1.1INT. HAVEN - MAINTENANCE BAY - DAY
The maintenance bay is a cathedral of salvage. Reclaimed pipes snake up the walls, oil-dark and sweating. Sodium lamps buzz overhead, casting everything in amber. Aura, nineteen, hangs upside down inside the guts of a failing filtration pump, her legs hooked around a rusted frame, a respirator mask hanging loose around her neck.
She works with the focus of someone who has done this a thousand times. Her fingerless gloves are stained with grease. A faded scar crosses her left eyebrow. Her hands move with the quiet confidence of a surgeon, but there is a tension in her jaw that has nothing to do with the machinery.
Aura tightens a bolt, then stops. She taps a corroded valve with the back of her wrench. A dull, hollow sound. She taps it again.
AURA
(under her breath)
That's not supposed to sound like that.
She swings down, landing on the grated floor with a soft thud. Wipes her forehead with the back of her glove, leaving a smear of grease across her brow. She studies the pump the way you would study a patient who is not telling you the truth.
The bay door grinds open. ELDER MARCUS, seventy, stooped and gray, enters carrying a coil of cable over his shoulder. His welding goggles hang around his neck. He watches her for a moment before speaking.
MARCUS
You have been at that pump since before the bells.
AURA
It is dying.
MARCUS
Everything is dying. The trick is keeping it alive long enough to matter.