INT. APARTMENT HALL – EVENING
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Jason trudges down the dim corridor, cardboard bag of bargain texters under one arm. He stops at his door, takes a breath, then knocks three times.
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JASON
“Greetings, faithful! Have you accepted ROBO GOD into your—”
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Door yanks open. SD‑K—now in leather jacket, gray tank, and cargo pants—glowers.
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SD‑K
“Get in.”
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JASON (raising a brow)
“Really? My note literally said, ‘Tell them to fuck off.’”
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SD‑K
“Your humor is tiresome.”
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Jason steps inside. The cube is a minefield of UNO cards and snack wrappers. SD‑A, trench‑coat wrapped and sitting cross‑legged, waves happily.
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SD‑A
“Jason! We had productive rest and minimal property damage!”
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JASON
“That’s… the best report I’ve heard all day.”
(holds up the bag)
“Since we’re basically roommates, you each get a shiny new texter‑brick 3000. They call; you answer. No internet, no tracking, and yes— they might burst into flames if you push the weather button.”
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He hands one to A (who beams) and tosses the other to K (who inspects it like a bomb). Jason demonstrates:
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JASON
“Press ‘Ping,’ type a 5‑digit string—like this—boom, message delivered.”
(sends a test ping: “hi idiots -J”)
Both texters beep. Success.
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SD‑A
“It’s adorable!”
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SD‑K
“It’s obsolete.”
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JASON
“It was cheap.”
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Jason’s eyes sweep the room…and land on the opened boxes of cigarettes piled near the fridge.
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JASON
“…Why are my apocalypse smokes out?”
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Both bots freeze. K answers first, tone neutral.
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SD‑K
“Research.”
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JASON
“Research. Into what, my bad decisions? How’d you even know I smoked? I never said it.”
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SD‑A (sheepish)
“K found them while… organizing. He said you quit because it was economically irrational and your mechanic threatened you.”
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Jason throws K a mock glare.
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JASON
“Could’ve asked instead of rifling my trauma drawer.”
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SD‑K
“You left a note about behaving. You never defined research as misbehavior.”
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Jason sighs, picks up one box, flips it open—still sealed.
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JASON
“I keep these for emergencies. Like surviving one of K’s motivational speeches.”
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SD‑A
“So… you won’t start again?”
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JASON
“Nah. Paying triple for body checks hurts worse than craving a stick of lung‑fire.”
(tosses the box back onto the pile)
“Put them back. And next time you run an archaeological dig in my closet, at least label the exhibit.”
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K mutters something about “better security protocols,” but begins repacking the cartons. A examines his texter, thumbs tapping happily.
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JASON
“Alright, dinner in an hour. Nobody burn the cube down, nobody convert to robo god, and yes—UNO rematch later. I’m reclaiming my dignity.”
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He flops onto the bed with a groan—hangover lingering but heart lighter. The two fugitives nod.
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FADE OUT.
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