Robotic Essences - SCENE 50 – “Afternoon Idleness”

INT. JASON’S CUBE – MID‑AFTERNOON

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Faded sunlight drips through the blinds. The room is mostly quiet except for SD‑K, now reclining in Jason’s rickety chair, idly flipping Jason’s battered copy of Twilight back and forth like a confused critic.

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SD‑K

“…She describes his marble skin every paragraph. Why. Why is that necessary?”

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Across the room, a blanket burrito stirs. SD‑A’s visor flickers to life, the trench coat still wrapped snugly around him. He sits up, optics hazy.

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SD‑A

“Whuh… morning?”

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SD‑K (flat)

“Afternoon. You power‑napped through half a solar rotation.”

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SD‑A (stretching)

“Ah. Calibration complete.”

(he notices K’s new outfit, blinks)

“Nice jacket. When did you join a biker gang?”

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SD‑K

“Just enhancing my aura of menace. Jason’s closet is a museum of questionable taste.”

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He gestures to the book.

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SD‑K

“For instance, this literary horror.”

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SD‑A

“Ooo, romance! Can I read?”

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SD‑K

“I doubt your innocence will survive page three.”

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SD‑A stands, slips the trench coat on properly—sleeves too long, hem dragging—and wanders the room, taking in the aftermath of K’s “research.”

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SD‑A

“You cleaned? Or… looted?”

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SD‑K

“Both. I acquired a modest stipend.”

(jingles cred‑cores in his pocket)

“Consider it hazard pay.”

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SD‑A

“Jason’s gonna notice.”

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SD‑K

“I’ll blame capitalism.”

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There’s a clatter as SD‑A trips over a stray box of cigarettes.

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SD‑A

“He quit, huh?”

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SD‑K

“Quit buying them? Clearly not.”

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SD‑A picks up one unopened pack, tilts his head.

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SD‑A

“What do they taste like?”

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SD‑K

“Regret and burnt wire.”

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SD‑A sets it down quickly.

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SD‑A

“Pass.”

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He shuffles to the desk, pokes Jason’s weird spoon‑king sculpture.

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SD‑A

“Is this art or an offering?”

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SD‑K

“Both. Worship at your own risk.”

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SD‑A smiles, sits at the terminal chair.

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SD‑A

“What do we do until Jason’s back?”

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SD‑K (shrugs)

“I tried reading, dismantling the toaster, counting ceiling cracks… I’m open to suggestions.”

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SD‑A

“Cartoons?”

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SD‑K

“Only if they involve explosions.”

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SD‑A (types, pulls up an old animated series: two robots fighting crime with slapstick rocket punches)

“Explosions guaranteed.”

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The screen plays muted booms and bright flashes. SD‑K stands behind, arms folded but clearly watching.

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SD‑K

“…Acceptable.”

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They settle—A perched in the chair, coat puddling around him; K leaning against the wall, jacket collar up. For a moment the cube feels almost… homey.

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SD‑A

“Think Jason’s okay?”

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SD‑K

“He’s babysitting cadets. I give him ten minutes before existential crisis, but he’ll live.”

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SD‑A

“Good.”

(smiles at the screen)

“I like this… routine.”

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SD‑K (after a beat)

“Routine. Huh.”

(softly—almost admitting)

“Could get used to it.”

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They watch in companionable silence as a cartoon rocket explodes into Technicolor gears.

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