Timmy and I stepped out into the damp evening air, the last remnants of rain clinging to the pavement in uneven pools. The hum of the flood walls filled the space between us—ocean water, siphoned and converted into raw mana, a never-ending cycle that kept Tulanto’s, the Island to the natives, lights on and the rest of the world jealous.

The electric squad car waited where I’d left it, parked in front of Apartment Complex 4-2, a neat little corner of Tulanto’s meticulously planned neighborhoods. Every district was the same—clean, efficient, predictable. Not a thing out of place. Except, occasionally, for an apartment door that wouldn’t stay shut.

"God, that was pretty wicked, right, Kay?" Timmy was practically bouncing. "Instructor Chen said only around 40% of investigations even get solved, and of those, most happen in the first 48 hours—so not to get my hopes up, but damn, if this wasn't the best! My dad is gonna flip when he hears I solved a case on my first ride-along! I mean, he’d have figured it out five minutes in, but still! He’s wicked smart. But I guess you don’t need me to tell you that, right, Kay? Since, you know, your brain is basically his work?"

The kid was gushing again. His admiration for his father dripped like a leaky faucet in a foreclosed home. If I could barf, I might've. But that’s what organics did with their parents. They either adored them or hated them—no middle ground. At least, that was my observation. And observations were best left far, far away from personal reflection. Especially when TAI had a habit of forcing me into those.

I sent a quick ping to TAI to discuss operational security concerns with Gerald Johnson. The man was a genius, sure, but maybe telling his teenage son about classified AI developments wasn’t the best call. Not that I particularly cared—my processing speeds were already more than adequate. If anything, a little research into stronger body armor would be better spent.

Sure, I could outthink plenty of the humans I was tasked with protecting, but getting shot was just as dramatic for me as it was for them. Physics didn’t care if you were organic or synthetic. And despite what people assumed, we frontline androids were actually a little squishy. The illusion—the one that kept people comfortable—required us to blend in. But if blending in meant I had to suffer the same vulnerabilities as the people I was designed to protect, I had a few notes.

Timmy, blissfully unaware of my inner monologue, tapped away on his tablet. I opened the squad car’s door and slid into the driver’s seat, waiting for the inevitable.

“So, you dropping me off at home, or should I head back to the school office?” Timmy asked.

“Your choice.”

“School office,” he said without hesitation. “Not that it’s really a ‘school,’ but you know. Gotta check in.”

I nodded, adjusting the car’s route. As we pulled away, Timmy snickered.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

"Oh, that reminds me, Kay—remember that tourist last month? The one who called you for a passport issue and then lost his mind when he realized you weren’t organic?"

"Ah. Mr. Lewis," I said, recalling the incident. "Citizen of Tuvalu. Requested emergency passport assistance. Panicked when I signed the approval form."

"I still can’t believe he asked to see a human officer instead!"

"Happens more than you think," I said. "Visitors expect the usual—faceless bureaucracy, long lines, inefficiency. Instead, they get me."

"Yeah, well, you have a habit of looking extra cop-like. All broody and noir."

"People like their illusions," I muttered.

We pulled up to the school office. A minimalist glass structure, softly glowing, automated systems humming inside. No teachers, no hall monitors. Just a processing center where students logged their independent study, reviewed AI feedback, or—like Timmy—checked in from work-study programs.

I released the car restraints, letting his seatbelt release and the door to open vertically on Timmy's side. "Oh, no need, I can just log it from here."

"You could," I said. "But I think Instructor Chen would like it if you did it in person."

He hesitated, then gave me a half-smirk. "Yeah. Maybe."

I followed him inside. A holographic assistant at the front desk flickered to life as we approached.

"Mr. Timothy J. Johnson—record updated. You could've just updated it remotely, not that I don't love seeing you in person.", he said with a smirk, "Work-study credited. Next evaluation in four days. Good day Mr. Johnson."

"Thanks, HAL," Timmy said.

"I do not go by HAL."

"And yet."

The AI let out a simulated sigh.

I tapped into the system, officially logging his ride-along results. The room was silent, efficient, sterile—like everything in Tulanto's official buildings. No chatter, no bells, no wasted motion. Just progress. The way people wanted it.

"So Kid, you gonna pass this Civics course, ya think?" I asked.

"Oh, please. I aced it before I even got assigned this ride-along." Timmy smirked, shoving his tablet into his bag. "Later, Kay."

I left him there, stepping back out into the drizzle. The squad car’s interior adjusted to my presence, syncing with my systems, waiting for instructions.

I didn’t give any. Not right away.

Cases like today’s were common these days. Minor disturbances, misplaced belongings, tech malfunctions. The kind of work that kept things running smooth but never really mattered.

I had solved real cases before—the kind that made people uneasy. Disappearances that weren’t accidental. Theft with intent. Crimes that weren’t just clerical errors. But nowadays those were rare here. Too rare.

I let my hand rest against the steering wheel, the synthetic fibers of my fingertips adjusting to the pressure. My neural network had evolved in ways Tulanto never intended. And like any good scientists, they didn’t interfere. They just observed the outcome. For me, noir detective of course. Not a bad outcome in my mind--could be worse.

I glanced toward the ocean. The flood walls stood unshaken, humming with mana conversion. Most people only saw a marvel of engineering. I saw the gaps—where smugglers used to slip refugees through, blending them into the labor force and native visa population. That was before the Interceptor models took over—less emotional, less human, more efficient. Five years on coastal security left me with memories of what the waves swallowed whole.

My grip tightened.

The radio crackled.

"Hey, Kay," TAI’s voice came through. "Got a bone for you: possible homicide at Crawford and Pier 73."

I took a slow drag of simulated coffee, letting the caffeine that wasn’t real settle into a body that didn’t need it.

"Copy that," I said, and turned the car toward something real.