Previously on Jake 2.0: Dr. Thora explains how nanites are the coolest new thing in technology. Jake's old roommate, Grunge Slacker, is agog at the fact that Jake got the digits of his college crush, Sarah (a.k.a. the one he never scored with). In a laboratory shoot-out, Jake becomes infected with nanites, and they align along his central nervous system. Dr. Thora explains that in some cases, the lab mice reject the nanites and get ill, or even die. Jake looks at her, cocks his scruffy head, and asks what's going to happen to him. She does not take him in her arms and smother his face between her breasts, though she probably should.
We open with the shot of the satellite orbiting earth, then the POV falls through the atmosphere and eventually down to street level -- specifically, a laboratory. A mysterious male voice speaks innocuous phrases in Italian. A door opens to reveal Dr. Thora, repeating the phrases. She's learning Italian! How very cool. And she eats chicken. I'd peg her as a vegetarian, but lots of cool people still eat meat. This recap has been brought to you buy the Sausage Council of America, underwritten by Mmm...Quail! and the Pork Chop Summit West. Dr. Thora, wearing an excellent Asian-y satin jacket, greets her fleet of lab mice, all of whom have Italian names. How very Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle of her. She's really dating herself. Okay. Dr. Thora may eat meat, but I'm betting she had an E.T. lunch box in her lifetime. Anyway, mouse Antonio is not doing too well. He seems to be paralyzed right by his water dropper. The music gets upwards of 120 BPM as Dr. Thora panics, then makes a mad dash for her purse and her PDA that monitors Jake's body functions. It seems stalled, motionless, much like Antonio the mouse. She dials his phone number, and it's busy. She drops everything, moans "Oh, god!" and runs.
We arrive at Jake's apartment, where he's slumped on the couch, motionless. The camera pans outside -- damn, his neighborhood is ghetto. Who knew Vancouver even had shacks? Kudos to the scout who found that trashy-looking lean-to. I virtually smelled D.C., which is a composite of burnt goat meat, stale malt liquor, and that hot wind which wafts off Capitol Hill. Outside, we see a government-issued vehicle screech across a meridian and land just outside Jake's apartment. Like an American-made clown car, Dr. Thora, The Man, and another lackey spill out. Back inside, Jake is still. Too still. Dr. Thora, The Man, and the other lackey burst in, guns drawn, and Jake is startled to consciousness. "What? What are you doing?" Dr. Thora pants as she explains that his vitals looked...oh. Her screen was just frozen. Her bad! Jake collapses back onto his couch, whimpering like a man who has lost all semblance of privacy, including the simple pleasure of an afternoon nap. Poor Jake. Maybe if I rubbed your face between my boobs, it would help?