First, over BLACK, we hear the sound of a light rain.
A MAN'S VOICE
I'm not a poet. I've never moved
anyone with my words.
Maybe that's why they chose me.
EXT. WOODS - DAY
A mural of leafless trees beneath an overcast sky. Rain
continues to fall.
Maybe now we begin to notice a strange quality to the light
(or is it the sky?). Something vaguely unsettling.
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
Still, the sound of rain is heard.
40s, lies on his side in bed, staring at us.
He has not been sleeping. In fact, judging from his distant
expression, he has not slept in ages.
EXT. ROAD - DAY
Less like a road and more like a path that you maneuver a
The Man, dressed in rain gear, walks down the middle. He is
accompanied by a medium-sized LABRADOR, and seems in no
The sound of tires appear and grow in intensity. The Man,
without saying an actual word, instructs the dog to heal.
The dog obeys as the Man moves off the road. The vehicle
hurtles past him -- its engine quiet, its windows darkened --
spraying muddy debris in its wake.
Seconds later, the car brakes abruptly and skids to a stop.
Stops walking and stares at the car, which seems ominously
The car then reverses direction and begins to move toward the
Man, who remains motionless.
When the car is alongside him, a darkened window turns
transparent and we see a WELL-DRESSED BUREAUCRAT in the rear
seat. His demeanor is pleasant and professional.
The Man he is addressing, who we now understand is CHRIS
KELVIN, stares back at him.
INT. CABIN - DAY
The contrast between the cabin's rustic aesthetic and the
aggressively high-tech equipment contained therein isn't as
jarring as you might imagine.
Kelvin is seated in front of a desk, scrolling through a text
readout on a flat, transparent holographic screen. Behind
him is the Well-Dressed Bureaucrat from the car, and two
A WOMAN in her 50s and a MAN in his 30s. They are
also well-groomed. Each of their suits are embroidered with
a small but distinctive LOGO of some sort that composes the
Kelvin scrolls through several menus, hits a few keys, and a
digitized VIDEO IMAGE appears on his screen: A MAN, unshaven,
looking into the camera.
The man, GIBARIAN, looks very tired and somewhat apologetic.
The lower part of the screen has a time of day and date
display that reads: 0221 HRS 11/14/31.
We take off into the cosmos, ready
exhaustion, death. We're proud of
ourselves, in a way. But our
enthusiasm is a sham. We don't
want to conquer the cosmos -- we
want to extend the boundaries of
Earth to the cosmos. We are only
seeking Man. We don't want Other
Worlds. We want mirrors.
Maybe we don't need to know what it
is, or why. Maybe just knowing
that it is should be enough.
Gibarian stares at the camera for a long moment before
switching it off and ending the transmission.
Kelvin sits back.
The visitors exchange glances.
INT. SPACE CAPSULE
Close on Kelvin. We hold on him a long time, as a myriad of
readouts scroll and flash across his face. A slit of
sunlight glides slowly through frame.