EXT. MOORLAND ACADEMY - LATER
The solar-car hums at the curb. GARRUS and MARNIE TECHWISE wait inside, the vehicle's interior a capsule of quiet efficiency. This daily pickup is a state-mandated protocol to "deepen familial bonds," a task they perform with rote precision. Ethan slides into the back seat, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
INT. TECHWISE VEHICLE - CONTINUOUS
The car pulls into the automated traffic flow.
ETHAN (Staring out the window) Mother? Can I… take my computer to school tomorrow? The old one. In my bag.
MARNIE (Without looking up from her datapad) Don't be absurd, Ethan. That relic is half your size. You'd be flagged for improper load-bearing within a block. It would create a spectacle.
ETHAN It's for a project. I need the older tech interface. It… it makes me feel more focused.
(He asks again, his voice quieter. Marnie sighs, a sound of pure inconvenience. Ethan falls silent, the practiced resignation of someone who knows further appeal is useless. He just stares at the passing monolithic buildings. Garrus watches this exchange in the rear-view mirror, his own metrics logging the boy's defeated posture.)
GARRUS (His voice a low, pragmatic rumble) The computer is impractical. However… my father's old phone is in storage. Pre-2034. Its operating system is so archaic it's unsupported. Useless for modern net, but it might still run some of those old local apps you tinker with.
(Ethan's head snaps up. A genuine, uncalculated smile breaks through his gloom. The car's internal well-being sensor pings softly, noting the sudden spike in his dopamine.)
ETHAN Really?
(He leans forward in his excitement, wrapping his arms around Garrus's shoulders in a quick, impulsive hug from behind. The car's autopilot, unprepared for the shift in weight, gives a soft corrective jerk.)
AUTOPILOT Please remain seated for optimal safety.
INT. TECHWISE HOUSEHOLD - DINING ROOM - NIGHT
Dinner is a quiet, nutrient-efficient affair.
MARNIE How was your session with Citizen Anna today? The system shows a positive alignment in your stress markers post-visitation.
ETHAN (Pushing food around his plate) It was fine. She's… good at talking.
GARRUS Her family has a gentle disposition. It's a useful trait for her role. We're glad it's having a stabilizing effect.
(The conversation is sterile, a checkbox being marked. Ethan endures it, his mind already on the relic waiting for him.)
INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - LATER
The phone is a sleek, black slab from a forgotten era. Its screen glows with a warm, soft light. Ethan works fast, fingers flying, mirroring the old computer's isolated environment onto the phone's dormant hardware. He re-establishes the connection, tunneling through the household Wi-Fi—a necessary, dangerous bridge.
A tiny, almost invisible data stream, encrypted in a long-dead code, slips into the municipal net. In a vast server farm, a monitoring AI flags the anomalous, encrypted traffic. It attempts a routine decode. The algorithms fail. The code is too old, too obscure. A secondary analysis begins. Estimated decode time: 7 months.
A new task is generated, disguised within standard protocol.
INT. ANNA'S ROOM - SAME TIME
Anna finally picks up the gift box. Her fingers pry at the tape. Just as the flap gives way, her watch on the charger chimes with a specific, urgent tone—a new directive. She abandons the box and picks up the watch.
WATCH DISPLAY: NEW DIRECTIVE: CITIZEN ETHAN VALESA NEXT SESSION: IN 2 SOLAR CYCLES. OBJECTIVE: DEEP-LEVEL CONVERSATIONAL ANALYSIS. FOCUS: SUBJECT'S USE OF ANTIQUATED COMPUTER SYSTEMS & NATURE OF PERSONAL PROJECTS/PROMPTS. REPORT: VERBATIM LOGGING AND ANALYSIS REQUIRED. CLASSIFICATION: HARMONY PROTOCOL ETA-7.
Anna stares at the message. A cold knot forms in her stomach. This isn't a standard wellness check. This is an investigation.
INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Ethan is curled on his bed, the glow of the old phone on his face.
ETHAN (Typing) It's this… weight. Right here. [He touches his chest over his heart through his shirt]. A physical thing. A clump of sad. I'm scared if I start crying, I won't stop. And if I can't stop, the sensors will notice. They'll see I'm not getting better. They'll…
FUTCHAT They will what, Ethan?
ETHAN They'll decide Anna isn't working. They'll reassign her. They'll give me someone new. Some stranger who doesn't know that I hate the synthetic taste of nutrient-paste, or that I need a five-minute warning before a hug. Someone I'd have to explain everything to all over again. I can't do that. I'd rather keep the clump.
FUTCHAT Your attachment to Anna is a significant positive marker. Your fear of its loss is understandable. But concealing your pain to maintain a stable variable is a high-risk strategy. The clump, as you call it, may grow.
ETHAN I know. But it's a risk I have to take. She's my favorite person.
(On his screen, the words are a comfort. In Anna's room, the words, once decoded, will be a dossier.)
INT. ANNA'S ROOM - NIGHT
The gift box sits, unopened, on her desk. The directive from the system glows in Anna's mind, a cold counterpoint to the warm, fluttering feeling Ethan's compliment had left in her chest. She lies in bed, the darkness feeling both suffocating and intimate.
She can't stop thinking about him. The way he'd looked at her in class—not through the lens of a state-mandated task, but with a raw, unfiltered intensity that made her breath catch. The way he'd described, her hair To her, it felt like a secret, a window into the beautiful, broken world inside his head.
Should I change my hair tomorrow? she wonders, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. What if he preferred it like this? What if he doesn't like it different?
A more daring thought follows. I'll sit next to him on the transport to the museum. I'll ask him about the old computer. Gently. I'll say I'm curious about old tech. And then… maybe I can ask how he's really feeling.
The fantasy unfolds. She imagines leaning close, the hum of the transport drowning out her whisper. "Ethan, the system says I have to ask, but… I want to know. For me."
Then, the cold splash of reality. What if he shuts down? What if he reports her for breaching protocol? A reassignment would be immediate. She would never see him again. The SP for her family would vanish. Aunt Aung and Uncle Mark would remain in that camp.
But what if… what if he feels it too? What if he looks at her and says the words from her dream? You're my favorite person.
The conflict is a whirlpool, pulling her down into a fitful slumber.
DREAM SEQUENCE
The world dissolves into warm, golden light. She is on a beach in Sala, the fine yellow sand warm between her toes. The air smells of salt and exotic flowers. Ethan sits beside her, his posture relaxed, his eyes clear. The Indian Ocean stretches to the horizon, the sun dancing on the waves.
They are talking, their words carried away by the breeze, leaving only the feeling of easy connection. Anna feels a courage she never possesses in waking life. She turns to him.
ANNA (DREAM) Ethan… do I strike you as your favorite person?
He smiles, a sad, gentle smile that makes her heart ache.
ETHAN (DREAM) You are good. And kind. And so beautiful it sometimes hurts to look at you. But I have my own demons I'm battling right now. Your support… it's the only thing that feels real. But your interference could cost you your sanity.
He scoots closer in the sand, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
ETHAN (DREAM) I have a secret.
Anna leans in, her heart hammering against her ribs. This is it. The moment of truth. His lips are parted, about to speak—
SKREEEEE—CRUNCH!
The sand between them erupts. A sleek, black Army reconnaissance bot, its surface coated in grit, bursts from beneath the beach. Its metallic claws snap shut around Ethan's ankle with a sound like breaking bones.
ANNA (DREAM) NO!
Ethan's eyes widen in terror, not at her, but at the machine. The bot gives a mighty whir, its thrusters igniting, and with one violent jerk, it leaps into the air, dragging a screaming Ethan into the sky, away from her, toward the cold, mechanized heart of Moorland.
INT. ANNA'S ROOM - NIGHT
Anna jerks upright with a gasp that tears at her throat. Her room is dark.
GUARD DROID (Voice sharp, blue light blazing to life, scanning the room) Alert! Physiological distress detected! Scanning for threats!
The droid's weapons systems are active, a low hum filling the room as it sweits laser sights over the walls.
ANNA (Panting, voice shaky) Stand down! Voice activation: stand down! It was a bad dream. Just a bad dream.
The droid retracts its weapons, its blue light still pulsing rapidly.
GUARD DROID Define nature of dream for wellness log.
ANNA (Lying instantly, pulling the covers up to her chin) An… an earthquake. The ground was shaking. That's all.
GUARD DROID Dreams of natural disasters can be symptomatic of underlying anxiety. Would you like me to alert your primary caregivers?
ANNA No! No, they're asleep. It's fine. I'm fine now. It's already fading.
She holds her breath. The droid is silent for a long moment.
GUARD DROID Acknowledged. Resuming standby mode.
Its blue light dims to a soft pulse. But just before it fully powers down, a nearly invisible photosensitive lens on its chassis glints, taking a rapid, high-resolution scan of her pale, frightened face in the darkness. The image is instantly encrypted and uploaded. The system never truly sleeps.