. Tilting steadily from a fixed point above, we descend upon the lighthouse, rendering it powerless. In turn, it rains.
SCOTT ARSIGNE, 30, hungry, and dreadful, sets a bulky toolbag down on an arbitrary step, a bit more than halfway up the winding spiral staircase. He pauses, breathing, and looks around himself.
SCOTT
How do you even go about acquiring a place like this?
A convenient strike of lightning reveals, if briefly, the combatically split smirk of a man: E.K., 29, well-dressed, and standing just about widely enough to confirm a form of ownership of the building.
Seeing Scott has stopped, E.K. turns around and looks down at him, appearing disappointed. He considers the question with a mild sense of spite.
E.K.
Hm. Creativity, I suppose.
SCOTT
What's that supposed to mean?
E.K. turns.
E.K.
Keep walking.
Scott sighs and grabs his things. Both walk, up and up.
E.K.
It means that the good of abandoned buildings is that there's no need to "acquire" them, and that the hard part's locating them. Cities are rife with them, but in the small towns, you have to think a little more. Houses, especially here, tend not to stay deserted. A tent in the woods, an abandoned barn, the occasional abandoned indoor water park... decommissioned lighthouses.
I think you got lucky with this place.
SCOTT
Relocating just seems like such a hassle. I was fine before.
E.K.
You wanted more from me, you got more. You got this.
SCOTT
I wanted-- I needed money.
E.K.
Which means more work, which means coming here.
They continue to climb.
E.K.
...Look, I'm sorry, kid. If this is about--
SCOTT
It isn't.
E.K. is uncomfortable. He's never liked it when Scott asserted himself. And, truthfully, he's never liked the dark.
God, it's dark.
E.K. reaches the top step, entering the beacon room without hesitation. Scott follows.
E.K.
Here we are.
Scott places the toolbag on the floor and retrieves a flashlight. With a click, he turns it on and reveals the room in swift motions: dusty, teeming with cobwebs, and lifeless, all existing relative to a great glass lantern in the perfect center of it all. When the light hits it at a certain angle, the room is momentarily completely white.
E.K.
You had that the whole time? Why didn't you turn it on?
SCOTT
I wanted to save some of the battery.
E.K.
Of course you did.
Beat.
Mouth forming the implication of an "oh", Scott unzips the bag and picks up a rusty crowbar. He hands it to E.K., whose hand instinctively wields it.
E.K.
You'll wanna stand back, I'm sure.
SCOTT
And you?
E.K.
I'll be fine.
E.K. draws his arm back, giving Scott just enough time to tiptoe back down out of frame. Then, Scott wincing, we hear him go berserk.
Less than a full loop of steps down from the floor of the beacon room is a window. Scott rests a hand here, looking out at the dusky silhouette of his car, listening to the sounds of broken glass.
Scott sighs.
E.K. (above)
Done!
As Scott rises, we pan up through the floor, which is covered in shards of glass. The frame of the beacon sits unharmed. E.K., holding in his other hand an identical one, hands Scott a handheld reciprocating saw.
Scott leaves this hanging, grabbing and putting on a pair of thick safety gloves first. Then he takes it.
In a kind of choreographed duet of motion, they destroy the metal skeleton holding the lens around the lantern. Larger metal pieces are thrown off the balcony, while smaller ones remain on the ground. Only the hatched bulb, small and dormant in a metal nest, remains.
The floor is covered in glass and metal bones, and the room, besides these two, is now empty.
Scott points the flashlight to the ground.
SCOTT
Are you going to stay?
E.K.
Not if it means cleaning this up.
SCOTT
I'd prefer you be genuine, please.
The discomfort returns. Why is he speaking like this?
It... angers E.K.
No, that isn't right. You're only angry when someone has power over you, he thinks. Ergo, never angry.
E.K. shifts. Scott readies himself to repeat the question, breathing.
E.K.
I don't plan on it.
SCOTT
Why?
E.K.
Well, I have things to do.
SCOTT
Urgently?
Beat.
E.K.
Did you need anything else?
SCOTT
Well...
Visibly, he's not sure.
SCOTT
More help would be nice, I suppose.
E.K.
With what, exactly?
SCOTT
I'm not sure.
E.K.
Well then!
E.K. sifts through the glass and places a hand on the rail over the stairs.
He turns to Scott to speak some final words. Scott is facing away from him, flashlight pointed at the ground, staring outside.
E.K. (lightly)
I'll...
Unnerved, he walks.
Scott continues to stare, his focus having floated entirely away from this conversation, this room. As if expecting it to drive itself away, he eyes his own car with reverence or suspicion.
What's in there?
you are.
E.K.
Goodbye, Scott.
SCOTT
Do you even care?
Beat.
Fuck.
E.K.
About... you?
Likely not.
SCOTT (a newfound confidence to him)
Any of this. Anybody in your empire.
E.K.
What?
SCOTT
Do you even care? Does any of this matter to you?
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