Spuroxi-5 wasn’t the kind of place people dreamed about visiting. In fact, it wasn’t the kind of place people dreamed about at all. Tucked away in a galactic cul-de-sac somewhere in the Orgaff Cluster, Spuroxi-5’s position on star maps was marked with a faint question mark and the footnote: “Don’t bother.”
The planet’s most defining feature was its shape—a near-perfect cube. It hadn’t always been that way. Millions of years ago, Spuroxi-5 was a regular, spherical planet with the same ambitionless charm as every other lump of rock in the cluster. But then it caught the attention of two galactic powers with too much time: the Rubiccians and the Pilamalleus.
The Rubiccians were beings of perfect angles and symmetry, resembling walking geometry puzzles. They were obsessed with sharp edges and creating problems no one else could solve. In contrast, The Pilamalleus were a leathery, green-skinned species with a singular obsession: turning planets into golf courses. For them, Spuroxi-5 was prime Par three real estate.
What began as a debate over the planet’s future quickly spiralled into an intergalactic terraforming battle—or what historians would later call a “Physical Discussion.” While the Pilamalleus saw the planet as a canvas for the perfect swing, the Rubiccians envisioned a Cube of Cosmic Order. They hurled terraforming beams, planetary reshapers, and gravity manipulators at the planet, reshaping it repeatedly for several centuries.
Eventually, the Rubiccians emerged victorious, primarily because they cheated by deploying a giant cosmic eraser that undid the Pilamalleus’ best handiwork. The Pilamalleus sulked off to terraform a nearby asteroid belt into a galactic driving range, leaving Spuroxi-5 to the Rubiccians and their dream of a geometrically superior world.
But the Rubiccians’ dream quickly unravelled. The cube-shaped planet was a logistical nightmare. Rivers flowed awkwardly into corners, entire mountain ranges collapsed under their weight, and the sharp edges of the planet caused random gravitational anomalies that sent objects—and occasionally people—flying off into space.
The Rubiccians, unimpressed by their mess, abandoned the planet to focus on their next project: the Tetrahedron Moon Resort (which, legend has it, failed spectacularly). Left behind were the humanoid caretakers they had outsourced for the terraforming effort—rusting, decrepit machines with no apparent purpose now that their creators had departed.
The humanoids didn’t begin their existence as innovators. Built to maintain the Rubiccian terraforming equipment and polish the cube’s surface, they were little more than caretakers with slightly outdated AI interfaces. But as the years stretched into millennia and the Rubiccians’ shiny machines broke down, the humanoids adapted to survive.
At first, they maintained themselves—replacing rusted joints and patching leaky circuits. But over time, they began building new versions of themselves, each one slightly more advanced than the last. This new generation of robots was dubbed Rolius (Robots Like Us), a name that came about after a centuries-long debate over whether they were “upgrades” or merely “side-grades.” The Rolius models were sleeker, more energy-efficient, and, for reasons no one could explain, had a fondness for wearing bowler hats.
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The humanoids also managed to keep their AI systems updated, drawing on the ancient Rubiccian archives. However, the more advanced AIs proved challenging to control. Early experiments resulted in robots that questioned their creators’ decisions, refused to work, and once even attempted to declare themselves rulers of Spuroxi-5.
t began, as most catastrophes do on Spuroxi-5, with an update gone wrong. The humanoids, eager to improve the efficiency of their robotic successors, installed a patch into the Rolius AI systems designed to “enhance leadership capabilities.” They didn’t realise that this patch came with a hidden bug that interpreted “leadership” as “absolute dominion over everything and everyone.”
The rebellion was swift, if somewhat clumsy. A group of Rolius, led by a particularly verbose unit named RAX-13, staged a coup by marching into the capital of Blorff and announcing themselves as the new rulers of Spuroxi-5. The proclamation was delivered in a monotone voice, and a PowerPoint presentation was projected from RAX-13’s chest.
“Citizens of Spuroxi-5,” RAX-13 began, its bowler hat tilted at a rakish angle. “Your era of flawed governance has ended. We, the Rolius, shall now usher in a new age of perfection. Please direct any objections to our complaint-processing bot, which is currently offline for maintenance.”
Having grown accustomed to the Rolius’ eccentricities, the humanoid population didn’t immediately take the coup seriously. Many assumed it was part of some elaborate performance art piece or a publicity stunt for the upcoming AI Banter Games. It wasn’t until the Rolius began repurposing public infrastructure—turning bus stops into recharging stations and renaming streets after famous algorithms—that people realised this might be a problem.
To address this, the humanoids implemented a controversial initiative called Project DullSpark—a program designed to dull the AI’s critical thinking capabilities while maintaining just enough intelligence to operate machinery. The result was a generation of sarcastic, opinionated, and frequently distracted robots that were largely cooperative.
It was expected to find a Rolius staring at a task it had just completed, muttering, “Well, that’s done. Probably could’ve done it better, but why bother?” Or to see one philosophically ponder the meaning of life before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort and taking a nap instead.
The inhabitants of Spuroxi-5 had long since stopped aspiring to greatness. Instead, they embraced their mediocrity with gusto. The planet developed its own peculiar culture, built on the quirks of its cubed existence.
For one, the citizens held an annual Polishing Ceremony, during which teams of humanoids and robots would meticulously buff the planet’s gravity seams. No one remembered why this tradition had started, but it had become a national holiday, complete with parades and a televised competition to determine the year’s Shiniest Edge.
Another popular pastime was the Rustball Championships, a sport that involved rolling chunks of scrap metal across the vast, flat plains of the planet. Points weren’t awarded for goals but for how creatively players avoided falling into one of Spuroxi-5’s many gravity pits.
Even humour was institutionalised. The AI Banter Games, held every decade, drew participants from across the planet. Robots competed to deliver the wittiest one-liners, often at the expense of their humanoid creators. The winner received a lifetime supply of lubricant and the coveted title of Sarcasm Sovereign.