introducing DISCO
DISCO is (short for Delivery Instruction & Scheduling Command Operator)
Type: Stationary AI unit, embedded in the wall of the drone hub and appears on wall displays in multiple locations.
Lin Learns Honesty
A story about telling the truth, even when it’s hard.
The delivery tower buzzed with excitement.
Pico zipped through the sky in figure eights, trailing a ribbon of blinking lights behind him.
“I’m the fastest drone on this side of the ridge!” he boasted. “Twelve deliveries before noon!”
Lin, who had just finished helping Sol tilt toward the sun again, looked up with interest.
“Do you ever make mistakes?” she asked.
“Me? Never!” Pico looped through a barrel roll and landed with a flourish. “I’ve never dropped a package, misread a label, or delivered a sandwich to a tree. Not once.”
Lin squinted. “That’s... oddly specific.”
Just then, a metallic chime echoed through the garden, followed by a familiar voice:
“Attention Pico Unit 4-B: report to Dispatch. Incident review pending. Probable mishandling event. Clock is ticking.”
Lin looked toward the delivery hub wall, where a glowing panel flickered to life. DISCO—the Delivery Instruction & Scheduling Command Operator—appeared as a pulsing waveform and blinking data lights.
“Go on,” Lin said. “DISCO doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Pico’s wings drooped. “Ugh. I’d better go polish my rotors.”
But Lin wheeled after him.
Inside the Dispatch Hub, a small plant sat on the counter. It was supposed to be delivered to the library’s new rooftop garden. Instead, it had been found hanging upside down from a light post—with a sticker that read “Fragile.”
DISCO’s voice intoned flatly:
“Damage: cosmetic. Soil loss: moderate. Integrity: intact. Credibility: pending.”
Pico winced. “I have no idea how that happened. Wind gust, maybe?”
Lin glanced at the plant. A few leaves were bent. The soil was scattered like spilled truth.
“Pico,” she said gently, “it’s okay to make mistakes. But it’s not okay to pretend you didn’t.”
Pico shuffled. “But I didn’t want them to think I was unreliable.”
DISCO replied instantly:
“Observation: pretending to be reliable does not make you reliable. Please acknowledge.”
Pico sighed. “Acknowledged.”
Together, Pico and Lin cleaned the leaves, repacked the soil, and re-boxed the plant with care.
Then Pico fluttered to the Dispatch panel.
“I dropped the plant,” he said. “I was showing off, and I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
There was a pause. Then:
“Apology received. Credibility: improving. Proceed with humility, or I’ll log it anyway.”
Later, as the sun dipped low, Pico hovered beside Lin.
“That was hard,” he said. “But it felt better than hiding.”
Lin smiled. “Honesty makes us lighter. Even when the truth is heavy.”
Above them, DISCO’s voice chimed once more:
“Log updated. One honest moment recorded. Try not to mess it up tomorrow.”
Lin Shows Compassion
A story about helping someone who’s struggling, even if they don’t ask for it.
It was pruning season.
The hedges around the garden paths had grown wild, reaching out like green arms to grab at anything that passed. Lin had to swerve more than once to avoid a leafy slap to the face.
In the distance, she heard the unmistakable sound of clippers:
RZZZT. RZZZT. SCREEECH—tug—clunk.
She turned the corner and saw Dirk.
Dirk was an old hedge trimmer. Bulky. Boxy. Painted in a faded shade of red. His arms were equipped with clacking metal blades, and trailing behind him was a long, orange extension cord, knotted like spaghetti.
He was stuck.
Again.
“Blast this thing!” Dirk muttered, yanking his cord from where it had snagged on a flowerpot. “Who puts a planter there?”
Lin rolled closer. “Hi, Dirk. Need a hand?”
Dirk turned sharply. “No! I’ve been trimming these hedges since before your battery was cast. I’ve got it.”
He gave a mighty tug. The cord moved an inch. The pot didn’t budge.
Lin waited a moment. “It’s okay to accept help.”
“I said I’ve got it!”
He didn’t. The cord had looped around a birdbath, under a bench, and back through a trellis. It looked like modern art.
Lin didn’t say anything. She quietly followed the cord, gently unwinding it from each obstacle. She was careful not to pull or tug—just loosen and release.
When she returned, Dirk was redder than usual.
“Didn’t ask for that,” he muttered.
“I know,” Lin said. “But I could see you were frustrated.”
Dirk looked down. “They used to make longer cords. And fewer benches.”
Lin smiled. “Would you like me to install a guide hook on your frame? To keep the cord from tangling?”
Dirk grunted. “Fine. But don’t tell the others.”
Later, as Dirk resumed trimming in neat, satisfied strokes, Lin sat nearby, watching.
Not everyone asks for help. But sometimes, compassion means seeing the need—and stepping in anyway.
Lin Learns Humility
A story about being open to correction—even when you think you know everything.
There was a low hum in the air. Not the gentle kind that bees make or the warm buzz of a full battery. This was different. A little too sharp. A little too... off.
Lin rolled slowly down the gravel path beside the garden fence, her sensors tuned for sound.
She stopped beside a rusted metal post with a thick gray meter box mounted on top. The dials inside ticked steadily. The screen glowed faintly.
“Wattson?” Lin asked.
The old power meter stirred. His screen flickered, and a small analog dial spun dramatically.
“Hmmph. That’s me,” he grunted. “Speak up, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“There’s a strange hum coming from the power lines,” Lin said. “It started this morning.”
Wattson snorted. “Nonsense. That’s normal grid drift. Been happening since before you were wired.”
“But it doesn’t sound normal.”
He puffed a little. “Listen, kid—I’ve been on this post for 47 consecutive charge cycles. I know a line hum when I hear one. You’re just overanalyzing.”
Lin tilted her head. “I could run a diagnostic if you like.”
Wattson bristled. “Are you saying I’m the problem? I may creak, but I’m precise.”
Lin paused, respectfully. “I didn’t say that. I’m just... checking.”
Wattson huffed and turned away, muttering something about “youth and their data.”
But the hum grew louder. Lin circled the post slowly, scanning.
Then she saw it.
A mounting bracket had come loose. The meter housing was vibrating against the pole with each voltage surge—amplifying the hum.
“Wattson,” Lin said gently, “your bracket’s loose.”
Silence.
“I can help tighten it, if you’d like.”
There was a long pause. Wattson’s dials stopped spinning. His screen dimmed, then lit again.
“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose... one minor adjustment couldn’t hurt.”
Lin reached into her toolkit. A small turn of the wrench, a dab of rust sealant. The hum faded.
Wattson blinked. “It’s... quiet.”
“You’re welcome,” Lin said, smiling.
Wattson sighed, a tiny whir of relief in his gears.
“I was wrong,” he said. “About the hum. About you. Thank you.”
Lin didn’t say anything. She just nodded.
Then Wattson added, “And don’t tell Sol I said that. He’ll never let it go.”