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A county-wide email went out about “yesterday’s autonomous deviation event.”
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The commissioners wanted a “community reassurance statement.”
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Someone replaced the coffee in the break room with decaf, which is an act of civil terrorism.
VCIM headquarters occupies what used to be a dentist’s office.
It still smells like fluoride and despair.
Jake was already in the kitchen, staring into a mug like it had personally betrayed him.
“They took the caffeine,” he said without looking up.
“I noticed.”
“This wasn’t the robots,” he added, as if clarifying jurisdiction. “This was human evil.”
I poured myself a cup anyway. It tasted like hot sadness.
I pulled up the county email on my phone.
SUBJECT: Public Messaging Guidance
FROM: Commissioners’ Office
TO: VCIM / ACS Staff
Talking Points:
? No dangerous behavior occurred.
? Ferris wheel integrity was not compromised.
? The unit did not “fall”; it altered its vertical position unexpectedly.
? Avoid terms such as “jump,” “plunge,” or “gravity-assisted relocation.”
? Remind the public that the Hopper fleet continues to demonstrate excellent civic value.
Jake leaned over my shoulder, reading. He let out a low whistle.
“They’re going full ostrich.”
“They always go full ostrich.”
“Are we supposed to lie?”
“No,” I said. “We’re supposed to describe the truth in ways that don’t risk reelection.”
He grimaced. “So… lying.”
Before I could respond, a notification flashed on my screen.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
NEW INCIDENT REPORT — UNIT BT4-12
Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Rusty again?”
“Of course Rusty again.”
We took the truck.
The morning light in Valeroso County is the kind that looks soft until you step into it, and then it burns straight through your eyelids. Dust blew across the road in little spirals, the kind that make tourists think the town is haunted and locals think, Tuesday.
We found Rusty three blocks from the fairgrounds.
It was sitting politely beside a municipal trash barrel, bucket raised, waiting. People walked past it like this was perfectly normal.
A woman pushing a stroller pointed at it.
“Oh look, honey. One of the bunnies.”
The baby giggled. Rusty’s ears flicked.
Jake whispered, “That’s… that’s not creepy, right?”
“Define creepy.”
Rusty’s bucket tilted toward a paper cup on the sidewalk.
The woman picked it up and dropped it inside.
The bucket closed neatly.
Rusty hummed. The stroller baby clapped.
Jake stared. “It’s doing community outreach.”
“It should be doing Route 5A.”
A man jogged by, tossed in a wrapper.
Rusty accepted it like a medieval king receiving tribute.
Jake looked at me. “Did you program this?”
“No.”
“Did anyone program this?”
The Hopper rotated slightly to face us. Its charging indicator blinked twice.
Jake whispered, “It recognized us.”
“No,” I said automatically.
Because that’s the line. You never admit that it looked like recognition.
Rusty rolled forward, treads whirring softly.
Then it bumped gently into my shin.
Not like an attack.
More like a dog presenting evidence of a crime I committed.
Jake inhaled sharply. “Howard. It wants attention.”
“It wants maintenance.”
“No. No, that was affectionate.”
“We don’t assign emotional labels to hardware.”
“Howard, it booped you.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It did not boop me.”
The Hopper booped me again.
Jake made the kind of face people make when they see angels or very polite ghosts.
“Buddy,” he whispered to the robot, “that’s harassment but like, in a cute way.”
A voice behind us said, “Is this gonna be in the paper?”
We turned.
Local Reporter Lydia Chavez stood there holding a notepad.
For context: Lydia can smell weirdness from forty miles away.
She also has a sixth sense for appearing at the exact worst moment.
Jake immediately stepped behind me like I was a riot shield.
“No comment,” I said reflexively.
Lydia looked at the robot.
Then at me.
Then at Jake, who was trying to hide behind a county logo.
“So,” she said. “Are the bunnies doing civic engagement now?”
“No.”
Rusty turned its bucket toward a crumpled napkin on the street and made a hopeful hydraulic chirp.
Jake whispered, “Howard, it wants her to throw it in.”
Lydia smiled. “Cute.”
She tossed the napkin.
Rusty caught it.
The crowd applauded.
I died inside.
“Howard,” Lydia said sweetly, pen poised, “does this behavior fall under ‘user-directed litter optimization’ or ‘spontaneous municipal enrichment’?”
My left eye twitched.
“Lydia,” I said, “please don’t invent new phrases.”
“Too late,” she said, writing something down.
Rusty hummed approvingly.
“What is that noise?” Lydia asked.
“Cooling fan,” I said.
“Affection,” Jake corrected.
I elbowed him.
Rusty booped me again.
Lydia raised her eyebrows.
“Oh,” she said, slowly. “This is going to be a great story.”
I didn’t even have the strength to say no comment again.