Technological Entertainment Division (TED) Demo Reel #001
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The man lay hidden, crouched in the plants, covered by the branches and vines of the trees, looking past the treeline to his prey. Their scent was ripe in the air, smelling of manure and cud, drifting towards him carried by the humid air currents. His prey possessed a pungent smell strong enough to make the most hardened of the old tribe retch, but would give him enough food to last. The large crested-lizards grazed obliviously, spread out evenly across the plains, and yet not going too far away from the rest of their kin, under the control of some primeval instinct beaten into the beasts by millions of years of fear and loss.

The man crouched further downwards, his ragged loincloth dragging across the ground as he hid his form in the brush. The man scanned the lizards, looking for an isolated target. He waited with bated breath for seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, the shadows growing longer across the plains. Then, finally, one of the behemoths had drifted closer to him in its endless search for food. He could practically feel the texture of its skin, the bumps rough like the bark of the oldest trees. He noticed the deep scars ravaged across the monster's back, a record of the many battles it had survived. The animal's beak was chipped, showing the creature's age. Its large regal crest, battered and broken with large chunks ripped from their fleshy home, exposing the orange of the late-day sky behind the animal. The man smiled a savage smile, thinking to himself what a fine opponent it would be, this beast. This creature. His prey. With legs as thick as tree trunks and horns that appeared to be carved from the ribs of the titans of myth, it would be his.

He raised his spear.

He tensed his muscles.

And he lept forward.

Stab to the side.

Four eyes glistening.

One pair with fear.

One pair with bloodlust.

Body thrown in the air.

Air knocked out of lungs.

Two forces charging.

Spear lands off target, parried by deadly horn.

(Tribal_Drums.mp4 fade in and play rapidly in background, fix in post Dave)

Knife to the throat.

Blood gushing.

Harrowing bellow, calling for aid.

Swiped by a heavy tail.

Pinned to the tree.

He stabbed the monster frantically.

Battered against the branches.

Monster's brethren rush to its aid.

Too late.

The man sprinted into the woods, where no crested-lizard would dare venture, and jumped behind a tree. He watched the lizards, as they approached their dead elder. Watched as they nuzzled the head, its eyes now empty and dark. Watched as the grass was moving at odds with the wind, as a new threat came into the field. Watched as the sickle-claws crept behind the lizards, their yellow eyes glinting with bloodlust, and their open jaws drooling as they readied to kill. He glanced into the sky, seeing the faint images of the giant sky-people behind a sheet of transparent rock, staring intently at him and making strange motions with their hands. One of the lizard's young saw the sickle-claws, and cried out. As the crested-lizards turned to face the new threat, the man dashed forward, his knife at the ready. He quickly hacked at the thigh of the corpse as a ferocious battle raged next to him, with bodies that clashed like waves on a frothy sea, and screams that cut into the man's ears. He quickly made off into the woods with his meal, burdened by its weight upon his back. The sound of the battle, the defiant roars of the lizards and the haunting laugh-calls of the sickle-claws, quickly faded into the distance, and was replaced by the ambient sounds of the ancient woods. The man dodged around the trees and ferns, crashing down a hill and underneath the belly of a tree-leg. He stumbled to a halt, empty of breath and of energy, with muscles burning and feet aching, in his humble abode, hidden in the thickest of trees, within which not even the death-maws can enter. He hung up the leg of the elder lizard by the fire, calmed by the crackling of the burning branches as he readied his feast. The man survived to see the end of the day, but what about the next?

NEXT TIME ON PLASTIC PARK: Will our Prehistoric Man finally kick the bucket? Or will he survive against all odds in this hostile prehistoric world? Tune in Next Week on SCPTV! roll credits, play adverts.


The presenter then paused the video as the presentation finished and the lights slowly brightened the room. He looked at the crowd, a mix of his own staff and site visitors. His staff stood around the outskirts of the room, while the site visitors sat in chairs in front of the projector, all of whom were here to evaluate his work and determine the future of the site's project. "Well," he asked them, spreading his arms wide. "Of course the VFX and graphic design aren't completely finished, and we have a few rough edges to smooth out. But other than that, what do you think?"

A mousy intern to a site director pushed up her glasses and composed herself. "While it certainly was an enjoyable watch, Mr. Henderson, is making a TV channel for Foundation staff really a good use of your Site budget? Making TV shows out of an anomaly seems a bit… unorthodox, if you ask me." Mr. Henderson flashed a wide white grin at the question, eyes sparkling through lensless glasses. "Well miss, I'm glad you asked. As you all know, this project has been years in the making, and we were very diligent in our research. Our focus groups show that the majority of staff would appreciate some custom entertainment for them to watch and unwind to, plus the uptick in morale generated from watching programs like Plastic Park™ would cover any and all budgetary expenses that might exist after filming. Besides, the merchandise alone that we could sell from making programs like this could increase our cash flow by around," Henderson checked his tablet held in his manicured hands for the numbers, though he already knew the answer. "38%, according to the bean-counters' estimates. A big thanks to Gary and his team for those numbers." Henderson seemed impatient while the polite applause slowly died down enough to be able to speak again, tapping his sandaled feet rapidly against the tile. "And you don't have to worry about civvies tuning in to SCPTV. Unless they have a 'turgically enhanced TV set, no one could ever crack our broadcasts. And thanks to our wonderful legal team headed by Brenda over here," the suited man pointed to a far corner of the room, where a woman with a haircut ripped from a 70's album cover blushed and waved to the crowd as a short polite applause was directed towards her. "Thanks to them, no staff can legally record and redistribute any of our programs, according to a rework in the new contracts staff are supposed to sign."

Henderson then switched to another slide on the presentation, showing several complex graphs and statistics and gestured vaguely to some numbers to the center-right. "And better yet, we aren't just limited to merchandise. We could make spin-off shows, novelizations, original programming, satirical soap operas about Site staff, dark comedies about containment breaches, anthology series, ghost hunting with Mu-13, and so much other content. Hell, we could get David Attenborough to come and make a nature documentary about the mating habits of Catholic squirrels for chrissake. Also," Henderson spun around to the rest of the member's of Site-50's new Technological Entertainment Division. "Taking the cake, we could also make a streaming service that staff could voluntarily pay for." This time, he doesn't wait for the scattered chuckles and applause to quiet and bulldozes through and continues with his speech, opening his arms out wide and smiling, holding the entire room in his arms, while the choreographed lights illuminate him in the background from below. "A whole media empire, generating enough money to buy Disney, Amazon, and Marshall, Carter and Fucking Dark based entirely off of our own employees." A hush had fallen over the audience, as they waited with bated breath for the next words to come out of their boss's mouth. "So, who wants to print their own money?"

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