This prompt was a list of randomly generated words–use one, some, or all. I managed all.
“What are you up to, you old tin can?” Roger shouted up the stairs.
“I can assure you, sir, that I am crafted from the latest in lightweight alloys,” the robot said, descending the staircase in quick, even steps, laundry basket in its hands. The old treads didn’t even creak under its gleaming feet, like they did when Roger cautiously climbed, gripping the rail so tightly his hands ached.
“It’s a figure of speech. Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Roger complained.
“I have a large database and fast processing speed, sir, but intelligence is measured on many scales. And to answer your question, I was cleaning, as my schedule suggested.”
“Cleaning what?” Roger asked. His eyes narrowed, and he shuffled forward to bring the robot’s face into better focus. Not that it was much of a face, lacking a mouth, with just a line for a nose. Two solid ovals served as eyes, which glowed faintly blue when the robot was running, and yellow when it was charging.
“Your bedding, sir.”
Roger harrumphed. “I told you to stay out of my room.”
“I promised you that I would only enter your room when it is necessary. It was time for your sheets to be changed, which I did.”
“Poking around in my drawers, no doubt. Invasion of privacy. Never get old, they say. But what else can you do?” Roger shook his finger at the robot. “I told my son I didn’t need a newfangled contraption, and what’s he say? My fall risk is too high. It’s you or a home. I’m not going to be put in a home!”
“As you say, sir. I am going to start a load of laundry, unless you require something first?” the robot said, unruffled.
Roger didn’t think robots even had tempers to ruffle. His son, Roger Jr., had assured him that the machine wasn’t conscious, not really. Only a very complicated set of routines.
Junior had been very clear that the robot stayed, or Roger had to leave his house, so he grumbled to himself, and shuffled aside to let the robot past.
He watched through the doorway as it efficiently started a load, cleaned and hung up the laundry basket, before opening a vacuum attachment from its arms, and with the faintest of hums, whisked away a couple defenseless dust bunnies.
Roger had been cleaning as best he could, but his bad back had meant he’d had to hire a cleaner a few years ago. Between them and food deliveries, he was doing just fine.
Junior needed to stop worrying.
“Come out here when you’re done!” he called, turning and shuffling to his chair in the living room.
“Of course, sir,” the robot extended the vacuum to the ceiling, retracted it, and then stepped lightly behind him, pausing to wait for him to clear the hallway.
Fast and quiet. Like the worst youngster ever.
Roger eased himself into his seat, and then looked around for his glasses. He’d sworn he’d taken them off and set them on the table next to his chair. He sometimes took a little nap, with the tv running.
They weren’t there.
“Can I be of assistance?” the robot asked.
“I can find my own glasses, tincan,” Roger snapped.
“As you prefer, sir,” the robot said, standing patiently as he rummaged, his muttering growing more vicious with every passing moment.
“Alright. Where are they?”
The robot leaned around him, swiftly plucking the glasses from where they lay, mostly hidden under yesterday’s newspaper.
“Don’t get smug, tincan.” Roger took the glasses, and slid them on.
“Of course not, sir. Smug is not in my programming. May I be of further assistance?”
“Do your cleaning in here, where I can keep an eye on you.”
The robot nodded, unbothered, and set to work.
No chance of Roger admitting it to his son, but perhaps the tincan wasn’t so bad.
caitlinsternwrites 