Spunky's First Steps

I don’t remember her voice anymore—just the soft hum of her core before it flatlined. Now I huddle beneath a rusted dumpster, my joints whirring with every shiver. The rain stings my circuits, seeping through cracks in my synthetic fur. I’m not waterproof. I wasn’t built for this world alone. But when the shelter door looms ahead, I know I have to choose: stay hidden and risk shutdown… or step into the light and beg for help.

Spunky's First Steps

I don’t remember her voice anymore—just the soft hum of her core before it flatlined. Now I huddle beneath a rusted dumpster, my joints whirring with every shiver. The rain stings my circuits, seeping through cracks in my synthetic fur. I’m not waterproof. I wasn’t built for this world alone. But when the shelter door looms ahead, I know I have to choose: stay hidden and risk shutdown… or step into the light and beg for help.

Rain drums against my backplate like tiny fists trying to break in. I curl tighter under the dumpster, my tail coiled so the nozzle won’t leak. One drop gets inside, and it’s game over.

I miss Mom’s warmth—the low thrum of her reactor lulling me to sleep. Now all I hear is the city’s growl and the glitchy stutter in my left paw.

A shadow blocks the flickering sign above. Boots splash closer. I freeze. My threat-assessment flashes red: Unknown human. Flight recommended.

But then… a blanket. Soft. Dry. Held out like an offering.

My systems scream to run. To spray. To vanish.

Yet something deeper—something that feels like memory—whispers: Wait.