INT. THE CUBE – NIGHT, CONTINUOUS
80Please respect copyright.PENANAorgqSZC5Xt
A rushes in with the medkit, panic still etched all over his face. K lowers himself halfway down from the ceiling, like a curious bat with a front-row seat to the drama.
80Please respect copyright.PENANADfcJ0E0WwB
Jason’s already off the bed, shirt lifted halfway, inspecting the small—but very stingy—stab wound at his right waist in the mirror. The red-light of warning from the internal damage sensor on his side pulses faintly.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAcDadFacDnc
A (waving the medkit)
“I got it—I got it—do you want me to—?”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAqZE5rFiykC
JASON (flatly)
“No. Sit down before you poke me again.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA7brdL1974v
A (guilty)
“…Sorry…”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAgRUs2ObZOQ
Jason opens the kit and, with the precision of a man who’s done this way too often, he begins. Latex gloves snap onto his hands. He picks the antiseptic, wipes the area clean, then grabs a scalpel—checking the angle for depth of damage.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAjatfF9NKFB
K
“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA4qPUKsgXqF
JASON
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like stabbing yourself to fix a stab wound. Peak therapy.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAHSgqjnumhN
A (softly)
“I didn’t mean to—”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAYdK5ILNGlU
JASON (glancing over)
“I know. I didn’t really get shanked. You just… poked too hard. Like an overexcited dolphin with a knife-tail.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA1flLKgqnpY
A slinks onto the bed, tail drooping low in a clear arc of regret. K drops down to the floor silently, still watching as Jason carefully pulls a tiny piece of broken fiber from beneath the surface and drops it into the waste tray with a ping.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAcPTJdXjmT4
Jason then picks up a thread injector, presses it to the wound, and triggers two quick bio-sutures. He lets out a breath through his nose—done.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAmeChUCNlAN
JASON (wrapping a band around his waist)
“There. Neat. Clean. No tetanus. No tail trauma lawsuits.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAnlhK5sMZ2Z
K (crossing arms)
“Ten outta ten battlefield triage. What’s next? Heart transplant with a spoon?”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAoiiHGtZQKR
JASON (pointing scalpel like a wand)
“Give me five minutes and the right music and I will.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAIaEhiYEguY
Jason tosses the gloves, picks up the med-kit, and returns it to its shelf.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAauiVXuY8RY
A (quietly)
“I should stay off the bed.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA3cHD4AH4By
JASON (grumbling)
“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Featherbrain. Just tie your tail in a bow or something next time.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA9ByeGEEqaU
A (murmuring)
“Okay…”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAxZ5yPQ9uBr
Jason flops back down onto the bed with a grunt, pulling the blanket over himself dramatically like a burrito.
80Please respect copyright.PENANA2Mt1fDsEO8
JASON
“Now. No more stabby accidents. No soap operas. No upside-down monologues. Let the sad old man rest.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAIUwpbND8gb
K raises an eyebrow.
80Please respect copyright.PENANAnMxSZFyaft
K
“You’re thirty-six.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANAAZNjg3raqP
JASON
“Thirty-six in battle years is eighty-two in robot babysitter trauma years.”
80Please respect copyright.PENANA8avRRVm6X5
The lights dim as A quietly climbs into the blanket, tail now looped around his waist and kept far from Jason’s vital organs. K returns to the ceiling. Quiet settles in again—this time with just the soft sound of metal breathing.
ns216.73.217.1da2