The Number
Dook and Flops watches a scary TV show about an alternative reality where everyone has a number tattooed on them. Flops then wonder what this would look like in Sala City, so Dook drags him through The Dreamlands to an alternative Sala City where it is true.
INT. DOOK & FLOPS’ LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
The room is lit only by the TV. On screen: a cheaply cheerful dystopia. Smiling people line up. Each has a number tattooed on their forearm. A laugh track fires at the wrong moments.
TV ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
“Remember, your number keeps you safe!”
Flops squints at the screen.
FLOPS This is creepy. Why are they all so… proud of it?
Dook tilts his head, listening to something no one else hears.
DOOK Numbers like being worn. They feel important.
On TV, a kid shows his number to the camera. Applause.
FLOPS Okay, nope. If Sala City did this, I’d move. Immediately. Underground. Possibly into soup.
Dook smiles, gentle and certain.
DOOK We can check.
FLOPS Check what?
Dook stands. The room’s lines begin to wiggle.
EXT. DREAMLANDS → SALA CITY (ALTERNATE) — NIGHT
Reality peels like wallpaper. The Dreamlands slide aside and reform into Sala City, familiar shapes turned rigid. Streetlights hum with authority. Billboards flash “YOU ARE SEEN.”
People pass. Every wrist bears a number. No names. No eye contact.
FLOPS …Oh. Oh no. They really committed.
A kiosk. The STOAT stands behind the counter. A neat number on his arm.
STOAT Number?
FLOPS I don’t— I mean— I have a name.
STOAT (patient, hollow) That’s cute.
A SCANNER chirps. Red light.
SCANNER Unregistered.
Two OFFICERS appear, polite smiles stapled on.
OFFICER Sir, please stop being ambiguous.
FLOPS I’m not ambiguous, I’m specific! I’m—!
Dook steps between them.
DOOK He’s new to counting.
OFFICER Everyone counts.
Dook gently touches the scanner. It shows ∞. The machine freezes, confused.
SCANNER …Processing…
DOOK Some things don’t finish.
The officers blink. They forget why they’re there.
OFFICER Nice weather.
They wander off.
FLOPS So what happens if you don’t have a number?
Dook gestures to the city.
DOOK You still exist. The city just pretends you don’t.
A giant screen flickers: “IDENTITY = ORDER.” The crowd applauds on cue.
FLOPS That’s worse.
A CHILD tugs their sleeve, whispers.
CHILD I had a name once.
The screen blares. The child is gently ushered away by smiling ushers.
FLOPS Okay. Take me back. Please. I choose soup.
Dook nods.
DOOK Numbers are useful. People are not numbers.
He opens a door that wasn’t there.
INT. LIVING ROOM — NIGHT
They’re back. The TV now shows static.
FLOPS I’m never complaining about paperwork again.
Dook sits, content.
DOOK Paper remembers. Cities forget.
The TV flickers one last time: a wrist, a number… then snow.
END. 🎃