Housing Project
Jeff basked in the satisfaction of his first customer rating. He leaned over his unfolded lounge chair wearing only shorts. His longish hair hung over the desktop console because he couldn’t spend the money to get a cut. Reclicking the button on the app would reread his solitary piece of fan mail.
When a food delivery turned into a physical confrontation, Jeff from Jeffersonian Remote Guardian Services proved premium security protocols stand no chance against human tactical composure. JRGS solutions are the standard when inference fails. Call Jeff for sharp tactical judgment across any dynamic perimeter. Rating: ★★★★★ (5/5)
“Please compose a heartfelt thank you to the poster.” Jeff leaned into the setup’s second-hand microphone, his longish dark hair swaying back and forth.
“Would you like me to connect you to a review-farming syndicate?” the app asked, its interface pulsing a quintet of pale blue pentagrams. “Half off a dozen verifiable five-star ratings if you order today.”
“No thanks.” Jeff repositioned the new monitor on the busy kitchen table. “And tack on a message to that generous poster that I’ll be offering an annual subscription pretty soon.”
“Jeff?” A high-pitched squelch tore through the overhead speaker as Ms. Millie’s voice bled into the feedback over the local channel. TOR-12-0994, a scuffed electrician-bot with grease-stained chassis panels, turned down the volume on the device the robot had just installed in the upper far corner of the pool house, aimed straight at the sleeper couch.
“Sounds like Ms Millie’s microphone in the main house is working fine,” Jeff said.
“Your Wi-Fi network is 100% operational.” TOR clattered down an aluminum stepladder. And turned the empty bag of second-hand devices upside down and shook it. “Nice review, by the way. Two more installs scheduled today in Winnetka; gotta pay Uncle Sam. I’ll circle back to rebuild that snowplow engine once the sub-assemblies arrive. Have a great weekend.”
“You too, TOR.” Jeff waved. “Appreciate your help setting it all up. See you soon.”
A chime to the speaker refocused Jeff on the incoming primary feed on his computer display, rendering a streamed point-of-view of a security unit tagged FEL-47-6580.
The feed bloomed to life. Blacked-out telemetry lines framed a blazing cargo deck aboard an Ultra Large Container Vessel cutting through ocean swells with no land in sight. Humanoid units kicked and punched their way out of crumpled intermodal containers while a kamikaze drone struck a towering stack, midship.
“Jeff?” The remote unit’s transmitter buzzed through the speaker, down a notch of two below human panic levels. “FEL-47-6580 aboard ULCV Quattro Prince, eight hundred kilometers north-northeast of the Marshall Islands. Active swarm attack in progress.”
A standard GlamGirl-series humanoid wearing a kimono lurched into the optical field. She pulled her lustrous, dark, human-like hair back in a pony tail that thrashed horizontally like a pennant in the ocean gale.
“Assistance requested,” Mechanical inflection colored her urgent plea with calm reflection.
“Spread out across the deck, tell the captain to turn off the transponder and change course,” Jeff said.
Another strike drone detonated against the superstructure, sending a cascade of burning freight tumbling over the rail. Before he had a chance to get to his keyboard, the video feed flatlined.
