EXT. TEHUAN – THE BLEEDING FIELD
The field is quiet, but not still. The earth hums low and dark, like it knows the kill intimately before it ever happens. The sky is smeared with smoke-colored clouds and sun-thick rust, looking as if caught in a jar. There’s no wind, and pressure builds. Rocks lean in like curious dogs. Nothing grows here but the quiet.
THE FIELD
It always begins this way.
A BEAR crouches in the center of the frame, his bulk coiled low over the body of a BULL. One paw pins the bull’s snout, the other curls around its neck like he's rooting for something buried. The bear's mouth is pressed into the bull’s face– tearing away slowly, so slow it could almost feel tender. The bull struggles to continue on.
THE BULL
You’re still here.
THE BEAR
I had to. You held the ground; I held the hunger.
The bull is slack beneath him, twisted like a cloth rung out. Its eyes are open, but not seeing, glazed and tired. Blood– thick and too dark– pools around the bear’s jaw in a halo the color of old pennies.
Around the beasts, the landscape slouches. Rocks soften at the edges, as if bored of being hard. Burnt shrubs lean back, giving them space. YOU watch on– can’t tell if this is the end of a fight or the beginning of a feast. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Time doesn’t move here. The bear doesn’t blink.
A wind moves through and nothing stirs. Even the blood is quiet.
The beasts lift their heads. The bear’s fur is matted, his eyes glassy with effort. He doesn’t growl. He just looks. The bull looks, too, but sadly.
THE BULL
You watched it all.
The bear meets your gaze. Holds it.
THE BEAR