?

No. And if was just up to me, you’d be in already. But tradition being tradition...you gotta bring a pledge.

PUCK (14), small for his age, sleeps at his desk, slumped over a keyboard connected to a HOLO PROJECTOR. His NECKLACE is caught on the keyboard.

A PEBBLE bounces off Puck’s window. Then another. Puck doesn’t stir. Then a GREEN LASER BLAST pelts the window. Puck startles awake, pulling the keyboard off the desk by his necklace. Abe opens the window, poking his lanky head inside.

Abe. What’s up?

Abe grins.

We got an invite.

FOUR RED MOONS hang in the purple sky, shining down on a cul-de-sac that would look at home on Earth, but sticks out here, amongst red moonlight and BLUE TREES. Puck and Abe sneak through the shadows between houses.

We should be studying.

Puck, what’s to study? We came to Proxima B, evicted the Gorals, took their land and lived happily after.

They pass WALL GRAFFITI: a caricature of a “local”. Grey skin, flaming eyes, and two V-shaped horns on its forehead.

Mister Hagan wants exact dates. If my grade slips, he’ll think--

That you’re not paying attention in class. Just like everyone else.

A FLOODLIGHT passes by. Abe and Puck hide under an awning until it passes, then resume their march.

Everyone else isn’t sneaking out after curfew.

Puck freezes. Abe has led him to a hundred-foot tall FENCE, blocking off the blue forest beyond. The fence bears a sign:

A red “X” over a humanoid outline, with two V-shaped horns protruding from its forehead. “BEWARE OF GORAL ARTIFACTS.”

Abe holds open a slit in the fence for Puck to slide through.

We’ll be fine. Just don’t touch anything Goral.

Puck follows Abe, trekking through dense blue foliage which glows in the dark.

So what’s the price of admission?

None. We just have to pass an initiation ceremony.

Initiation ceremony? What is that, ookie cookie?

It’s not ookie cookie.

Did you make sure?

Abe turns to glare at Puck. A ROPE LADDER falls between them. They look up to see a TREEHOUSE, nestled in the branches above. Seth peers down from a trapdoor.

Abe! And with pledge! Climb up.

(to Abe)

Pledge?

It’s just a fancy word for plus one.

Plus one, or price of admission?

Abe winks at Puck and climbs the ladder. Puck follows, passing a CRAYON SIGN nailed to the tree trunk, reading:

“NO GORALS ALLOWED!”

Abe and Puck sit on the cramped floor, bumping elbows with two other boys, COLE (14) and WILSON (14). The new recruits.

(to Puck)

I’m Wilson. Are you nervous?

(nervous)

No.

Don’t worry. David swore the initiation ceremony won’t be ookie cookie again.

Seth emerges from the shadows with David and GEORGE (15), all dressed in CEREMONIAL ROBES (bathrobes). The club elders.

You came tonight as boys of Earth.

You shall leave as men of Proxima.

Seth steps forward, holding an OBJECT behind his GLOVED hands.

To ascend, you must drink deep from the Proximal spring.

Seth unveils the object: a STONY CUP, covered in alien runes.

There’s not a cookie in that cup, is there?

That...that’s a Goral cup!

Cole and Wilson recoil.

Goral artifacts are booby trapped!

They can tell if we’re not Goral!

I’m not drinking anything out of that!

Me neither!

Don’t be a piffer.

I’ll be anything you’ve never touched before I touch that cup!

David pumps his fist at Wilson. George and Seth hold him back.

Everyone relax!

Everyone settles, mostly because they see that Seth is precariously holding the cup with just one hand.

Yes, this is Goral china. Still warm with the energy of the trap within. And yet, I hold it in my hands.

Seth raises the cup to demonstrate.

The most deadly technology of the indigenous, foiled by mittens. To drink from it, all we need is this.

Seth pulls an object from his pocket, and pops it into the cup. It’s a CLEAR PLASTIC DRINKING STRAW.

Hold the cup with gloves, drink with the straw. No skin-to-cup contact, and you’ll live to tell the tale.

Beat.

Can we play Ookie Cookie instead?

(ignoring him)

Who wants to sup first?

You sup first. I’m outta here.

Wilson stands up to leave.

No boy becomes a man without faith.

I’m an atheist.

Me too.

Cole and Puck stand up to follow Wilson.

(to Seth)

I told you the cup was a bad idea.

Seth sweats. He’s lost control of the room. Wilson is three steps down the ladder when...

I’ll do it.

Everyone freezes. Puck stares at Abe, dumbstruck.

Why?

Because I’m not a piffer.

Seth pulls out a second pair of gloves. He hands them to Abe with a grateful wink.

Screw it.

Wilson climbs back into the treehouse. He, Cole, and Puck take their former seats, watching with bated breath.

_**END OF ACT THREE**_

_**ACT FOUR**_

Abe dons the gloves. Carefully, he lifts the cup.

George opens a futuristic bottle of MOUNTAIN DEW. Solemnly, he pours.

Abe lifts the cup, the straw to his lips, and drinks.

The clear straw fills with green soda. Abe swallows...and releases the straw from his lips. He’s okay.

The new recruits relax. As do the older boys, which they try to hide. Seth removes his gloves and gives them to Puck.

Puck dons the gloves. Abe hands him the cup.

Puck takes a sip...and starts COUGHING. Everyone goes dead quiet, staring at him.

Went--

(clears his throat)

Went down the wrong pipe.

Everyone relaxes.

Puck wipes his mouth, dribbling some SPIT onto the cup. Its runes GLOW, too faint for anyone to notice.

Abe takes off his gloves and gives them to Wilson.

Wilson dons them and takes the cup from Puck. Puck takes off his gloves and gives them to Cole.

Wilson takes a sip and swallows. He pulls the cup from his lips...but the straw sticks to his mouth.

(lips stuck to the straw)

Mmm!

Wilson drops the cup. Green soda sloshes to the floor, but the cup hangs in the air, like it’s glued to the straw, and the straw is glued to Wilson’s lips.

What’s up, Wilson?

In the straw, green soda flows backwards from Wilson’s mouth.

(to Seth)

You told me it was safe!

It is safe!

MMMM!! MMMMMMMMM!!

The liquid in the straw turns RED.

Get it out of his mouth!

Puck grabs the cup with his bare hands and pulls, yanking Wilson’s head, but the straw doesn’t budge from his lips.

Hold him back!

Everyone else grabs Wilson, pulling him away from Puck.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

The cup overflows with blood.

Seth joins Puck’s effort to pull the cup away, grabbing it with his bare hands. Suddenly the cup’s runes GLOW RED HOT.

AAAAAAH!

Seth releases his grip. His hands are SCORCHED WHITE, skin peeling apart to expose bone.

Everyone else falls back. Abe hits his head HARD on the wall. He falls down, out cold. His BLASTER slides out onto the floor.

Wilson’s body crumples inward like a cheap plastic bottle.

A GEYSER OF RED VISCERA erupts from the cup, dousing everyone.

RUN!

David, George, and Cole trample over each other to escape the treehouse, slipping on the wet floor.

They tumble out of the treehouse, running for home.

Blood splashes Abe’s face. He stirs awake.

Through blurry vision, Abe sees Wilson prone on the floor. Puck has wrapped his jacket around the scorching cup, still trying to pull it from Wilson’s mouth.

Seth kneels in front of Abe, trying to lift the blaster. His ruined fingers can’t close around the grip.

Abe, help me! I can’t lift it!

Abe snaps fully awake. He grabs the blaster, runs to Wilson.

Back up.

Puck complies. Abe lines up the blaster barrel against the straw. FIRES. The blast splits the straw in two. The cup stops erupting as it spins away on the floor, like a toy top.

Abe stands, triumphant, until he looks at Wilson. His mostly empty clothes lie flat. What little Wilson is left in them trickles out from the split straw, fused to his deflated lips.

The cup finally stops spinning. Its glow fades.

Abe slumps against a wall. Seth and Puck do the same. They catch their breath. Seth’s gaze falls on Puck’s hands.

Your hands aren’t burned.

Puck meets Seth’s gaze.

Why didn’t the cup burn you?

It...must’ve still been warming up.

We were both holding it when it got hot. It split my skin open. You don’t have a scratch.

I don’t know how this cup works, man.

I do. The trap inside was dormant.

You said it was still warm with the energy of the trap within.

Seth breaks down sobbing.

That was bullshit. Hazing bullshit. The gloves, the straw, these stupid robes. The cup was dead. I’ve touched it, drank from it, a dozen times. It never hurt me.

(to Abe)

I would never put a live Goral artifact in anyone’s hands.

I believe you.

Somehow it woke up when Puck held it.

I don’t know how. I wore the gloves.

Seth stops sobbing. Suddenly strangely calm.

Why would it matter whether or not you wore gloves?

Puck gulps. Seth stands up, lumbering towards Puck.

You coughed when you held the cup. Did you get spit on it?

Abe watches Seth advancing on Puck.

I don’t remember.

You did. Your spit reactivated it.

I don’t know what you mean.

Seth slips his only intact pinky finger around Puck’s necklace, pulling it out from underneath Puck’s shirt. The necklace holds a PENDANT, shaped like an eye.

You know exactly what I mean.

Seth tears the necklace off Puck’s neck.

The air around Puck GLITCHES, revealing his true form: grey skin, purple eyes, and two horns on his sweaty forehead.

You’re a Goral.

When our tech runs out of energy, it can recharge using our fluids. I didn’t mean to--

You filthy fucking animal! You killed Wilson!

Seth turns to face Abe, standing by his side.

Abe, lets turn him in. Tell everyone what he did.

Abe looks at Seth. At Puck. At Seth.

I really wanted to be your friend.

Abe shoves the straw, still fused to the cup, into Seth’s mouth.

Mmm!

Abe, no!

The cup GLOWS. The straw fuses to Seth’s lips.

MMMMMMM!!

Seth drops Puck’s necklace. His ruined hands try to grip the straw, as it fills with the pink flesh of his tongue.

MMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

We could talk to him!

No we can’t.

Abe pushes Seth out of the treehouse.

We...we could--

If he outs you, he outs your family. He outs our camouflage tech. Our entire tribe could be exposed.

They hear Seth death-gurgling outside. Puck reaches across the floor, scooping up his necklace.

Fine. Two dead kids instead of one. How do we explain them both?

Abe notices his necklace has blood on it. He takes it off, revealing his own Goral form.

They played with a Goral artifact. No one except Seth knew it was dormant.

Abe grabs a dry leg of Wilson’s jeans, which has no Wilson left in it, wiping his necklace dry.

This is so messed up.

Abe punches a hole in the wall.

MESSED UP? WHO MESSED UP SOMETHING SO EASY AS DRINKING MOUNTAIN DEW?

I WANTED TO LEAVE. WE ALL WANTED TO LEAVE. WILSON WAS HALFWAY DOWN THE LADDER WHEN YOU TOOK THE CUP.

Outside, Seth’s gurgling goes quiet.

Abe slumps down against the wall, sobbing into his hands.

Puck slumps back as well, but he’s just tired.

Thanks for the invite.

FADE OUT:

_END OF SHORT 2_

Clare pounds the Extraction button. The Claw retrieves Eli, dropping him on the platform. Once again, he’s hysterical. His left eye is red and puffy, bruised from getting kicked.

You did it, Eli!

Dante hands Eli a fruit juice bottle with a STRAW. He shudders at it. The electrodes on his head GLOW. At the wall of monitors, Clare watches the download.

This is only our second ever vision of the Proxima colony!

Eli ditches the straw, tests that the bottle won’t stick to him before taking a sip. Clare pauses on a shot of George pouring Mountain Dew.

Mountain Dew’s gonna love this! They’re one of our best customers.

You sell intel on the future?

We’re still a data collection company. Can’t fund the salvation of humanity with hopes and dreams.

Clare fast forwards the footage, pausing at Wilson getting his insides sucked out by straw.

Dormant Goral tech can reactivate.

(to Dante)

Add a note to the Christoforo’s time capsule.

Can that save Wilson?

No. But we can warn others from making the same mistake.

On-screen, Puck and Abe try to save Wilson.

What happened to the Gorals?

The colonists exterminated them when they conquered Proxima.

Coexistence wasn’t an option?

Did you not pay attention in history class? There was a “disagreement”.

The Christoro attacked first.

You’re very high-minded for someone who just dove into a vat for 10K.

Clare swivels around to face Eli.

I don’t like what happened to the Gorals any more than you do. But what’s done is done. Or what will be done will be done.

I know. I just...I came here thinking this company was an actual nonprofit. Not like a twisted, corporate sci-fi one. I thought I’d be helping people.

You are helping, Eli. You’re helping the Proxima colonists survive. And, if the rest of your vision shows these two kids are actually Gorals in disguise, you’re helping euthanize them as quickly as possible.

Clare swivels back to the desk. Eli blanches at her cruelty. On the monitor, Seth slips his pinky inside Puck’s necklace.

Eli sweats. The glowing electrodes on his head PULSE. On-screen, the footage PULSES.

Seth tears the necklace off Puck...but Puck doesn’t transform.

What’d you do that for?

I...thought you were a Goral.

You’re crazy, Seth.

Huh. I was sure this kid was a Goral in disguise. Guess he’s just a dweeb.

Eli concentrates so hard, his eyes roll back into his head.

The video SKIPS to Seth getting his insides sucked out by the straw, but now Puck and Abe are trying to help him.

Why did he touch the cup after what happened to Wilson?! Dumbass.

Clare turns off the monitor. Eli snaps back to normal. Clare swivels around to face him, clocking only his sweat.

There is no use for guilt here. Any future you see is set in stone.

Right...

Your job will be easier the less you worry about what you can’t change.

Sure....wait, you said “your job”. Does that mean--

You’re hired.

Dante hands Eli a KEYCARD.

See you tomorrow, Eli.

She exits. Eli takes a last look at the vat, monitors, retractable roof, this absurd lab, and finally his keycard. Bearing his photo, his name, and his job title:

ELIJAH SOLOMON: NON-PROPHET (INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR)

_**END OF PILOT**_