EXT. CENTRAL CITY – BACK ALLEY CAFE – LATER THAT MORNING
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[The trio—Jason, SD-A, and SD-K—approach a small, tucked-away shop pressed between a repair garage and a wall painted with obsolete Vision Tech advertisements. The flickering neon sign reads: “CRANK’S. Coffee for Circuits.”]
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[The storefront is modest—built from reassembled shipping crates and old vending machine panels. A few bots sit at scratched metal tables, sipping steaming mugs of oil, quietly chatting or staring blankly into the void like good, tired citizens.]
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JASON (quietly, to A and K)
“Alright, ground rules: No weapons, no talking about killing, no talking about being killed, and for the love of scrap, don’t compliment Crank’s mustache. It’s not real, and he’s very sensitive.”
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SD-K
“…Got it. Don’t lie to the unstable facial hair guy.”
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SD-A (nodding solemnly)
“Understood.”
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[Jason pushes the door open with a ding. The warm scent of burning circuits and cinnamon grease hits them immediately.]
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INT. CRANK’S CAFE – CONTINUOUS
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[Crank—an old, rusted Labor bot with a portly chassis, apron stained with oil splashes, and a very fake magnetic chrome mustache—perks up from behind the counter.]
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CRANK
“Jason Gearman! Look who dragged their dusty servo in. Finally got tired of vending machine sludge?”
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JASON
“Don’t push your luck, Crank. That sludge saved my life during a shootout.”
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CRANK (pouring a mug anyway)
“Yeah, and clogged half your fuel pump doing it. Sit. I’ll make the usual.”
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[Jason gestures subtly for A and K to sit at a table in the corner, out of the spotlight. They obey like suspiciously obedient tourists.]
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CRANK (eyeing them)
“New friends? They don’t talk much.”
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JASON (shrugs)
“Tourists. Bit shy. You know how it is—first time in Central.”
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CRANK (leans over the counter, stage-whispers)
“They from H.A.H.? One of them's got that ‘molten wasteland trauma’ posture.”
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JASON (deadpan)
“Molten wasteland posture is trending now.”
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CRANK
“Fair. You want ‘em fed or just caffeinated?”
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JASON
“Let’s do two passive-burner brews and a stack of those hydraulic pancakes.”
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[Crank grunts and gets to work, his arms shifting like kitchen tools from some horror cooking show.]
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[Over at the table—A is staring at a menu labeled “Fluid Fusion Combos,” while K is scanning every inch of the cafe like a suspicious raccoon in disguise.]
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SD-K (quietly to A)
“Every second we sit here, we risk exposure.”
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SD-A (softly)
“Yes, but also—look at this place. It’s... quaint. I like the lights.”
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SD-K
“You like the lights. Great. When they’re dragging us out for dissection, I’ll make sure to tell them you enjoyed the ambiance.”
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[Jason returns and sits down across from them. Crank soon follows, balancing a tray of sloshing mugs and synthetic cakes.]
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CRANK (dropping it all down)
“There. Fresh from the corrosion fryer. You bots enjoy now—don’t melt my chairs.”
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[He walks off, muttering something about tax fraud and whipped oil.]
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JASON
“See? Smooth. We eat, we leave, nobody dies.”
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SD-K (picking up a mug and staring at the contents like it's poison)
“What is this?”
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JASON
“House blend. Oil, copper dust, and caffeine. It'll either wake you up or reboot your entire operating system.”
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SD-A (tasting)
“…Pleasantly bitter. Like regret, in liquid form.”
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JASON (grinning)
“Exactly. That’s how you know it’s real.”
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[The three of them eat quietly, blending in just enough. A few customers glance over, but Jason's body language says "don’t mess with this table" in all caps. A sense of almost-normal settles over the scene. Almost.]
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[Outside the cafe, in the alley across the street, a faint flicker—like static electricity snapping in the air.]
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[Something unseen... watching.]
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