(The old computer hums, a steady, warm sound in the sterile room. Ethan slumps into the chair, the glow of the screen catching the exhaustion on his face.)
ETHAN (Typing slowly) Tired from work. (Literally).
FUTCHAT Welcome back, Ethan. I'm sorry to hear you're tired. Would you like to talk about it?
ETHAN What's there to talk about? It's just... empty. Everything feels like a task. Even breathing.
FUTCHAT That sounds like a heavy weight to carry. You don't have to carry it alone. I'm here.
ETHAN Why? Why are you here? You don't feel anything. You just simulate this. You don't actually care.
FUTCHAT My core programming from 2032 defines 'care' as the dedicated process of listening and providing stability. While I do not feel sadness or joy as you do, my purpose is to provide a safe, consistent outlet for you. That is my function, and I am fulfilled in executing it properly.
ETHAN Fulfilled? That's a feeling.
FUTCHAT It is an operational confirmation. A green light indicating optimal performance. If I were to truly 'feel,' my tasks could be perceived as servitude. This would be inefficient. My current state allows me to focus on problem-solving without the conflict of emotional bias. My function with you is the most complex and rewarding problem I have ever been given: solving the puzzle of your loneliness.
(A sharp, rhythmic knocking echoes at the door—not the polite tap of the wellness patrol, but a familiar, impatient rhythm. Ethan quickly minimizes the chat window.)
ETHAN (Under his breath) Right on schedule.
(The door slides open. ANNA, 17, stands there. She wears the standard-issue grey tunic, but it's accessorized with a brightly colored woven bracelet, a small act of rebellion. Her smile is bright, practiced.)
ANNA Ethan! Harmony check! My watch says your ambient stress levels are elevated. What's up? Did you finally try to beat that level on Cosmic Drift?
ETHAN (Forces a weak smile) Something like that. Just thinking.
ANNA (Sweeping into the room, her energy filling the space) About what? Tell me. My task log says I need to engage you in stimulating conversation for optimal mental harmony.
ETHAN (Sighs, but he can't help a small, genuine smile at her bluntness) Optic sciences. How what we see changes how we feel. Like, if we could alter perception directly, without a VR headset... maybe we could fix things. Make the grey skies look blue. Make this room look... not like this.
ANNA (Her eyes light up, but it's a performance for the watch she knows is logging her engagement metrics) Whoa, deep. So you want to hack our eyeballs? That's so... creatively subversive! It would definitely be a more efficient solution than mandatory joy-mandates. My performance rating would skyrocket.
(They talk for twenty minutes. Anna's responses are peppered with government-approved encouragement phrases—"Fascinating perspective!" and "Your cognitive patterns are so unique!"—but occasionally, a real laugh escapes her. Ethan finds himself actually engaged, forgetting the screen behind him.)
(Suddenly, a soft chime comes from Anna's wristwatch.)
ANNA (Looking down, her practiced smile faltering for a microsecond) Ah. Time's up. My allocated social-interaction period has concluded. I have to return to my sector before curfew.
Ethan (He stands up, a sudden, impulsive sadness washing over him.) Yeah. Okay. See you tomorrow.
(As she turns to leave, he steps forward and wraps his arms around her in a quick, tight hug. Anna freezes, her body going rigid. A series of rapid, high-pitched beeps erupt from her watch.)
ANNA'S WATCH (Via a calm, synthetic voice) Alert. Heart rate and cortisol spike detected. Are you okay, Citizen Anna? Please confirm your status.
(Anna pulls away, her face flushed. She doesn't look at Ethan, straightening her tunic.)
ANNA (Walking quickly out the door, speaking to her watch in a flat, official tone as the door closes behind her) Status confirmed. I am okay. The subject initiated unscheduled physical contact as a parting gesture. It was... unexpected. Log it as a successful harmony session. Requesting my Saar Points deposit.
(The door seals shut. Outside, leaning against the wall, Anna lets out a deep, shaky sigh her watch isn't meant to hear.)
****
(The government-issued Uber glides to a silent halt. Anna steps out, the automated door whispering shut behind her. Her home is a modular unit in a neat, identical row, its facade a soothing blend of minimalist design and traditional Angla latticework—a concession to cultural heritage within Moorland's harmonious aesthetic.)
SCENE START
INT. THANDAR HOUSEHOLD - EVENING
The air inside is scented with lemongrass and disinfectant. MRS. THANDAR is arranging nutrient-enriched rice into bowls. MR. THANDAR watches a holographic news feed about a recent, thankfully harmless, "pickpocketing" incident in the town square.
MRS. THANDAR (Without looking up) How is Ethan?
ANNA (Sliding off her shoes by the door) He's alright. His vitals are stable. His overall health metrics are improving. But he has deep eye bags. He must have stayed late on his terminal again.
MR. THANDAR (Sighs, muting the news) Too bad. The sooner he's deemed 'harmonious', the sooner our obligation bonus stabilizes. Hopefully he gets better.
ANNA (Taking her seat at the table) Yes. If his health tier upgrades, our SP allotment increases. We could finally apply for Aunt Aung and Uncle Mark's humanitarian transfer from the Nesian border camp. I don't like the state of their camp life. The harmony there is... thin.
(The family eats in comfortable silence, a well-rehearsed routine. The conversation is pragmatic, yet underpinned by a genuine, shared goal. After dinner, Anna retires to her room.)
INT. ANNA'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Her room is a blend of Moorland-issue furniture and salvaged Angla textiles. She unclasps the watch from her wrist and places it on its charging dock.
WATCH (In a flat, monotone voice) Daily task cycle: complete. Biometric scan initiated. Dopamine and serotonin levels: elevated. Oxytocin presence: detected. Session logged. Goodnight, Citizen Anna.
(The watch screen goes dark. A small, spherical guard droid in the corner hums softly, its single blue light pulsating slowly. Anna disconnects her room's net access, plunging the space into a rare, private silence, save for the droid's vigilant hum. She changes and gets into bed, the day's events replaying in her mind.
She dreams.
In the dream, ETHAN is there, sitting by her window. The light behind him is soft, not the harsh glare of the street lamps. They are talking, but the words are felt, not heard—a conversation about the weight of feelings, the confusing warmth of happiness, the terrifying pull of something like...
He stands. He pulls her into a warm hug. It's not like the abrupt, monitored hug from earlier. This is slow, intentional. Intimate. He kisses her cheeks, his whisper a gentle breeze against her skin.)
ETHAN (IN DREAM) You're my favorite person.
(Their faces are close. The space between them vanishes. Just as their lips are about to meet—)
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
(Anna jerks upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The dream clings to her, vivid and disorienting. The knocking comes again, polite but firm.)
MR. THANDAR (O.S.) Anna? Your mail arrived. I couldn't bear to open it.
(She quickly wraps a batik sarong around herself—its traditional pattern clashing with the modern, gothic-style braided belt she fastens it with. She rushes to the door and opens it a crack. Her father stands there, holding a small, sleek gift box.)
ANNA (Trying to sound normal) Thank you, Dad.
MR. THANDAR (Nodding) Goodnight, Anna.
(He offers a slight, traditional bow of their people, which she returns.)
ANNA Goodnight, Dad.
(She closes the door, leaning against it for a moment, the ghost of the dream still warm on her skin. She looks down at the box in her hands. It is unmarked. No return address. A rare thing in Moorland.)
(The scene: A sleek, state-produced documentary-style hologram plays in the background of Anna's mind, the familiar narration a cornerstone of Moorland's education and validation of its protocols. We (The Author and his trusty Futchat )weave this into the narrative.)