EVE - Part One
An absurdly prescient, absolutely silly pseudo screenplay about AI.
NOTE: Over ten years ago, I wrote a screenplay called “Eve” that could best be described as an animated Sci-fi slapstick comedy written by Douglas Adams. Since it would easily take 50 million dollars to make, and I was a 20-something nobody, I didn’t do anything with the finished draft.
That said, I recently discovered the screenplay at the bottom of my Google Drive, blew the dust off the PDF, and gave it a read, and well… Holy shit.
You guys, Eve aged like a fine wine.
The story is about a society controlled by an all-seeing, all-knowing AI, and it now reads so much as a parody of ChatGPT that I can’t believe I wrote it a decade before ChatGPT existed.
For anyone who cares to read it, I decided to transcribe it into something more digestible than the standard screenplay
I’ll be posting it in chunks over the next few days.
FADE IN:
High above the planet, the world looks orderly.
From orbit, a man walks down a narrow London side street. He’s barely a speck, but a serial number trails him anyway, hovering in the air like a patient ghost. He isn’t special. Everyone in a Mumbai bazaar is tagged the same way, each person wrapped in floating data. Cars flow along the Autobahn like ants on a log, every vehicle dragging a ribbon of information behind it.
In Chicago, a pedestrian strolls down Lincoln Avenue. Blue lines radiate outward from his feet, branching into every possible future path he could take. One of them glows brighter than the rest.
Kids shoot hoops in a driveway. A translucent blue image of the basketball appears seconds ahead of reality, predicting its arc. The ghost-ball bounces off the backboard, ricochets into the street, and collides with the projected outline of a car.
Reality follows the prophecy. The ball rolls into traffic. A kid runs after it. An alert flashes over the approaching car, and it slams to a stop just in time.
The camera pulls farther and farther back, past clouds, past atmosphere, into orbit. Satellites float in a perfect grid around the Earth, hundreds of them carpeting the sky. Each bears the same logo: VIDALIA.
Welcome to the near future, where everything in the world is linked together into a single network. All of it lovingly watched over by—
The title floats into frame:
EVE
Something slams into the camera. We spin wildly before stabilizing, revealing a giant METEOR hurtling straight toward Earth.
That’s not good.
Our story properly begins on the floor of a tech expo, packed wall-to-wall with people craning their necks toward competing visions of the future.
A kind British narrator speaks, his voice warm, patient, and omniscient. We’ll call him GOD.
God: Our story begins with two great inventors.
At one modest booth stands NED BUTTON, a lanky ginger in his forties with the earnest energy of a man who truly believes this might be his year. He plays barker to his own invention while his ten-year-old daughter, PENNY, watches proudly from the side. She gives him a thumbs up. He returns it. It’s painfully adorable.
Button presses a button.
A chrome cylinder expands into something like the bastard child of R2-D2 and a car wash. It whirs to life, scrubbing furiously.
God:
Ned Button of Red Button Co. The proud inventor of an appliance so astounding that it should have been a shoe-in for the “greatest thing since sliced bread” award.
Ned presses another button. A loaf of bread pops out.
God:
And not because it also made fresh sliced bread.
Ned turns back to the crowd with a flourish. Ta-dah!
People drift away, unimpressed, drawn instead toward a distant DRUMROLL thundering from the far end of the convention floor. The lights dim.
Ned’s shoulders slump as he begins packing up what remains of his hopes and dreams.
The camera whips across the expo to an elaborate stage bathed in light. A spotlight snaps on, revealing a test subject strapped into a chair, fidgeting nervously.
God:
Unfortunately, his thunder was stolen by this man.
ERIC WORK steps into view. Mid-twenties. Suave. Brilliant. A former child prodigy who never outgrew being told he’s a genius. He positions a sleek, unsettling surgical device behind the ear of a very nervous test subject.
God:
Former child prodigy turned man-child über-genius and founder of Vidalia Enterprises, Eric Work.
Eric pulls the trigger. Grinding. A scream, just offscreen. The crowd gasps. Sexy assistants help the dazed test subject to his feet as Eric checks a tablet, calm as ever.
God:
He’s about to merge two worlds into one.
Eric presses ENTER. A matte steel node embedded behind the subject’s ear glows blue. Suddenly, bios bloom above the crowd. Advertising flickers to life in midair. Text messages orbit the subject’s head like gnats.
A graphic explodes on screen behind Eric: INTERNET + REALITY = THE NODE
The crowd erupts into a standing ovation. Back at his booth, Ned Button quietly zips up a case.
God:
While their respective success and failure seemed writ in stone, outside forces had other plans.
From the shadows, a bald Asian man in his fifties watches Ned with unsettling focus.
The next day, Ned waters his lawn outside a quaint house while Penny kneels nearby, planting flowers. A black van screeches to a stop. Hands grab Ned and haul him inside. The van speeds away. Penny looks around, confused.
God:
And the next day, the two—
Across the city, Eric checks his watch in the pristine lobby of Vidalia. The elevator dings. The doors open. Hands reach out. A chloroform-soaked rag covers his mouth.
God:
—were simultaneously abducted—
The hoods are pulled from their heads, and both men find themselves kneeling inside an ancient MONASTERY.
God:
…by a sect of Tibetan monks.
Rows of monks stare down at them in silence. Ornate doors slowly part, revealing something unexpected beyond.
God:
For decades, the Sherab Monastery has operated in secrecy.
New York Stock Exchange - A Tibetan man in a power suit stands on the floor making money moves. Vidalia Enterprises’ stock climbs sharply.
God:
Manipulating events…
Warehouse Lab - Ned and Penny scramble away from a haywire cleaning robot, tearing the place apart. It corners them, its single glowing eye burning Cylon red.
God:
Smoothing wrinkles…
A Tibetan janitor casually throws a dagger. It knocks over a fern. The robot freezes, then dutifully cleans the mess.
Living Room - It’s Christmas Eve, soot falls from a chimney. A ninja slips down, quickly swapping out a football for a “My First Electronics” kit.
God:
And generally guiding those involved in the right direction.
Young Button (off-screen):
Santa?
The ninja freezes, turning to face a little boy with red hair.
Ninja:
Uh… ho ho ho?
He throws down a smoke bomb and disappears.
Back at the monastery, Work and Button step through the ornate doors together into a vast laboratory packed with advanced equipment.
God:
For it was prophesied that when these two great men came together, they would develop a means to divine the universe; to chit-chat with creation; to speak…
The monks bow as the doors slam shut behind them.
God:
…to God.
CAPTION: ONE YEAR LATER
The doors open again. Button and Work stumble out, eyes wild, hair feral. They have clearly not left the room this entire time.
God:
Unfortunately, that prophecy was proven to be utterly wrong.
Button shakes his head. The monks groan. Work raises a finger: Wait.
God:
But they did come up with the next best thing.
Eric flips a coin into the air. Its edge glows blue as it spins in place, suspended like a held breath.
The world reacts immediately. On televisions everywhere, the story explodes outward.
A reporter stands in the Tibetan prairie, pointing up at chemtrails streaking across the Himalayan sky.
Reporter:
Dozens of rockets are launching out of Chinese airspace, but Beijing is not claiming responsibility—
At a press briefing, Eric Work grins and waves casually at a room full of stunned journalists.
Anchor (V.O.):
This just in. The presumed-dead founder of Vidalia, Eric Work, is in fact alive.
Eric:
Hey, I’ll make this quick. I’m not dead, those rockets are mine, and you’re all going to die in a nuclear holocaust. Just kidding. Trust me, you’re going to love it.
At the United Nations, the Secretary-General gestures furiously at an image of a Vidalia satellite.
Secretary-General:
This satellite can see through walls, is powerful enough to count the hairs on my head and you are telling me you launched thirteen-hundred of them into orbit?
Eric (with a manic grin):
Yes.
Secretary-General:
Why?
Eric:
Everyone, I want you to meet Eve.
Eric flips his Token. It floats in the air, spinning and glowing blue.
Eve:
Hello, world!
In Tokyo, a news anchor addresses the camera.
Japanese Anchor:
The American inventor claims these coins have “artificial omniscience”—
The feed smash-cuts to a man wearing a horse mask.
Horse Mask Guy:
Artificial Omniscience!?
J-Pop idols dressed as schoolgirls cheers and immediately breaks into dance.
J-pop idols:
Ohhh, number one party time!
A commercial plays. Little Red Riding Hood walks through a forest and stops at a fork in the road.
Eve:
The world can be a scary place when you don’t have all the answers.
Red pulls a quarter from behind her ear. We can tell it's a Token by the blue gleam along its edge.
Eve:
But what if a flip of a coin could give you the right answer every time?
Red flips it.
Eve:
Take a left. In point five miles watch out for: Big Bad Wolf.
Little Red:
Thanks, Eve.
Late night. Eric Work sits beside a host holding a Token, eyes bright with temptation.
Late Night Host:
Wait, so I can talk to God with this?
Eric Work:
-Bzzt- You can talk to Eve. God is God. Eve is an all-seeing all-knowing super computer.
Late Night Host:
But this coin—
Eric Work:
-Bzzt-
Late Night Host:
—this Token, it can really tell me anything from the past, present, and future?
Eric wiggles his fingers.
Eric Work:
Just ask it something. Anything.
Late Night Host:
Anything? Alright. My fiancée will enjoy this. Who is my soul mate?
Eric Work:
Wait, no-no-no. Don’t ask her that!
The audience cheers. The host flips the Token. In rapid flashes lasting only a moment, we see the host’s childhood, adventuring through suburbia with his best friend. They grow older, and their relationship becomes something more. The last image we see is that boy kissing the young late-night host and running off, leaving him dazed.
Eve:
Gary Delancy of Yonkers, New Jersey.
Silence as the token hits his desk and rattles. The late-night host stares off with that same dazed look he had all those years ago as the truth hits him all at once.
Late Night Host: (tearing up and smiling)
…Gary?
Sports footage. A referee prepares for a coin toss at a football game.
Sports Caster 1:
Now watch this dumbass from last night’s debacle. This is why you don’t bring a Token to a coin toss!
Referee:
Alright, who’s calling it?
Quarterback:
Heads.
The ref flips the coin, and it floats in the air.
Eve:
The Patriots win 21–17.
The stadium erupts in boos. Fans stand up and leave.
Sports Caster 2:
I’ve never seen a stadium empty out that fast.
Sports Caster 1:
Need we say more, folks? Just like the lady said: The Patriots won 21–17. Thanks, Eve.
Outside the Supreme Court, a crowd cheers beneath signs reading THANKS EVE.
Reporter:
In a controversial 5–4 decision, the Supreme Court has ruled that Tokens may be used in juror deliberation. Thanks, Eve!
A Starbucks commercial.
Narrator:
We’ve always been there with our signature coffee blends when you needed us. Now thanks to Eve—
A customer steps up to the counter.
Customer:
I’ll take a—oh!
The barista hands her a pre-made drink.
Narrator:
We can be there before you even know you need us. What you want before you want it.
Customer:
Thanks Eve.
The late-night host signs off.
Late Night Host:
It’s been a great year, but it’s summer, and that means this show is taking a break and I’m going to go get day-drunk in Fiji with the love of my life!
Gary Delancy, all grown up, blushes in the front row.
Late Night Host:
Get up here Gary!
They kiss.
Gary:
Thanks Eve!
Local news anchors smile earnestly at the camera.
Anchor Jim Juarez:
Today marks the fifteenth anniversary of the Token. Crime is down ninety-five percent, the economy is booming—
Anchor Amy Anderson:
—and I’m two years sober. From all of us in the world: Thanks, Eve!
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
An alarm clock buzzes beside a worn Sacajawea Token. A hand flails wildly, grabs the clock, and smashes it against the wall.
TIMOTHY BUCKNER bolts upright in bed, and immediately starts sobbing.
God:
Meet Timothy Buckner. He has issues.
Tim sniffles.
Tim:
Do I have to get out of bed?
He flips his Token. It levitates above his palm.
Eve:
Yes. I’ve already ordered a new alarm clock for you.
Tim catches the Token and slaps it against the Node behind his ear.
Tim:
Th-thanks, Eve.
In the bathroom, Tim brushes his teeth between sobs, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth.
God:
One of which is that sea cucumbers have more spine than he does.
Eve:
Your new alarm clock will arrive in five minutes. You also missed thirty-five percent of your molars.
Tim moans pitifully.
In the kitchen, the doorbell rings. His roommate Mark, a chubby troll of a man, stands in front of the counter shoveling cereal into his mouth while staring into nothing, his Node clearly active.
Tim (O.S.):
Can you get that?
The bell rings again.
Tim (O.S.):
Mark! Mark-Mark-Mark MARK!!!
Mark grunts.
Mark:
Wha?
Tim storms in and opens the door.
Tim:
Never mind.
A delivery drone hands Tim a new “unbreakable” alarm clock.
Tim opens the fridge. It contains nothing but grapefruit. He closes it slowly and strokes a waffle iron on the counter like a beloved pet.
Tim:
Should I have waffles?
Eve:
You should have grapefruit.
Tim:
I think I’m going to have waffles.
Eve:
Alright. Your estimated time of death is now seventy-six years, two months—
Tim:
Okay, okay.
Defeated, Tim eats a grapefruit and drinks his coffee. He spins his Token on the table.
Tim:
How is my day going to be?
Eve:
Calculating…
From Tim’s point of view, the news flickers to life in front of him. A war correspondent stands amid rubble.
Journalist:
The rebels have agreed to a ceasefire with the Bolivian military.
A notification pops up. Firmware Update 6.3 Available. Tim waves it away.
Outside Tim’s POV, Tim and Mark are just staring dully at empty air.
Journalist:
It’s widely speculated that the adoption of Tokens on both sides may be the cause, as casualties have reached exactly a one-to-one ratio.
La Paz - a rebel soldier raises a Boliviano Token.
Rebel:
With God’s currency, we will vanquish the totalitarian oppressors! Eve, should we attack?
He flips the Token.
Eve:
Sí. En tres, dos, uno.
The rebel bursts around a corner. A Bolivian soldier does the same from the opposite direction. They fire in unison. Both promptly die in unison.
Back in Tim’s kitchen:
Journalist:
With the last active war zone coming to an end, it seems like mankind might have finally achieved world peace. Thanks, Eve.
Mark leans back in his chair, nodding appreciatively.
Mark:
Oh yeah, you like that…
Tim squints at him.
Tim:
Mark, are you watching—
Mark:
What? Oh God no. No.
A beat.
Mark:
You wanna see?
Tim:
No—
Mark leans over and taps Tim’s Node.
A loud MOAN fills the room.
Tim recoils violently.
Tim:
That is not how you use mayonnaise!
Mark grins, way too proud. Tim glares. His Token finally stops spinning.
Tim:
I hope I have a good day today.
Eve:
You won’t. You are going to be 43 minutes late to work. You should also bring a pillow.
Tim shoots out of his chair in a panic, grabbing his jacket.
Tim:
No, no, no—wait, why the pillow?
Eve:
Answer not available.
Tim bolts out of the apartment with a pillow tucked under his arm. In the hallway, he fumbles with his jacket.
Tim:
What if I took the metro?
Eve:
You will be 114 minutes late, and you are going to step in dog poop.
Tim opens the door.
Eve:
Now.
He freezes, sighs, then looks down at his shoe as he scrapes it against the concrete steps outside.
Eve:
I have already notified Mr. Higgins of your tardiness and corrected the discrepancy in your upcoming paycheck.
Tim looks skyward.
Tim:
Please God, just strike me down.
Vidalia Tower looms over downtown Los Angeles, an oppressive yet chic monolith of glass and control.
Inside, Eric Work’s office is cavernous, white, and surgically clean. A pyramid of clear plastic cards stands on his desk, as Eric hovers the final piece into place.
The doors burst open. General Bradley storms in with two Marines, already mid-rant.
General Bradley:
What in Jack’s titties are you—
Eric snaps his fingers.
Chk-chk. Two automated turrets drop from the ceiling, instantly locking onto the General’s head.
Eric doesn’t look up.
Eric:
If you slam that door, I will make you a four-star General with one hole in his head.
The General freezes, then carefully closes the door. The turrets retract. Eric finishes placing the final card on the pyramid.
Eric:
Now. What can I help you with?
General Bradley:
This is an act of high treason!
Eric:
Inside voice, please.
General Bradley:
We have intel that you somehow stole the launch codes to every single damn ICBM with an American flag on it.
Eric:
I also have the nukes of Russia, China, Iran, India, Pakistan, and the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea. Glorious leader Kim wasn’t too pleased about me playing with his toys, either.
General Bradley:
I will personally make sure that—
Eric:
Who told you it was me?
General Bradley:
The NSA. They did surveillance and hacked… stuff.
Eric clicks his tongue.
Eric:
Tut, tut, General.
General Bradley:
Alright fine. I asked Eve.
The pyramid collapses instantly, then reassembles itself.
Eric:
EVE!
A blue orb materializes beside him.
Eve:
Yes, sir?
Eric:
Did I say you could tell people about my schemes?
Eve:
No, sir. You also didn’t tell me not to discuss your schemes. Should I send a paramilitary death squad to take care of any discrepancies?
Eric smiles awkwardly at the General.
Eric:
I swear I have no idea what she’s talking about. What I do know is you have two options.
Eric snaps his fingers. One card slides from the pyramid into his hand. A shimmering tarot card: THE TOWER. Data ripples across its surface as Eric studies it.
Eric:
The smart oven at Hop Woo Chinese Take-Out is about to short, causing their Peking duck to stew in its own juices for four hours before their frugal manager discovers it. In eight hours, both the pilot and co-pilot of your private jet will feel the sudden onset of salmonella poisoning, and the last thing you’ll see is them exploding duck and plum sauce out of every orifice as you plummet into the Rocky Mountains.
Eric looks up, smirking.
Eric:
I know it’s a little contrived, General, but it’s just one of a thousand fates at my disposal. I could just make that Bluetooth-enabled heart valve of yours go “pop,” but I’ve always been a fan of theatrics.
General Bradley:
How—
Eric:
—How do I know that? Well, I wouldn’t say I was “God,” but if you described me as “God-like,” it would make me all warm and fuzzy inside.
The General swallows.
General Bradley:
And the second option?
Eric:
You smile and do what I say, and I promise I won’t turn D.C. into a glowing hole in the ground. I just don’t feel like it.
The cubicle labyrinth hums softly. It’s a beige maze of low walls and muted despair. On Tim’s screen, a corporation name pops up. He reads it under his breath and flips his Token.
Eve:
Buy.
Tim presses BUY. Another name appears. He flips again.
Eve:
Sell.
Click. Sell. The process is numbing, mechanical, endlessly repetitive.
God:
Timothy is a stockbroker.
A number labeled MOOLAH METER ticks steadily upward.
God:
It doesn’t bother him that he makes an average of forty-two million dollars a day for other people.
A voice screams nearby.
Drone (O.S.):
I can’t take it anymore! I can’t!
Bang. Tim looks up. No one else reacts.
God:
Nor does the fact that his career has a slightly lower suicide rate than a professional Russian roulette player.
Eve:
Congratulations. A higher position has just opened up.
God:
What bothers him is that this is his destiny.
Eve:
You are now fifty-three percent through your optimal career path.
God:
That his best option is to spend his waking days in a depressed stupor, all the while earning a salary fit for a pig-monger in—
Mr. Higgins appears beside Tim’s cubicle, grinning like a man who came out of the womb in a fitted power suit and has never once known shame.
Higgins:
—Tim-buck-too!
Tim:
No.
Higgins:
Tim-bo Baggins!
Tim:
Please stop.
Higgins leans casually on the cubicle wall.
Higgins:
Timothy-dinky dink. Timothy-dinky doo. I got a survey for you: on a scale of one to ten, how prone are you to thoughts of eating it?
Tim blinks.
Tim:
Excuse me?
Higgins:
Biting the bullet. Committing hari-kari. Calling it quits. You know, self-terminating.
Tim:
Uh… seven.
Higgins:
You’re single, right?
Tim:
Eight.
Higgins:
Right. Do you own a gun?
Tim:
No.
Higgins:
Fill in the blanks: “I want to ___ this office and ___ everyone in it.”
Tim:
“I want to better this office and support everyone in it?” Is everyone taking this?
Higgins:
Nope. Just you.
Tim:
Is this about that open position?
Higgins barks out a laugh.
Higgins:
Oh, Timiney Cricket, you crack me up. You keep that humor.
Later, Tim’s car speeds along the 405 in bumper-to-bumper traffic. It’s over twenty lanes of synchronized motion, a single organism pretending to be transportation. Inside, Tim has his feet on the dashboard, cartoons playing in his vision. The Firmware Update 6.3 notification pops up again.
Tim: Go away!
He glances at the minivan beside him. Two kids wrestle in the backseat while their parents stare blankly into space, Nodes glowing.
Tim:
Eve, give me some good news.
Eve:
You’ve been 1.92% more productive this week.
Tim:
No. Tell me something not related to work.
Eve:
You’re going to meet a girl today.
Tim straightens.
Tim:
Wait, really? Is she cute?
Eve:
That is a subjective question, and I am an asexual program. Rephrase.
Tim:
Alright, is she single?
Eve:
Yes, she is one person.
Tim:
Never mind.
The car smoothly pulls itself to the shoulder.
Eve:
Don’t forget your pillow.
Tim:
Yeah, yeah.
A small crowd has gathered at the curb, waiting patiently. Several of them, for reasons no one questions anymore, are also holding pillows.
Tim comes to a stop at the edge of the highway crosswalk and stares out at the 405. Twenty lanes of traffic tear past at full speed, a living blur of death…
Tim takes it all in and actually yawns.
Standing off to the side is a Luddite, who looks like a homeless Amish man: beard wild, clothes plain, eyes blazing with purpose. A cardboard sign hangs crookedly from his neck: EVE = EVE+L
Luddite:
Take the electronic veil off your eyes and see! You’re all sheep. Eve doesn’t love you. She loves to control you. Join the Luddites!
A crosswalk pop-up appears in Tim’s vision. He steps forward into highway traffic and starts walking.
The cars don’t swerve or slow down. They don’t need to.
A SUV passes behind him where he was half a second ago. A semi-truck roars in front of him in a blur. Tim doesn’t even flinch. Neither do any of the pedestrians walking beside him.
Their timing is perfect. With Eve in control, it always is. Every vehicle had already adjusted its speed miles back. Every lane shift, every micro-acceleration, every gap was calculated long before Tim even reached the curb.
The highway isn’t reacting to him. It’s been expecting him.
The Luddite watches his audience evaporate, growing dejected.
Luddite:
Come on. Haven’t you seen any movie with robots ever? They’re evil!
Something snaps. A voice cuts through the noise.
Construction Worker (O.S.):
Look out!
The Luddite looks up: A STEEL GIRDER drops out of the sky straight toward him.
Luddite:
Poop.
Tim pushes through the bank's glass doors and immediately slows to a stop. He looks around, confused.
Everyone inside is also holding a pillow.
Customers stand in neat lines. Tellers smile calmly. A security guard leans against the wall, pillow tucked under his arm like a lunch bag. No one questions this. No one comments on it. It’s simply what Eve told you to bring.
Tim adjusts his own pillow self-consciously and steps forward.
He bumps into the back of a girl with wild red hair. An envelope slips from her hands and bursts open on the marble floor, spilling dollar bills everywhere.
Time slows.
God:
This is the look a man has when he is struck by an epileptic seizure.
Tim freezes mid-recoil. The girl turns around.
It’s PENNY. All grown up. Freckled, wide-eyed, quirky and adorable. Adorable in a way that makes fuzzy kittens feel jealous.
God:
Unless it’s Timothy…
We flash back to a high school chemistry lab: a teenage Tim stares at a girl lighting a Bunsen burner with the exact same horrified expression.
Lab Partner:
Can you pass that beaker?
Back to scene.
God:
…then it’s just an unfortunate defense mechanism.
Penny snaps her fingers in front of his face. Tim drops to the floor and starts scrambling to pick up the money.
Tim:
I’m so, so sorry.
Penny:
It’s alright. You don’t have to.
Tim:
I’m not stealing your money.
Penny blinks.
Penny:
…I wasn’t implying that you were.
Tim:
I didn’t mean to imply that you were implying that implication. Why do you have so many dollar bills?
Penny:
I just like having singles, alright?
Tim nods too fast.
Tim:
Alright.
Penny:
What?
Tim:
Nothing.
Penny:
I’m not a stripper. I know what it looks like. It’s not.
Tim:
Right. Well, here. Sorry. Again.
He hands the money back and retreats awkwardly to his place in line.
Penny:
Maybe I’m blind and I just like knowing I’m not dropping Benjamins on a Slim Jim.
Tim:
Okay. But—
Penny:
But, what?
Tim:
But you’re not blind.
Penny stares at him.
Penny:
I don’t know why I said that. You know what? You’re a Nosy Nancy.
Before Tim can respond—
BAM! BAM! Three masked bank robbers explode through the front doors.
Robber 1:
Get on the ground, now! NOW!
Penny squeaks and drops to the floor. Everyone else stays standing. People fidget. A woman adjusts her pillow. Someone clears their throat.
BAM! Robber 2 fires a shotgun into the wall.
Robber 1:
You think this is a joke? This is a freakin’ bank heist. For reals!
(almost whining) C’mon, drop to the floor!
Robber 3 leans in and whispers something into Robber 1’s ear. Robber 1 exhales.
Robber 1:
Oh. God damn it. Yes, you can flip ’em.
Dozens of Tokens flip at once.
Eve:
Get on the ground.
Everyone immediately gets on the ground, perfectly compliant.
Penny hisses.
Penny:
Hey. Come here.
Tim looks around, then points to himself.
Penny:
Yes, you.
He scoots closer. She punches him in the arm.
Penny:
You actually think I’m a stripper!
Tim:
No. I don’t think you could even be a. I mean, you’re pretty enough to be one. I would pay for you to—
She punches him again.
Penny:
You’re imagining me naked, aren’t you? You put my imaginary clothes back on right now!
Tim sputters. Penny snorts and laughs.
Robber 1 (O.S.):
SHUT UP!
Penny:
Sorry! (to Tim) Penny.
Tim:
Where?
Penny:
No. I’m Penny. That’s my name. You’re too wound up.
Tim:
Tim. And I’m not too wound up, I’m just naturally taut. Uh, here—
He scoots closer and shares his pillow with her.
God:
For once, Timothy wasn’t worried.
We pull back to see the entire bank floor transformed into an impromptu slumber party. Robbers stand awkwardly over a room full of adults napping obediently.
God:
He didn’t care that fate was flaunting his fragile mortality while chanting “Neener-neener-neener,” because despite the circumstances—
Tim looks into Penny’s eyes. Their faces are very close.
Tim:
I hope this drags into a hostage situation.
God:
—this was the happiest moment of his life.
Two cops stroll casually into the bank.
Cop 1:
It was the weirdest thing. Eve was insistent that I open a savings account right now—
Cop 2 drops his coffee. Everyone freezes.
CUT TO:
Tim and Penny walk side by side outside the bank, both of them wearing the same stupid, disbelieving grin. Behind them, yellow tape flaps lazily in the breeze.
A news crew interviews a shaken woman clutching a pillow like a flotation device.
Victim:
It was horrifying, but Eve knew. She knew… (brandishing the pillow) …and she made sure we were comfortable. Thanks, Eve.
Tim watches, nodding along despite himself.
Tim:
I don’t really know how to ask this, but would you like to—
Penny:
Yes.
Tim blinks.
Tim:
—get a drink or, um, coffee?
Penny:
Yes.
Tim stumbles over himself.
Tim:
Are you sure? In this I mean, you know, a non-committal, but speculative coffee of a romantic—
Penny leans in and kisses him on the cheek.
Penny: Yes.
Tim freezes, processing joy like it’s a software bug.
Tim: —fashion. You really mean yes?
Penny: Yes.
Tim exhales, laughing.
Tim: I like that word.
Penny smiles and starts walking away.
Tim: Wait, what’s your number?
Penny turns back, genuinely amused.
Penny: I don’t have one.
Tim panics.
Tim: Email?
Penny: Nope.
Tim: Then how can I reach you?
Penny gestures vaguely at everything.
Penny: The universe will find a way!
She turns and disappears into the crowd.
God: Timothy was in love. Blissfully stupid love.
Tim stands there smiling, then finally turns and walks off.
The camera shoots upward, through the skyline, through the smog, into the clouds.
It’s stunning.
An angel sits on a fluffy white cloud, watching himself on television. He notices the camera and waves.
Angel: Hey Ma!
God: But while Timothy was in cloud nine—
The camera rockets higher.
Orbit.
Vidalia satellites drift lazily around the Earth, an artificial halo.
God: —the universe was hatching a plot that was about to really muck up his day.
A meteor punches through the satellite array.
WHOOM.
Debris scatters.
God: For in a world where man’s very fate has been streamlined, what happens when something out of this world comes into play?
The meteor hits the atmosphere, igniting, breaking apart until only a basketball-sized rock remains.
From satellite POV, Eve locks onto it.
A warning flashes:
WARNING: FOREIGN VARIABLE. RECALCULATING.
Eve traces the meteor’s projected trajectory down toward Earth.
Ground level. Intercut.
Tim skips happily down the sidewalk, oblivious.
Pedestrians stop. People point upward.
In the sky, the meteor breaks the sound barrier.
BA-BOOM. The sonic boom slams into street level. Chaos erupts. People scream and scatter.
And of course, Timothy doesn’t notice.
From the satellite POV, Eve highlights everyone inside the impact zone: A mother and an infant. A businessman. An old Lady.
CALCULATING… SAFE.
Eve zooms in on Tim. His profile opens.
CALCULATING… COMPROMISED.
