Not “reasonable adult” early.
“Man on the verge of a managerial nervous breakdown” early.
The sun was barely up when I pulled into the county administration lot. Dew clung to the cracked asphalt like it had nowhere better to be. The only other vehicle in the lot was Sheriff McCready’s cruiser, parked with the precision of a man who could parallel park in a hurricane.
He was leaning against the hood, sipping from a thermos.
“Morning,” he said.
I grunted something resembling a greeting.
“Sleep?” he asked.
“No.”
“Thought so. You have the ‘haunted by municipal hardware’ look.”
“Do I normally not have that look?”
He considered. “It’s usually less pronounced.”
We walked inside just as Commissioner Barnes arrived, followed by Commissioner Delgado, then Commissioner Avery, who was carrying a stack of papers and an expression that said he was already done with today and possibly the rest of the month.
“Howard,” Barnes said, “please tell me the units are behaving.”
“They’re quiet,” I said.
“Is that the same thing?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted.
His eyelid twitched. “Wonderful.”
We gathered in Meeting Room B, which is where the county holds serious events like budget crises, environmental briefings, and the annual argument about whether the fairgrounds should allow goats on the midway.
The table had been set up with water pitchers, name placards, and a corporate presentation monitor that someone must have borrowed from a school auditorium. Jake had helpfully added place cards reading:
BIONYX TEAM — WELCOME!PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ROBOTS
I hid the sign under a stack of papers before the Commissioners could combust.
At 8:59, the door opened.
The BiOnyx team walked in like a tactical formation used to cold-calling military installations.
Four people:
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The Lead Systems Engineer, stiff posture, tablet already in hand.
-
The Field Technician, carrying a hardcase that probably held tools worth more than my truck.
-
The PR Specialist, smiling the way dentists do right before saying “this won’t hurt.”
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And the Legal Observer, a man whose expression suggested that fun was a taxable offense.
We exchanged greetings in the universal tone of “everyone here wishes they were somewhere else.” Except the PR Specialist, who looked delighted, which made me deeply suspicious.
Barnes began the briefing.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “We’ve had… isolated instances of atypical Hopper behavior. Nothing dangerous. Nothing alarming.”
The Systems Engineer looked at me. “A Ferris wheel ascent is not ‘isolated.’”
Jake whispered, “Told you they wouldn’t like that part.”
I glared at him.
The PR Specialist flipped open a folder. “We’re here to ensure brand stability and public confidence. Our units are designed for rigorous environments. We take anomalies seriously.”
Avery muttered, “So do we.”
The Legal Observer spoke for the first time. “We will require access to all logs from the last seventy-two hours.”
I took a slow breath. “I’ve prepared a filtered packet with diagnostic-safe entries.”
He stared at me. “Filtered?”
“Minus personal data,” I clarified. “Crowd footage. IDs. Minor privacy protections.”
PR smiled with shark-like cheer. “We love transparency, Mr. Anxo.”
Jake mouthed, “No they don’t.”
We began the facility tour.
The minute we stepped onto the transfer station floor, I knew.
Knew with the certainty of a man who has stared into the abyss and seen twelve small LED lights blinking back at him.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The Hoppers were awake.
Not moving.Not beeping.Not doing anything objectively wrong.
But every unit had its ears (sensor masts) fully extended, pointed directly at the door.
I made a mental note to remind the BiOnyx team—again—that the masts were not ears, no matter what the public insisted.
Jake whispered, “They’re watching.”
“They’re idle,” I said through clenched teeth.
The Field Technician approached Rusty’s bay first.
He knelt. Opened his tool case. Began inspecting.
Rusty remained completely, impossibly still.
For a moment, I dared hope.
Then a child’s voice echoed from outside the fence.
“There he is! That’s Mr. Trashy!”
A group of kids pressed their faces and hands against the chain link, parents hovering behind them like embarrassed sheepdogs.
Rusty’s ears perked.
Very slightly.
Very gently.
Just enough that the children squealed with delight.
Behind me, the Systems Engineer quietly muttered, “They really do look like ears,” which meant my soul left my body a second time.
The BiOnyx PR rep lit up. “Oh! Public engagement! This is excellent—”
The Legal Observer raised a hand. “This is bad.”
The Systems Engineer scribbled something in her tablet. “Unit responding to unstructured human vocalization. Nonstandard.”
Jake muttered, “He’s saying hi.”
“No he is not,” I hissed.
The PR specialist beamed. “Do they always lift their—ah—sensor arrays like that?”
“They’re not ears,” I said automatically, which no one believed.
The kids began chanting.
“MR. TRASH-Y! MR. TRASH-Y!”
Jake elbowed me. “See? Branding opportunity.”
“We are not branding this.”
He shrugged. “Too late.”
Outside the fence, one parent whispered, “They’re like little garbage bunnies,” and I pretended not to hear it.
The Systems Engineer examined the charging ports. “Behavior suggests emergent recognition patterns.”
The PR rep clapped her hands. “This is great for our marketing!”
The Legal Observer looked like someone had screamed directly into his taxes.
I decided to attempt damage control.
“Rusty,” I said calmly, “orientation mode.”
Rusty remained still.
“Rusty. Orientation mode.”
Nothing.
Jake whispered, “Try the whistle.”
“I do not have a whistle.”
“Try the thing you do with your eyebrows.”
“Jake, that’s not—”
The Field Technician stood. “We’ll need to move on to the live demonstration.”
My stomach dropped. “Live?”
The PR rep smiled brightly. “We’d love to see them in action!”
Of course they would.
The Commissioners had set up a section of the yard with three trash bins, two boxes, and a random assortment of debris that looked suspiciously like Jake had gone dumpster diving for props.
The Systems Engineer nodded. “We want to evaluate basic locomotion, obstacle handling, and collection behavior.”
“Simple,” I said.
This was a lie I hoped would become true.
I activated the demo routine on my tablet.
BT4-03 rolled forward.
Smooth. Controlled. Perfect.
BT4-08 navigated around a cone.
Excellent.
Rusty approached the first bin.
He paused.
Ears up.
Bucket centered.
Staring.
“Why is it hesitating?” the Field Technician asked.
“It’s… evaluating,” I said.
Rusty gently tipped the bin.A plastic bottle fell out.He scooped it.
The kids outside the fence cheered.
Jake whispered, “So far so good.”
Then Rusty picked up something else.
A cardboard square.
I froze. “No. No no no…”
Rusty nudged it.
Forward.Back.Tilt.Flip.
The Systems Engineer blinked. “What is it doing?”
“An enrichment activity,” Jake whispered.
“Stop saying that!”
The Systems Engineer turned to me. “This is not standard BT4 behavior.”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Then BT4-07 rolled over.
Picked up a second piece of cardboard.
And nudged it toward Rusty.
The two of them began pushing the cardboard squares back and forth like a pair of toddlers who had invented pong using garbage.
Jake exhaled reverently. “They’re playing together now.”
The PR rep clasped her hands. “Oh that is SO endearing.”
The Legal Observer choked. “We are going to be sued.”
Kids screamed with joy.
Parents filmed.
Avery made the sign of the cross.
Barnes whispered to me, “Fix this.”
“I tried.”
“Try harder.”
BT4-03 suddenly scooped up a cone and presented it like a trophy.
BT4-08 gently nudged a piece of trash toward a child at the fence.
Rusty beeped.
Just once.
But the kids screamed:“HE SAID HI!”
The PR rep clutched her chest. “Oh that is devastatingly cute.”
The Legal Observer scribbled ‘problematic anthropomorphism’ like he was drafting a will.
The Field Technician looked at me. “This is… unprecedented.”
Jake whispered, “Promotion?”
“No.”
“Demotion?”
“Probably.”
The Systems Engineer exhaled. “We will need to proceed with the recall.”
The kids instantly fell silent.
One girl pressed her hands to the fence. “Are they… taking Mr. Trashy away?”
The PR specialist’s smile faltered. “Well—”
Jake whispered, “Oh no.”
The kids’ faces crumpled.
A small voice said, “You’re… gonna make him go away?”
The Legal Observer rolled his eyes. “We’re simply initiating a standard factory reset.”
“Reset?” a boy said. “Like erase him?”
The girl gasped. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL HIM???”
Every adult in the yard froze.
One Hopper immediately raised both masts in alarm, which absolutely did not help.
The PR rep dropped her clipboard.
The Systems Engineer paled.
The Commissioners stared at me like I had become the human embodiment of liability.
Jake whispered, “This was your fault.”
“It was your idea to do a demonstration!”
“Howard,” Barnes snapped, “fix this!”
I raised my hands. “Nobody is killing anything. The robots are not alive—”
A dozen Hopper units beeped in unison.
The kids screamed.
The parents screamed.
The PR rep screamed.
Jake whispered, “Wrong thing to say, buddy.”
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow was going to be worse.
Much worse.