INT. SECURITY HQ – BLASTED NORTH HALL – NIGHT
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A thunderous BOOM. Concrete dust billows as a det‑cord charge rips a gash in HQ’s reinforced façade, five stories up and just outside the spire’s choking vines.
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Jason ducks in first, rail‑axe ready. Four Security troopers follow, search‑beams slicing the dark.
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SERGEANT‑BOT
“Stay tight. We map, we clear, we exit.”
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JASON (grim)
“Copy. Welcome to the haunted house.”
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The Corridor
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Lights flicker at corpse‑tone green. Organic alloy veining crusts the walls—black‑silver tissue threaded with pulsing red capillaries. The floor squelches with every boot.
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TROOPER #1 (over comm, uneasy)
“Reading interior humidity at ninety‑eight percent—this place is sweating.”
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A fleshy cable dangles from a ceiling vent, dripping lubricant like blood. Jason pushes it aside with his axe blade.
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Administration Wing
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Desks fused into walls, datapads half‑swallowed by metal flesh. A door ahead bulges—organic mass sealing it shut.
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TROOPER #2
“Main lift’s entombed. Route around the ops core—”
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A sudden shuffling echo. All weapons up.
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From a side office lurches an Operator‑class analyst, half‑encased in living metal: one arm overtaken by twisting plates, optic glass frosted over, mouth twitching with static. It sees them, screeches—a gurgling modem tone—and charges.
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Jason fires a rail slug—CRACK—blowing a chunk of alloy from its chest. It staggers, vines re‑knitting, still coming. Trooper #2 unloads two pulse bursts; the thing finally crumples, screech fading.
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JASON
“Parasitized employee. Heads on swivels.”
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They move on. In every side hall, shadows stir—infected staff shuffle aimlessly, metal growths spider‑webbing their limbs to architecture.
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Records Vault
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Door half‑open, interior lights strobing. Inside: rolling cabinets cocooned in alloy, data cores jutting like ribs. A low hum vibrates the air—transmissions riding the vines.
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JASON (scanning)
“Signal spike. Whatever’s outside is talking to these walls.”
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SERGEANT‑BOT
“Grab core samples.”
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Trooper #1 approaches a panel, slices off a fingertip‑sized shard—purple filaments glitter beneath the metal.
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TROOPER #1
“Crystal inclusions… never saw that before.”
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JASON (V.O.)
Purple crystal… info‑storage? This place is a transmitter.
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A sudden clatter behind them—five more infected staff shamble in, tendrils whipping. Corridor turns into a meat grinder. Strobe muzzle‑flashes illuminate jerking bodies, viscous alloy splattering.
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Jason pivots, axe humming, cleaves a vine before it can impale a trooper. Close‑quarters chaos—gunfire deafening, alarms screaming, floor slick with hot oil and black ichor. Finally silence, broken by distant groans.
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INT. OPERATIONS ATRIUM – LATER
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Team regroups beneath the atrium skylight—now a spider‑web of living metal, vines inching inward.
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SERGEANT‑BOT
“We’re not making headway. Spire’s pumping reinforcements.”
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JASON
“Weak spot’s outside. We cut deeper from here, risk a swarm. Suggest evac with samples.”
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The Sergeant hesitates—vines creak overhead like restless ribs.
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SERGEANT-BOT
“Agreed. Fall back.”
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Jason’s optics drift toward the central elevator shaft—now a yawning throat of alloy, pulsing downward toward the unseen core. A low thrumming heartbeat radiates from below, as if watching.
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JASON (V.O.)
Whatever birthed this spire… it’s still growing.
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He turns, leading the retreat through gore‑slick corridors, the spire’s rumble chasing them into the night.
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FADE OUT.
ns216.73.216.206da2
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