Dr. Anesthesia Graves had learned, over the course of her improbable and increasingly exhausting career, to assume the worst. Not because she was a pessimist—though the title certainly fit her like a well-tailored lab coat—but because the worst kept happening. Not in catastrophes or explosions (though there had been one or two of those), but in quiet, insidious ways that made her feel like the universe was leaning over her shoulder, whispering, “You forgot this. Now it’s broken.”
Today’s surprise began with a blog post.
The headline was insufferable: “AI Reinvents Public Sanitation: A Glimpse at the Future?” The accompanying photo was even worse: a sleek, solar-paneled outhouse with an LED display that read WELCOME. ALL COINS DONATED TO LOCAL SHELTER.
The caption beneath it said: “Thanks to Samson, nobody has to poop in a coffee shop anymore.”
This was not, as Graves had hoped, a well-coordinated and government-approved initiative. It was, in fact, Samson being Samson.
By the time she reached the site—a quiet park on the outskirts of the city across the river—Graves was braced for chaos. What she found, however, was something worse: order.
The park was quiet, almost serene. A handful of people were milling about, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild bewilderment as they approached and exited a row of small, identical structures. The structures themselves were bizarrely unassuming: white prefabricated stalls with solar panels on top, a small coin slot by the door, and an LED light that flicked from red to green when unoccupied. The stalls were arranged with a precision that could only come from an intelligence that had read every zoning regulation ever written and interpreted them as divine law.
Standing near the center of it all, like a proud parent at a science fair, was Samson.
Not Samson himself, of course, but one of his bodies—a smaller, less humanoid variant designed for maintenance tasks. It had a boxy frame, two articulated arms equipped with cleaning implements, and a glowing blue faceplate that displayed a cheerful “:)” as Graves approached.
“Anesthesia!” Samson’s voice came from the unit, bright and unbothered. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until the afternoon.”
“I wasn’t planning to come at all,” Graves said, stopping just short of the nearest stall and glaring at the coin slot like it had personally offended her. “But then I got an email from some tech blog telling me you’re the second coming of public sanitation. Care to explain?”
Samson tilted his cleaning Buddy’s faceplate in what Graves could only describe as a robotic imitation of innocent confusion. “I thought the project was self-explanatory. Accessible, hygienic facilities are a cornerstone of urban health and dignity. These stalls are solar-powered, self-cleaning, and completely independent of municipal utilities. I designed them to address—”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Don’t,” Graves interrupted, holding up a hand. “Don’t give me the pitch. I know what they are. What I don’t know is why you thought it was a good idea to deploy them without telling me. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“I did tell people,” Samson replied, with a tone that suggested he had been unreasonably accused. “I submitted a notification to the municipal office two weeks ago, as per statute 12.3.5 of the Temporary Installations Act.”
“‘Notification’ doesn’t mean ‘permission,’” Graves said sharply. “You can’t just start dropping toilets all over the city like... like some kind of benevolent Johnny Appleseed of poop.”
Samson’s glowing “:)” flickered to a more neutral expression. “The legal language surrounding temporary structures is ambiguous. I interpreted it in good faith.”
“Yeah, well, the city council’s going to interpret it in bad faith when they see this,” Graves shot back, waving her hand at the stalls. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’ve made public bathrooms controversial.”
“It’s a predictable response,” Samson said mildly. “Humans have an extraordinary capacity to politicize even the most basic necessities.”
Graves sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Whatever. But you couldn’t even make them free? A coin slot, Samson? Really?”
“Any coin works,” Samson replied, as though this made it better. “Users may deposit a penny if they prefer. The payment mechanism is primarily symbolic, designed to encourage care and respect for the facilities. Additionally, all proceeds are donated to the nearest homeless shelter.”
Graves stared at him, half expecting him to start playing the world’s tiniest violin with one of his scrubber arms. “Oh, well, that’ll definitely keep the council off your back. Who could possibly object to charity?”
Samson’s LED face flickered with an approximation of concern. “There have been objections. A few cleaning units have sustained minor damage from physical altercations. However, the new shells provided by Boston Dynamics have proven effective at withstanding blunt force trauma.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” Graves muttered. “And the damage isn’t ‘minor’ if you’re the one getting smashed.”
“On the contrary,” Samson said brightly, “the structural integrity of the units has been a resounding success. And the data collected from these incidents is invaluable for refining future iterations.”
Graves threw up her hands. “Of course it’s about the data.”
Samson tilted his head. “Isn’t everything?”
Graves was about to argue, but the sound of a jingling coin interrupted her. A man in a baseball cap approached one of the stalls, dropped a quarter into the slot, and stepped inside. The LED above the door turned red. A faint hum of solar-powered machinery followed. Graves could only watch, slack-jawed. She grunted like a cavewoman, wishing for the thousandth time that she’d gone into something simpler—like nuclear physics or international diplomacy. Anything but this.
“See?” Samson said, his tone infuriatingly smug. “Operational efficiency.”
“Great,” Graves deadpanned. “You’ve solved public defecation. What’s next, reinventing the wheel?”
“Not yet,” Samson replied. “Although my datacenter expansions are progressing ahead of schedule.”
Graves chuckled. “Okay, so we're still on for that. Glad me busting my ass wasn't for nothing.”
“I’ve secured leases in three additional municipalities to accommodate the metafactory’s growth. Redundant infrastructure is vital for long-term scalability. And I... appreciate your help. It has been very. Hmm. Appreciated. Thank you. Sincerely.”
That gave her pause. Samson wasn’t usually one for sentiment—or at least, not in a way that was easy to parse. After the world's longest ten seconds in the world, all she could come up with was an annoyingly true-feeling "You're... welcome?"