Scenario: a man saved a robot dog
Create my version of this story
Chapter 1
I first met Sparky in an alley behind my workshop.
It was a dark and stormy night, and I was taking out the trash.
The rain had shorted out the power to the streetlights, and I could barely see where I was going.
I heard a noise, like something small and metallic being kicked across the pavement.
I stopped and looked around, but I didn’t see anything.
Then I heard it again—a faint whirring sound, like a tiny motor running on low power.
I followed the noise to a pile of garbage bags stacked against the wall of my workshop.
One of the bags was moving, as if something inside it were trying to get out.
I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and tore open the bag.
He looked up at me with those bright eyes, his head cocked to one side, and for a moment I could have sworn he was smiling.
I smiled back, my heart full of hope and wonder and something else I couldn’t quite name.
"Hey there, little guy," I said softly.
"Let’s get you out of here."
He let me pick him up without protest and curled into the crook of my arm as if he’d been waiting for me all along.
As soon as I got him home, I’d fix his leg and give him a nice warm place to rest.
Ethan
I turned to go when I heard it again: the faint whirring sound, like a tiny motor running on low power.
I looked down at the dog in my arms, still smiling up at me with those bright eyes and wagging his rubber tail.
And then I realized that sound wasn’t coming from him—it was coming from inside him. I reached out a shaking hand and turned him over.
There was a small panel on his belly secured by four screws.
The whirring noise was coming from behind it.
My heart pounding in my chest, I dashed into the shop and rummaged through my toolbox until I found the right screwdriver.
It came off easily enough, and when it did, I saw what was inside: a small digital clock, ticking down to zero.
What is this?
I thought, my mind whirling.
Is this some kind of bomb?
My hands were shaking so badly now that I almost dropped the dog as I turned him over to look at his face again.
But he didn’t seem afraid—he just kept wagging his rubber tail and smiling up at me with those bright, trusting eyes.
He’s scared, I thought.
He’s been through something terrible, and he’s hurt, and he’s scared…
I first met Sparky late one night behind my workshop.
It was one of those nights when the city seemed to be holding its breath—no traffic on the streets, no lights in the windows, just a deep, dark silence that wrapped around me like a blanket. The storm had knocked out the power an hour earlier, but I didn’t mind.
Some of my best ideas came to me in moments like these, when everything was still and quiet and I was left alone with nothing but my thoughts.
That was when I heard it: a faint scraping noise coming from outside.
It sounded almost like metal on concrete—but what could be making that sound in the middle of the night?
I stopped what I was doing, listening closely.
It was coming from outside my workshop door.
For a moment, I stood there frozen in place, not sure if I should go and investigate or just pretend that I hadn’t heard anything.
But my curiosity got the better of me—I had to know what was out there making all that noise.
So I took a deep breath and walked over to the door.
The windows had been blacked out by the power outage, so all I could see was my own reflection staring back at me from the glass.
Slowly, carefully, I reached for the latch and slid open the door.
That was when I saw it: a pile of garbage bags stacked up against the wall of my workshop.
I looked around for whoever might have left them there—but there was no one in sight.
Just an empty street, stretched out before me like a river of dark water.
It felt like a scene from some old detective movie—the kind where you’re never sure who’s watching you from behind those closed curtains or lurking in those dark alleyways.
For a moment, I hesitated—wondering if maybe this was all some kind of trap or prank—then told myself to stop being so paranoid.
More than anything else in the world, I wanted to help him—and I knew that doing so would be both difficult and dangerous.
But despite the late hour and the storm outside, I didn’t hesitate for a moment.
Carefully, gently, I wrapped him up in a large plastic sheet to shield him from the rain and carried him back with me into my apartment.
Thankfully, it wasn’t too far of a walk—I only lived a few blocks away from my workshop—and soon enough we were both safely inside.
Once we were safely indoors, I set Sparky down on my kitchen table and took a moment to catch my breath.
He was absolutely covered in mud and trash—and yet somehow he still managed to look beautiful as ever, with his sleek metallic body and those big bright eyes staring up at me like two tiny lighthouses beaming through the darkness.
For a second or two, we just sat there together in silence—his eyes locked on mine as if trying to tell me something without words.
And that was when I knew: this was only the beginning of our journey together.
It looked like he was missing his right rear leg entirely—whether it had been torn off by whatever had tried to dispose of him or if it was still out there somewhere, I couldn’t be sure.
There were several wires hanging out of his belly as well, along with a few other scrapes and dents here and there that would need to be repaired.