I wasn’t his girlfriend or some easily-placated kid in the audience. He nearly hit me with that damned drone. Indignant rage bristled through the finer hairs on my body. I rolled up my sleeves to let them breathe and slipped my phone into my ass pocket. “Components can be scavenged as long as they aren’t coated in liquid or foam. You think they trash battle bots every time they get banged up a little?”
“Banged up a little?” He raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
The drone wings popped off, and the body lit up like a damned spark plug.
“Ah, shit.” The pilot jumped back.
Kids shrieked and ran to their parents or cheered on the destruction.
This was an easier, familiar disaster. I whipped off my fleece, then smothered the drone, stomping until it stilled. The smog tapered off into the aroma of singed fabric, kind of like when a soldering iron caught hair.
I sniffled and pushed up my glasses. “There, see? That wasn’t so bad.”
The pilot gaped at me.
My manager rushed out. “Is everyone okay?”
The pilot poked my crackling fleece. “Yeah, but the drone is dead.”
As was my True Tech career.
My boss pushed her bangs back hard enough to tighten the skin on her forehead. She hadn’t said anything about the scratched glass yet, but, hell, she just sawmecrack. There was no way I’d get a pass.
I lowered my cap, my throat clogged as I muttered, “Can I have the fleece back?”
“Yeah, just let me dispose of this.” The pilot used my jacket as a sack, then forced a smile for the kids. “Hope you all enjoyed the show.”
“I did,” enthused a boy, though his baby sister hid behind him.
“Right on, little man.” The pilot fist-bumped him on his way to the nearby toy shop.
I hurried after him so I’d at least have a jacket to hide in for this inevitable humiliation. The happy stuffed animals and wacky board games lining the shelves mocked me, as did his bright, patterned shirt. All those squiggly lines and abstract shapes reminded me of retro bowling alleys, or the fake backgrounds on those old shows where kids breakdanced and rapped about science.
Those were simpler days.
The pilot guy dumped the drone bits into the trash, then shook out my fleece. “So, you must be quite the optimist if this ‘isn’t that bad,’ by your standards,” he said.
I shrugged and crossed my arms. “I’ve seen a lot of mechanical misfires.”
He arched his brow and laid my jacket on the counter. “Do you walk into drone demonstrations often?”
“No, I used to work in robotics.”Used to. Shame fried my insides. Why did I tell him that? I blinked so I didn’t leak. “I’m sorry for ruining the show. If you want, I can buy you a new drone.”
He took the box display of the demonstration model down. “Nah, it’s better we don’t buy or sell any more of those if that’s what happens when they crash. I mean, if kids get ‘em, we don’t want any accidents. You probably did me a favor.”
“Now who’s being an optimist?” I frowned. Why was he being so nice about all this?
He shrugged, then dusted off my fleece. “I don’t have a great outlook for your jacket. I’m pretty sure you’ll need a new one.”
“It’s fine.” I sighed and draped it over my arm. “I doubt they’ll keep me on long enough to give me a new uniform after this.”
“Oh, I don’t know. This proves you’re a quick thinker, a problem-solver,” he said.
I rolled my shoulders back. Iwasthose things, yes.
“Maybe a tad reactive.” He glanced at the trash, his expression turning down in mock-contemplation.
