============================================================ BROKEN AMBERS Screenplay by Julio Lonnie Lopez 2025 ============================================================ A Short Film Series FILM 1: WE COULD HAVE BEEN SOMETHING FADE IN: INT. THERAPIST'S OFFICE — NIGHT The office is dimly lit, deliberately calm — soft chairs, neutral walls, a box of tissues on the side table. Through the windows behind Dr. Chen, the street tells a different story: fires, people running, car alarms layered into a continuous wail. MARK (32) and SARAH (29) sit across from DR. CHEN (50s), who has not moved from her chair. All three steal glances at their phones. A countdown timer runs on each screen. DR. CHEN (reviewing papers, as though the windows don't exist) Your RDRRS results are actually quite promising. There's nothing here that suggests— A distant explosion. The building shakes, just slightly. Sarah grabs Mark's hand on instinct — then catches herself and pulls away. SARAH (bitter laugh) Does it matter now? We've got what, fifteen minutes? MARK (quietly) I just want to know if we could have made it. DR. CHEN The issues you're describing — they're what I see every day. Money management, career choices, time spent apart. They're normal growing pains for young couples. SARAH (gesturing at the window) Well, we won't be growing anywhere now. (to Mark) You never supported my career. The nude scene — it was artistic, it was my big break— MARK Here we go again with the "never." I supported you. I worked extra shifts so you could go to auditions. But then you get mad when we're tight on money— SARAH Because you spend what we do have on those films with your high school friends! It's like you can't let go of the past. MARK It's a hobby. The budget is nothing compared to— (stops, takes a breath) You know what? You sound just like your dad, throwing money in my face. SARAH (stung) At least he was reliable. At least he planned— DR. CHEN (gently) What I'm hearing isn't about money or nude scenes or hobbies. You're both feeling unheard. Unacknowledged. Another explosion, closer. The lights flicker. Dr. Chen doesn't flinch. DR. CHEN (CONT'D) Mark — when Sarah takes roles you're uncomfortable with, you feel disregarded. Sarah — when Mark spends time on his films, you feel he's choosing his past over your future. SARAH (softly) What future? MARK (looking at Sarah, not the window) I just... I wanted to make you proud. To be enough. SARAH (tears forming) You were. You are. I just wanted you to see me — really see me — not just the girl you think I should be. DR. CHEN This is what I mean. Your core issue isn't compatibility — it's learning to truly hear each other. To validate each other's experiences, even when they differ from your own. The building shakes violently. Outside, the sky has turned an unnatural color — the kind that has no name yet. Neither of them looks. MARK (to Sarah) I understand now. About the acting. About wanting to make your mark on the world. SARAH (reaching for his hand — and keeping it this time) And I get it. About your films. They're not just a hobby. They're your art too. DR. CHEN (smiling, sadly) You would have made it. All the ingredients were there — love, commitment, and now, understanding. A blinding light fills the room, pouring through every window at once. Mark and Sarah turn to face each other. Hands locked. MARK & SARAH (together) We could have been something. The light engulfs them. FADE TO WHITE. * * * FILM 2: FOUR MINUTES MORE FADE IN: EXT./INT. FOOD TRUCK — NIGHT A colorful food truck sits alone in an empty parking lot. String lights around the service window throw warm light into the dark. A small generator HUMS nearby. LUCIA (35), food truck owner, stands behind the counter in a sauce-stained apron, staring at a dead control panel. DEREK (40), business casual with a loosened tie, leans through the service window. DEREK Try it again? LUCIA (flipping switches) Nothing. Battery's completely dead. DEREK Pop the hood. Let me look. LUCIA You know about food truck batteries? DEREK I know about cars. Used to be a mechanic. (off her look) Before I sold my soul to corporate America. Lucia hesitates, then pulls the hood release. Derek disappears around front. DEREK (O.S.) Your alternator's shot. LUCIA Is that expensive? DEREK (reappearing at window) Won't matter in about twenty minutes. LUCIA Right. (beat) Want a free taco? Everything's gonna waste anyway. Derek climbs through the service window. Lucia starts prepping ingredients. DEREK You're really making food right now? LUCIA It's what I do. (chopping onions) What made you quit being a mechanic? DEREK Got tired of fixing other people's dreams. (watching her cook) Wanted to chase my own. LUCIA How'd that work out? DEREK (gesturing around) Well, I'm getting a last meal from a food truck, so... Lucia plates the tacos, adding extra sauce. LUCIA What was the dream? DEREK Designing custom cars. Never had the courage to— (trying the taco) Holy shit, this is amazing. LUCIA Family recipe. Abuela always said food fixes everything. (beat) Even the end of the world? DEREK (moving to electrical panel) Maybe not everything, but... (examining panel) Try it now. Lucia turns the key. Nothing. DEREK Okay. One more try. He makes adjustments. The generator sputters — then dies. The string lights go out. LUCIA Great. Now we don't even have lights. DEREK (checking phone) Four minutes past impact time. (beat) Wait... They look at each other. Then rush to the service window together. The sky is clearing. Their phones begin buzzing — alert after alert. LUCIA We're... alive? DEREK The truck... the metal frame must have... LUCIA (reading phone) "Impact zone shifted... areas with metal structures provided additional protection..." DEREK Your truck saved us. LUCIA (looking around at the dead truck) But it's still dead. DEREK (grinning, rolling up sleeves) Not for long. I think I just found my dream project. LUCIA What do you mean? DEREK (grabbing tools) How do you feel about a mobile mechanic slash food service? People are gonna need both. LUCIA (starting to smile) Only if you let me design the menu. DEREK Deal. Now, about that alternator... He ducks back under the hood. Lucia starts cooking again. The string lights flicker — and slowly come back on. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 3: THE BACKUP PLAN FADE IN: INT. BUNKER — DAY Underground. Concrete walls. Shelves stacked floor to ceiling with canned goods, water jugs, first aid kits, and what appears to be an entire wine collection. HOWARD (55), methodical and calm, stands with a clipboard taking inventory. The walls shudder. MARCUS (28), a delivery driver still wearing his reflective vest, has just stumbled through the blast door. MARCUS You're seriously doing inventory right now? HOWARD (marking clipboard) Eight hundred and forty-two cans of soup. Down two from last count. (looking up) Would you like some soup? MARCUS The world is ending and you're offering soup? HOWARD Technically, I'm offering a choice of soup. (gesturing to the shelves) Tomato, chicken noodle, or my personal favorite — mushroom with truffle. A distant RUMBLE. Marcus jumps. Howard calmly makes a note on his clipboard. MARCUS That's like the fourth tremor. HOWARD Fifth. Each one approximately eight minutes apart. (checking his watch) Next one due in three minutes. MARCUS How are you so calm? HOWARD I've been preparing for this moment for twenty-seven years. (beat) Though I admit, I expected more zombies. Marcus laughs despite himself. Howard holds out the clipboard. HOWARD (CONT'D) Would you mind counting the water filters? I think we're short one. MARCUS You're insane. You know that, right? HOWARD So I've been told. Usually while I was selling my beachfront property at a "loss" and buying this supposedly worthless inland location. Another RUMBLE, stronger this time. Dust sifts down from the ceiling. Howard notes the time. MARCUS (checking phone) Still no signal. HOWARD Try the HAM radio. Frequency 7.255. MARCUS (moving to the radio) Let me guess — emergency broadcast frequency? HOWARD Actually, it's a wine collecting forum. But they're usually quite informed. Marcus adjusts the dial. Static. Then, through the hiss: RADIO VOICE (V.O.) (through static) ...impact trajectory altered... preliminary reports suggest... mountains deflected... Howard calmly opens a wine bottle. Pours two glasses. HOWARD 2005 Bordeaux. Excellent year. (offering a glass) Pairs well with unexpected survival. Marcus stares at him. MARCUS You knew. Somehow you actually knew. HOWARD I knew the blast radius calculations were wrong. The topography here creates a natural... (offering the glass again) Honestly, I'll show you my charts later. Right now, would you prefer to panic or drink? MARCUS (taking the glass) Both? Both sounds good. Another RUMBLE. The last one. They clink glasses as the dust settles. HOWARD Welcome to the apocalypse. We have soup. Marcus looks at him for a long moment. Then starts counting water filters. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 4: THE LAST DAY Content warning — references to religious trauma and family conflict FADE IN: EXT. BEACH — DAY Gray clouds loom overhead, casting a melancholic filter over everything below. Waves crash rhythmically against the shore — the only sound breaking an eerie, total silence. LANA (25, professionally dressed but now disheveled) sits up suddenly into frame. Her glasses sit crooked on her nose, lipstick smeared, hair tousled by sand and wind. She's breathing heavily — a mix of exhilaration and disbelief. LANA (breathless) That was... amazing, Graciela. GRACIELA (27, casual beachwear, equally disheveled) rises into frame beside her. She brushes sand from her arms, trying and failing to suppress a smile. GRACIELA Who would've thought it'd take an impending apocalypse to get us here? LANA (laughing nervously) Nothing like a meteor to make you face your truth. GRACIELA All those years at church... hiding who we were. LANA My mother's going to kill me. If we survive this, I mean. (beat) I don't regret it though. Not a single second. GRACIELA I regret waiting so long. All those youth group meetings, watching you lead worship... LANA You were watching me? GRACIELA Every Sunday. For three years. A deafening ROAR fills the air. They clutch each other, looking up. The meteor streaks across the sky — and continues going. No impact. No explosion. It just... passes. A long silence follows. The waves keep crashing, indifferent. LANA Did it just...? GRACIELA Miss us? Yeah. Another pause. The weight of what they've done — what they've revealed — settles over them slowly, like the tide coming in. LANA So... we just came out to... GRACIELA (counting on her fingers) Our families, our friends, the entire congregation... LANA Pastor Mike... GRACIELA The church board... LANA My entire Instagram following... GRACIELA (wincing) And your YouTube channel. They sit with that. Waves still crashing. Sky still gray. LANA What do we do now? GRACIELA (taking Lana's hand) Live. LANA Just like that? GRACIELA Unless you want to wait for another meteor? Lana looks at their intertwined fingers. Then at the gray sky above. Something shifts in her face — fear becoming something else. LANA No more waiting. They lean toward each other. Then — Lana's phone BUZZES. Then Graciela's. Then both at once, notifications cascading, the world rushing back in. GRACIELA I guess the world really didn't end. LANA (staring at her phone) No... but ours kind of did. (looking up at Graciela) And kind of began too. They look out at the ocean together, phones buzzing in their laps, the gray sky above them slowly beginning to clear. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 5: THE PERFECT TAKE FADE IN: INT. DANCE STUDIO — NIGHT A mirrored dance studio. Emergency lights cast dramatic shadows across the floor. A phone sits on a tripod, recording. MIRANDA (45), former professional dancer, moves with militant precision in clean dance wear. JESSE (25), in comfortable but mismatched clothes, watches from the floor. MIRANDA Again. From the top. JESSE The evacuation order— MIRANDA Was twenty minutes ago. Plenty of time. (resetting position) Five, six, seven... Jesse reluctantly joins the sequence. Miranda stops abruptly. MIRANDA Your arm. It's two inches too low. JESSE Does it matter? Like, literally, does it matter right now? MIRANDA Everything matters. Every movement should be perfect. JESSE Why? Who's even going to see this? MIRANDA (adjusting the phone on its tripod) My followers. My legacy. (resuming position) Again. Five, six... Jesse steps back. Out of the sequence. Out of position entirely. JESSE No. MIRANDA Excuse me? JESSE You taught me for three years. Every class, every private lesson. Pushing for perfection. MIRANDA Because you have potential. JESSE No. I have passion. There's a difference. Jesse moves to the center of the room. Standing alone in the emergency light. JESSE You want a legacy? Film this. Jesse begins to dance. It is raw, emotional, technically imperfect — and alive. Miranda moves to stop them, then pauses. Watches. The phone BUZZES on its tripod with alerts. Neither of them notice. Jesse finishes. Breathing hard. Silence fills the room. MIRANDA Your turnout was wrong. (softer) But... I felt something. JESSE That's called emotion. It's what happens when you stop counting and start dancing. More phone alerts. Miranda finally checks. Her expression shifts. MIRANDA (reading) The impact zone... we're safe. (looking up) We survived. JESSE (still catching their breath) Yeah. But did you learn anything? Miranda looks at the phone. She scrolls through the saved recordings — the rigid, precise takes from the past hour. Then hits delete. All of them. MIRANDA How do you feel about teaching a class? JESSE Me? But I'm not— MIRANDA Perfect? (smiling) Good. Neither is anyone else. She hits record on a new video. The emergency lights hum. The mirrors reflect two dancers, standing still, ready to begin again. MIRANDA (CONT'D) Let's start over. Show me that sequence again. (beat) This time... make me feel something. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 6: CONNECTION LOST FADE IN: INT. TECH SUPPORT OFFICE — NIGHT A small office crowded with monitors. Emergency lights flicker overhead. Multiple screens display: SERVER STATUS: CRITICAL. Alert windows stack on top of each other, ignored. VICTOR (30), IT support, rumpled business casual, speaks into a headset while watching alerts scroll across every screen. VICTOR Yes, Mrs. Chen, I'm still here... No, don't hit the tower. Let's try... MRS. CHEN (V.O.) (through headset, worried) But my grandchildren... the video thing isn't working... VICTOR Zoom. It's called Zoom. (checking the time) Look, there's only forty minutes until... (softer) Let me help you fix this. He pulls up a remote access screen. Mrs. Chen's desktop fills one of his monitors. VICTOR Okay, I can see your computer. The little camera icon— MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Oh! There they are! My babies... Victor smiles despite himself. A notification pops on another screen: EVACUATION ROUTE STILL CLEAR. MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Why are you still working, young man? VICTOR Someone has to keep the servers running. (checking data, reading her location) Actually, Mrs. Chen... your location. You're in the protected zone. MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Is that good? VICTOR (looking at the evacuation route on his screen) Yeah. That's... that's really good. (checking the time) I could actually still make it there if... MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Oh no, screen went black again! Victor looks at the evacuation notice. Then back at Mrs. Chen's screen — blank now, her family gone from view. He sits back down. VICTOR Okay, let's fix that. First, find the power button... Time passes. Alert windows multiply: FINAL EVACUATION NOTICE. FINAL EVACUATION NOTICE. Victor doesn't look at them. VICTOR There! Can you see them now? MRS. CHEN (V.O.) (crying, happy) Yes! Oh, my beautiful family... The building SHAKES. Emergency lights flicker wildly. A monitor goes dark. VICTOR Mrs. Chen? Stay on the line. I'll make sure you stay connected. MRS. CHEN (V.O.) You're a good boy, Victor. The shaking intensifies. Victor keeps typing. His fingers don't stop. VICTOR Almost got the connection stabilized... A bright flash. Then darkness. Then — The screens slowly reboot. One by one. Victor's headset crackles back to life. MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Victor? Are you there? VICTOR (checking systems, hands still moving) I'm here. We're... we're okay. He pulls up the news alerts scrolling across the rebooted screens: UNEXPECTED SURVIVALS IN TECH INFRASTRUCTURE ZONES. MRS. CHEN (V.O.) My grandchildren want to thank you. Victor watches as multiple faces appear on his screen. Mrs. Chen's entire family, crowded together, all smiling at once. VICTOR (smiling back) Hey, Mrs. Chen... how would you feel about being my first client? MRS. CHEN (V.O.) Client? VICTOR (grinning) I think it's time I started my own tech support business. Specializing in helping people stay connected. The screens fill with more smiling faces as the call grows. Screen after screen. Connection after connection. All of them looking back at him. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 7: FINAL CUT FADE IN: INT. FILM EDITING SUITE — NIGHT A small room built for work and not much else. Editing equipment on every surface. Multiple monitors running simultaneously, all showing coastline footage — waves, cliffs, erosion patterns in slow motion. Empty energy drink cans line the windowsill like trophies. ASHLEY (22), disheveled film student, works the timeline with the focus of someone who forgot there was a world outside this room. PROFESSOR CHEN (60), somehow still put together despite everything, watches over her shoulder. ASHLEY The erosion patterns... they're not matching the prediction models. PROF. CHEN That's fascinating, but we really should evacuate. ASHLEY Look at the wave patterns from last month. (pointing at the screen) The way they hit the cliffs... PROF. CHEN Ashley, your dedication to your thesis is admirable, but— ASHLEY It's not about the thesis. The meteorite... it's going to hit the same way. Prof. Chen leans closer. Looks at the monitors properly for the first time. PROF. CHEN These readings... ASHLEY I've been filming here for six months. The geological composition, the angle of impact... A distant BOOM. The lights flicker. The equipment stays on. PROF. CHEN (arriving at it) The cliffs will deflect it. ASHLEY Like a cosmic half-pipe. She pulls up more footage, typing without slowing down. ASHLEY (CONT'D) The trajectory they're predicting is wrong. PROF. CHEN (already reaching for her phone) I'll call the authorities. ASHLEY Phones are down. (still typing) But Instagram still works on the university wifi. PROF. CHEN Instagram? ASHLEY Better algorithm for sharing data than Twitter. (uploading) Plus I have like eight thousand followers from my surf videos. The upload bar crawls across the screen. Both of them watch it. PROF. CHEN (reading it slowly) Your thesis was on coastal erosion patterns in surf culture. ASHLEY Yeah. PROF. CHEN And now you're using that research to... ASHLEY Save the world? (shrugs) Or at least the parts the cliffs protect. The upload completes. Notifications begin appearing — shares, reposts, comments cascading faster than either of them can read. PROF. CHEN They're sharing it. ASHLEY (already back on the timeline) Cool. Hey, should I use a cross-fade here or a straight cut? PROF. CHEN Ashley. Your data might save thousands of lives. ASHLEY Yeah, but this transition is really bugging me. More notifications. The lights flicker again. Prof. Chen reads her screen. PROF. CHEN (reading aloud) "Military confirms alternate trajectory... evacuation zones being redrawn..." ASHLEY (eyes still on the edit) Awesome. Now, about this transition... Prof. Chen looks at her. Looks at the edit. Pulls up a chair. PROF. CHEN Show me what you've got. They edit together as the notifications pour in — thousands of them now — both completely absorbed in getting the cut right. Outside, something has shifted. Inside, the work continues. FADE OUT. * * * FILM 8: WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS FADE IN: EXT. TRAIN STATION PLATFORM — NIGHT A small, shuttered station platform. Orange emergency lights flicker over two duffel bags abandoned on a bench. The departures board loops endlessly: SERVICE SUSPENDED. SERVICE SUSPENDED. SERVICE SUSPENDED. RACHEL (35), business attire rumpled from hours of running, checks her watch for the hundredth time. JAMES (42), hospital scrubs visible beneath a jacket, stares at the empty tracks as if staring hard enough might summon something. RACHEL There has to be another train. JAMES There's not. RACHEL My family's in the safe zone. Just two stops away. JAMES My kids are in the impact zone. Also two stops away. (a bitter laugh) Funny how that works. Rachel paces. James sits heavily on the bench, like someone who has already been pacing for a long time. RACHEL We could walk. JAMES Ten miles? In under an hour? RACHEL Better than just sitting here! JAMES Better than accepting reality? RACHEL My reality is surviving. With my family. JAMES My reality is being with my family. Even if— He trails off. A bright flash bleaches the platform. A deep RUMBLE follows, rolling under their feet. RACHEL (checking phone) No signal. Again. JAMES Power's probably down in the safe zone too. RACHEL Stop calling it that. JAMES Why? Because it makes everywhere else the death zone? Rachel slumps onto the bench beside him. The board keeps scrolling. SERVICE SUSPENDED. RACHEL I just... I promised I'd be there. JAMES Yeah. Me too. Another flash. Brighter. The emergency lights die. Only the strange, wrong-colored sky remains. JAMES (CONT'D) Tell me about them. RACHEL What? JAMES Your family. Tell me about them. RACHEL I... I have a son. Jack. He collects rocks. (small laugh) Drives me crazy, finding them in the wash. JAMES My Emma does that too. Got a whole windowsill full of them. A massive BOOM from an unexpected direction. They both flinch. RACHEL That wasn't from the predicted direction... JAMES No. It wasn't. Their phones BUZZ simultaneously. Both snatch them up. Read in silence. RACHEL Oh my god. JAMES The mountains... they... RACHEL (reading aloud) "Impact zone shifted... original safe zone experienced major damage... outlying areas..." JAMES We were both heading the wrong way. They stare at each other. The full weight of it arriving all at once. RACHEL If the trains had been running... JAMES We'd have made it to where we were trying to go. RACHEL And died where we were trying to live. Their phones buzz again. Both answer almost at the same moment. RACHEL & JAMES (overlapping, voices breaking) Hello? You're okay? Everyone's— They look at each other across the dark platform. Both crying. Both laughing. The board above them finally changes: SERVICE RESUMING. FADE OUT. ============================================================ From False Universe https://afalseuniverse.com ============================================================