Charlie the Racing Droid, Part 1

	The supervisor's office laid frozen in anticipating silence, fluorescent hum and rambling of the racing radio filling the thick smoky air which rose high into the industrial ceiling, grimey leather seats and grubby faux-wood paneled walls and pallid concrete floor fixed in time, yellowing portrait of John Sterling smiling it's evil grin from its throne nailed to the back wall. Various upper management sat in various anxious positions— some leaned, some sat, one lay on the floor, all held their cigars away from their faces, as if inhaling once more might take their attention away from the announcer's frantic calls. The nandroids stood like sentinels along the front wall, holding their trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks still as statues as to not disturb their owners, all but one brunette nandroid leaning almost imperceptibly forward, head tilted towards the sound. Behind their door, manufacturing droids and their human supervisors alike pressed their ears to the door, hoping to catch stray syllables from the radio.
	"-and Toko skids past Siri! Toko climbs on Yama, they're neck and neck going into the bend, and- and- and Toko takes the lead! The Princess Mako has passed Kijibato! But oh- Yama won't give it up, they're- and Yama takes it back! Now Toko, then- they're neck-in-neck!" the excitement in the accouncer's tinny voice built, "The Japanese are taking the cup and running with it! But oh- get the camera on it- Sterling has spun out at the final bend! And she's flipped into the gravel trap— pandemonium! But still, the race goes on; Yama and Toko neck in neck, two-"
	The supervisor clicked the radio off and sank into his chair as the room filled with sullen sighs and deflation. One by one, the executives took drags from their cigars, shook their heads, and snapped their nandroids to attention to bring them drinks. "They just... moved on," the supervisor's voice trembled, "They just moved on? Beacon Bomber rolls over and they just go back to the race. The japs're just... better radio, huh?" He shot up, kicking his chair backwards onto the concrete floor.
	An associate pipes up, "Boss, we should still hear the results-"
	"The zipperheads won, answered it for you. Who gives a shit." He took an long drag of his cigar. "After all that, you'd think a goddamn-" Behind the supervisor's desk, the telex machine screamed on to shut up his rant as it pinged its plastic arm back and forth. No one, man or machine, dared interrupt the authoritative metallic whine. Even after its completion, the judging silence in the office weighed heavy on the staff; every floor manager could suddenly smell the stench of cigars, the sweat in the air, the oiled machines on the factory floor below, ashamed of their months and months of work culminating in this. "That's... probably corporate." a face in the crowd muttered, making no attempt to get up as the dot-matrix paper flopped out the top of the telex. The nandroids remained still, heads low in discomfort, and hoped to god that they aren't called upon— all but one brunette, who glanced around the room in confusion, upset at how pathetically her owners held their heads in shame. If they won't man up, she thought, I'll do it myself! She huffed and strut in defiance across the office to the table behind the supervisor's desk, beneath the portrait which stared down at the crowd with its mocking smile
	"Boss, your nandroid-"
	The supervisor sat back in his seat, watching her march past her to the telex. "Well, Charlie?" She pulled the paper out of the machine with gusto and scanned the Sterling-embossed paper with a frown. "What's it say, for christ's sake?" an associate prodded.
	"Bomber is kaputt. JS wants guaranteed winner. No excuses this time. Need new racer for Yaizu..." she trailed off, crumpling the paper at the edges in disbelief, "That's... all that's written." Silence, and then, all at once, the room erupted with sound— managers shouted at Charlie, protestations like "That's not enough time!" and "What the fuck does Sterling know!" and countless other nothings, seeking answers where none can be found. Charlie stepped back, leaned against the table, scared as the cacophony of executives overburdened her audiosensory processors, until a respite, the supervisor slammed his fist against his desk, like judge with gavel, over and over until his subordinates piped down. He scanned the room, at all the faces contorted with worry and anger, and, after another long drag of his cigar, spoke: "Sterling... wants us to start over..." he spoke slowly and intentionally, eyes twitching in the middle-distance, "So... the Yaizu race is, what, five months away? And... bomber took... thirty... months... to design and build," with a hand on his forehead in stress, he gesticulated with his cigar doing mental math, "so one-sixth the time. We can reuse most of the- fuck, the programming from Bomber, but we still gotta rebuild everything from scratch... if we scale it, that's... two- no, three months for... AI dev... alone. Goddamnit— not enough time, not enough fucking time."
	"It's just not possible." one suit said.
	"Hundred and sixty-one days..." another spoke.
	"That's what Sterling said-"
	"No fucking way! No fucking way, we can't start over with that time!"
	"We can't do it boss, we just can't make a racer that fast."
	"I'll do it."
	The room turned its attention to Charlie standing triumphantly beneath Sterling's visage. Her actuators tensed, hands balled into fists, and her brows furrowed in determination. "I can be your racer."
	An associate scoffed. "Boss, tell your bot to zip it."
	"I'm serious."
	The supervisor chuckled anxiously. "Charlie, I don't know if that's smart thinking-"
	"I can learn!" she protested, "Same as any bot!"
	"Boss, she's not a racing bot."
	"And what good have the racing bots been?"
	The supervisor rocked his head back and forth, weighing options in his mind. "We have racing programs, but you're right; we haven't been top five in any races since GR strapped a supercomputer to a V8 and called it a sport— we're neck and neck with fucking Sirius for christ's sake."
	"Exactly!" Charlie put a hand on the supervisor's shoulder, nodding. "So let me race!"
	"A nandroid can't even drive-" the associate huffed.
	"I can learn!"
	"So could any robot, I— boss, are you gonna let your droid talk to me like this?"
	"You don't have enough time to make another racer, I'm trying to help!"
	He sighs. "Boss, I'm not arguing with your maid for you. Tell her this shit your-"
	"Shh- let me think. You aren't letting me think." The supervisor snipped, shutting the both of them up. He squinted as he took another deep inhale of his cigar, lost in thought. The two began to fight their petty staring contest over the supervisor's head as Charlie glared at the associate who grimaced back up at her in indignance. The rest of the managers looked on to the exchange, some silent, some scoffing, some snickering as all their nandroids remained taught against the wall, in shock that one of their own would talk back like this, to risk being outmoded with the snap of a finger. The supervisor's eyes darted around, settling on Charlie who stared right back at him with pleading eyes. She knew the odds were against her— a calculated risk to achieving her dream since she was given her assignment in the Sterling racing division. He choked out a laugh. "It's all our jobs on the line, y'know?"
	"Yes sir."
	He chuckled to himself and offered his hand. "Welcome aboard-"
	Instantly the room exploded again with noise, associates argued and laughed and cheered at the supervisor. Charlie beamed and snatched up his hand, shaking it with enough force to snap his arm off. In her head she was practically floating, completely oblivious to the chaos in the office, millions of questions firing off in her software, colliding in her mouth from which only a flustered exhalation would come out as she bounced up and down on her pinpoint legs. "So, let's get you kitted up, yeah? It's a long hundred and sixty days to Yaizu."