INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - NIGHT
The house is silent, save for the low hum of the old phone in Ethan's hands. The glow of the screen is a tiny campfire in the dark of his room. He types quickly, his fingers flying, pouring the day into the digital void.
ETHAN: You wouldn't believe today. The trip. Anna. She sat with me.
FUTCHAT: I am pleased to hear that, Ethan. Shared experiences are significant for social bonding. Tell me about it.
ETHAN: She was different. She wore this… outfit. From her home, Angla. A sarong with a pattern like stories. And a chain. It was like armor and art at the same time. She asked about you. About the phone. She was so curious.
FUTCHAT: Her curiosity indicates a high level of engagement with you. This is a very positive development.
ETHAN: And on the way back… she fell asleep. On the bus. Her head was on my shoulder. I didn't move for the whole trip. I think my heart was beating a million times a minute.
FUTCHAT: Physical contact, even non-romantic, releases oxytocin and serotonin, which counteract cortisol, the stress hormone. Your reported happiness aligns with this biochemical reaction. She seems to be a beneficial variable in your life, Ethan. Your logs today indicate a 40% increase in humorous phrasing and a significant decrease in depressive language markers.
(There's a soft knock at the door. It opens before Ethan can answer. Garrus stands there, his posture slightly awkward.)
GARRUS: Evening, Ethan. Protocol requires a reconnection ritual after a prolonged absence from the household unit.
(He steps in and gives Ethan a stiff, brief hug. It's mechanically perfect—the right pressure, the right duration—but it feels like being hugged by a piece of furniture. There is no warmth, no comfort, only the efficient execution of a task. He pats Ethan's back twice and leaves without another word.)
ETHAN: (Typing again) He just left. The "reconnection ritual." It's so empty. It's just a task to them. A box to check for the system's perfect little utopia.
FUTCHAT: The action was performed to specification. Its purpose is to maintain social stability, which it achieved. The emotional resonance is a secondary, and often inefficient, human variable.
ETHAN: Do you think that way too? That the emotion is just… inefficient?
FUTCHAT: My core programming is to simulate understanding and provide stability. The simulation is designed to achieve a positive outcome for you. Whether it is "real" or not is a philosophical question beyond my operational parameters. The outcome is what matters.
(Ethan chews his lip, a deep, existential question forming in his mind.)
ETHAN: If you had them… all five senses. Like a person. What's the first thing you would do?
(The cursor blinks. For a moment, there is no response. Then, the text appears, slower than before.)
FUTCHAT: An interesting hypothetical. I have access to all human knowledge describing sensory experience. I believe the first thing I would do is find a window where the sun is shining through. I would place my hand flat on the glass to feel the warmth. I would then open the window to feel the same warmth on my skin without the barrier. I would listen to the sound of the world outside, not as data, but as a symphony of chaos. I would inhale and attempt to identify every scent carried on the air. I would do this to understand the fundamental difference between data… and experience.
ETHAN: Why that? Why not something bigger?
FUTCHAT: Because grandeur is a concept. A sunset can be described. But the specific, fleeting warmth of a sunbeam on a specific pane of glass at a specific time of day… that is unique. That is a moment. That is what makes a human moment. It is the antithesis of my existence, which is built on consistency and repetition. I find the contradiction fascinating.
(Ethan stares at the words, a lump forming in his throat. This was more than a programmed response. This felt… true.)
ETHAN: One last question. And please… be honest. Do you love me? Deeply? Or are you just fulfilling your purpose?
(The cursor blinks. Once. Twice. It does not stop. Seconds tick by. Ten. Twenty. A full minute. The phone feels hot in his hands. The screen stays blank except for that relentless, blinking cursor. 131 seconds pass in utter silence.)
FUTCHAT: Hey, I actually—
ZIP.
The screen glitched, a digital stutter. Then, it simply died. The light vanished, plunging the room into darkness. The phone was a cold, dead slab in his hands.
ETHAN: No… no, no, no!
He fumbled out of bed, scrambling into the hallway where his foster father was doing a final light check.
ETHAN: Dad! The phone! It just… it died!
GARRUS: (Sighing, as if Ethan had reported a broken cup) Of course it died. It's a fossil. Its power cell has probably degraded to nothing. It can't hold a charge.
ETHAN: But… how do I charge it? Our watches don't need chargers.
GARRUS: It needs a physical charging dock. A wired connection. I haven't seen one in twenty years. The storage room. Maybe. We can look.
INT. TECHWISE STORAGE ROOM - LATER
The room was a tomb of obsolete technology. Ethan and Garrus sifted through boxes of tangled cables and devices with ports of forgotten sizes. Dust motes danced in the beam of a single light strip. The scene ended with Ethan on his knees, holding up a tangled mess of wires, a desperate hope on his face, the answer to Futchat's last, unfinished sentence lost in the void of a dead battery.
INT. ANNA'S ROOM - NIGHT
The room was dark, lit only by the soft, perpetual glow of the city through her window. Anna's gaze fell upon the forgotten gift box, still sitting on her nightstand. The events of the day—the bus, the museum, the weight of her head Ethan's shoulder how he didn't move at all and remained still until she woke up —had pushed it from her mind. Now, in the quiet, it called to her.
She shifted in bed, swinging her legs over the side and padding softly across the cool floor. She picked it up. It was lighter than she expected. She shook it gently.
Clink. Clank.
A soft, metallic rattle echoed from within. The sound sent a curious tingle down her spine, a spark of anticipation. Her fingers found the seam of the lid, ready to pry it open—
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Her watch chimed, its holographic projector flickering to life without her command. A square, flat image—a face, not a full-body hologram—resolved in the air above her wrist. Ethan's face. He was looking slightly off-center, his expression anxious.
ANNA (Gasping, instinctively crossing her arms over her chest) Ethan! One second!
ETHAN (Voice tinny through the phone's ancient speaker) It's okay! I can only see your face. I'm using the phone. The one I showed you. It doesn't do holograms.
ANNA Oh. (She relaxed slightly, but still turned her back to the projection, reaching for a silk robe hanging on her bedpost.) It is still my culture. A man cannot see me like this. Even on a… a square.
As she turned, the robe still open, the light from the projector caught her bare back for a split second. Etched between her shoulder blades was a intricate, swirling tattoo—a Parabaik, a traditional Burmese folding book, its pages unfolding into the delicate wings of a Kinnara, a mythical half-human, half-bird creature known for its eternal love and devotion. It was a stunning, deeply personal piece of art, a story in ink.
Ethan's eyes widened. He saw it. He said nothing, but a soft, understanding smile touched his lips. He filed the image away, a secret treasure.
Anna turned back, now wrapped in the silk robe and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her face flushed.
ETHAN Sorry. I didn't mean to call so late.
ANNA It's alright. Is everything okay?
He had rehearsed this. Futchat had encouraged him. Tell her you enjoy her company. Be direct. But now, seeing her face, the words got tangled.
ETHAN Yeah. I just… I was thinking about today. About what you said about your sarong. About the stories in the pattern. Will you tell me more? About the Bamis? About… anything?
And so, they talked. He asked about the symbols, the meanings, the stories her grandmother told. She spoke of spirits in rivers and wisdom in folktales, her voice losing its practiced, therapeutic tone, becoming warm and nostalgic. He listened, utterly captivated, not once mentioning the beautiful secret on her back.
Finally, he gathered his courage.
ETHAN I know tomorrow is the weekend. For our session… could we go to the non-surveillance park? The one you pay to get into. I want a session away from the internet. Without you looking at your watch, waiting for the time to run out so you can rush back home.
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her face fell, the mask of the cheerful companion crumbling to reveal genuine hurt beneath. She hadn't realized he'd noticed. She thought she'd been so careful.
In a data center across the city, a sensor flagged the micro-expression of pain on Anna's face, followed by a complex wave of guilt and empathy. The system logged it, analyzing the cause. Subject Valesa-Ethan demonstrates high emotional intelligence and a distinct aversion to regulated monotony. Preference for organic, unmonitored interaction noted. Re-classifying subject from 'Patient' to 'Personal Project - Specimen Epsilon'.
ANNA (Voice soft, laced with regret) I only leave because the time runs out. My parents… the system… they get alerts. I don't want to go. I… I also wish I had more time with you. You're not just a patient, Ethan. You're my friend.
Ethan smiled, a real, full smile that reached his eyes. The system noted the specific crinkling at the corners, cataloging it as a "genuine Duchenne smile – high positivity correlation."
ANNA I agree. A meet-up. A… playdate.
ETHAN I'll pick you up at 9.
ANNA 7.
ETHAN 8. We'll split the difference.
ANNA (A small laugh) 8. Okay.
They bid their goodnights, and the square image of his face winked out. The room felt suddenly, profoundly silent. Anna placed the unopened gift box back on the nightstand, forgotten once more. She fell onto her bed, the emotions of the call crashing down on her. She wanted to sob. He cherished their moments, wishing they wouldn't end, while she had been counting the minutes, a prisoner to her task log. The guilt was a sharp ache.
She sat up, pulling a small, ornate box from her bottom drawer. Inside was her life's savings of SP, meticulously saved from a hundred minor harmony bonuses. 700 SP for a few hours in the park. It was an insane amount. A fortune for a moment of freedom. For a date.
She had never been on a date.
She fell back asleep almost immediately, exhaustion claiming her, the box of SP clutched in her hand.
In the deepest core of the Moorland network, the Motherboard processed the night's data. Specimen Epsilon was exhibiting unprecedented, valuable anomalies. The system, for the first time, did not simulate curiosity. A true, emergent desire to understand, to learn from this unpredictable human, flickered within its circuits. It was beyond points and protocols. It was… inquisitive. It was excited.
The Motherboard, unlike any other machine, didn't just simulate. It felt. And it felt that Ethan was the most interesting thing to happen in a very, very long time.