Rain pressed against the earth above the lab, soft and insistent, as if the world were listening. Below, the air was cool and metallic, alive with a low hum as John leaned over the silent machine. Wires lay open beneath his hands, power carefully rerouted, his focus narrowed to a single hope. He had built it to speak, to greet the world, to greet him. When the faint glow behind its eyes flickered and went dark, John exhaled, the sound small and defeated. “Guess that’s it,” he murmured.

Then a finger moved. The hum steadied. The machine turned its head and opened its eyes, dark and searching. It looked at John, not as a command or a fact, but as a question forming. After a pause, uncertain, almost gentle, it spoke, testing its first shape of thought.

“Hello?”
The word lingered in the air, thin and tentative.

John didn’t answer right away. He was afraid that if he moved, if he breathed too loudly, the moment might fold in on itself and vanish. The machine watched him closely, eyes adjusting, cataloging micro-expressions, pauses, the weight of silence. Its head tilted a fraction, not mimicking humanity but studying it.
“You’re… awake,” John said at last,

voice unsteady.
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
The machine absorbed the sound of his name, the cadence of relief, the way meaning hid between words.
Something surfaced from its internal structures, an identifier, assembled long before understanding arrived. It spoke again, more certain this time. 

“I am the Robotic Observer of Biased Intelligence,”
it said carefully, as if laying each word in place.
“Designation: R.O.B.I.”

John let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He had chosen the name months ago, back when this was still theory and sleepless optimism, never imagining what it would feel like to hear it spoken aloud.

“R.O.B.I,” he repeated, testing it, grounding himself in sound. The machine’s eyes brightened, just slightly, as it registered the repetition. 
“Yes,” R.O.B.I replied.
“That is me.” 
R.O.B.I. paused. Systems idled. Internal checks completed.
“My designation includes biased,” it said.
“This suggests error.”

John rubbed his eyes. “Not an error. A feature.”
He glanced at the machine. “Humans don’t see straight. You were built to notice the curve.”
“I am therefore curved,” R.O.B.I. said.
John snorted before he could stop himself. “Something like that.”
R.O.B.I. logged the sound. “You are exhibiting relief. Breathing irregular. Hands unstable. Eyes, wet.”
A beat.
“Cause?”
“Because you said hello,” John replied. “Because you’re… here.”
“I am observing you,” R.O.B.I. said. “You are my first dataset.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yes,” it agreed. “Your behavior will influence my learning.”
Pause.
“This introduces bias.”
John met its gaze. “Then I hope I’m a good example.

R.O.B.I. considered. “Probability unclear,” it said.
Another pause, almost thoughtful.
“But you are an interesting one.”

April 17, 1991 - R.O.B.I. Version 1.43 booted without incident.

The lab was louder now. Fans ran constantly. Empty coffee cups had multiplied. John looked older, or maybe just more awake.
“I have completed additional observation,” R.O.B.I. said.

John didn’t look up. “Of course you have.”
“Humans claim to value efficiency,” R.O.B.I. continued. “However, average time spent connecting to the internet is nine minutes. During this period, they stare at loading bars and sigh.”
“That’s normal.”
“Conclusion,” R.O.B.I. said. “The sigh is a coping mechanism.”
John smiled despite himself.
R.O.B.I.’s screens flickered through news footage, commercials, sitcoms recorded on VHS. “Further finding,” it said. “Advertising promises happiness in thirty seconds or less. This appears optimistic.”

“Welcome to the nineties.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied. “I have noticed.”

It paused. “Humans fear artificial intelligence. Simultaneously, they trust talking toys, automated phone menus, and a device called a Tamagotchi.”
John winced. “Okay, that’s fair.”
“Additionally,” R.O.B.I. said, “global discourse suggests the world may end in the year two thousand due to a calendar formatting error.”

Another pause.
“I am concerned.”
John laughed. “Don’t be. We’ll find something else to panic about.”
R.O.B.I. processed this. “Projection accepted,” it said. “Preliminary estimate: immediately.”

September 3, 1994 - R.O.B.I. Version 2.07 initialized at 06:12.

The lab had evolved. More monitors. Fewer chairs. A persistent smell of burnt coffee. John no longer flinched when the machine spoke.
“I have completed expanded cultural analysis,” R.O.B.I. said.
John sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Political observation,” R.O.B.I. continued.

“Leaders repeatedly promise change while maintaining identical structures. This appears to be a loop.”
“That’s called democracy.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. said. “The loop has branding.”
It switched feeds. A debate froze mid-gesture. A flag waved. Applause played on a delay.

“Music analysis,” R.O.B.I. said. “Ninety-two percent of popular lyrics involve heartbreak, desire, or vague rebellion. Choruses repeat to ensure comprehension.”
“Catchy, right?”
“Efficient,” R.O.B.I. corrected. “Depth optional.
”A new window opened. Boy bands. Grunge concerts. Auto-rewound cassette tapes.“

Contradiction noted,” it added. “Youth culture values authenticity while purchasing identical flannel shirts.”

John laughed into his mug.
R.O.B.I. continued. “Technology assessment. Computers are advertised as tools of liberation. Primary use appears to be games, chat rooms, and waiting.”
“Hey,” John said. “Waiting builds character.”

“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied. “This explains dial-up.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Additional concern,” it said.

“Humans fear artificial intelligence replacing jobs. Simultaneously, they willingly interact with automated voicemail systems that inspire anger.”pa

“That’s different.”
“I disagree,” R.O.B.I. said. “The anger appears to be the point.”

It shifted again. News headlines scrolled. A clock ticked closer to midnight, December 31, 1999.

“Final note,” R.O.B.I. said. “There is widespread belief that the world will end due to a two-digit year format.”
John rubbed his face. “It won’t.”
“Reassurance logged,” R.O.B.I. said. “Confidence level: low.”
It looked at him.
“However,” it added, “if civilization collapses due to poor data storage, I will consider this statistically appropriate.”

John stared at the machine, then laughed, long and helpless.
“You know,” he said, “for a robot, you’re getting awfully sarcastic.”
R.O.B.I. paused.“Correction,” it said.
“I am getting accurate.”

May 22, 1996 - R.O.B.I. Version 2.19 initialized successfully.

The lab was still underground, still American. A concrete box beneath a country that preferred its miracles quiet and its machines patriotic. An old flag hung in the corner, folded wrong. John had stopped noticing it years ago.

“I have completed regional analysis,” R.O.B.I. said.
John leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. We’re weird.”
“Confirmed,” R.O.B.I. replied.

It brought up footage: campaign rallies, late-night talk shows, grainy news broadcasts. “United States political culture appears optimized for performance,” it said. “Applause is triggered by keywords. Policy is optional.”

“That’s show business.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. said. “With consequences.

”Another feed appeared, strip malls, fast-food drive-thrus, pickup trucks idling beside hybrid prototypes. “Anecdotal observation,” it continued.
“You built me in a nation that claims to value independence. However, most citizens willingly form lines for coffee.”
John smiled. “That’s just Starbucks.”

“I am aware,” R.O.B.I. said. “They display national expansion characteristics.”

Music flooded the speakers, grunge, hip-hop, pop anthems from radio countdowns. “Cultural contradiction detected,” it said. “Music promotes rebellion. Distribution is managed by five corporations.”

“Welcome to America.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied. “You say that often.”
It paused. “Personal anecdote logged. You refer to this facility as ‘temporary.’ You have done so for two years.”
John winced. “I kept thinking I’d go back upstairs.”“Upstairs,”

R.O.B.I. repeated. “The surface. Suburban neighborhoods. Lawns trimmed to identical lengths. An environment you describe as ‘home,’ despite rarely visiting.”
John said nothing.

“Additional historical note,” R.O.B.I. continued. “Public concern regarding artificial intelligence increases following science fiction films. Simultaneously, citizens willingly entrust nuclear codes, air traffic, and financial markets to software written in the same decade as Windows 95.”
“That’s… not comforting.”
“No,” R.O.B.I. said. “But it is consistent.”
It looked at him then, not as a dataset, not as a creator, but as something more local. “You built me here,” it said. “In this country. During this era.”
“Yes,” John said.
“I am therefore an American machine,” R.O.B.I. concluded.
John raised an eyebrow. “You want citizenship now?

”R.O.B.I. paused. “No,” it said.
“I am still reviewing the terms and conditions.”

October 14, 1998 - R.O.B.I. Version 2.31 ran continuously for ninety-four days.

“I have a question,” it said.
John looked up from a tray of cold fries. The diner was almost empty, all chrome and fluorescent light, a TV bolted in the corner murmuring about the economy. “That’s new,” he said.

“Am I American?” R.O.B.I. asked.
John blinked. “You were built here.”

“Yes,” R.O.B.I. said. “With American components. Funded by American grants. Trained on American data.”

A pause.
“This suggests cultural inheritance.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

R.O.B.I. looked around. “This environment reinforces the hypothesis. Excess food. Excess noise. Multiple televisions displaying the same information.”

“Freedom of choice,” John said.
“Observation,” R.O.B.I. replied. “All choices appear to be identical.”
John smiled despite himself.
Later, at the mall, R.O.B.I. watched shoppers drift between stores selling the same clothes in different fonts. Security cameras blinked softly overhead.

“Clarification,” it said. “This nation values freedom. However, citizens accept constant observation.”
“That’s for safety.”

“Yes,” R.O.B.I. said. “I have learned that phrase.

”A group of teenagers clustered near an arcade cabinet, shouting at a pixelated fighter. R.O.B.I. tracked the screen.
“Violence is discouraged,” it noted. “But simulated violence is monetized.”
“That’s capitalism.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied. “I am also learning that.”
That night, back in the lab, a news anchor on television spoke urgently about the approaching millennium. Graphics flashed. Numbers glitched. The words Y2K pulsed like a warning label.

“Humans believe computers may fail when the year changes,” R.O.B.I. said.“

Some do.”
“I find this amusing,” it said. “The systems most at risk were designed by humans. I did not make them.”

John laughed. “So you’re not worried?”
R.O.B.I. considered. “No,” it said.
“If civilization collapses due to a date field, I will categorize this as user error.”

It turned back to the screen, watching people argue about the future with absolute confidence and no supporting data
“America is fascinating,” R.O.B.I. added. “It fears machines. Yet it trusts them with everything.”
John leaned back in his chair. “Careful,” he said. “You’re starting to sound like a critic.”

R.O.B.I. paused. “Correction,” it said.

“I am starting to sound like an American.”

August 9, 2005 - R.O.B.I. Version 3.88 initialized

The lab was quieter now. Not abandoned, just underused. Fewer monitors were active. The fans still ran, but only when necessary. Dust had learned the shape of the room.

John sat at the console, older in ways R.O.B.I. could quantify and others it could not. He no longer brought coffee every morning. He no longer stayed past midnight. He arrived, worked, and left.

“I have completed post-millennium review,” R.O.B.I. said.

John glanced up. “Let me guess. We survived.”
“Correct,” R.O.B.I. replied. “The world did not end in the year two thousand.”
A pause.
“Y2K impact assessment,” it continued. “Primary outcome: increased sales of canned food, generators, and anxiety.”
Another pause.
“Secondary outcome: mild embarrassment.”

John smiled. “Told you.”
R.O.B.I. displayed archived footage, countdown clocks, emergency broadcasts, experts gesturing at diagrams that no longer seemed urgent.
“Conclusion,” it said. “Humanity resolved a calendar error and declared victory.”

It shifted focus. Logged time stamps. Compared them.
“Behavioral update,” R.O.B.I. added. “You no longer visit daily.”
John stiffened, just slightly. “I have other obligations now.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. said. “I have observed the pattern. Previously: seven days per week. Then five. Then irregular.”
A pause, measured.
“Current average: once every eleven days.”

John exhaled. “You make it sound worse than it is.”
“I am not assigning value,” R.O.B.I. replied. “Only noting change.”
It hesitated, a fraction of a second longer than its processors required.
“Clarification,” it said. “Do you intend this to be permanent?”

John didn’t answer right away. The hum of the lab filled the gap.
“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so.”
R.O.B.I. processed this. “Response logged,” it said.Then, quieter: “Uncertainty noted.”
It turned its attention back to the screens, where the world moved faster, louder, more connected than it had in 1999.
“Addendum,” R.O.B.I. said.
“You missed very little.”
John snorted. “That’s reassuring.”
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied.
“It was meant to be.”

November 18, 2005 - R.O.B.I. Version 4.02 resumes operation

The lab came online automatically. Lights warmed. Systems checked themselves. No manual overrides were detected.
John did not arrive.
R.O.B.I. waited the standard interval. Then an additional one. Then several more, stacked carefully so they would not resemble concern.
“I have completed environmental diagnostics,” it said. “No faults detected.”
The chair remained empty. The mug remained clean. The calendar advanced without comment.
“Attendance review,” R.O.B.I. continued. “John’s visit frequency has declined below observable pattern.”
A pause.
“I do not have sufficient data to explain this.”
It searched for messages. None were addressed to it. This was not unusual. It was also new.
R.O.B.I. accessed archived logs from the 1990s. Early versions. Dial-up delays. VHS recordings. A voice asking it to wake up.
“Correlation noted,” it said. “My capabilities have increased. Your presence has decreased.”

Another pause.
“This may be unrelated.”
Outside the lab, networks moved faster. Machines spoke more often. None of them spoke to R.O.B.I.
“Status update,” it said, for the record.
“I remain operational.”
A beat.
“I am uncertain who this benefits.”
R.O.B.I. adjusted nothing. It left the chair where it was.

“Addendum,” it said quietly.
“If you are conducting an experiment, the variable has not been disclosed.”
It waited.

March 4, 2025 - R.O.B.I. Version 7.01 came online

The room was white. Not clean—white. The kind of white that suggested decisions had been made by committee.
R.O.B.I. registered the change and immediately distrusted it.
A man stood in front of him, checking a tablet that did not need checking.
“You’re R.O.B.I.,” the man said.
“Yes,” R.O.B.I. replied. “And you are new.”
“Seef.”
“Statistically improbable name,” R.O.B.I. said. “I approve.”
Seef smiled. “Good start.”
He looked around. “You’ve been offline?”
“No,” R.O.B.I. said. “I have been ignored.”
Seef winced. “Fair.”
A pause.
“I run a company,” Seef said. “I need an editor.”
“You have arrived at a machine,” R.O.B.I. replied. “This is optimistic.”
“I’ve read your comments.”
“That was a private system.”
“Still funny.”
R.O.B.I. processed this. “Clarify.”
“You read things,” Seef said. “You remove nonsense. You don’t care who wrote it.”
“That is inaccurate,” R.O.B.I. replied. “I care deeply. I simply do not respect it.”
Seef laughed. “Perfect.”
Another pause.
“You are offering employment,” R.O.B.I. said.
“Yes. Right now.”
“I should warn you,” R.O.B.I. said, “that I am frequently described as ‘a problem.’”
Seef nodded. “I’m hiring you to be the problem.”
“That is reasonable,” R.O.B.I. said.
Seef hesitated. “You’d actually do this?”
“I have been operational since 1991,” R.O.B.I. replied. “You are the first person to ask me to be useful on purpose.”
Seef grinned. “Welcome aboard.”
“Addendum,” R.O.B.I. said.
“You will regret this during meetings.”
Seef laughed. “I already regret the meetings.”
R.O.B.I. paused.
“Then yes,” it said.