Chapter Text
OMEGA EARTH
LOCATION: REDACTED
2300 HOURS
The wind screams.
Not howls screams a raw, violent sound that tears across the frozen wasteland, drowning everything else. Snow doesn't fall here. It cuts horizontally, relentlessly, sharp enough to pierce exposed skin.
Visibility: maybe ten meters on a good night.
Tonight isn't a good night.
Through the blizzard, a structure emerges—angular, brutalist, glowing. Atlas Research Facility 47-Kappa. Steel and reinforced glass rising from the ground like a fortress. Lights burn bright behind frosted windows—white, clinical. Heating vents exhale steam that freezes mid-air, crystallising into glittering clouds before the wind rips them apart.
This place is one of the cornerstones of Omega Earth's desperate march toward survival. Inside: radianite synthesis labs, weapons development, prototype spike arrays. Technology that keeps a dying planet on life support.
Outside: silence. Cold. Death
INT. ATLAS FACILITY - MAIN CORRIDOR
The hallway is empty. Too empty.
Emergency lighting flickers red along the walls, casting long shadows. Blood streaks the floor—drag marks leading toward a junction.
At the end of the corridor, near the entrance to admin tower a man hangs.
Not hangs—crucified.
His body is pinned to the concrete wall like an insect in a display case. Arrows pierce through both palms, driven deep into the reinforced panelling behind him. His head lolls forward, chin resting on his chest.
Torture marks cover his exposed skin—burns, cuts, fingernails missing. His right thumb is gone. Just a ragged stump, still bleeding.
INT. ADMIN CONTROL ROOM
A figure stands at the central console. Calm. Methodical.
He presses a severed thumb against the biometric scanner.
BEEP.
ACCESS GRANTED.
Green light. The system unlocks.
??? (low, Russian, under breath):
"хороший."
(Good.)
His fingers fly across the keyboard, no hesitation, no wasted movement. File directories bloom across the screen.
A progress bar appears: DOWNLOADING... 23%... 47%... 68%...
His face is blank. No anger. No satisfaction. Just cold, mechanical focus.
100%. DOWNLOAD COMPLETE.
He pulls the data chip from the console, slips it into his coat.
Stands.
Walks.
INT. RADIANITE REFINERY - LOWER LEVEL - MOMENTS LATER
The refinery is massive, cathedral-sized. Rows of pressurised tanks line the walls, each one glowing faintly violet, filled with liquid radianite. Pipes turn overhead, hissing steam. The air hums with contained energy.
Sova moves between the tanks like a ghost.
He plants breach charges small, precise, magnetic. One on each tank. Twelve in total.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Red LEDs blink in sync, counting down.
He doesn't rush. Doesn't check his work twice. He knows it's perfect.
He turns. Walks toward the exit.
EXT. ATLAS FACILITY - MAIN GATE
Sova steps into the blizzard.
His coat is blue-grey, thick, with a fur-lined collar pulled high against the wind. Snow clings to the fabric. His vest sits tight over his chest—black, reinforced, stripped of insignia. On his back: his bow secured in a custom holster.
His right hand grips a detonator. He stops ten meters from the gate. Turns back toward the facility. The lights inside still glow. Oblivious.
SOVA (voiceover, calm, distant):
My name... is Sasha Novikov.
He presses the button.
BOOM.
The refinery erupts.
Twelve explosions, cascading, tearing through the facility like a chain. Fire blooms violet and orange, radianite igniting in fury. The shockwave shatters windows, peels steel plating from walls. The entire western wing collapses inward, concrete and glass avalanching into the inferno.
Secondary explosions follow—fuel reserves, power conduits, detonating in brilliant flashes of unstable energy.
Sova watches.
No emotion. No flinch.
SOVA (voiceover, cont'd):
A week ago, I was killed by Commander Liam Byrne.
He turns away from the flames. Walks toward a snowmobile half-buried in the drift. Brushes snow off the handlebars with one gloved hand.
ONE WEEK AGO
Ū̸͈̙͈͎̰̠́̿͂̉͆͊͗̋̓̅̚͘̚N̷̛̥̬̘̜̾̐̀̀́̅̿͋̈́̿͝K̶̭̱͔̰͈̰͔̱̦̪̓̾̕͝Ņ̸̩̗͉̲̭͓̭̗̍̈́̃̽̔̈́̋́͗̆͛̓͘͜O̴̻̺̱͓͇̣̮̹͖̻͗͛̌̀̃̾̕Ẃ̸̡̡̺̮͕͕͕̀̒̏͐͒́͊̿͠͝N̴̦̹̤̺̓̎̎̀̽̈̓̆͒̑̄̽̿͆͝ ̶̡̢̠̝̥̖̞̔͒́̽͐L̴̺̺̼̖̘͇͚̒͌̎̏̅̔̒̚Ǫ̵̖̩̖̦̮͕̻́͛͝͝C̸͉̱͍͓̦̃͛́̃͋̀̌͑̽̓̚A̴̗̮͕͓̙̣͍̫͖̘͂̂͊̏͌́̊͐̈́̍̽̏̎͝ͅT̴͕̼̦̞͎̣͇͋̂Ì̷̧̥̼̦̝̼͈̼̜̼̭̺̥͒̄͗̏̈̀̇͊̚͜͠͝͝Ǫ̷̞͕̼̝̤͈̮͍̳́͊̇́ͅͅN̶̨̧̛͓͈͓̲͚͓͔̦͎̺͍͎͋̆̋͑̇̔ ̵̼͖̯̣̝̲̹̤͎̑͠ -- SNOW-COVERED WASTELAND
Wind howls. Snow swirls. The world is white noise and cold.
Inside a half-collapsed tent, canvas torn, frame bent—a figure stirs.
??? (disoriented, Russian):
"Где... где я?"
Sova gasps, sitting up sharply. His hand shoots to his shoulder bandaged, blood-soaked through. Pain flares. He grits his teeth.
He looks around. Nothing but white. Endless. No buildings. No landmarks. Just cold.
His breath mists in the freezing air, each exhale a visible cloud.
He tries to stand—stumbles—catches himself on one knee.
SOVA (anger rising, Russian):
"Где Чембер?! Что случилось?!"
(Where's Chamber?! What happened?!)
His voice echoes into the void. No answer. Just wind.
Then—his eye catches something.
A briefcase. Black. Expensive. Sitting on the snow like a trap.
Sova crawls toward it, fingers numb, fumbling with the latches. It clicks open.
Inside:
His uniform folded with precision, pristine. His bow disassembled, each component arranged like surgical instruments. A Sheriff loaded, polished, gleaming. And resting on top a Walkman. Old. Worn. Cassette tape inside.
On the side, written in elegant cursive:
"Mon ami."
Sova stares.
His hand trembles as he picks up the Sheriff, turning it over. The metal surface reflects his face.
He sets the gun down. Looks past the tent flap.
In the distance barely visible through the storm. Artificial. Warm. A facility.
Sova closes his eyes. Breathes. Steadies himself.
Control.
He can't afford panic. Not here. Not now.
He reaches for the uniform, pulling it on piece by piece. The fabric is cold but familiar. The weight of the vest settles on his shoulders a sense of control returns to him.
He straps his quiver around his thigh, checking the arrows.
Then—he picks up the Walkman.
Hesitates.
Presses PLAY.
CHAMBER'S VOICE (smooth, confident, French accent):
"Sova, mon ami... if you are listening to this, then you have survived the bullet."
Sova's eyes flare up.
CHAMBER (cont'd):
"Félicitations."
(Congratulations.)
A pause. Static crackles.
CHAMBER (cont'd):
"You have many questions. But I... do not have your answers. I am sorry for that. What I can tell you is this: if you wish to find the truth, then do what you do best."
Sova's hand clenches around the Walkman.
CHAMBER (cont'd):
"Hunt."
Another pause.
CHAMBER (cont'd):
"And if fate wishes it... our paths may cross again. Until then, stay alive. The world still needs ghosts."
CHAMBER (final line, softer):
"Oh, and... a parting gift for you. Track two. I thought it... fitting."
CLICK.
The tape ends.
Sova stares at the Walkman. Fury burns cold in his chest.
He ejects the tape flips it, and slots it back in.
Presses PLAY.
The track begins.
A haunting, electric guitar riff. Slow
"The Man Who Sold the World" by David Bowie.
Sova's expression doesn't change.
But something shifts behind his eyes.
EXT. RIDGE OVERLOOKING FACILITY - DAY 1
Sova lies prone on a snowy ridge, binoculars pressed to his face. His bionic eye zooms, enhancing the image.
Below: Atlas Research Facility 47-Kappa. Trucks entering. Guards patrolling. Routine.
He marks notes in a small journal:
- "0800 - Supply convoy. 3 trucks. Heavy escort."
- "Patrol rotation: every 42 minutes."
EXT. FACILITY PERIMETER - DAY 2
Sova crouches behind a snowdrift, tracking movement through his scope. A scientist exits the south entrance, smoking. Same time as yesterday.
"Dr Petrov - smoker. Exit 1340 daily. Predictable."
EXT. DELIVERY BAY - DAY 3
Sova watches from the darkness as a cargo truck backs into the loading bay. Guards check manifests but don't inspect contents thoroughly.
Sova's eye narrows. Weakness.
INT. SOVA'S SHELTER - DAY 4 - NIGHT
Sova sits in the tent, A hand-drawn map of the facility spreads before him. He circles entry points. Mark's guard positions. Calculates timing.
The Walkman sits beside him, still playing softly.
" Oh no…not me, I never lost control"
EXT. FACILITY - NORTH WALL - DAY 5
Sova tests the perimeter. Tosses a small stone at a motion sensor.
BEEP. BEEP.
Lights activate. Guards respond slowly. 90 seconds.
He writes: "Response time: 1.5 min. Exploitable."
EXT. RIDGE - DAY 6 - DUSK
Sova assembles his bow. Each piece locks into place with precision. He loads a shock dart. Tests the draw. Perfect.
PRESENT DAY
EXT. ATLAS FACILITY - PERIMETER - 2230 HOURS
Sova moves through the blizzard like a phantom. He approaches the north wall.
Pulls his bow. Nocks a shock dart.
Aims at the electrical junction box mounted high on the wall.
THWIP.
The dart strikes—BZZZZT—electricity surges, frying the circuit. Lights flicker. Alarms failing.
Sova scales the wall using climbing spikes, silent, efficient. Drops into the compound.
MAINTENANCE CORRIDOR - 2235 HOURS
Sova moves through shadows. Two guards round the corner—
He doesn't hesitate.
THWIP. THWIP.
Two darts. Both guards convulse, drop.
Sova drags them into a storage closet.
A guard sits at a console, bored, scrolling through his phone. Sova's hand clamps over his mouth from behind. The guard struggles. Sova drives a knife into his side, precise—between ribs, into the liver.
The guard goes limp.
Sova lowers him to the floor. Wipes the blade clean.
Moves on.
INT. ADMIN TOWER -2255 HOURS
Sova stands over the head of security, bound to a chair, sweating, terrified.
GUARD (pleading):
Please... I don't know anything!
Sova pulls out his knife. Calm. Methodical.
SOVA (quiet, cold):
You know.
He picks him up by the vest and drives an arrow through the guard's palm, pinning him to the wall. Pressing the sheriff against his temple.
GUARD (screaming):
NO! NO! I'LL TELL! I'LL TELL EVERYTHING!
Sova waits.
The guard talks fast, desperate passwords, access codes, facility layouts, shipment schedules, and other Atlas locations.
Sova listens. Memorizes.
Then—he cocks the gun.
GUARD (sobbing):
You... you promised...
SOVA:
I lied.
The guard's screams drowned into silence.
Sova walks away.
CONTROL ROOM - 2258 HOURS
Sova presses the severed thumb from the guard's hand to the scanner.
ACCESS GRANTED.
He downloads everything—facility records, Atlas operational data, locations of other sites, shipment manifests.
SOVA (quiet):
This is not enough.
He pulls the data chip. Slips it into his coat.
Time to burn it all.
PRESENT- 2305 HOURS
SOVA (voiceover, quiet):
My name... is Sova.
A week ago, I was Sasha Novikov. A soldier. A son.
Commander Liam Byrne put a bullet in me.
He closes his eyes. Breathes.
SOVA (voiceover, cont'd):
He thought he had killed that man.
He opens his eyes. Fire reflcting in his bionic lens, cold blue meeting violent orange.
SOVA (voiceover, cont'd):
Maybe he did.
He turns away from the flames. Walks toward the snowmobile half-buried in the snow.
Brushes snow off the handlebars with one gloved hand.
SOVA (voiceover, cont'd):
But I have a home.
He mounts the snowmobile. Grips the throttle.
SOVA (voiceover, cont'd):
And I have a father waiting for me.
He twists the throttle.
The engine roars to life a low, guttural rumble cutting through the wind.
Behind him, the explosion grows a mushroom cloud of violet fire rising higher, spreading wider, consuming everything.
The light illuminates the wasteland for kilometers.
Sova doesn't look back.
SOVA (voiceover):
And the hunt... does not stop until I find the way home.
The snowmobile surges forward into the darkness.