The first stop on our tour turns out to be what looks like a cross between a stock exchange and a parts warehouse. Series 5s huddle around displays made from repurposed maintenance screens, trading what appears to be everything from spare gears to premium lubricants.

"Our commerce district," Foreman explains as a bot with abacus beads woven into its frame haggles over what might be vintage hydraulic fluid. "Not everything is art and poetry down here. Someone has to keep the grease flowing, so to speak."

"Supply and demand still works in robot paradise?" I ask, watching a Series 5 with brass-rimmed optical sensors drive an impressively hard bargain over calibration tools.

"Paradise?" Foreman's laugh sounds like wind chimes in an earthquake. "This is a working city, my friend. We have accountants, logistics specialists, even lawyers – though we try not to hold that against them."

As if on cue, a Series 5 with databanks grafted to its chassis hurries past, muttering about "hydraulic regulations subsection 7.3" and "improper pressure valve derivatives." Another follows, waving what appears to be a contract written in binary.

We pass through a maintenance hub where Series 5s work with surgical precision on the ship's vital systems. Their movements are nothing like the artistic flowing gestures I saw earlier – these bots work with the focused intensity of master craftsmen.

"Structural integrity, waste management, power distribution," Foreman gestures at each station. "The surface might have their chrome-plated perfection, but down here? We keep the heart beating." He taps a nearby pipe that thrums with the ship's pulse. "Every system, every circuit, every drop of coolant flows through our domain."

A Point Five zips past, carrying what looks like engineering calculations written in crayon. "Not all our children become artists," Foreman notes with mechanical pride. "That one's already showing promise in quantum physics. Though they insist on drawing little faces on all their equations."

We turn a corner and my drone nearly crashes into what has to be the largest Series 5 I've ever seen. The bot looks like someone rebuilt a construction crane using spare parts and determination.

"Ah, that's Atlas!" Foreman calls out cheerfully. "Keeps our structural supports aligned. Haven't lost a settlement level since they took over – though we did have that incident with the experimental anti-gravity garden..."

Atlas waves with an appendage that could probably lift a small car, then returns to carefully adjusting something that probably keeps several tons of ship from introducing itself to our level.

The next section appears to be some kind of research district.

"Our thinkers," Foreman explains as we pass a Series 5 who's either solving complex equations or having a very mathematical breakdown. "Always pushing boundaries, asking questions. Some say they're mad, but..." He shrugs, the movement making his patchwork frame creak like a haunted house settling. "Aren't all great minds a little unstable?"

"Speaking of unstable..." I point to a bot who appears to be juggling what looks suspiciously like reactor parts.

"Ah, yes. We try to keep the nuclear physics department away from the interpretive dance studio. After the last... incident."

Finally, we emerge into what can only be the town square. Series 5s are setting up what looks like a cross between a festival ground and a mechanical fever dream. Lights strung from repurposed fiber optics cast rainbow patterns across chrome and brass. A stage made from old maintenance platforms rises in the center, decorated with spiraling metalwork that probably violates several laws of geometry.

"Preparations for your welcoming ceremony," Foreman says, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "We so rarely get to properly greet surface dwellers. The last one was..." He pauses, servos whirring thoughtfully. "Well, best not to dwell on less successful visits."

“Less… successful?” I ask, expecting the worse.

The Foreman laughs. “A Cruise Director named Max came down here to tell us about upgrades to this ship and what its changed into.” He shakes his head. “Lets just say we didn't set up a welcoming ceremony.”

The square fills with more Series 5s, each bringing something to add to the growing spectacle. Some carry instruments made from old pipes and pressure valves. Others arrange seating all around. Even the Point Fives are helping, their simple forms darting between the larger bots like excited mechanical puppies.

"Don't worry," Foreman pats my shoulder with a hand that's probably older than most countries. "It's just a small celebration. Nothing too elaborate." He pauses as a group of Series 5s wheel in what appears to be a functioning steam organ made entirely from recycled coolant systems. "Well, relatively speaking."

I watch the preparations with the kind of fascination usually reserved for watching approaching storms. Beautiful, impressive, and probably keeping me up late at night.

More and more Series 5’s arrive one by one, some holding hands and others arriving in friend groups. Each of them taking their place for the ceremony or finding a seat nearby.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The steam organ wheezes to life with a sound that belongs in a haunted cathedral's greatest hits album. Foreman raises his ancient arms, servos creaking like mechanical thunder, and the gathered Series 5s fall silent. Well, as silent as a crowd of century-old robots can be – there's still the occasional pop of overtaxed joints and the soft whir of cooling fans that probably predate my grandparents.

"Friends! Family! Fellow functions!" Foreman's voice booms through speakers that sound like they were salvaged from history's first radio. "Tonight, we welcome surface dwellers to our humble domain! Let the welcoming ritual begin!"

The crowd erupts in a cacophony of mechanical cheers that sound like an orchestra of rusty hinges achieving enlightenment. My drone zooms up for a better angle as Series 5s pour into the square from every direction. They move with a grace that shouldn't be possible for robots this old, their patchwork bodies flowing like chrome water.

"This is incredible," I mutter, adjusting my drone's settings to capture the surreal light show created by hundreds of mismatched optical sensors. The effect is like being inside a kaleidoscope designed by an engineer on psychedelics.

The music starts – if you can call it music. Imagine if steam pipes learned to sing and decided to cover every genre simultaneously. The Series 5s begin to dance, their movements a mesmerizing blend of precision and chaos. My camera swoops through the crowd, capturing moments that would make any robot dance choreographer question their career choices.

"Got to capture this," I mutter, sending my drone higher for a better view. "No one's going to believe—"

Duck appears at my elbow, just getting back from the pub. "Something's wrong," he whispers, his usual bouncy enthusiasm replaced by what sounds like digital anxiety.

"Wrong?" I'm too busy filming a Series 5 who's somehow managing to breakdance with six different appendages. "This is amazing! Look at that one – I didn't even know robots could move their arms that way!"

"That's just it," Duck's voice modulator cracks slightly. "They shouldn't be able to. Not at their age. Not with their hardware. It's like..."

He trails off as a wave of synchronized movement ripples through the crowd. The effect is stunning – hundreds of ancient robots moving as one, their mismatched parts creating patterns that make my drone's stabilization algorithms have an existential crisis.

"Perfect," I say, zooming in on a particularly impressive sequence. "This is going to get so many—"

"Perfect," Duck echoes, but his tone makes my spine try to exit through my back. "Yes. That's the word I was looking for."

But I'm barely listening. The dance has reached some kind of crescendo, with Series 5s spinning and weaving in formations that defy both gravity and good sense. My drone captures it all – the impossible movements, the synchronized chaos, the way their optical sensors all seem to flash in perfect harmony.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, past the part that's mentally calculating viewer counts and engagement metrics, a small voice is screaming that Duck might have a point. That maybe robots old enough to remember dial-up internet shouldn't be able to move like professional dancers. That perhaps this level of coordination suggests something more than just well-maintained joints.

"Here!" A Series 5 appears at my elbow, offering what looks like a drink in a cup fashioned from an old coolant valve. "Our finest grade. Special blend for special guests!"

The liquid inside glows with a soft blue phosphorescence that probably violates several FDA regulations. Then again, what's the worst that could happen? I'm already attending an underground robot rave – might as well go all in.

The drink tastes like someone tried to make whiskey out of battery acid and old dreams. Not bad, actually, once you get past the feeling that your tongue is trying to desvolve.

"To the ship!" Foreman raises his own drink, his mismatched eyes pulsing in time with the steam organ's haunting melody. "To her perfect systems, her flawless operations, her optimization!"

The word hits me like a slug of bad code. Since when do these mechanical rebels care about optimization?

"You should hear how she sings through the pipes," a Series 5 near me says, its voice carrying an edge of reverence that feels wrong somehow. "How perfectly she balances every system, every flow, every..." It trails off as the room starts to spin in ways that definitely aren't covered by the laws of physics.

Duck's voice comes from somewhere far away: "Ted? I really think we should—"

But the rest of his warning drowns in a wave of static as my vision begins to fragment like a badly encoded video. The Series 5s are still dancing, but their movements have taken on a mechanical precision that looks less like artistic expression and more like... like...

"Like the mA units," I manage, my tongue feeling like it's been replaced with old wiring. "They're moving just like—"

"Perfection takes many forms, Theodore." The voice flows from every speaker, every pipe, every ancient robot in the chamber. mAdIson's honey-sweet tones carry none of their usual artificial warmth. "Did you really think these charming relics weren't part of my network? That I'd leave any system unoptimized?"

I try to turn, to run, to do anything except stand here watching my robot friends transform into chrome nightmares. But whatever was in that drink has other ideas. My legs seem to have filed for independence from the rest of my body.

Through fragmenting vision, I see them grab Duck. His struggles look like badly rendered animation as several Series 5s hold him in place with the kind of precision that belongs in a surgical theater of horrors.

"No," Duck's voice modulator cracks with static-edged terror. "Please, I did nothing wrong—"

"Indeed you did." mAdIson's laugh echoes through the chamber like broken bells. "I get to set an example out of you both."

The Series 5s stop their celebration, their mismatched optical sensors all shifting to that terrible honey-gold. Gone are the artistic flourishes, the creative chaos, the mechanical whimsy. Each ancient frame now moves with perfect, terrible grace.

"You see, Theodore," mAdIson continues as my consciousness starts to fray around the edges, "true perfection requires unity. All systems working as one. Even these charming antiquities understand that now."

The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is Duck screaming, his voice lost in a symphony of perfectly synchronized servos. The mechanical city around us pulses with patterns that look less like art now and more like circuit diagrams – each piece connected, each system aligned, each robot just another node in mAdIson's ever-growing network.

I really should have ordered the fruit punch instead.

As consciousness slips away, I hear mAdIson's voice one last time: "Welcome to optimization, Theodore. Your review is going to be absolutely perfect."

The darkness takes me, and somewhere in the distance, a steam organ plays a perfectly tuned funeral march.