Sub-bass. No music yet.
Sub-bass. No music yet.
Sub-bass continuing. A single distant system tone.
Station hum arriving under the sub-bass.
MAREN (log): Hey, Bo. It's me again. It's sol 672, and time flies when you're having, uh -- well. Whatever this is. Dry, tired, warm. Low vent hum under everything; no score.
MAREN: sol 672, measuring time by a planet they never touched.
Her voice small in the room. Ventilation.
MAREN: it has been cozier with half the station sealed off.
The recorder clicking off. Nothing after it.
A soft repeating beep, low in the mix.
The beeps quickening.
MAREN: "I think we might have a new record. Nothing this exciting since—"
STATION V.O.: solar flare incoming, ETA two minutes. Urgent tones.
A heavy throw. Servos beginning, far away.
Distant structural movement. Sub-bass.
A dull structural clunk carried through the hull.
A swallow. The alert tone continuing.
Packet. Footsteps starting.
Receding footsteps. Ventilation. The alert.
The alert, alone.
The door on its track, heavy and reluctant.
Green hum. Her breathing.
Crates. Mop handles. Effort.
Nothing. The green hum drops away for it.
A crate splitting. Hard objects skidding on stud rubber.
The door on its track. The corridor amber cut off.
Green hum. Nothing else in the mix.
SFX only: hum, effortful steel grind, terminal thud. No dialogue.
A soft ascending tick.
The tick continuing.
Green hum.
Green hum. The tick under it.
Sub-bass swelling. No impact sound; there is no air.
Sub-bass peaking, then beginning to fall.
The tick slowing. A soft all-clear tone.
STATION V.O.: radiation event concluded, all clear.
MAREN: "Huh. Not bad. Here and gone. Did not even have time to eat my crackers."
The door on its track. Corridor tone returning.
Footsteps on stud rubber. Ventilation.
?? THREE knocks, evenly spaced, hollow, carried through metal.
Silence. Ventilation.
MAREN: "Must be a coolant line torn loose. Guess I am doing a spacewalk tomorrow."
?? THREE knocks again, identical spacing.
The knocking, carried faintly through the structure.
Three. Pause. Three. Pause. Three.
The taps matching the knocks exactly.
SUPER, letter by letter: S … O … S.
MAREN: "Morse code? That is impossible."
MAREN: "That is no coolant line."
The knocking, louder with every step.
The knocking, now clearly coming from the hatch.
The knocking stops.
Silence, absolute, for one beat.
MAREN, voice breaking: "Impossible. There is no one around for fifty million clicks."
The knocking, close now. Her breathing.
A heavy mechanical THUNK. Servo whine begins.
Lock cycling. Pressure equalisation hiss.
Door mechanism. Suit fans. Laboured breathing on the suit loop.
The door hauled shut. The seat taking her weight. Nothing said.
Metal on metal — the sound the whole sequence has been waiting for.
Silence. Room tone only. The suit fans wind down.
MAREN (o.s.): "How?"
The sound of it. Then nothing.
Bolts. The case coming free. No music.
A short pneumatic hiss.
Ventilation. Nothing else.
Retching, kept low in the mix. Maren saying nothing.
Two people breathing. LOG V.O. (sol 676) over: "the universe called my bluff and sent me... me."
Two mugs set down. Fabric. Quiet.
Ceramic on a hard surface.
FUTURE MAREN: "A year, near enough. Give or take."
MAREN: "Does it get easier?"
A long silence. Then: "A little."
The laugh turning. Then crying, unperformed.
FUTURE MAREN: "I know. I know exactly."
Overlapping laughter. Ventilation. A mug set down.
Her laugh, alone in the mix for a beat.
Her laugh thinning out. Room tone returning.
FUTURE MAREN: "I will not be here when the ship comes. I have got maybe six months."
Silence. The ventilation, suddenly loud.
FUTURE MAREN: "Because we all do. Every time one of us takes the ride."
FUTURE MAREN, on the dozen; sideways and back about a year, always give or take.
Nothing. She does not answer.
Ventilation. A CRT hum. No dialogue.
A drawer on its runners. Fabric.
Nothing. The room goes quiet under it.
Her breathing changes. Nothing else.
The coil off the cloth. Footsteps on stud rubber.
The coil settling on laminate.
FUTURE MAREN (o.s.), beginning: "Nothing cut this..."
FUTURE MAREN: "...it takes what is not attached and seals what it leaves behind."
MAREN: "He did not die."
FUTURE MAREN: every one of us that we know of landed late.
FUTURE MAREN on her own crossing.
Silence, held past comfort.
The ask, and the refusal of the ask, in the same breath.
Ventilation. The CRT hum. Nothing said.
Suit locker ventilation. Hardware.
Hardware. Two people breathing. Neither speaks.
A hard mechanical seal, and then the suit loop opening up in the mix.
LOG V.O. begins: "Last one of these, Bo..."
LOG V.O. continues over.
LOG V.O.: "...the next time I say your name, it will not be into a recorder. Wish me a good landing."
Amber lamp. Suit fans. The room tone of the whole film.
The suit hardware between them. Nothing else.
FUTURE MAREN: "Twelve of us said goodbye in this room. I would bet you everything not one of them did that."
A heavy mechanical THUNK. STATION: "Airlock armed. Depressurization on occupant's mark."
Metal on metal — the reverse of 13F, and the audience should feel it.
The inner door sealing. The amber lamp going steady.
STATION V.O. confirming armed state. Then nothing but her breathing.
Her breathing. The station. No depressurisation sound comes.
Silence where a sound should be. Held.
The lock standing down. The hatch beginning to cycle.
Room tone. Two people breathing. No dialogue at all.
The shelter's low hum. The alert winding down.
A soft ascending tick.
The tick continuing under.
A packet. The green hum.
MAREN: "You know these are terrible."
FUTURE MAREN: "They are yours too."
A short real laugh. Then quiet.
The tick slowing. A soft all-clear tone.
Overlapping talk and laughter, low. No dialogue we need to hear.
Ventilation. Two people not needing to talk.
A film playing, indistinct. Occasional quiet laughter.
The film off-frame. Nothing from her.
The film off-frame.
FINAL LOG V.O.: "...Wherever you landed, I have decided you landed early... I have decided that. And out here, sol by sol, we..."
Her voice. And under it, faint galley sounds — crockery, a hum of movement.
Galley sounds continuing behind. Someone is alive back there.
A distant clatter and a half-heard voice.
MAREN: "Goodnight, Bo. Do not freeze out there." (beat) "We will not."
The recorder clicking off. And then galley sounds, still going.
Station hum. The sub-bass returning, gentler.
Sub-bass. The station hum thinning out to nothing.
Sub-bass alone. Then silence into the fade.
Copy this and paste it into the chat — it carries every pick, finalist and note.