Final Draft 7 Demo

DUST
(extract)

by
Jack Molloy
Final Draft 7 Demo
Based on an idea by Lauren Hatchard

Final Draft 7 Demo

Name: Lauren Hatchard

Email: l.r.hatchard@live.co.uk
 Final Draft 7 Demo

DUST

Third draft.

Screenplay by Jack Molloy

Final Draft 7 Demo &
Adapted by Lauren Hatchard

Final Draft 7 Demo

Date: 24th October 2010

Name: Lauren Hatchard

Email: l.r.hatchard@live.co.uk
 2.

EXT. SUNRISE FOREST EDGE

DUST is wrapped in ramshackle clothing, with rags tied around

his wrist that hovers a metal detector from side to side over
the ground, it starts to beep. Dust falls to his knees and
digs into the ground with his hands. Eventually reaching an
artefact, he pulls out a metallic rusty box, covered in
earth; he marvels over it’s mystery; before gathering himself
urgently - placing his findings into his old, battered bag.

Final Draft 7 Demo

As he leaves the forest Dust makes his way down the hill,
behind him on the horizon, the cryptic ghost of a futuristic
metropolis overshadowing in the distant smog.

EXT. SCRAP YARD EARLY MORNING

Dust strolls into the scrap yard as if it were his-own,

deserted amongst piles of abandoned computers, mattresses,
shoes; all of which Dust inspects for anything of use or
novelty. He takes out a small Dictaphone carried in his
pocket, his diary, companion and only proof of life.

DUST

I have stumbled upon a spiritual

Final Draft 7 Demo
treasure. Perhaps memories, lost
items or secret keepsakes'. Who
knows?

A montage of his lonely play and brooding within abstract

clutter of abandoned junk; almost reverting to childlike
exploration in his isolation and privacy.

He sits looking out over the distance, plays a few notes on

his tin whistle and then pulls out his Dictaphone.

DUST (CONT’D)

Hello? Am I the only alien in the

ant farm? (Laughs) Alone old
friend! I'm dreadfully alone, and
Final Draft 7 Demo
prone to ramble. But this is the
only way to remember my voice. As I
seldom speak these days.

The Dictaphone bleeps and runs out of battery, Dust tosses it

into his bag with frustration. He bolts upright and stands
with a clenched fist punching the sky.

DUST (CONT’D)
(shouting)

Survivor! Survivor!
 3.

INT. UNDERGROUND TUNNEL. AFTERNOON

Dust seems jolly in is solitude; shouting and creating echoes

down the tunnel.

Dust's footsteps echo in the underground passage. He skips

slightly one moment drags along sadly the next.

He pulls out a tin-whistle; playing its mysterious sound as

he heads continues down the passage.
Final Draft 7 Demo
INT. HIDEOUT. EARLY EVENING

The nostalgic room is dimly lit, storing various random found

objects; Dust takes a seat at an old table. The battered
metallic box in front of him, weathered with earth, he slowly
opens it with care.

He pulls out newspaper clippings from 2010; a CD in a broken

case which he inspects disappointedly, a treasure chest of
memories and letters with different handwriting. At the
bottom he finds several Polaroid photos of a young group of
people, he leafs through and focusses on one photo of the
group stood next to a hole that had been dug for the time
capsule.
Final Draft 7 Demo
He fumbles through the aged letters with scrawled text such
as ‘Hello from 2010’. As his eyes scatter across the
different, he laughs and holds back the tears.

A large three-time-knock hammering with authority echoes from

the only door. Dust is paralyzed in pure shock. He sits for a
moment without any movement. Another slamming five knocks
shakes him back into action.

He edges towards the door, which pounds again, and unlocks

the bolt; pulling the door open to reveal what he always knew
he would - the law. Towering in the doorway is a young, tall
POLICEMAN with a pale face and intense eyes.

He stares coldly and confidently without emotion into Dust's

Final Draft 7 Demo
face.

POLICEMAN
State your name and personal code.

Dust meets him only with blank sadness. The policeman pushes
past as he strides carefully into the room; he glances over
everything with a humorous pity, his eyes seeing nothing but
useless junk.

POLICEMAN (CONT’D)
How long have been down here?
 4.

He asks this with his back to Dust, and when not answered
turns quickly to face him.

POLICEMAN (CONT’D)
I asked you a question.

Dust more tired than scared stands loosely in acceptance of

his inferiority.

DUST
Final Draft 7 Demo
A long time.

POLICEMAN
Are you installed?

DUST
Am I chipped?

POLICEMAN
You know what I mean tramp. Are you
an unregistered criminal?

DUST
(more confidently)
I’m free from political control, if
that’s what you mean.
Final Draft 7 Demo
The policeman grips onto Dust’s arm and with the other hand
scans his wrist with a small device, he glances coldly at
Dust.

POLICEMAN
No-one is exempt from the law you
anarchist. You’re a dangerous
animal, and a threat to civilised
society!

DUST
If by civilised, you mean
monotonous puppets.

POLICEMAN
Final Draft 7 Demo
Watch it terrorist. When I take you
in I can make it very hard for you
if I want to. There’s not really
any need for your kind in jail
these days. You’re considered
disposable by the state.

The policeman picks up an old book and sneers at it, throwing

it to the floor.
 5.

DUST
No life is disposable. Just as no
life should be dictated!

POLICEMAN
You have no rights, but silence.

DUST
Freedom isn’t obeying rule without
question. Its exploring, learning
Final Draft 7 Demo
and living to your fullest in peace
and love.

The policeman stands intimidatingly over him with his hand

resting near his baton-- yet Dust moves closer and grabs the
policeman’s wrist firmly, pointing to the barcode branded
across it.

DUST (CONT’D)
You were chipped from birth.

Dust continues to grip on to the policeman’s arm. The

policeman hesitates, then sharply pulls away his arm.

POLICEMAN
Final Draft 7 Demo
(screaming)
What would you know about freedom
scum!? Hiding yourself in a whole
like a rat! Is that freedom? You
are vile, alone, unordinary! You’re
waiting for death, and do not
belong here. Anywhere!

Dust hangs his head, as if he may fall, he moves slowly to

the table to lean on. Edging towards his battered bag, under
the policeman’s towering gaze.

POLICEMAN (CONT’D)
What are you doing?

Dust turns back and unfastens his case.

Final Draft 7 DemoDUST
I bet you’ve never even heard real
music have you?

POLICEMAN
If you resist arrest, I will get
nasty.

The case opens to reveal a gleaming saxophone and Dust

reaches inside and clips it onto his neck strap.
 6.

The policeman launches forward with a short staff. But Dust

holds out his arms in surrender, with the saxophone in grasp.

DUST
No. You don’t understand! Just
please, let me just...

Dust takes a deep breath and plays his saxophone, with his
eyes shut tight. The policeman goes to speak, but as his lips
part only a small sound exits - his face drops into a
Final Draft 7 Demo
confused pause; his eyes flickering in amazement as the
saxophone grows louder.

After the music reaches its crescendo, Dust is left waiting

in a shared uncertain silence. The policeman turns slowly to
exit the room, stopping in the doorway without looking back,
his voice horse and foreign.

POLICEMAN
Get out of here. Don’t be here in
an hour.

The policeman leaves. Dust lets out an exasperated sigh,

placing his sax down. He scatters around the room, knocking
things over and grabbing certain items; he puts his
Dictaphone into the metallic box on the table and then winds
Final Draft 7 Demo
up a small vinyl record player. Dust stops and looks around
the room, clutching his bag and leaves.

DUST (V.O.)
Either we are all free. Or we are
all in chains. A revolution of the
mind is realising you’re alive. A
life shared with the stars, we
are all space-dust.

EXT. UNDERGROUND TUNNEL. NIGHT

The sound of the old vinyl record echoes down the moonlit
tunnel, Dust smiles to himself.

Final Draft 7 Demo

END