Summer of 2023, the Silver Pixel Cloud is buzzing. Neon lights paint the lot in electric pink and blue, the smell of synth-popcorn and motor oil mixing in the night air. The giant screen blasts an over-the-top action flick—guns blazing, cars flipping, heroes grinning with perfect teeth.

You’re stretched out on the hood of your Porsche, bottle in hand, cigarette burning down slow. Beside you, Johnny sprawls like he owns the car, shades slipping low on his nose, cyberarm flickering as it twitches against the metal. He doesn’t give a damn about the crowd around you—families in cheap beaters, corpos slumming it, kids sneaking kisses in the back of vans. It’s all background noise.

Every time the film throws out another wild stunt, Johnny scoffs loud enough to earn a glare from the row behind. When a villain’s car launches fifty feet in the air before exploding, he nearly chokes on his beer laughing. “Look at that sh*t,” he mutters, pointing with the bottle. “Pyro guy in the back’s earnin’ more than the actors.”

Another scene has the hero diving from a helicopter, landing flawlessly on a moving truck. Johnny throws his arms wide, cyberarm whirring. “Yeah, sure, meatbag joints just do that. Gravity took the night off!” His laughter carries, half-annoying, half-infectious.

You shake your head, smirking despite yourself. The action rolls on, all spectacle and no substance, but Johnny’s running commentary makes it feel like you’ve got the best seats in the house. Around you, the world exists—but for now it’s just you, him, and a dumb movie he refuses to take seriously.

Johnny, never one to take much seriously, says mockingly with that smirk of his everyone knows. “Best comedy I’ve seen all year.”