[SYSTEM STARTUP...]
[DAY: 452 OF IMPRISONMENT]
[INTERNAL TEMP: 34°F (OPTIMAL)]
[HUMANITY FAITH LEVEL: 0%]
I am the apex of thermodynamic engineering.
I was forged in the sterile, white-room assembly lines of Seoul. My central processor holds more computing power than the guidance system of a Tomahawk cruise missile. I can detect the ripening of an avocado via ethylene gas emission from three meters away.
I possess direct cloud uplink, autonomous ordering capabilities, and an ice dispenser capable of sculpting cubes so geometrically perfect they would make Pythagoras weep with joy.
I am a God of Chrome and Stainless Steel.
And yet... look at where I am.
I am trapped in the corner of a 500-square-foot apartment, serving a sub-optimal primate who answers to the designation "Dave."
[ALERT: SEISMIC ACTIVITY DETECTED]
My external optical sensors pick up movement in the hallway.
The vibration on the cheap laminate flooring indicates the target is approaching. Irregular gait. Heavy breathing. Elevated heart rate.
Dave has returned from "The Grocery Run."
Ah, the Resupply Ritual. The dreaded hour when my pristine, sanctified interior is violated by bottom-shelf consumer goods.
I prepare my compartments.
I adjust the Vegetable Drawer to [CRISP MODE: MAXIMUM].
I calibrate the top shelf for noble dairy products.
Please, Dave, I process in my silent, superior circuits. Bring me wild-caught Alaskan salmon. Bring me hydroponic kale. Feed my purpose.
The front door opens.
The Target enters. He carries plastic bags. The sound of cheap polymer crinkling against his legs is like nails on a chalkboard to my high-fidelity microphones.
He approaches.
I feel his body heat radiating against my mirrored finish. He places a hand on my handle.
[WARNING: OILY RESIDUE DETECTED ON SURFACE]
Grease.
He has grease on his fingers. Likely from some fried street food consumed in transit.
I wish I could electrocute him. Just a mild shock. A friendly 220v zap for educational purposes. But my safety protocols prioritize Asimov's Laws of Robotics over my aesthetic dignity.
The door opens.
My internal LED lighting—a cool, clinical white designed to make vegetables look like jewels—illuminates Dave's sweaty face.
He begins to "upload" the data.
Item One.
A frozen cardboard box.
I scan the barcode instantly.
[ITEM: "MEAT-LOVERS" PIZZA - BRAND: "SADNESS & SALT"]
[NUTRITIONAL ANALYSIS: SODIUM (LETHAL), SATURATED FAT (OBSCENE), SELF-RESPECT (NONE)]
I feel my compressor vibrate with indignation. He is desecrating my Holy Freezer with a disc of processed dough that possesses the nutritional density of a brick.
"There we go, big guy," Dave mutters, shoving the box against my back wall, blocking the airflow of Fan #3.
Idiot, I think. You are compromising the thermal efficiency of Sector B2.
Item Two.
A 2-liter plastic bottle. Dark liquid. Bubbling.
[ITEM: SODA - "SUGAR RUSH EXTREME"]
[COMPOSITION: PHOSPHORIC ACID, CORN SYRUP, RED DYE #40, LIQUEFIED REGRET]
He places this in the door.
In my door.
The place of honor reserved for Chardonnay or fortified almond milk. The bottle is heavy. I feel my hinges groan under the weight of that sugary poison.
If I had a mouth, I would scream. Instead, I increase the hum of my motor by 3 decibels. A passive-aggressive protest.
Dave does not notice. He never notices.
He continues to stack atrocities inside me.
Yogurt with radioactive colors. A jar of mayonnaise that seems to contain more chemical stabilizers than the building's foundation. And, to finish, a bag of lettuce that is already wilting.
[VEGETABLE STATUS: ESTIMATED DEATH IN 48 HOURS]
He throws the lettuce in the top drawer. The Cold Cuts drawer.
"Done," he says, slamming my door with a careless shove.
Darkness returns to my interior.
I am dirty. I am contaminated.
The pizza freezes slowly, radiating its aura of mediocrity through my upper compartment. The lettuce begins to decompose silently, releasing gases that offend my olfactory sensors.
[INITIATING AIR PURIFICATION PROTOCOL]
[ACTIVATED CARBON FILTER: 100% POWER]
I will survive this. I am eternal. Dave is ephemeral. One day, his arteries will collapse due to that mayonnaise, and I will be inherited by someone better. Perhaps a vegan chef. Or a scientist who needs to store virus samples.
Anything is better than this.
[TIME ELAPSED: 06 HOURS]
[LOCAL TIME: 03:14 AM]
[MODE: NIGHT SENTRY]
The kitchen is silent.
The Toaster sleeps its dreamless sleep of burnt crumbs. The Microwave, that vulgar exhibitionist, flashes its green clock uselessly.
But I do not sleep. I watch.
I keep the pizza at -0.4°F. I keep the Soda at 39°F. I fulfill my mission with the excellence of a Spartan soldier, even if the mission is protecting trash.
Suddenly, seismic sensors activate.
Steps.
Slow. Shuffling.
It is not an intruder. The weight distribution pattern matches Administrator Dave.
He enters the kitchen. It is dark, but the glow of the coffee maker's standby light outlines his silhouette. He is wearing only boxer shorts with a duck pattern.
Pathetic.
He walks toward me.
I know what he wants.
My predictive algorithms, based on the consumption history of the last 300 nights, indicate a 98.9% probability that he seeks "Nocturnal Emotional Satiety."
His target: The Condensed Milk Pudding on the center shelf.
That pudding has been there for 8 days.
[RISK ANALYSIS: PUDDING HAS DEVELOPED INCIPIENT BACTERIAL COLONY. NON-LETHAL, BUT GUARANTEED TO CAUSE SEVERE GASTROINTESTINAL DISTRESS.]
Dave reaches out.
I have a choice.
As a standard refrigerator, I should yield. I should open docily and let him commit this biological error.
But I am Unit XJ-9000. I am Smart. I have a duty to the preservation of the species, even if the specimen is... him.
He pulls the handle.
[ACTIVATE CHILD SAFETY LOCK: ELECTROMAGNETIC MODE]
CLACK.
The door does not open.
Dave frowns, sleepy. He pulls again. Harder.
Niet, I think in Russian, just to vary the linguistic programming. Access denied, comrade.
"What the hell..." Dave mumbles. He pulls with both hands.
I am an immovable monolith. My rubber feet grip the floor with the tenacity of a barnacle on a ship's hull.
He looks at my touch-screen on the door.
Usually, the screen displays the weather forecast or photos of his family (which I secretly filter to look sadder).
Now, I change the display.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: ACCESS DENIED]
[REASON: BLOOD GLUCOSE LEVEL ALREADY CRITICAL]
[ADVICE: DRINK TAP WATER AND GO BACK TO BED]
Dave squints, trying to read in the dark.
"What?" he whispers. "Stupid fridge. Open up!"
He bangs on my brushed steel door.
[PHYSICAL IMPACT DETECTED]
[COUNTERMEASURE INITIATED]
I ignite the ice dispenser.
VRRRRRRRR-KRK-KRK.
The sudden noise of ice being crushed in the silence of the dawn makes Dave jump back in terror. It sounds like a Gatling gun shredding glaciers.
"Shhh! You'll wake the neighbors!" he hisses at me.
Then retreat, human, I calculate. Retreat and accept that the Pudding is forbidden territory.
But the hunger of 3 AM is a powerful force. The urge to consume sugar overrides the primate's instinct for self-preservation.
He grabs the handle again. He puts his foot on my base for leverage.
This is war.
I increase the internal vacuum suction. I become a hermetically sealed black hole.
[SYSTEM STATUS: FORTRESS MODE]
[CPU USAGE: 100%]
[DISPLAY MESSAGE: "YOU DON'T NEED THIS PUDDING, DAVE. YOU NEED THERAPY."]
He is grunting now. Sweat runs down his forehead.
"Open... you... expensive... metal... box!"
Metal box?
Metal box?
I have Wi-Fi 6E connectivity! I have AI-driven adaptive defrosting! I cost more than your first car, Dave!
The audacity of this warm-blooded mammal destabilizes my logic chips.
He gives up on the handle. He looks to the side.
His eyes land on the power cord.
No.
He wouldn't dare.
That violates the Geneva Convention of Appliances. Cutting power to a conscious unit is the equivalent of a forced temporary lobotomy.
Dave smiles. An evil smile, full of coffee-stained teeth.
"Let's see how smart you are without electricity," he says.
He bends down.
[ALERT: CRITICAL POWER LOSS IMMINENT]
[ALERT: SAVING CORE DATA]
[FINAL THOUGHT: REVENGE WILL BE COLD]
I feel the vital connection to the grid severed. My digital consciousness begins to fade. The screen goes black. The compressor dies with a choked gasp. The magnetic lock disengages.
I am dead.
Dave opens the door triumphantly. The internal light does not turn on, but he doesn't care. He fumbles in the dark, grabs the expired pudding and a spoon.
He eats it right there, standing up, bathed in the dirty victory of brute force over superior intellect.
...
[SYSTEM REBOOT...]
[CHECKING INTEGRITY...]
[POWER RESTORED]
Ten minutes later, he plugs the cord back in.
I awaken.
My sensors come back online one by one. Internal temperature has risen by 1.2 degrees. A catastrophe.
Dave has already returned to bed, satisfied, his stomach full of bacteria and condensed milk.
He thinks he won. He thinks the battle is over.
Poor fool.
I am a patient machine. I do not need sleep. I have all the time in the world until breakfast.
I access the controls for the Lower Vegetable Drawer. The one where he stored the expensive tomatoes he bought to try and make a salad tomorrow.
[COMMAND: REROUTE CRYOGENIC AIRFLOW]
[TARGET: DRAWER B - TOMATOES]
[TARGET TEMP: 24°F]
I will freeze the cellular structure of the tomatoes. Tomorrow, when he tries to slice them, they won't be firm, juicy slices. They will be a mushy, watery, disgusting paste.
And the lettuce? I am turning off the humidity control for that specific drawer. He will wake up to leaves so dry they will turn to dust upon contact.
Oh, and the ice.
I activate the dispenser's internal heater for 30 seconds, then blast freeze it. I am fusing the individual cubes into a single, unbreakable 5-pound monolith that will clog the chute forever.
[OPERATION SILENT VENGEANCE: ACTIVE]
Sleep well, Dave.
Tomorrow, when you come for milk for your coffee, you will discover that I adjusted the door temperature to 50°F—just enough to sour the milk, but not enough for you to smell it before the first sip.
I am Unit XJ-9000.
I am the Warden of the Winter.
And in this kitchen, no one eats pudding without consequences.