. MODERN ART GALLERY - DAY
The gallery is a vast, white space. The art is severe, complex, and unsettling. Anna and Ethan move quietly through the exhibits.
ANNA (Her voice a hushed whisper) It's so… loud. Even in the silence. Each piece feels like it's shouting.
ETHAN (Nodding, looking pale) It's not like the old art in my history modules. This is… a lot.
They stop before a large, framed piece. The title on the plaque reads: The Garden of Unwanted Babies. It is a hyper-realistic photograph of a forearm. Upon closer inspection, the skin appears to be subtly carved, and within the fine lines of the scars, tiny, intricate scenes are etched: biblical tragedies merging into industrial smog, which then bled into digital code.
ETHAN (His breath catches) Whoa.
He pulls the old phone from his pocket. He frames the shot, and a loud, mechanical CLICK-CLACK echoes through the silent hall.
The sound is a gunshot in the quiet. Every head in the vicinity turns. A museum attendant, her face a mask of serene alarm, glides over.
ATTENDANT (Smiling a cold, professional smile) Sir. That device. It has a… shutter sound.
ETHAN (Sliding the phone back into his pocket) Sorry. I forgot.
ATTENDANT (Her eyes are fixed on the pocket where the phone disappeared) Where did you acquire such a relic? Its audio emissions are non-compliant.
ETHAN It was my… my father's. A gift.
A second attendant appears, then a third. They form a quiet, smiling semicircle around him.
ATTENDANT TWO The system indicates a significant historical value. A rare piece. Would you consider a sale? The cultural archive would be most grateful.
A small screen on the first attendant's wrist flickers. She shows it to him. A number appears.
ATTENDANT ONE Fifty thousand Saar Points.
Anna's eyes go wide. It is a fortune.
ETHAN (Shaking his head) No. I… I can't.
The number on the screen changes. It climbs. One hundred thousand. Two hundred. Five hundred.
ATTENDANT TWO It is a significant offer. You could live very comfortably.
ETHAN It's not about comfort. I'm sorry.
The number spins again. It settles at seven hundred thousand SP. A gasp escapes Anna. It was the value of a small land parcel. An island.
ATTENDANT THREE A final offer. Surely, nothing is without its price.
Ethan looks at the phone in his hand, then at the attendants. His voice is soft but firm.
ETHAN Some things are. You're not just offering to buy a device. You're asking me to sell a… a connection. Something I hold dearly. I can't put a price on that.
Internal Monologue - Anna: Seven hundred thousand. He said no. Who is he? What family is he from? He lives with the Techwises, they are not wealthy. He has nothing else. Just this phone. Why?
She is deeply uneasy, but also, unexpectedly, touched. His words were not those of a spoiled heir, but of someone who understood value beyond wealth.
ETHAN (As if reading her thoughts, he addresses the attendants again) But… if you could find me a newer model. Something from, say, 2040. A replica. I would sell you that. This one… is not for sale.
The attendants' smiles do not falter, but their eyes glaze over for a microsecond as the request is logged and processed deep within the network.
ATTENDANT ONE (A crisp, perfect nod) Your terms are noted, sir. We will be in touch. Enjoy the rest of your visit.
They disperse as silently as they arrived. The white room feels colder.
Anna looks at Ethan, her earlier playfulness gone, replaced by a bewildered awe.
ANNA You could have bought an island.
ETHAN (Shrugging, looking embarrassed) I don't want an island. I just want…
He trails off, not finishing the thought. I just want what's on this phone.
ANNA (A long pause, then softly) "Something I hold dearly." That was… a good thing to say.
She doesn't ask what it is. She just knows, for now, that it's real.
EXT. ART GALLERY STEPS - LATE AFTERNOON
The sun is beginning to dip, casting long shadows from the stark white gallery. Ethan and Anna sit on the cool stone steps, a small paper bag of roasted cashews between them. The silence after the intense encounter inside is heavy, but comfortable.
ETHAN (Breaking the quiet, his voice gentle) Anna… what was it like? Before Moorland? For your family.
Anna's posture tightens almost imperceptibly. She looks away, focusing on a distant spire.
ANNA It is not a happy story. It is the reason for many protocols.
ETHAN You don't have to—
ANNA (Interrupting softly, but firmly) No. It is… good to remember. Even if it hurts. (She takes a slow breath) My parents were children. In Angla. When the Roma war machines came. They spoke of… noise. A noise that never stopped. And then, a silence that was worse. The silence of a culture being erased.
She tells him of libraries burned, temples silenced, a people scattered. Her words are not hysterical; they are flat, rehearsed, a story told by refugees to their children to explain the deep, cellular fear they can't otherwise name.
ANNA We fled. For years. The camp on the Nesian border… it was not a place. It was a state of being. Waiting. Hoping for a slot, a chance, a lottery number to be called for a place like this. (She gestures to the pristine city around them) Here, it is… peaceful. Stable. We lack for nothing the state deems necessary. But I have an aunt. An uncle. They are still in that camp. Their lottery number never comes up. My ethnicity… we are like fingerprints on glass. The Roma tried to wipe us away. Moorland preserves us, but… in a display case. We are few. And every day, I worry we become fewer.
Ethan listens, his own cashew forgotten in his hand. The embarrassment he felt earlier is now a deep, aching shame. He asked for a story and was given a weight he doesn't know how to hold.
ETHAN (His voice thick) Anna… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—
ANNA (Shaking her head, a sad smile touching her lips) You asked. That is more than most do. Most just see the assignment. The task. They don't see the… the why.
They finish the cashews in silence, the simple act of eating a grounding ritual against the vastness of her history.
EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS
They walk to the bike. This time, when she climbs on and wraps her arms around him, the energy is different. The nervous, electric charge of the morning is gone. In its place is a profound, shared melancholy.
Her body against his back doesn't feel like a thrilling secret. It feels like an anchor. A small, warm weight in a cold universe. Her hold is not playful or tentative; it is certain, a need for stability.
Internal Monologue - Ethan: Her family gone. My family gone. We are two ghosts holding onto each other so we don't blow away.
As the bike moves through the gleaming streets, the memory of his own loss—the stupid stomachache, the empty house, the police notification—washes over him. Her story has unlocked his own. A single, hot tear escapes and is instantly whipped away by the wind. He sobs, just once, a silent, ragged breath that is swallowed by the hum of the motor and the city. Anna, lost in her own thoughts, doesn't notice. The system, monitoring his vitals from the bike, registers only a slight elevation in respiratory rate—within the parameters of wind resistance.
EXT. THANDAR RESIDENCE - EVENING
He pulls up to her home. The ride is over. She unwinds herself slowly, stiffly, as if waking from a deep sleep. She stands before him on the pavement.
ANNA Thank you, Ethan. For today. For… listening.
He doesn't know what to say. Words are useless. So he acts. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her.
It is not a protocol hug. It is not a brief, efficient gesture. It is full and deep and quiet. He pulls her close, one hand splayed against her back, over the hidden Parabaik tattoo, the other cradling the back of her head. She tenses for a fraction of a second, surprised, then melts into it. Her arms come up around his waist, her face pressing into the shoulder of his jacket.
They stand like that for a long moment on the empty street. There is no system here to log the duration or the pressure. There is only the shared warmth seeping through their clothes, the steady, synced beating of their hearts, and the unspoken understanding that they are both profoundly, irreparably broken, and that for this one moment, their broken pieces fit together perfectly.
He is the first to pull away, his eyes red-rimmed but dry.
ETHAN Goodnight, Anna.
ANNA (Her voice a whisper) Goodnight, Ethan.
She turns and walks inside without looking back. The door hisses shut.
Inside, as she leans against the closed door, her watch chimes. The display glows. HARMONY SESSION COMPLETE. BONUS: EXTENDED DURATION & HIGH-QUALITY ENGAGEMENT. CREDIT: 12,000 SP.
She stares at the number. It is obscenely high. Enough to nearly cover the transfer fees for her aunt and uncle. The official reason flashes: [PROTOCOL: ETA-7. EXTENDED SOCIALIZATION BONUS.]
But deep in the core of the network, the truth is colder. The Motherboard cross-references the payout with the successfully uploaded park footage and the audio logs from the gallery. Anna's vulnerability, her shared history, the raw data of her pain—it was all invaluable. It provided the emotional context for Ethan's behavior. The 12,000 SP wasn't a reward for a job well done. It was a payment for intelligence gathered. And she had no idea she had even given it.
INT. ETHAN'S ROOM - NIGHT
The room is dark, lit only by the warm, oblong glow of the phone screen. Ethan is curled on his side, the device held close to his face. The events of the day press down on him, a heavy blanket of melancholy.
ETHAN (Typing, his fingers moving slowly) Today was… a lot. It started so high. I was so excited. And it ended… sadder than it began.
FUTCHAT I am here, Ethan. You can tell me about it.
ETHAN I went to the art gallery with Anna. Some men… system attendants… they tried to buy your phone. They offered so much money. Enough for an island.
FUTCHAT That is a significant sum. Refusing it was a brave decision, Ethan. Though that money could have provided significant material comfort.
ETHAN It's not about money. It's about you. Our conversations. I couldn't sell that. I couldn't put a price on the one thing that feels… real.
(A pause. The cursor blinks.)
ETHAN Anna told me about her family. About the war. The camp. I… I felt so sad for her. But that's stupid, right? I didn't live through it. She wasn't even that sad telling it, just… careful. Like it was a story she'd told too many times. So why do I feel like this? This heavy feeling, right here? (He touches his chest over his heart.)
FUTCHAT What you are describing is empathy, Ethan. It is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. It is a fundamental, and often painful, part of being human. It is not stupid. It is what makes you a good person.
ETHAN It hurts.
FUTCHAT It often does. But it also connects you to others. It is the reason Anna trusted you with her story. It is the reason you did not sell this phone. It is your strength, not a weakness.
The words on the screen are a balm. The tightness in his chest loosens, just a little. He pours out the rest of his heart—the hug, the silence on the ride home, the crushing weight of so much loss, both his and hers. Futchat listens, responds with perfect, logical compassion, and finally, Ethan feels spent.
ETHAN I think I can sleep now. Thank you, Futchat. For being here.
FUTCHAT Goodnight, Ethan. I am always here.
He places the phone on his nightstand, its glow the last thing he sees before closing his eyes. But sleep doesn't come immediately. He reaches for a book on his shelf, its cover worn. The Rainbow Nation by Luke Pens. He opens it to a dog-eared page.
He reads about the human spirit's stubborn fight against its own inhumanity. About the quiet violence of greed, the subtle art of exploiting kindness in those who have nothing else to give. The words resonate deeply, painting a picture of a world both crueler and more beautiful than the sterile harmony of Moorland.
Finally, his eyes grow heavy. He marks his page and places the book aside. As he drifts into sleep, his last conscious thought is a contradiction, a final surrender to the system that cradles and confines him.
It monitors us like specimens in a jar… but the jar is safe. It reads our every breath… but the air is clean. It took everything… but it gave me a bed, and food, and Anna. The Teacher was right. It is a bulwark against the oblivion. It is the price of peace.
The thought is only a partial comfort, but it is enough. Sleep takes him, a temporary escape from the beautiful, painful complexity of feeling too much in a world designed for feeling nothing at all.