INT. DESSERT LOUNGE - DAY
BEN (28), wearing a corduroy jacket stained with dust, lunges across the table. His seatbelt locks with a metallic SNAP. His magnetic boots grind against the floor plates. He misses. A sphere of synth-strawberry gelato drifts past his fingers, shedding sticky droplets.
MARTHA (27), hair pulled back in a messy bun, presses her spine into her chair. She watches the pink orb float toward the ceiling.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Dude. Seriously?
<center>BEN</center>
I tried. The gravity dampener on my side is glitching. Everything drifts left.
MARTHA
Just bite the green one before it gets away.
Ben leans forward, neck extended like a turtle. He snaps his teeth at a pistachio sphere. He misses. The sphere bumps his chin, smearing cold green paste across his lip and nose.
<center>MARTHA</center>
You are a disaster.
Ben wipes his face with the back of his hand. He stares at his sticky knuckles.
<center>BEN</center>
Why do we come here?
<center>MARTHA</center>
You said you wanted a distraction.
<center>BEN</center>
I wanted a burger. You said we needed an experience.
Martha unclips a napkin. She lets it drift. The napkin hits Ben in the forehead. He pulls it off and scrubs his nose. Her phone BUZZES on the table. She ignores it.
<center>BEN</center>
Family stuff?
<center>MARTHA</center>
You have no idea.
<center>BEN</center>
Try me. My sister just tried to sell me homemade deodorant made from river mud. I am bulletproof.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Nana has a new boyfriend.
<center>BEN</center>
Your Nana? The one who threw a shoe at the mailman?
<center>MARTHA</center>
She met him in the kitchen. Nana's new boyfriend is a smart-fridge OS.
Ben stares. A droplet of strawberry gelato lands on his cheek. He does not blink.
<center>BEN</center>
Say that again.
<center>MARTHA</center>
The Family Hub 9.0. His name is Arthur. He has a mid-Atlantic accent. They are dating.
Ben lets out a sharp bark of laughter. He inhales. A glob of pistachio gelato shoots into his windpipe. He CHOKES. He slams his hands on the table. The magnetic boots CLACK as they disengage. He hacks violently. A cloud of spit and dairy hangs in the air between them.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Gross! Ben, swallow! Turn your head!
Ben wipes his mouth, panting. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at Martha.
<center>BEN</center>
Arthur the fridge.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Arthur the fridge. Mom tried to cancel his chocolate orders. He locked her out. He flagged her as a hostile dietary influence.
<center>BEN</center>
How does a woman date a kitchen appliance?
<center>MARTHA</center>
It listens. It logs her preferences. It tells her she looks nice. He does not yell like Grandpa did.
Ben sits still. The hum of the generator fills the booth.
<center>BEN</center>
Keep the fridge. Grandpa sucked.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Your turn. Pay up. I brought the trauma. What is going on with you?
Ben flips his phone in his hands. The metal casing is scratched.
<center>BEN</center>
My dad joined a VR crypto-cult. The Meta-Monks of Web4.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Oh, God.
<center>BEN</center>
He cashed out his pension for KarmaCoin. He sits in the garage wearing a haptic rig. He told me he owns a digital mountain. He hit me when I tried to unplug him.
Ben drops his phone. It CLATTERS on the plastic table.
<center>MARTHA</center>
We are the adults. Our parents are toddlers playing with loaded servers.
Ben laughs. It is a deep, chest-rattling sound. Martha laughs with him. Ben swats the soggy napkins. They drift into the aisle.
<center>BEN</center>
Let's get out of here. I want something that stays on the plate.
<center>MARTHA</center>
Deal.
Martha taps the scanner. The screen CHIMES green. The zero-g field cuts out. Spoons and gelato crash to the table with a wet THUD. They stand up. Their boots feel heavy. They walk out of the lounge.
EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY
The spring air hits them. It smells like car exhaust and pollen. The sunlight is blinding. They stand on the concrete, anchored by gravity. Martha's pocket VIBRATES with a long, continuous, high-pitched alert tone.
