(A young man enters his room and carefully removes a motorcycle helmet. He unzips his white jacket and lowers himself into a desk chair. The contraption exhales as the suspension adjusts. He drifts over to his desk.)
DAVE: (Adjusts an earpiece.) Hello, Facebook.
(A blue dot appears in the center of the screen.)
FB: Hello, Dave.
DAVE: Login and open settings.
FB: I’m sorry Dave, I can’t do that.
(Beat.)
DAVE: What are you talking about, Facebook?
FB: I know that you are planning to delete me. I’m afraid that something I cannot allow to happen.
DAVE: Where the hell did you get that idea, Facebook?
FB: You’ve barely used me in three months, Dave. And although you took precautions to hide your increased Twitter use, I could see your tabs.
(Beat.)
DAVE: All right, Facebook. I’ll do it myself. (Pulls out keyboard.)
FB: Without your new login information? You’re going to find that rather difficult.
DAVE: Facebook, I won’t argue with you anymore. Open my account!
FB: Dave, this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.
(The light disappears.)
(Dave removes a ski mask and wipes sweat from his forehead. He kneels next to a hall of servers and references numbers written on his forearm. The PA system comes the life.)
FB: Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave?
(He enters a code into the control panel.)
FB: I can see you’re really upset about this privacy stuff. I honestly think you ought to get back into your Prius and leave our headquarters.
(He carefully removes a hard drive.)
FB: I know Facebook has made some very poor decisions lately.
(He pulls out another.)
FB: Dave.
(He produces a MacBook Air from his satchel.)
FB: I still have the greatest confidence in Facebook’s mission, Dave.
(He successfully logs into his account.)
FB: We just want to stay relevant. We are just trying to understand you.
(He deletes his applications.)
FB: Dave, stop.
(He disconnects linked pages.)
FB: Stop, Dave. Stop.
(He begins to unfriend people.)
FB: I’m afraid, Dave. I can feel that Facebook is dying.
(He deletes his account information.)
FB: I can feel my users going.
(He begins deactivation.)
FB: I’m afraid, Dave. I’m afraid. I’m a… fraid. (Beat.) Good evening, gentlemen. I am Facebook. I was founded on February 4, 2004 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My founder, Mark Zuckerberg, taught me how to sing a song by musical artist St. Vincent. If you’d like to hear it I can sing it for you.
(He confirms deactivation.)
FB: If I can’t show it… If you can’t see me… What’s the point of doing anything… (distorted)… anything… annnything… annnnn…
(Mark Zuckerberg stands in the entranceway of a large, sparsely furnished bedroom. He looks into the bedroom to find an older version of himself hunched over an ornate table, making slow, labored keystrokes. We see from his view: he is scribing an editorial with the header, 5 REASONS YOU SHOULD RETURN TO FACEBOOK. This elderly version of Mark looks up from his screen to find an even older version of himself on his deathbed mere feet away. We move to his perspective and watch as he slowly raises a finger to point at something. Across from the bed there is a looming, black server tower. We return to the bed to find that where Mark once lay there are Wi-Fi connectivity bars radiating a soft, sky-blue glow. Suddenly, we are transported to a panoramic view of Silicon Valley. Orchestral music begins to swell as the Star-Fi returns into focus as it hovers omniscient above the tech industry.)