Owned

Screenplay draft

Title: Corporate Ownership: The Commodification of Humanity
Credit: Written by
Author: 
Draft date: 
Contact: 

FADE IN.

INT. RAFE KORR'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Four walls of live LED tickers hum in acid green. The light pulses across a single mattress on the floor. RAFE KORR lies on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling screens. His navy suit jacket is draped over a chair. The faint barcode tattoo on his neck reads $COCH at 46.8 and glows steady.

A low click echoes. The fridge lock engages. The tattoo dims to 46.4.

Rafe sits up. The screens above him scroll junior analyst metrics in real time. One name flashes red. He watches the number drop another point. His own tattoo flickers in response.

He stands. The floor is cold. He crosses to the wrist pad on the charging station and taps a sequence. The junior analyst's score ticks up 0.3. The fridge unlocks with a mechanical snap.

Rafe opens the door. One protein bar sits on the empty shelf. He takes it, breaks off a single bite, then returns the rest. The lock clicks again. His tattoo rises to 46.9.

He returns to the mattress. The four screens continue their feed. Green numbers crawl across the walls. A soft chime marks another trade somewhere in the building. The light in the room brightens a fraction when his ticker holds.

Rafe lies back down. His bloodshot eyes stay fixed on the ceiling. The tattoo on his neck pulses once, slow and measured. The fridge remains silent. The only sound is the constant undercurrent of ticker clicks layered with his own breathing.

The screens shift. A new dip registers on a different junior. Rafe does not move. His tattoo stays at 46.9. The green glow holds steady across the walls.

CUT TO:

INT. RAFE KORR'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Four walls of floor-to-ceiling LED tickers pulse acid green across a single mattress. The room hums with distant ticker clicks. RAFE KORR lies on his back, eyes open, bloodshot from screen glare. His crisp navy suit jacket is draped over the wrist-pad charger. The barcode tattoo on his neck reads $COCH at 46.8.

A soft chime cuts through the glow. The fridge lock snaps shut with a mechanical click.

Rafe sits up. He scans the east wall where a junior analyst’s ticker has dipped into the red. He lifts his wrist pad. The screen casts a sterile white rectangle on his face.

His finger taps once. The analyst’s productivity score adjusts upward by 0.3.

The fridge unlocks with another click. Its interior light spills across the concrete floor.

Rafe stands. He opens the door, removes one protein bar, and breaks off a single bite. He returns the bar to the shelf. The door seals. The lock engages.

The tattoo on his neck ticks to 47.1. Green light brightens across the walls for three seconds, then settles.

Rafe stares at the remaining bar through the fridge glass. He wipes protein dust from his thumb onto his rumpled sleeve. The west wall shows a cascade of other tickers, all flickering in the same rhythm.

EXT. VEXCORP TOWER - DAWN

Acid-green light pulses from thousands of neck tattoos in synchronized rhythm. The VexCorp tower rises in sterile white concrete and black glass, its entrance a wide funnel of brushed steel. Employees stream forward in perfect concentric lines, charcoal suits pressed, eyes forward. Each tattoo displays a live ticker. Most hover in the low forties. A few dip into the thirties. Red flashes appear at random intervals and vanish.

RAFE KORR moves with the current, navy suit slightly rumpled at the elbows. His $COCH tattoo glows 47.1 against the left side of his neck. Bloodshot eyes track the flow without expression. The first sunlight hits the tower facade and turns every tattoo into a moving grid of data.

A sanitation drone glides overhead on silent rotors, its underbelly scanner sweeping the crowd. One man’s ticker drops from 31.4 to 0.00. The drone descends, clamps onto his collar, and lifts the body straight up and away. The line closes the gap without breaking stride. The low hum of trades never wavers.

Rafe adjusts his wrist pad. The motion is small, automatic. His own tattoo ticks up to 47.3. He keeps walking.

At the threshold the tower doors part with a soft hydraulic sigh. Green light from inside spills across the pavement. Rafe steps through. The tattoos behind him continue their pulse, each one a precise measurement of value entering the building. The sound of distant breathing mixes with the constant click of live trades.

INT. VEXCORP HUMAN TRADING FLOOR - DAY

Concentric rings of standing desks fill the vast white room. Every surface pulses with live human tickers in acid green. Sanitation drones glide between rings on silent tracks, their scanners sweeping neck tattoos.

RAFE KORR stands at the third ring, navy suit slightly rumpled, bloodshot eyes fixed on three overlapping screens. His wrist pad glows. He taps once. A junior analyst’s productivity score at desk 47B ticks upward 0.2. The green bar steadies.

A drone pauses beside him, red scanner light sweeping his own neck tattoo. $COCH holds at 47.1. The drone moves on.

Rafe shifts to the next cluster. He watches a woman two rings inward. Her ticker dips. He adjusts the metric tied to her keystroke rate, nudging it higher by 0.4. Her score stabilizes. The fridge icon on her desk screen turns from red to green.

Another drone slows near a man whose ticker has already fallen to 31. The man’s breathing grows audible over the low click of trades. Rafe does not look up. He executes three more micro-adjustments in quick succession, each one lifting a different junior’s number by fractions.

The overhead lights flicker once as a distant chime sounds. Rafe’s tattoo brightens by 0.1. He exhales through his nose, the sound barely audible beneath the constant hum. He moves to the next ring without glancing back.

INT. VEXCORP HUMAN TRADING FLOOR - DAY

Concentric rings of standing desks fill the vast room. Every surface pulses with live tickers. Acid-green numerals climb and drop across the walls. Sanitation drones glide between stations on silent tracks. The air carries the steady click of trades and the low mechanical breath of the building.

RAFE KORR stands at the outer ring, navy suit rumpled at the elbows. His neck tattoo glows $COCH at 47.1. He taps his wrist pad, nudging a junior analyst’s productivity score upward by 0.4. The screen beside him registers the adjustment in green.

SLOANE MERRICK steps out of the inner ring, gray-market tattoo OFF-EXCHANGE visible above her collar. Fingerless gloves grip a single protein bar still sealed in corporate foil. She moves with the quick, low rhythm of someone who trades where cameras do not reach.

She stops beside Rafe without looking at him. Her voice stays low, clipped.

SLOANE
You still eat these things straight?

RAFE
Keeps the fridge unlocked.

SLOANE
Smart. Until they change the lock code again.

She tears the foil halfway and holds the bar out. Rafe takes one bite, then passes it back. The ticker on his neck ticks up to 47.3. A drone pauses two rings away, red sensor light sweeping their station before moving on.

SLOANE
You know what the real play is, right? Keep your number just high enough that they keep feeding you the scraps. Never high enough that they notice you.

RAFE
Harder work lifts the price. That’s the model.

Sloane exhales a short, dry sound that might be a laugh.

SLOANE
The only thing worse than being owned is believing you’re the owner.

The words hang between them. Around the ring, screens refresh in perfect rows. Rafe’s tattoo flickers once, then settles back to 47.2. Sloane folds the remaining protein bar into her pocket and steps away without another glance.

The low hum of trades continues unbroken.

INT. VEXCORP HUMAN TRADING FLOOR - DAY

Concentric rings of standing desks glow under harsh white light. Every surface pulses with live human tickers. Acid-green numerals scroll across charcoal suits. The constant click of trades layers over shallow breathing. Sanitation drones ho

… (sign in to read + edit the full draft)