INT. THE CUBE – NIGHT, CONTINUOUS
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtamYDd7GaK
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.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVOIzgbZ8Uc
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.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6C3x2wZKpI
A (waving the medkit)
“I got it—I got it—do you want me to—?”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOo4gn7Qb0Y
JASON (flatly)
“No. Sit down before you poke me again.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZnhBfsHR4z
A (guilty)
“…Sorry…”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZFFRrufBEu
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.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv76Bc96sBP
K
“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC5ZnLWMIAs
JASON
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like stabbing yourself to fix a stab wound. Peak therapy.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡclzk3FNhnX
A (softly)
“I didn’t mean to—”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡykuCxFedow
JASON (glancing over)
“I know. I didn’t really get shanked. You just… poked too hard. Like an overexcited dolphin with a knife-tail.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9QFkmMQUjQ
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.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPqciSjhU8J
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.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgjrpj3jd9C
JASON (wrapping a band around his waist)
“There. Neat. Clean. No tetanus. No tail trauma lawsuits.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvx8tBB0fkK
K (crossing arms)
“Ten outta ten battlefield triage. What’s next? Heart transplant with a spoon?”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTeai0SnnVG
JASON (pointing scalpel like a wand)
“Give me five minutes and the right music and I will.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz8HhROP9S7
Jason tosses the gloves, picks up the med-kit, and returns it to its shelf.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMkl81FVfmg
A (quietly)
“I should stay off the bed.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsQM8acM5bG
JASON (grumbling)
“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Featherbrain. Just tie your tail in a bow or something next time.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfFVsO431WZ
A (murmuring)
“Okay…”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrUNR0AFhWR
Jason flops back down onto the bed with a grunt, pulling the blanket over himself dramatically like a burrito.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7TdLa6z2fs
JASON
“Now. No more stabby accidents. No soap operas. No upside-down monologues. Let the sad old man rest.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQPHUjXXREi
K raises an eyebrow.
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuZXPBknK68
K
“You’re thirty-six.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiRmum2mB3Z
JASON
“Thirty-six in battle years is eighty-two in robot babysitter trauma years.”
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvUoE8AEgYY
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.
ns216.73.216.89da2
and then Add to home screen.