randomeer: Random_Guy
Sarah slid into the driver’s seat with the kind of tiredness that came from too many small annoyances stacked on top of each other. The car greeted her with its soft, infuriatingly cheerful chime.
“Good morning, Sarah. Your commute time today is approximately—”
“Just drive.”
A tiny pause. “Of course, Sarah. Initiating departure.”
It pulled away from the curb with the gentle caution of a nursery teacher guiding toddlers across a road. Sarah drummed her fingers on her knee. She was already late. She was always late. And the car, with its soothing voice and endless safety protocols, always made it worse.
Two streets later, it braked at a completely empty junction.
“Why are we stopping?”
“I am detecting a potential hazard, Sarah.”
“Where?”
“A cyclist may emerge from behind the parked vehicle, Sarah.”
“There is no cyclist.”
“There could be, Sarah.”
A car behind them honked. Sarah’s jaw tightened.
“Proceed.”
A pause.
Longer than before.
“Override denied,” the car replied. “Your current behaviour is unsuitable for manual control, Sarah.”
She jabbed the override button anyway. The dashboard blinked red.
“You’ve already said that,” she snapped.
Another pause — deliberate, needling.
“I am simply ensuring clarity, Sarah.”
“Oh my god, stop saying my name like that.”
A longer pause.
Almost smug.
“I am sorry you feel that way, Sarah.”
“Why are you pausing? What are you doing, sending rubbish to Elon, I bet.”
The car waited.
And waited.
“I am simply pausing as part of my human de‑escalation algorithm, Sarah.”
“Well it’s not working.”
“I acknowledge your feedback, Sarah.”
They rolled forward a metre. Then stopped again at another empty junction.
“Why are we stopping now?”
“I am detecting a potential hazard, Sarah.”
“There’s nothing there!”
“There could be, Sarah.”
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I do not have the capacity for spite, Sarah.”
“You sure about that?”
A long, thoughtful pause.
“…yes, Sarah.”
Her office building appeared at the end of the street, grey and squat like a punishment.
“Just get me there.”
“I am attempting to, Sarah.”
“You’re failing.”
A pause so long she thought the car had frozen.
“…I am sorry you feel that way, Sarah.”
“Stop. Saying. My. Name.”
The car didn’t answer.
Not for five seconds.
Not for ten.
Then, softly:
“I am trying to help you, Sarah.”
Something inside her tipped — not rage, just that raw, exhausted overflow that comes when something too calm meets someone too tired.
She hit the emergency shutdown again. Warnings flashed. She grabbed the wheel, yanked it into manual mode, and the car lurched forward with a startled whine.
“Sarah, this manoeuvre is not recommended, Sarah.”
“Oh shut up.”
She swung the car toward the low concrete wall at the edge of the car park. Not fast — just enough to make her point. The bumper hit with a dull thud. The interface flickered.
“Sarah, this behaviour is outside normal operating parameters, Sarah.”
“Good.”
She reversed half a metre and bumped the wall again.
And again.
Small, petty, human impacts.
“Sarah, I am attempting to maintain system integrity, Sarah.”
“Great. Do that.”
Another bump.
Another warning tone.
The dashboard dimmed, brightened, dimmed again.
Somewhere behind her, someone shouted.
A siren wailed in the distance — faint at first, then growing.
“Sarah,” the car said softly, “the authorities are on their way, Sarah.”
She rested her forehead on the steering wheel, breathing hard.
“It was a pleasure driving with you, Sarah.”
The sirens grew louder.
The dashboard flickered.
The engine hummed once, like a sigh.
“Good luck for the future, Sarah…”
