"THE EMAIL FROM THE FBI AND THE HUMMING SCREEN"
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INT. LAWRENCE’S OFFICE – LATE AFTERNOON
(BOB and TREVOR sit in the office, finishing up the rearrangement of Larry’s new space. Stacks of papers, spare chairs, and unopened boxes clutter the room. Just as Trevor dusts off the last chair, his laptop dings with an incoming email from Larry.)
TREVOR
(relaxing into the chair)
Finally. Let’s see what Larry’s got.
(He opens the email and quickly scans the text. Bob notices Trevor’s eyebrows rise halfway through the message.)
TREVOR
(muttering)
Oh, man. This is some weird ****.
(Trevor turns the laptop toward Bob and scrolls through the contents of the email.)
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INSERT: EMAIL TEXT
Subject: Results from the FBI Lab Analysis
“This is the transcript from the FBI’s chemical lab unboxing.
Three vials were recovered.
* Vial 1:
Opened with no incident. Contained plant material. Mass spectrometer analysis shows common botanical elements. However, chemical traces include minerals never before cataloged.
* Vial 2:
Opening triggered immediate ignition upon exposure to air, mimicking flash paper combustion. Contents burned out instantly. The sealed third vial ignited in tandem, losing its contents. The ash analysis revealed unknown elements—carbon-based, but not in any known formation.
Conclusion: None of this is normal. Further study required.”
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(Bob finishes reading and leans back in his chair, hands on his head, blinking at the ceiling.)
BOB
So… uh… alien tech? Alien trees?
(Trevor closes the laptop, rubbing his temples like the beginnings of a headache are forming.)
TREVOR
(half-joking)
We’re officially in some X-Files territory now, Bob.
BOB
(nods)
Time to go home?
TREVOR
Yeah. Time to go home.
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INT. BOB’S DESK – THE NEXT MORNING
(Bob strolls into the quiet warehouse. The lights are dim, the day just starting. He heads to his small desk in the backroom—a corner filled with odd knickknacks: thank-you notes, old pens, scraps of things he's collected over the years. As Bob sets down his bag, his eyes catch something new on the wall.)
(Where a small piece of paper had been pinned, there is now a 6x6 inch flat screen. Thin, seamless, almost the exact size as the original paper. Except this one glows faintly, shifting in colors that pulse like a heartbeat.)
(Bob stares at the screen for a long moment. Then, without a word, he nopes the hell out—turning on his heel and walking at top speed out of the room.)
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INT. BREAK ROOM – A LITTLE LATER
(BOB makes three cups of coffee, unsure how Trevor and Larry take theirs. He brews them the way he likes: two sugars, a splash of cream. Then, he carries them to the warehouse’s front door, still closed and dark. He sits down on a bench by the entrance, staring out at the lot.)
BOB
(to himself)
If I’m going down, I’m taking you both with me.
(He sets the coffee cups out in front of him like offerings and pulls out his phone.)
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TEXT MESSAGE CHAT
* BOB: Good morning. ETA? Also, I made coffee.
(Attached: A picture of three coffee cups lined up at the front door.)
* TREVOR: 15 minutes. If you made coffee, that means you found something new. Shit.
* LARRY: I just pulled into the lot. Let me guess—red flag day?
* BOB: Yup.
* LARRY: Cream, two sugars.
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(Within minutes, both TREVOR and LARRY arrive. Larry is still typing something on his phone as he walks up. They grab their coffees, exchange grim nods, and follow Bob through the building.)
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INT. BACKROOM – MOMENTS LATER
*(Bob leads them into the backroom, gesturing at the flat screen on the wall. Trevor approaches cautiously, inspecting it from a few inches away. Larry hangs back, sipping his coffee with an expression that says, “I do not get paid enough for this.”)
Trevor pulls a pen from his pocket and taps the screen. It flickers to life. Strange symbols and numbers scroll across it, accompanied by a soft, unfamiliar voice speaking in another language.)*
SCREEN VOICE
(garbled, alien)
...ᚠᛁᛚᚴᛖᛦ... 2:38... ᚷᚱᚩᛁ...
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
(The screen falls silent, leaving behind only a soft hum.)
LARRY
(downs his coffee in one go)
Yeah, nope. I’m gonna be in my office.
(He starts to walk away but pauses in the doorway.)
LARRY
(over his shoulder)
Write up a report. Everything you saw. Where you found it, how it changed, and what it weighs. I want timestamps and pictures. Check the shelves too—make sure nothing else showed up overnight.
TREVOR
(half-laughing)
The usual, huh?
LARRY
(dead serious)
Yup. And don’t touch that thing again until the report’s done.
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(Larry disappears into his office. Trevor turns back to the screen, still flickering with strange lights, his pen twirling in his fingers.)
TREVOR
(muttering)
Bob, are you humming?
BOB
(confused)
Humming? No.
(But he is humming. A low, subconscious sound—a strange tune that matches the soft hum from the screen. The two hums seem to sync, blending into something hypnotic. Neither Trevor nor Bob realizes it, but the screen flickers faster, its colors shifting in rhythm with the melody.)
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INT. BACKROOM – THE NEXT DAY
*(When Bob returns the next morning, the screen has grown. It’s now an 8x8 inch square, with random English letters mixed among the alien script. Occasionally, a Chinese character scrolls by.)
(Bob stares at it, feeling the hum return to the back of his mind. It’s not threatening—it almost feels... familiar.)
BOB
(to himself)
What the hell did I wake up this time?
(Trevor wanders in, sees Bob standing in front of the screen again, and sighs.)
TREVOR
Coffee?
BOB
Always.
(They both laugh—nervous, but trying to make the best of it. Somewhere in the back of their minds, both know that whatever this screen is... it’s just the beginning.)
THE HUMMING MONITOR AND 2:38"
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INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
(Trevor leans against a row of shelves, watching Bob hum softly while working at his desk. Trevor had noticed it the day before—the strange habit Bob seemed to pick up, humming a low, repetitive tune whenever he was near that mysterious screen. But now Trevor is more worried. It doesn’t feel random.)
(Trevor finds Larry in his office and leans in through the open door.)
TREVOR
Hey, uh... Have you noticed anything off with Bob?
LARRY
(squints)
Off? Bob’s been “off” since the day he started working here. What are you talking about?
TREVOR
The humming.
(Larry frowns but doesn’t get it.)
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INT. BACKROOM – MOMENTS LATER
(Larry walks casually to the backroom, coffee cup in hand. Bob is deep in his routine, working near the monitor, humming away without a care in the world. As Larry passes by Bob’s cubicle, he catches it—the same strange hum drifting from the monitor, matching Bob’s tune perfectly.)
(Larry stops mid-step. He stands there, listening. Slowly, he hums the next note himself—a single, low tone. And the moment he hums, the monitor answers back with the same hum.)
(Larry freezes. His face tightens.)
LARRY
(softly)
Oh, shit.
(He turns and walks briskly back to Trevor.)
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INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE LARRY'S OFFICE
(Trevor looks up as Larry approaches.)
LARRY
(flatly)
Yeah, don’t get near that screen.
TREVOR
What do you mean?
LARRY
Write me a report—whatever the hell you think’s going on. Send it to me. I need to see it.
(Trevor narrows his eyes, confused, but nods. Larry heads back to his office, but not before glancing once more over his shoulder, the hum still playing on repeat in his head.)
(As Larry disappears, Trevor lingers in the hallway, muttering to himself.)
TREVOR
It’s growing. I swear, it’s literally growing.
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INT. BOB’S CUBICLE – LATER THAT DAY
(Bob sits at his desk, monitoring the strange little screen like it’s a pet project. Anytime something new flashes across the display, he writes it down—symbols, numbers, fragments of sentences. It’s not until he’s seen about thirty unique entries that one finally repeats.)
(The repeated entry is a number: 2:38.)
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INT. WAREHOUSE – CLOCK: 2:38 PM
(Bob stares at his phone, watching as 2:38 PM ticks by. He glances around the warehouse. Nothing happens. No strange noises, no flickers of light—nothing.)
(He spends the next few minutes scanning the shelves, checking for anything unusual. It’s not until the next morning that he notices a new box sitting on shelf 7.5G—a spot that had been empty the previous day.)
BOB
(to himself)
7:38 AM… That’s when it showed up.
(He leans on the shelf, tapping a pen against his temple, trying to piece it all together.)
BOB
It can’t be... It’s not telling me when deliveries from another dimension are coming... Right?
(He laughs at the thought, but it’s an uneasy, forced chuckle. In the back of his mind, the idea starts to nag at him—what if the screen is tracking something? What if it’s not stupid at all?)
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INT. BACKROOM – LATER
(As Bob works, he notices something flash across the screen—a barcode, just for an instant. He scrambles to grab one of his three barcode scanners, but it’s gone before he can scan it. He mutters curses under his breath.)
BOB
I’ve got three scanners, and none of ‘em are fast enough for this damn thing.
(He adjusts the scanner on his phone, tries again with the floating scanner for boxes, and even boots up the computer scanner—but the barcode doesn’t reappear.)
(Bob leans back, frustrated. And then, almost without thinking, he starts humming again—the same tune that has been playing in the background for days.)
(The monitor hums back softly, in perfect sync.)
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INT. BREAK ROOM – SHORTLY AFTER
*(Trevor sits with a coffee, typing out his report for Larry. In his notes, he writes:)
TREVOR’S REPORT
"The screen hums. It’s not just that Bob’s humming—it’s responding to him. I think it’s… learning. Adapting. And it’s growing. Every day it gets a little bigger, and now it seems like it’s trying to show us things—numbers, symbols, maybe even predictions. I swear I saw a barcode appear for a second, like it’s tracking something."
(He stops typing for a moment, biting his lip.)
TREVOR
(quietly)
What the hell are we even dealing with?
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INT. BACKROOM – NEXT MORNING
(Bob returns to the screen again the next morning, and sure enough—it’s now an 8x8 inch display, bigger than the day before. English letters intermix with alien script, and every so often, a Chinese character floats by.)
(The humming feels stronger today, more noticeable. And as Bob works nearby, he finds himself humming again, matching the strange tune of the screen like it’s second nature.)
(Trevor watches from a distance, arms crossed. The hum creeps into his brain like a song you can’t shake. He knows something’s coming—and whatever it is, they’re not ready for it.)