INT. BRASSO’S BLACK MARKET SHOP – CENTRAL CITY – NIGHT
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[We pick up right where we left off. Brasso’s place is packed with questionable goods: replacement memory drives, eyeball scanners, questionable coolant "energy drinks," and—yes—a suspicious number of Vision Tech coffee mugs.]
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[Jason stands in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed. His right hand hums softly, like it’s bored.]
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BRASSO (LABOR BOT)
(grinning)
“You sure you don’t wanna trade that arm, Gearman? I got bots lining up for pre-war tech like that.”
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JASON
(not looking at him)
“My arm has better social skills than you. And it doesn’t smell like engine grease.”
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[Brasso chuckles, walking behind the counter. Jason’s right hand twitches—then clicks. Plates shift, whirring. The hand transforms into a compact scanning module with a faint blue glow, automatically scanning the room.]
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JASON
(to the arm)
“Cut it out. I don’t need a tactical readout on Brasso’s underwear drawer.”
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[The module retracts—then snaps into a short blade form for a moment before returning to its standard hand.]
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BRASSO
“That thing always twitchy, or is it just excited to see me?”
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JASON
“Only twitchy when someone’s lying.”
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[A beat. Brasso freezes.]
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[Before he can respond—BOOM! The building shakes. A blast rips through the back wall. Brasso hits the floor. Jason’s arm transforms mid-motion—fingers collapsing inward as a short-barrel railgun emerges from his wrist.]
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[The HUD in his vision locks onto two incoming bots—heavily modified Labor units, clearly mob muscle. Painted black, eyes glowing red. Not here for conversation.]
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JASON
(grinning)
“Finally. A therapy session I actually like.”
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[He fires—a sharp, electric crack. One bot’s head explodes in a shower of sparks. The other lunges at him with a jagged blade arm.]
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[Jason ducks. His arm morphs again—this time into a whip-like chain of segmented razors. He spins, catches the bot mid-air, and slams it into the ceiling, then the floor. Hard.]
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[The bot twitches, trying to stand. Jason’s arm resets into an axe. He ends it.]
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[Silence. Brasso peeks out from behind the counter.]
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BRASSO
“…You could’ve gone easy, y’know.”
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JASON
(wiping oil from his face)
“They started it.”
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[He walks toward the blast hole, his arm folding back into its sleek normal form—just another limb again.]
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BRASSO
(still nervous)
“Who were they?”
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JASON
“Black market muscle, maybe. But this wasn’t random.”
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[He kneels, inspecting the remains of one bot—finds a tiny embedded chip behind the neck port. Stamped with a barely-visible red triangle.]
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JASON
“…Vision Tech. Again.”
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[He pockets the chip, standing.]
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JASON
(muttering)
“What the hell’s going on down here?”
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[From outside the ruined wall, another sound—metal scraping. Not from a bot trying to enter. From something being dragged away. Jason’s optics narrow.]
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[He steps outside into the night—ready.]
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