EXT. ROOFTOP – TEMP HQ – EARLY EVENING
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The rooftop is vast, reinforced with metal plating and painted with faded white Security markings. Harsh orange lights hum against the encroaching dusk. In the center of it all, parked like some enormous mechanical bird, is the military transport aircraft known as TACV-IX Umbra.
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It’s more than a plane. It’s a flying tactical base—a hulking, weather-beaten fusion of military austerity and duct-taped necessity. Twin rotors roar softly on either side, idling like growling wolves. The body of the ship stretches far back, lined with external containers, antennae arrays, and high-frequency transmitters.
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INT. TACV-IX UMBRA – VARIOUS LOCATIONS – CONTINUOUS
JASON (V.O.)
(dry)
“Military transport aircraft,” they said. Sounds cool, right? Makes you think big guns, sleek walls, maybe even a minibar if the higher-ups finally grew a heart.
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He steps inside, expression already unimpressed.
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JASON (V.O.)
But what do we actually get? A tactical flying sardine can held together by cable ties and caffeine. It’s got the soul of a vault and the charm of a cheap camper van.
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Jason walks through the corridor—metal walls, flickering overhead lights, exposed wires, faint hums of unseen systems. Some pipes creak ominously as he passes.
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The interior is split across multiple compartments:
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BARRACKS-STYLE CREW QUARTERS, narrow rows of sliding doors—like hotel rooms if hotels hated you.
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OPS ROOM, filled with half-functioning monitors, flashing readouts, tired operators.
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STORAGE ROOMS, where crates are strapped down with aging restraints and everything smells faintly like lubricant and overcooked rations.
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WEAPONS HOLD, lined with racks of rifles, stun lances, and a worrying number of labeled "experimental" cases.
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BATHROOMS, offering a single stall, a mirror that judges you, and a shower head so sad-looking it probably prays for death.
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JASON (V.O.)
There’s a bathroom. Singular. With one shower. The kind that spits out water like it’s rationed hope.
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Jason’s boots clunk against the grated floor as he reaches the hangar segment—where several Security staff are gathered beside crates, data slates in hand. Vult, in his taller frame and steel-toned armor, waits for Jason.
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VULT
“Gearman. On time. Shocking.”
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JASON
“Believe me, I had better places to be.”
(then, nodding at the aircraft)
“Is it too late to fake my death and escape this thing?”
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VULT
“Probably. Get in.”
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The team boards together—Jason following with his duffel in hand.
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INT. TACV-IX UMBRA – JASON’S ROOM – MOMENTS LATER
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The sliding door hisses open to reveal... a closet. Technically. A small, rectangular room with cold metal walls painted a pale gray.
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Single-person bed, bolted to the wall, mattress thin enough to count as a suggestion.
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Wide window takes up most of one wall—revealing an expansive sky just beginning to bruise purple-blue.
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Table and chair, both metallic, the kind you can’t sit at without feeling judged by them.
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Broadcast system, integrated into a small wall panel, currently playing the generic “Welcome aboard Umbra” message in a robotic female voice.
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BROADCAST SYSTEM (robotic)
“...On behalf of Central Security, we thank you for your service. Meals are scheduled at 0700, 1200, and 1800. Please avoid unnecessary violence inside the aircraft...”
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Jason drops his bag on the bed with a dull thud. He looks around once, unimpressed.
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JASON
“Three days in a flying coffin. With WiFi worse than a tin can in the desert.”
(sighs)
“At least the window’s nice.”
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He walks over and leans on the edge of the table, staring out at the clouds rolling beneath the lowering sun.
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Outside, the loading continues. Crates are stacked. Data cores are secured. The core itself—BIO-CONTAINER 03, glowing faintly blue through its reinforced glass—is carefully loaded in with a series of magnetic lifters.
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The Umbra hums with anticipation. So does the tension.
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JASON (V.O.)
“Three days of sky. What could possibly go wrong.”
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