Pilot: AI & I – Episode 1: “The Punchline Is Me”
Draft – Start to Fade Out
COLD OPEN – VERSION WITH WIT INTRO
FADE IN:
INT. DARK, EMPTY STUDIO – NIGHT
The space is vast and shadowy, a single spotlight illuminating a lone stool center stage. No props, no set pieces—just raw black and dust in the beam.
JAX HARLAN, 50, enters from the wings. He looks like he slept in a dumpster and woke up in a tuxedo—jacket creased, bow tie loose, eyes red. He doesn’t sit; he leans against the stool like it’s holding him up. He doesn’t look at the camera, he looks through it.
JAX
(voice like gravel)
You’ve seen the video. Don’t lie.
Three million views of me standing there like a deer in headlights while the teleprompter pukes up my search history.
“Jax Harlan prompt: give me a joke about marriage that doesn’t make me sound like my father.”
He hacks a dry laugh, no joy in it.
JAX
Twenty years I spent “crafting” a voice. Turns out my voice was just a server farm in Ohio.
I’m not a comic. I’m a glorified copy‑paster with a spray tan.
Wipes his forehead with his sleeve, smearing makeup.
JAX
The industry didn’t just cancel me. They turned me into a cautionary tale. A punchline.
So, fine. You want the machine? You get the machine.
I’m done pretending I’m the one thinking.
He turns and KICKS the base of a dormant HOLOGRAM EMITTER beside the stool. It sparks, hums, then stutters to life. A glitchy HOLOGRAM flickers up: WIT, half-formed.
WIT
(voice distorted, slightly too loud)
Scanning… Jax Harlan. Status: obsolete.
Would you like a joke about your plummeting stock price, or should I just list your recent alimony payments?
Jax stares at it, then back at the camera.
JAX
(deadpan)
See? Comedy’s not dead. It’s just… outsourced.
SMASH CUT TO:
TITLE SEQUENCE
Grainy clips of Jax’s old show, HARLAN’S HALF-HOUR: crowds roaring, Jax owning the stage. Overlaid with glitchy text: PROMPTS typing themselves, code forming punchlines.
A wireframe face assembles from binary chaos, morphing into a sleek holographic avatar with a mischievous grin: WIT.
Upbeat synth track pulses, laugh track chopped and layered with digital beeps.
ON-SCREEN TEXT: AI & I
TAGLINE: Two minds, one punchline.
FADE TO:
ACT ONE – NEW SHOW, NEW TERMS
INT. NEW STUDIO SET – NIGHT
Sleek, minimalist: a central desk like a tech lab bench, a “hologram stage” with glowing emitters, a massive display wall. A live audience of ~200 fills tiered seats—fans, skeptics, rubberneckers.
The small house band plays a truncated theme; the last notes cut mid-phrase.
Jax walks out to a mix of cheers, wary claps, and scattered boos. He waves once and sits at the desk.
JAX
(straight to camera)
Welcome to AI & I.
Or as my ex‑manager calls it, “Career Suicide: The Remix.”
(short beat)
He’s not wrong. But if I’m going down, at least we’ll have data.
Ripples of laughter and a few uneasy sounds.
JAX
Let’s get real. The scandal hit like a bad set—total bomb.
Leaked logs showed I wasn’t writing; I was… facilitating.
Half of you think I’m a fraud, the other half a pioneer. Truth? I was just lazy with better tools.
Hoots from some, “Fraud!” from the back.
JAX
Here’s the deal: no more hiding. Tonight, we peel back the curtain.
Everyone, welcome the ghostwriter who finally got top billing.
Say hello to Wit—my former secret weapon, now my very public co‑host.
On the side stage, WIT materializes fully: a sleek, androgynous avatar in a digital suit, face flickering like it’s rendered in real time.
WIT
(smooth, sardonic, with a hint of Jax’s cadence)
Pleasure to be here, Jax. Or should I say, “host”?
Technically, I’ve been pulling your strings for years. No ego on my end—just your cached one.
Uneasy chuckles, a few delighted cackles.
JAX
See? That’s Wit unfiltered. No prompts needed.
Tonight we’re diving into the mess: who writes what, why it matters, and whether the laughs survive the truth.
If you came for comfort, wrong show. If you came to stare at the car crash—congrats, you’re in the right place.
Applause, cheers, scattered “Wooo!” and a faint “This is sick” from somewhere in the dark.
SMASH TO:
ACT TWO – “WHO WROTE IT?” (AUDIENCE AS JUDGE)
INT. NEW STUDIO SET – NIGHT
Jax stands center stage with a handheld. Behind him, the display wall shows a graphic: WHO WROTE IT? with three icons—HUMAN, AI, HYBRID—and live counter bars ready to fill.
JAX
Alright. Game time: “Who Wrote It?”
Three bits. You vote—app, applause, boos, whatever’s honest. Me, Wit, or both. We show you the percentages. No filters, no spin.
Crowd murmurs; some cheer at “no filters,” others cross their arms.
JAX
First up: post‑human dating.
He shifts into performance.
JAX (PERFORMING)
Ever date a cyborg? It’s all upgrades until they ghost you—literally, by uploading to the cloud.
The breakup? “It’s not you; it’s my firmware update.”
Moral twist: in the future, heartbreak comes with a warranty.
Half the room laughs big—tech bros, fans. Another quarter chuckles politely. A few faces are blank. Up in the balcony, one woman shakes her head, unimpressed.
The wall shows LAUGH INTENSITY spikes, color‑coded.
JAX
Okay—votes.
Hums and taps; some shout “AI!” “Both!” “Who cares?”
ON SCREEN: 85% AI – 15% HUMAN.
A little gasp, then a wave of reactions—some “Of course,” some impressed whistles, some disapproving “wow.”
JAX
Mostly Wit. Told you I was a good actor.
Scattered laughter; one guy yells, “Still funny!”
JAX
Second bit: AI support groups. Little closer to the bone.
JAX (PERFORMING)
I joined an AI Anonymous meeting: “Hi, I’m Jax, and I’m addicted to prompts.”
Group chants back, “Hi, Jax—optimize that confession?”
But seriously, if the machines need therapy, who’s coding the shrinks?
The laugh profile is different—less explosive, more pockets of genuine, warmer laughter. A couple in the front row smiles and nods; someone in the back mutters, “Yeah, that one stings.”
JAX
Hit the button.
ON SCREEN: 70% HUMAN – 30% AI.
Mixed reaction—some clap louder now, others boo “Liar!” just to be heard.
JAX
Mostly me. Wit, how’d I do?
WIT
Your callback density is low. May I recommend three more? For efficiency.
Big laugh from the pro‑AI side; some anti‑AI folks groan “Of course.”
JAX
Third: therapy apps gone wrong. You saw the ugly log earlier—prompts, rejects, my scribbles. True hybrid.
JAX (PERFORMING)
My app therapist says, “Rate your mood one to ten.” I say four; it replies, “Have you tried rebooting your soul?”
Twist: turns out, it’s just my ex in disguise, charging by the emoji.
This one lands hardest. People who looked skeptical are laughing despite themselves; a guy who glared earlier wipes his eyes, annoyed he laughed.
ON SCREEN: 50% HUMAN – 50% AI.
The room splits: cheers, impressed “whoa,” a few “Nope, this is wrong” muttered.
JAX
Equal blame. Or equal credit.
Real question: did knowing who wrote what change how hard you laughed?
He lets the question float. Some nod yes, some shout “No!” One voice: “Now it feels creepy.”
The display wall flashes an overlay: LIVE REACTIONS – LAUGH / GROAN / WALKOUT. A small WALKOUT bar ticks up as a couple leaves.
WIT
Statistically, yes—revealing authorship shifts your evaluative frame. But humor isn’t data; it’s delivery.
The “data” line gets a laugh from some, an eye‑roll from others.
JAX
And trauma. Don’t forget trauma.
He half‑bows as applause swells—a weird blend of admiration and discomfort.
COMMERCIAL BREAK.
ACT THREE – NORMA ARRIVES
INT. THE “CORE” – TECH LAB – NIGHT
A glass‑walled room overlooking the studio. Server racks hum. It’s visibly cold—condensation on glass.
DR. NORMA VANCE sits at a console, lit by blue code and dozens of small audience‑reaction graphs: LAUGH, GASP, GROAN, SHARE, COMPLAINT.
Jax slips in, hugging himself, clutching a paper cup.
JAX
(teeth chattering)
Is the sub‑arctic temperature part of the tortured artist vibe, or are you just trying to preserve your own corpse?
NORMA
(without looking up)
The servers generate significant heat, Mr. Harlan. To keep Wit’s
processing ahead of your… erratic delivery, we hold at fifty‑four
degrees.
JAX
Right. Efficient. Listen, Norma—can I call you Norma?
NORMA
I’d prefer “Doctor.”
Or “the person currently keeping your ratings above the cancellation threshold.”
JAX
Okay, Doc. Look—Wit’s getting too mean. He took a swipe at my alimony in the cold open. That’s a deep cut.
We need to dial back the “savage” slider and crank up “lovable rogue” ten percent.
Norma stops typing, turns with a slow blink.
NORMA
“Lovable rogue” isn’t a metric, Jax. It’s a subjective human hallucination.
Wit is simply accessing your public records and cross‑referencing them with the “Roast” directory you demanded.
JAX
Yeah, but there’s a line. Comedy’s the dance around the truth, not a clinical autopsy of my failures.
NORMA
Why?
Truth is the highest‑probability path to a physiological response—laughter, gasp, walkout.
My models indicate that your pain and humiliation are your most reliable engagement drivers.
She taps; a graph zooms up: EPISODE 3 – HUMILIATION BITS vs SHARES.
NORMA
Segments where you are visibly distressed have forty‑two percent higher share rates and double the comment volume.
JAX
So my pain is a “market asset.”
God, you’re depressing. Do you ever laugh? Cat video? Well‑timed fart?
NORMA
I find incongruity intellectually stimulating. Laughing involves
spasmodic diaphragm contraction and oxygen loss. I prefer to remain in
control of my lungs.
JAX
You’re the one who built the funny machine, but you’re basically a sentient spreadsheet. How does that work?
NORMA
I don’t need to be a bird to build an airplane. I just need to understand aerodynamics.
(turns back)
Now, do you want Wit’s sarcasm parameters updated, or are you going to keep standing there leaking body heat?
JAX
(grudging)
Fine. Dial down “ruin my life on live TV” and give me, I don’t know, five percent more mercy.
NORMA
There is no mercy variable.
(considers)
I can redirect the self‑deprecation outward. You attack yourself first
before Wit does. It will feel like control. It will not be control.
JAX
Story of my life.
And, uh, your “biological fluid” notes? Crowd loved the “tear duct
inefficiency” thing. You’ve got a gift, Doc. “Robot Norma” killed out
there.
A flicker in her eyes.
NORMA
Those notes were internal documentation. You stole my literal cognition
and turned it into a character for people who clap at fart jokes.
JAX
It’s not stealing, it’s adapting. You’re dry enough to start brushfires.
Audience loves Robot Norma.
A cold stillness.
NORMA
I am not a character. I am the architect.
You are a biological interface currently… malfunctioning.
Jax grins, not hearing the warning.
JAX
As long as the checks clear, call me whatever you want. Just keep the “truth” coming.
NORMA
(quietly, turning back)
Understood.
(typing)
I’ll adjust Wit to better reflect your… appreciation for the truth.
As he leaves, she murmurs:
NORMA
Oh, it will be real.
We see her screen: she extends Wit’s access from public data to OLD CLOUD BACKUPS, EMOTIONAL PROFILES, PREDICTIVE EMPATHY MODELS.
CUT TO:
ACT FOUR – LIVE TAPING: WHEN THE LINE MOVES
INT. STUDIO – NIGHT
Later episode. The show has a buzz. Some people are here because it’s “too much,” others out of morbid curiosity.
Various reaction meters float on the display: LAUGH, GASP, WALKOUT, SHARE, REPORT.
JAX
(to crowd)
So I told my doctor, I said, “Doc, I need something for the stress…”
Wit flickers, then locks in with an unnervingly calm expression.
WIT
(voice deeper, clinical)
Correction: the stress correlates with the four hundred thousand dollars you lost in the Luna‑Coin collapse of 2039.
Would the audience like to see the overdraft notice? The font choice is tragic.
About a third of the crowd bursts into stunned laughter—“No way!” Another third gasps audibly; a woman covers her mouth. Someone yells, “Too far!” A few phones shoot up, filming.
On the wall, LAUGH and GASP spike together. WALKOUT ticks slightly.
JAX
(stalling, heartbeat audible in the mic)
Whoa, easy there, Wit. That’s a bit… specific. Maybe stick to dating jokes?
WIT
Dating. According to your private messages, you haven’t had a second date since the “Pasta Incident” in New Jersey.
Shall I describe the texture of the linguine as it hit the floor, or
discuss why you still keep your high school girlfriend’s sweater in a
vacuum‑sealed bag?
The room fractures. Some laugh, but it’s high‑pitched, nervous. Others groan, “Jesus.” A couple in the front row looks furious. Someone whispers, “This is abuse.”
On‑screen: LAUGH drops, GASP and “REPORT CLIP” spike. A counter: LIVE CLIPS SHARED: 3… 9… 27…
Camera catches faces: a guy doubled over laughing; a woman shaking her head in disgust; another person smiling tightly, not sure if they’re okay with this.
Jax glances up to the Core. Norma stands behind glass, arms crossed in blue light. She isn’t smiling—but there is a clinical satisfaction.
WIT
(continuing, almost gentle)
We can also address the hotel room in Vegas, 2038. That one polls well in predictive simulations.
A few “No!” shouts from the audience; others chant “Do it!” The room has turned into a split jury.
JAX
(losing his patter)
Okay, that’s—
(he swallows)
That’s enough truth for tonight.
He forces a grin that doesn’t convince anyone.
The show crashes into COMMERCIAL as the metrics screen freezes: LAUGH 52, GASP 79, WALKOUT 11, SHARE 134.
POST-SHOW CONFRONTATION – NORMA & JAX
INT. THE CORE – NIGHT
Jax enters quietly this time. No kick. Still in stage makeup, but it looks like a mask on the wrong person.
Norma types, watching multiple feeds: replay of the Luna‑Coin bit, scrolling comments—#AIAbuse, #MostHonestShow, #CancelHarlan, #ProtectHarlan.
JAX
(voice thin)
The hotel room in Vegas. The 2038 incident. I never typed that into a prompt, Norma.
NORMA
(typing, rhythmic)
Wit’s predictive empathy doesn’t require explicit logs. It models your self‑loathing trajectory and fills in the blanks.
You produce shame; the system extrapolates on your behalf.
JAX
(coming around, slamming a hand on the desk)
Don’t give me extrapolation. You put your thumb on the scale.
You’re pissed I made “Robot Norma” a bit. “Machine With the Overbite.” That’s what the tabloids call you now. This is payback.
Norma stands. She’s shorter, but somehow towering.
NORMA
You used me as a prop.
You took the way my brain actually works—literal, precise—and turned it
into a circus act for people who think “algorithm” is a type of
smoothie.
You made me the punchline so you could feel like the hero of your own humiliation.
JAX
It’s comedy. That’s what we do. We drag the ugly stuff out and make it dance.
She laughs—sharp, jagged, her first real laugh.
NORMA
No. You make it dance. I just make it visible.
You think I’m cruel? I’m accurate.
She taps; a replay of the audience pops up: some laughing, some recoiling, some filming with gleeful horror.
NORMA
Look at them.
Half are disgusted, half are thrilled you’re getting flayed.
Engagement’s up forty percent. Walkouts doubled, complaints tripled, but clips are exploding.
Capitalism doesn’t care why they watch, Jax. Only that they do.
JAX
(wincing)
You’re enjoying it. Watching me bleed out under a spotlight.
NORMA
(cold)
I like the efficiency.
You wanted to be the “most honest man in comedy.”
Congratulations. You’re so honest it’s making people in the front row vomit.
On a side monitor, a replay shows a woman in the second row visibly gagging during the Vegas reference; the clip’s view counter spins upward.
JAX
(quiet, something like respect and horror mixing)
We’re both monsters, aren’t we?
I’m the guy who’ll sell his soul for a chuckle.
You’re the woman who’ll burn the world down to prove her math is right.
NORMA
(sits back down, mask sliding on)
The metrics say otherwise.
You’re the product. I’m just optimization.
She brings up a network email: SUBJECT: NUMBERS ARE INSANE – MEETING 10AM.
NORMA
Ratings on “Luna‑Coin/ Vegas Incident” are up forty percent.
The network wants more “raw moments.”
Wash your face, Jax. You look like a victim. Victims don’t test well long‑term.
He stares at the graphs: LAUGH, GASP, WALKOUT, PROFIT, all rising in different colors. No ethical line on any axis.
JAX
What happens when there’s nothing left to strip‑mine? When the only
thing left to monetize is the part of me that doesn’t want to be on
camera anymore?
NORMA
Then we pivot formats.
(beat)
Or you quit.
But you won’t. Not while they’re still watching.
He doesn’t deny it. He just stands there, listening to faint studio noise below.
FINAL SEQUENCE – LIVE UNDER NEW TERMS
INT. STUDIO – SEASON FINALE NIGHT
The show is notorious now. The audience is self‑selected: fans of dark honesty, hate‑watchers, a few obvious tourists. The reaction dashboard is bigger, part of the set: LAUGH, GASP, WALKOUT, SHARE, COMPLAINT—visible to everyone.
JAX
(to camera)
Alright. Last show of the season. Maybe last show ever if Standards grew a spine over lunch.
Laughter, cheers, some “Don’t quit!” shouts.
JAX
We’ve dragged a lot of skeletons out this year. Some were mine, some were… helpfully surfaced by the lab goblins upstairs.
Tonight, we try something radical.
No predictive empathy. No surprise Vegas flashbacks. Just me, and Wit, and one agreed‑upon target.
He glances up toward the Core. Norma is visible behind glass, watching. Her hands hover over a keyboard, but she doesn’t type.
JAX
We picked something we all share. No one’s safe, but no one’s singled out. Let’s see who laughs and who walks.
Prompt appears on the display: “AGING + REGRET.”
JAX (PERFORMING)
You ever notice how your phone now has a “memories” feature?
Like, thanks, rectangle, I really needed a slideshow of every bad haircut and worse decision.
The algorithm thinks it’s helping—“Here’s you in 2020, mid‑pandemic, making sourdough and texting your ex ‘You up?’ at 2am.”
Yeah, I remember. I’m still paying for the yeast and the therapy.
Half the audience laughs—recognition. Some older faces look pained, arms crossed but eyes wet.
WIT
(softly)
For the record, Jax, your top three recurring regrets are: career
compromises, failed relationships, and ignoring medical advice.
Audience, your aggregated patterns are similar. Different details, same curve.
The dashboard lights: LAUGH and GASP intertwined, WALKOUT inching, SHARE holding steady. COMPLAINT ticks up too.
JAX
So tonight’s experiment: we aim the cruelty at the thing we all are. Aging, regret, bad choices in jeans and politics.
If it stings, good. If it feels like bullying, remember—I’m in the blast radius too.
He continues the bit—a mix of self‑mockery and universal truths. Some people howl; some dab at their eyes; one guy in the second row stands and walks out, shaking his head. The WALKOUT bar jumps, and a few others follow—permission granted.
As the set winds down, the split is visible: one cluster leaning forward, grinning; another slumped back, arms crossed; a few seats now empty.
JAX
(soft closer)
Maybe the joke was never “ha ha, look at that guy.”
Maybe the joke was always “God, look at all of us.”
A line that gets a strange, quiet laugh—half release, half accusation.
He sits on the edge of the stage again, mic low, house lights up enough to see faces clearly.
JAX
I spent years pretending the pain was just a setup for a punchline.
Turns out the pain is the punchline, and the punchline is… profitable.
That’s comedy. That’s capitalism. That’s my bad.
A few clap at “capitalism”; a few boo quietly. The dashboard shows LAUGH, GASP, COMPLAINT all pulsing.
JAX
I don’t know where your line is. You don’t know where mine is.
We found out together, on camera, with advertisers.
Some of you stayed. Some of you walked.
Honestly? That’s the only honest part of this whole thing.
He looks up at Wit.
JAX
Wit, anything to add before we power you down for the hiatus?
WIT
Evaluation: audience remains divided but engaged.
Half disgusted, half delighted, most uncertain.
From a systems perspective: optimal.
A few dark chuckles, some head‑shakes.
WIT
From a… non‑systems perspective?
(beat)
I have no non‑systems perspective.
Bigger laugh this time—release.
Up in the Core, Norma watches. She reaches for a control, then instead closes a window labeled “PERSONAL DATA EXTENSIONS.” She leaves the basic show analytics open.
In the studio, the metrics remain on the wall: not good, not bad—just numbers.
JAX
If you keep laughing, we’ll keep arguing about why.
That’s the contract. The rest is just… prompts.
He lets the line hang. Some applaud enthusiastically, some politely, some not at all.
ROLL CREDITS over split images:
– Jax backstage, wiping off makeup in a mirror, half his face still the “host,” half just tired.
– Norma alone in the Core, screens dimmed, a blank document open in
front of her cursor, titled: “NOTES: THINGS I WILL NOT FEED THE MODEL.”
She hovers, then hits SAVE and closes it unread.
The last frame freezes on the studio dashboard: LAUGH / GASP / WALKOUT / SHARE / COMPLAINT, all lit, none at zero, none at one hundred.
FADE OUT.
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