BRIDGE

Shane Ronzio

INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
A sterile, fluorescent-lit office hums with the low drone of computers. Rows of cubicles stretch across the floor, each a small prison of beige partitions. JOHN FRANKLIN, 35, an administrative coordinator, sits at his desk, typing methodically. His cubicle is tidy, adorned with a single photo of him and his grandfather.
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 11 - 8:25 AM
John glances at his inbox: 20 unread messages, all marked URGENT. He sighs, opens a thermos, and pours black coffee into a mug.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day eleven. Past weekend’s gone, and my inbox is a war zone. Lunch is a cheese sandwich—packed it myself. Good thing I brought coffee.
He looks up. Across the office, PROJECT HEADS in sharp suits bustle with purpose, their polished shoes clicking on the tile. NEW FACES—investors in expensive coats, MILITARY TYPES in crisp uniforms—move toward a door at the hall’s end.
JOHN (V.O.)
Something’s brewing. Project heads look spiffy, and there’s energy in the air. Investors, military... whatever’s happening, it’s big.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - LATER (1:15 PM)
John’s desk is cluttered with printed emails. He types furiously, processing messages.
JOHN (V.O.)
Twenty urgent emails down, dozen more to go. Emergency hires—foreign nationals, asylum seekers, ex-military from some defunct nation. No homes, just the company.
He pauses, noticing THREE MEN in sleek SPACE SUITS entering the hall’s end door, escorted by security.
JOHN (V.O.)
Project 245. Spacemen now? And IT’s Project 401—power outage at 4:01. Back on at 4:02. By 5:02, spacemen and nationals are gone.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 14 - 8:01 AM
John sips from his thermos, reviewing a spreadsheet.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day fourteen. Tracked a vendor typo—budget error. Sent a fix to accounting. Lunch is a desk ramen.
He glances at a file cabinet. A SUPERVISOR looms nearby, pointing at a stack of files.
JOHN (V.O.)
Supervisor wants files shredded. Meanwhile, the IT mystery grows. Military types hauling crates to that door.
At 10:45 AM, a FRAIL WOMAN, resembling a grandmother, exits the hall’s end door. Her clothes are tattered rags. NURSES and SCIENTISTS rush her through the office, her face pale and exhausted.
JOHN (V.O.)
Frail woman—looks like one of those nationals’ kin. They’re hurrying her out like she’s a ghost.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - BREAK ROOM - LATER (NOON)
John eats his ramen among CUBE FARM WORKERS buzzing with gossip. Across the hall, a GLASS CONFERENCE ROOM hosts INVESTORS, MILITARY, and SCIENTISTS. Shouting echoes through the glass.
JOHN (V.O.)
Break room’s alive with questions. Emergency meeting in the glass room—lots of yelling. A secretary lowers the blinds. Supervisors bark us back to work.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - LATER (4:01 PM)
The lights flicker—another power outage. John pauses, waiting. At 4:02, lights return.
JOHN (V.O.)
Power’s out, then back. Routine weirdness. Out at five sharp.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 34 - 8:18 AM
John swipes a badge at a new SECURITY CHECKPOINT. PARTITIONS now block the cube farm from the IT department and the hall’s end door. Busy sounds—clanging, murmurs—leak through.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day thirty-four. Security’s tighter, partitions everywhere. Can’t see the hall anymore. Johansson from cube ten snooped during lunch—supervisors moved him somewhere else.
At noon, John eats a cheese sandwich at his desk. Through a gap, he spots the GLASS CONFERENCE ROOM. Blinds are open, revealing POSTERS: a computer on a mountain, directing workers and soldiers. Text reads: 100 YEAR PLAN.
JOHN (V.O.)
Conference room’s a circus—investors smiling, military arguing. Posters show a computer running the world. Hundred-year plan? I slip back unseen. Out at 4:59.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 38 - 8:15 AM
More partitions. Security’s streamlined, but the banging beyond grows louder. John types, distracted.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day thirty-eight. Partitions choke the office. Shouting and banging—it’s a zoo back there. Carl in cube eleven says the 4 PM blackout’s now 6:30, after hours. Lasts a minute.
At noon, John eats a fruit cup and crackers at his desk. The break room’s under maintenance—new CAMERAS and PARTITIONS being installed.
JOHN (V.O.)
Maintenance means more cameras. Luke in cube twenty called this place a prison. They escorted him out. I focus. Need this job, weird or not. Out at 5:01.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 51 - 8:10 AM
John’s cubicle feels smaller. A memo on his desk offers PROMOTIONS: higher pay, overtime, bonuses. He skims it, unimpressed.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day fifty-one. Promotions dangled like candy—third of the cube farm took the bait. I’m hesitant. This job’s enough. I’m a creature of habit.
At noon, he eats a sandwich from a vending machine. The break room’s new AUTOMATED VENDING glows coldly.
JOHN (V.O.)
New vending machines. Everyone loves the coffee. I'll keep my thermos. Partitions block visuals, but sounds slip through—entertaining, till they added soundproofing. Just doing my job. Out at five.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 81 - 8:10 AM
John passes through invasive SECURITY CHECKS—strange devices scan him. The cube farm’s sparse; only a quarter of the original crew remains.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day eighty-one. Security’s a nightmare—tests, detectors. Cube farm’s a ghost town. My job’s busy work, meaningless. Others are complacent. Lunch is a brown bag sandwich.
At 1:15 PM, in the restroom, John overhears SECURITY GUARDS.
GUARD 1
Heard what’s going on over there?
GUARD 2
Yeah, thinking of jumping. Pay’s unreal, but risky. One-way trip, maybe.
GUARD 1
Eggheads say the computer does it all. Centuries of work—utopia’s coming.
John slips out unnoticed.
JOHN (V.O.)
Out at 5:02.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - CUBICLE FARM - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 90 - 8:10 AM
John’s routine is mechanical. He sits, staring at a blank screen.
JOHN (V.O.)
Day ninety. Veal cage life. Me and the diehards collect paychecks for nothing.
At noon, in the BREAK ROOM, a WOMAN IN A LAB COAT approaches, clipboard in hand.
LAB COAT WOMAN
Mr. Franklin, packed lunch? Try the coffee.
JOHN
I’m good. Prefer my own.
She glances at a SECURITY GUARD, raising an eyebrow.
LAB COAT WOMAN
Considered the promotion? Many benefits.
She steps closer. John sneezes.
JOHN
Your perfume—lavender. Bothers me.
She recoils, alarmed.
LAB COAT WOMAN
Are you sick?
JOHN
No, just... sorry.
She hurries out. At 3:00 PM, a memo hits John’s desk: NO OUTSIDE FOOD/DRINK. At 3:15, another: MANDATORY HEALTH CHECKS. At 4:00, a new promotion offer.
JOHN (V.O.)
Last hour’s tense. Silence. Out at 5:01.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - ELEVATOR - DAY
TEXT ON SCREEN: DAY 91 - 7:58 AM
John rides the elevator with an EXOTIC OLDER WOMAN, stern and serious.
OLDER WOMAN
Good morning, Mr. Franklin.
JOHN
Morning.
OLDER WOMAN
When we leave, stay calm. Escort me to my office. Ignore security. Understand?
JOHN
I’m upset about my thermos. Got a week’s lunch rotting at home. This place gets weirder daily.
The elevator dings. They step out. Security ignores them, as if invisible. They pass the cube farm, entering the restricted area. MILITARY PERSONNEL, SCIENTISTS, and SECRETARIES bustle, oblivious.
CUT TO:
INT. CORPORATE OFFICE - PLUSH OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
A sleek, modern office with a TWO-WAY MIRRORED WALL overlooking the floor. An OLDER MAN IN A SUIT tinkers with a device behind a large desk. Another, in a TRENCH COAT, sits in a deluxe chair, still. The door closes automatically.
OLDER WOMAN
Gentlemen, Jonathan Franklin, administrative coordinator. Excellent candidate for Equinex.
John stiffens.
JOHN
Listen, I’m not stupid. Something’s wrong here—partitions, security, banning my thermos. Grandfather gave me that, God rest him. No games. Be straight. What’s happening? I’ll take your money, but respect’s a two-way street.
Silence. The MAN BEHIND THE DESK smiles.
MAN BEHIND DESK
Mr. Franklin, you’re the man we need.
He gestures to a chair. The TRENCH COAT MAN offers a cigar. John sits, takes one, fumbling with a cutter.
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
You’ve seen the people—poor, rich, military. No fooling you. It’s computers.
JOHN
(puffing cigar)
What’s that?
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Massive computers, thinking, reasoning. They outsmart each other, yielding inventions. We patent them.
The TRENCH COAT MAN lays a folder labeled ALPHA WARS on the desk.
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Titans of industry pit two AIs against each other. Their war drives progress. Ever wonder why tech leapt forward?
JOHN
You’re saying... war games?
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Not games. Real.
He presses a button. Lights dim. A projector shows a MAP—a war-torn world. John drops his cigar, scrambles to pick it up.
JOHN
Where’s this?
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Not our world.
A slideshow begins: another planet, exploited, tested. John tilts his head.
JOHN
I don’t follow.
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Decades ago, we built a device to travel to another world. We mined it, ran unethical tests, built AIs. They outsmarted us, so we made a second to check the first.
Slides show people in odd clothing, battling.
JOHN
This’d take centuries.
MAN BEHIND THE DESK
Time flows differently there.
John leans back, cigar smoldering in the tray, eyes wide.
FADE OUT.

INT. OFFICE - DAY
A dimly lit office, cluttered with files and scientific equipment. JONATHAN FRANKLIN, mid-30s, curious but out of place, sits across from the MAN BEHIND DESK, 50s, authoritative, papers strewn before him.
The office door bursts open. Light floods the room. DR. LEE, late 40s, exotic-looking, sharp-eyed, stands in the doorway clutching a clipboard.
MAN BEHIND DESK
(irritated)
Dr. Lee, haven’t I spoken to you about interrupting and dropping in unannounced?
JONATHAN turns, recognizing DR. LEE from the break room yesterday. Her urgency is palpable.
DR. LEE
It’s urgent. The bridge has yielded a specimen that must be examined immediately.
MAN BEHIND DESK
(sighs, decisive)
Hit the lights. We’ll continue this another time.
The room stirs. Everyone—Jonathan, the Man Behind Desk, and a few unnamed SCIENTISTS—gathers their things. DR. LEE locks eyes with Jonathan.
DR. LEE
Come on, you’ll need to see this.
JONATHAN
(grinning, skeptical)
Seeing is believing.
He joins the group as they exit the office.
INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
The group moves swiftly down a sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway. Jonathan’s eyes fix on a heavy, mysterious door at the end. He’s always wondered what lies beyond it.
They reach the door. DR. LEE and the Man Behind Desk gesture toward it, an oddly formal invitation.
DR. LEE
After you, Mr. Franklin.
MAN BEHIND DESK
(nods)
Go ahead.
JONATHAN
(pleased, oblivious)
Thank you.
He steps forward and crosses the threshold.
INT. STRANGE ROOM - CONTINUOUS
The door seals behind Jonathan with a VACUUM BLAST of air. A faint voice echoes just before it shuts completely.
DR. LEE
(ominous, fading)
Goodbye, Mr. Franklin.
Jonathan, distracted, doesn’t register the words. He turns to find the door sealed tight. The room is vast, cold like a refrigerator, humming like a radio. Sterile walls gleam under harsh lights.
On the far side, a TECHNICIAN holds a backpack, standing beside a table where a BEATEN MAN lies, mid-40s, clothes tattered and oddly out of time—almost historical. His face is bruised, eyes vacant.
In the room’s center, another FIGURE, barely conscious, slumps in a chair, equally battered, clothing alien in style.
A STROBE FLASH blinds the room. A BUZZING SOUND pulses. On the far wall, a second doorway CRACKS open. A rush of air carries foreign scents—earthy, metallic, wrong. Bright sunlight spills through, stark and blinding. It’s daytime beyond.
Jonathan freezes. A chill crawls up his spine. Something is very wrong.
FADE OUT.