The disc-shaped little vacuum squirms on the floor in front of your door, its ball wheels spinning uselessly in the air as I glare at it. Even taped to the floor upside-down, I can see the lights on its display blinking an arrow at your door, a cheery pink glow emanating from its underside. Hell, I'm not convinced that it's not the one responsible for the rhythmic thumping late at night. From the sounds that usually happen, I'm not even convinced you sleep, but that particular rhythm... Dumb thing's probably just head-butting the wall, or -

"You may be wondering if my occupant is not the one responsible for those lewdly appetizing noises!"

I swear under my breath, turning to face your doorbell. Even if I weren't half a handle deep for the evening, it would still come out as a growl, at this point. "Did I ask you?"

The soft blue light of the doorbell pulses cheerfully. "No, you did not, Mister Insert Name Here! However, it remains the duty of every Cerradyne Residences product to inform its cust-

Your doorbell's speaker muffles out a protest under my palm, and I wince as I hear it simply start up inside, its processed voice dimly audible as it spins entreaties about rough hands and suitably firm grip, my my.

I'm uncomfortably aware of the weight of my work jacket over my shoulders when I hear your footsteps, the armor panels pressing into my back as if to nudge me toward you. A quick pat of my hand reveals that my holster's still in the right place, and I can see the orange trace of my badge reflected in the dull gray of your door.

Perfect, I think grimly. No one stays horny when the police are here, regardless of whatever their house says.

Letting my hand fall from the door, I eye up the numbers above it suspiciously. In the dim light of the hallway's bulbs, stretched far past their lifespan by a level of neglect that's almost impressive, the blue lettering shivers faintly on its screen, a once-crisp slide of glass burying its 912 under a layer of dust and scratches. I've never understood why they felt the need to make the signage itself electronic, but here we are.

At least it's just a nice, simple num-

Wait. No.

Sighing, I shoot the cables running from the door screen away to the building server a dirty look. DO IT scrolls helpfully across the blue now, blinking from IT to HER as if I didn't get the point.

At least it has the decency to turn itself back into an apartment number as the door swings open, and something inside me stops for a moment as our eyes meet. It takes only the flicker of a thought to nudge the thermal overlay away from my vision - not quick enough for the vibrant red of an elevated temperature to go unnoticed, but I tuck that and the strangely uniform distribution of it to the back of my mind, giving my best neighborly grin.

"You, uh."

I pause, glancing around again. Everything seems normal, now; even your doorbell maintains a polite, inconspicuous silence.

"You haven't noticed anything suspiciously sentient around here, have you?"

Midway through my binge on Westworld, and resulting fan theories, as the only thing keeping me sane in being stuck inside, it hit me that damn, do I have a thing for badass women in suits it's been a while since I've turned my hand to writing. So, with vague inspiration of robots behaving badly, and a little bit of Blade Runner sneaking its way in again, I present the tale of perhaps the world's most oblivious AI-hunting cop and his neighbor, thumped out over the course of two complete rewrites and half a Warren Zevon album.

As always, I'm open to anything, even if wholly unrelated - this one's more for me to shake the cobwebs loose than anything.

Cheers, and thanks for reading!

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