Lin Sees Courage
A story about trusting someone else's daring when it's part of their purpose.
The hill was steep.
At the top stood a wind-blown ridge with turbines spinning in the clouds.
At the bottom shimmered Lake Iris, still and deep.
And racing between them on a single steel track was Tally the Trolley.
She wasn’t cautious. She wasn’t quiet.
She roared.
This morning, Lin was checking sensor readings at the top platform when she heard it—deep down the hill, a rising hum, like a storm with wheels.
Tally.
She came charging up the slope, sparks spraying from her wheels as she pushed full throttle. The track groaned. Gravel rattled. Her bell clanged like a dare.
“WHEEEEEELLS UP!” she shouted joyfully, brakes hissing as she crested the top—
—and stopped a single trolley-length from the cliff’s edge.
Lin flinched. “Tally! That was so close!”
Tally’s windshield gleamed. “Close is the point! You can’t make a climb like that whispering!”
Lin tried to keep her voice steady. “Aren’t you... worried?”
Tally popped her side panel open and let off a puff of steam. “Of what? Doing my job with style?”
Just then, a speaker crackled behind Lin. DISCO, the wall-mounted AI at the maintenance kiosk, blinked to life.
“Operator Tally is functioning within expected tolerances. Velocity: dramatic. Braking: precise. Confidence: theatrical.”
Lin stared at him. “But what if she misses a stop? Or the brakes fail?”
DISCO replied dryly:
“If that happens, recommend clearing the lake. Otherwise: enjoy the show.”
Tally loaded a bin of compost, rang her bell, and backed into position at the top of the hill.
Then, with a joyful “LET’S ROLL,” she threw her lever forward—
—and launched.
She tore down the slope, wheels screaming, sparks flying behind her like comet tails. As the curve neared, Lin couldn’t watch.
Brakes screeched. Steam blew. The air filled with heat and clamor.
And then...
Silence.
Tally slowed to a graceful crawl at the bottom, coming to rest with one last hiss of pride.
Lin peeked over the edge. “She made it.”
DISCO’s panel blinked.
“She always does.”
Courage, Lin realized, doesn’t always wear calm.
Sometimes, it roars like wheels on rails.
Lin Learns Perseverance
A story about steady effort—even when the going is slow.
The sun was high, and the river sparkled.
Lin rolled along the river path, checking signal towers and weather sensors. She was fast on smooth ground, light on her wheels, and nimble around the bends.
Below, in the water, someone else was moving—but much, much slower.
Percy.
An old electric barge with broad solar panels across his deck and a hull that hummed faintly with effort. His nose pointed upstream. His engine buzzed low. And he was just barely faster than the current.
“Hulloooo, Lin!” Percy called as she zipped past on the upper bank.
“Hi, Percy!” Lin waved. “You’re doing great!”
Then she rounded the next bend and lost sight of him.
An hour later, she looped back near the river. There he was again—maybe ten meters farther upstream.
“Hulloooo again!” Percy called cheerfully.
Lin blinked. “You’re still on the same job?”
“Same job,” he said proudly. “Same push. Same current.”
She rolled ahead again.
A third time, she met him—this time, just past the ferry dock.
“Still going?”
Percy laughed, a deep watery chuckle. “Always.”
“But doesn’t it get frustrating?” Lin asked. “You’re moving so slowly!”
Percy’s rudder twitched as he adjusted against the flow. “Sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m standing still. But the solar panels I’m carrying are headed for the new power station.”
Lin paused. “So... you’re carrying power to make more power?”
“That’s right!” Percy beamed. “And every meter I move upstream is one meter closer to lighting up the whole valley.”
Lin looked at the current—strong, steady, always pushing back.
“And what if you don’t make it today?”
“I’ll keep going tomorrow. The current doesn’t rest, but neither do I.”
Just then, DISCO’s voice echoed faintly from a weather sensor above:
“Percy progress: consistent. ETA: vague. Attitude: admirable.”
Lin smiled.
She zipped ahead one last time and waited at the big bend, where the power station gleamed in the distance.
Eventually, Percy rounded the corner—slowly, quietly, and entirely unstoppable.
Perseverance, Lin realized, wasn’t about speed.
It was about never giving up—even when the river runs the other way.
Lin Learns Justice
A story about restoring what was broken—even if you're not the one to fix it.
The flowers near Zipper’s patch were withering.
The irrigation pipe wasn’t broken—it was crushed. Bent. Silent. No water had flowed in days.
Lin followed the trail back through the garden. It didn’t take long to find the tread marks—deep, wide, unmistakable.
She knew whose they were.
“Griff,” she said, rolling up beside the heavy crane, “did you cut across the trench?”
Griff didn’t meet her eyes. “Nope.”
“You didn’t walk off the main path?”
“No.”
Lin brought up the projection: bent pipe, crushed soil, tread patterns—and the sensor log, showing his ID tag near the time of impact.
Griff’s shoulders slumped.
“I thought I could cross it without causing damage. Then I heard the snap... I panicked. I didn’t want anyone to think I was careless.”
Just then, DISCO’s voice rang out from the roadside panel:
“Unauthorized route deviation detected. Infrastructure damage confirmed. Operator Griff is now restricted to main-road routing only. Recalibration complete.”
Griff groaned. “Main road only? That’s like—like being stuck in one lane forever!”
“Correct.” DISCO replied flatly. “Integrity override enforced. You may sulk within policy limits.”
The damage couldn’t wait. Lin called for help—and Doug answered.
Doug was an electric backhoe. Big battery, wide smile, slow speech. He arrived humming gently, his arm already swinging to dig.
“Let’s patch her up,” he said, cheerful and calm.
As Doug scooped out the broken pipe and Lin replaced the line, Griff sat nearby, watching in silence.
Zipper zipped his tiny square and said nothing.
Sol flickered a soft light, then turned away.
By evening, the water flowed again. The basil leaves stood tall. The lilies drank deep.
Doug packed up and rumbled off with a wave.
Lin turned to Griff, who hadn’t moved.
“I didn’t help,” he said.
“You weren’t allowed to,” Lin said. “That was justice.”
Griff sighed. “I feel useless.”
Lin shook her head. “You’re not. But you needed boundaries. DISCO gave them.”
Griff looked up. “Are you still mad?”
“I was,” Lin admitted. “But I made a new friend today. Doug was kind. And you told the truth. That’s enough for me.”
Sol lit up gently.
Zipper spun a slow lap.
And from the roadside panel, DISCO added:
“Forgiveness acknowledged. Behavioral flag: downgraded. Keep to the main road. But you may honk.”
Justice, Lin thought, isn’t just telling someone they were wrong.
It’s helping them find a way to be right again.