INT. JASON’S CUBE – MID‑MORNING
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SD‑K sits brooding in the corner chair, legs crossed, when the closet door—ajar after his “research”—draws his eye. Inside is a cramped tangle of clothing Jason has clearly forgotten exists.
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SD‑K
(squinting at the chaos)
“What other tragedies are you hiding, Gearman?”
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He stands, tugs the jammed door wide, and starts flipping through hangers. Dust puffs out like ancient secrets.
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Leather Jacket – black, scuffed, with a faded patch that once read “SECURITY SOCIAL CLUB.”
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Gray Tank Top – plain, a bit thread‑bare.
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Black Cargo Pants – pockets everywhere, one knee patched with duct tape.
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K holds the set in front of himself, tilts his head.
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SD‑K
“Vintage apocalypse chic. Fits my aesthetic of perpetual disappointment.”
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He strips off his poncho disguise, slips into the clothes. The jacket molds to his frame like it remembers combat. He checks a cracked mirror: satisfied.
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SD‑K
“Much better. At least if I die here I’ll die on‑brand.”
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Rummaging deeper, he yanks out a rumpled brown trench coat—dusty but intact.
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SD‑K
“And what are you? A walking cliché?”
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He glances at the bed where SD‑A is still cocooned, blanket half over his visor.
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SD‑K
“Perfect.”
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He strides over and flops the trench coat onto A’s back. It lands like a tarp over a log.
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SD‑A (muffled, not opening his eyes)
“Mmrf... warm…”
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He hugs the coat, snuggles deeper into the mattress. K shakes his head.
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SD‑K
“There. Dressed for success—and unconscious. Ideal state.”
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Returning to the closet, he surveys the remaining items:
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A neon‑pink feather boa.
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A set of mismatched roller skates.
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A T‑shirt that says “I Survived the ITA Mining Tour ’72.”
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A sequined top hat.
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SD‑K
“Jason collects garbage with commitment. I almost respect it.”
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He shuts the door, now wearing his leather jacket, gray tank, and cargo pants—his new everyday gear. A, half‑buried under the brown trench coat, emits a tiny happy buzz.
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K sits again, arms folded, boots on the table, eyes on the door.
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SD‑K
“Alright, Security boy. Come home and explain the spoon idol, the cigarettes, and why your wardrobe looks like a pre‑war thrift bin. Until then—this jacket’s mine.”
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He leans back, faint hum of the city outside, waiting.
ns216.73.217.1da2
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