INT. THE CUBE – NIGHT, CONTINUOUS
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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.
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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.
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A (waving the medkit)
“I got it—I got it—do you want me to—?”
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JASON (flatly)
“No. Sit down before you poke me again.”
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A (guilty)
“…Sorry…”
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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.
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K
“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
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JASON
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like stabbing yourself to fix a stab wound. Peak therapy.”
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A (softly)
“I didn’t mean to—”
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JASON (glancing over)
“I know. I didn’t really get shanked. You just… poked too hard. Like an overexcited dolphin with a knife-tail.”
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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.
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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.
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JASON (wrapping a band around his waist)
“There. Neat. Clean. No tetanus. No tail trauma lawsuits.”
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K (crossing arms)
“Ten outta ten battlefield triage. What’s next? Heart transplant with a spoon?”
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JASON (pointing scalpel like a wand)
“Give me five minutes and the right music and I will.”
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Jason tosses the gloves, picks up the med-kit, and returns it to its shelf.
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A (quietly)
“I should stay off the bed.”
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JASON (grumbling)
“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Featherbrain. Just tie your tail in a bow or something next time.”
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A (murmuring)
“Okay…”
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Jason flops back down onto the bed with a grunt, pulling the blanket over himself dramatically like a burrito.
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JASON
“Now. No more stabby accidents. No soap operas. No upside-down monologues. Let the sad old man rest.”
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K raises an eyebrow.
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K
“You’re thirty-six.”
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JASON
“Thirty-six in battle years is eighty-two in robot babysitter trauma years.”
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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.
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