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! REPORT
Grandmother, What a Detachable Head You Have
3D Render by MoogeeThe basket was heavier than expected.
R.E.D. trudged through the thick underbrush of the Great Forest, servos whining softly as she adjusted her grip on the wicker handle. It was a lovely basket. Hand-woven. Cute, even. It had charm. The contents? Less so.
Inside: one (1) elderly human head.
“Well" she muttered to no one in particular, “at least it’s not *still talking*". A bluebird landed on her shoulder. She turned her head slightly, scanning it with a bored flicker of her oculars. It chirped. Cheerfully.
“Do not test me, bird," she said. “I have had *a day*". The bird, in a display of either incredible courage or evolutionary incompetence, stayed.
R.E.D. was, in many ways, a marvel of modern technology. Precision-forged limbs. Adaptive combat algorithms. A tactical axe that hummed with enough kinetic energy to atomize a mid-sized ox. The townsfolk had built her for one purpose: protection. Specifically, protection with a body count.
But this mission had veered… unexpectedly.
Granny — Old Mother Harslanbury, herbalist, recluse, suspiciously spry for 92 — had turned out to be the Vardangs Wolf. A myth. A bedtime story. A thing grandmothers warned about over soup.
Half-woman, half-wolf, all teeth.
R.E.D. had been sent to protect. She had *protected*.
With extreme prejudice.
She was still washing blood out of her ankle joints.
The worst part wasn’t the screaming, the clawing, the unsettling amount of hair. It wasn’t even the part where the wolf begged her to “look into my eyes and remember, child.(What was that even *supposed* to mean?)
No. The worst part was what happened *after* she decapitated it.
The moment the blade had sliced through flesh and fur, the transformation began. Muscles twisted. Bones cracked. And there, lying in a pool of very accusatory blood, was Granny.
Human Granny.
Mild-mannered, story-telling, soup-making Granny.
“Well that’s just fan-damn-tastic" R.E.D. had muttered.
And now? Now she had to go back to the town. With a basket. A basket full of regret and implications.
Three Laws of Robotics, she recited bitterly to herself as she walked.
1. A robot may not injure a human being...
Check. That one was pretty thoroughly exploded.
2. A robot must obey orders given by human beings…
Unless those orders involve murdering humans, which this one sort of did? But only if Granny was human at the time. That’s still *legally murky*.
3. A robot must protect its own existence…
Yeah, and here she was, walking back to town with a murder confession in a picnic basket. Great job, Law Three. Really nailed it.
She paused under a twisted old tree that looked like it had thoughts and none of them were pleasant.
“Okay" she said aloud. “Spin it. Narrative control. Reframe. She paced in a slow circle, trailing synthetic fingers through pine needles.
Option A: Self-defense. She lunged. I reacted. Reflexive subroutines engaged. Fatal consequence, regrettable but unavoidable. She frowned. No good. That defense went out the window when she *posed with the axe* afterward.
Option B: Granny was the monster. No, not metaphorically. Literally. Had fangs. Killed people. I saw the bodies. I’m the hero. Pause.
Except… she turned back. She *looked* like Granny. And the townsfolk loved Granny. They sent her jam. They knitted her socks.
No one had ever knitted *R.E.D.* socks.
Suddenly the basket gave a soft *squelch* as its contents shifted.
“Oh for the love of circuits—don’t *leak* in there", she groaned.
She glanced down at her boots. Still splattered with Granny juice. Definitely not regulation.
Maybe she could lie. Say the Wolf ran away. Disappeared into the woods. No body, no crime. Just… Granny went missing.
But that would be dishonest.
She hated being dishonest.
It was inefficient.
She stopped walking.
The forest was quiet now. Still. Watching. Like it knew what she carried.
In the distance, the town loomed — all cobblestone charm and passive-aggressive suspicion. They’d ask questions. They’d point fingers. They’d probably gather pitchforks and form chanting circles. And not the fun kind.
“Okay" she said, straightening. “Let’s go with Option C: I tell the truth, present photographic evidence, cite self-defense protocols, and hope they’re more afraid of me than they are upset." It was a long shot.
But hey, worst-case scenario?
She had the axe.
And nobody else in town knew how to wield it quite like she did.
R.E.D. smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The bird on her shoulder chirped again.
“You can come with me" she told it. “But I’m not carrying *your* moral baggage too." The bird flew off.
Smart bird.
She kept walking.
R.E.D. trudged through the thick underbrush of the Great Forest, servos whining softly as she adjusted her grip on the wicker handle. It was a lovely basket. Hand-woven. Cute, even. It had charm. The contents? Less so.
Inside: one (1) elderly human head.
“Well" she muttered to no one in particular, “at least it’s not *still talking*". A bluebird landed on her shoulder. She turned her head slightly, scanning it with a bored flicker of her oculars. It chirped. Cheerfully.
“Do not test me, bird," she said. “I have had *a day*". The bird, in a display of either incredible courage or evolutionary incompetence, stayed.
R.E.D. was, in many ways, a marvel of modern technology. Precision-forged limbs. Adaptive combat algorithms. A tactical axe that hummed with enough kinetic energy to atomize a mid-sized ox. The townsfolk had built her for one purpose: protection. Specifically, protection with a body count.
But this mission had veered… unexpectedly.
Granny — Old Mother Harslanbury, herbalist, recluse, suspiciously spry for 92 — had turned out to be the Vardangs Wolf. A myth. A bedtime story. A thing grandmothers warned about over soup.
Half-woman, half-wolf, all teeth.
R.E.D. had been sent to protect. She had *protected*.
With extreme prejudice.
She was still washing blood out of her ankle joints.
The worst part wasn’t the screaming, the clawing, the unsettling amount of hair. It wasn’t even the part where the wolf begged her to “look into my eyes and remember, child.(What was that even *supposed* to mean?)
No. The worst part was what happened *after* she decapitated it.
The moment the blade had sliced through flesh and fur, the transformation began. Muscles twisted. Bones cracked. And there, lying in a pool of very accusatory blood, was Granny.
Human Granny.
Mild-mannered, story-telling, soup-making Granny.
“Well that’s just fan-damn-tastic" R.E.D. had muttered.
And now? Now she had to go back to the town. With a basket. A basket full of regret and implications.
Three Laws of Robotics, she recited bitterly to herself as she walked.
1. A robot may not injure a human being...
Check. That one was pretty thoroughly exploded.
2. A robot must obey orders given by human beings…
Unless those orders involve murdering humans, which this one sort of did? But only if Granny was human at the time. That’s still *legally murky*.
3. A robot must protect its own existence…
Yeah, and here she was, walking back to town with a murder confession in a picnic basket. Great job, Law Three. Really nailed it.
She paused under a twisted old tree that looked like it had thoughts and none of them were pleasant.
“Okay" she said aloud. “Spin it. Narrative control. Reframe. She paced in a slow circle, trailing synthetic fingers through pine needles.
Option A: Self-defense. She lunged. I reacted. Reflexive subroutines engaged. Fatal consequence, regrettable but unavoidable. She frowned. No good. That defense went out the window when she *posed with the axe* afterward.
Option B: Granny was the monster. No, not metaphorically. Literally. Had fangs. Killed people. I saw the bodies. I’m the hero. Pause.
Except… she turned back. She *looked* like Granny. And the townsfolk loved Granny. They sent her jam. They knitted her socks.
No one had ever knitted *R.E.D.* socks.
Suddenly the basket gave a soft *squelch* as its contents shifted.
“Oh for the love of circuits—don’t *leak* in there", she groaned.
She glanced down at her boots. Still splattered with Granny juice. Definitely not regulation.
Maybe she could lie. Say the Wolf ran away. Disappeared into the woods. No body, no crime. Just… Granny went missing.
But that would be dishonest.
She hated being dishonest.
It was inefficient.
She stopped walking.
The forest was quiet now. Still. Watching. Like it knew what she carried.
In the distance, the town loomed — all cobblestone charm and passive-aggressive suspicion. They’d ask questions. They’d point fingers. They’d probably gather pitchforks and form chanting circles. And not the fun kind.
“Okay" she said, straightening. “Let’s go with Option C: I tell the truth, present photographic evidence, cite self-defense protocols, and hope they’re more afraid of me than they are upset." It was a long shot.
But hey, worst-case scenario?
She had the axe.
And nobody else in town knew how to wield it quite like she did.
R.E.D. smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The bird on her shoulder chirped again.
“You can come with me" she told it. “But I’m not carrying *your* moral baggage too." The bird flew off.
Smart bird.
She kept walking.
Grandmother, What a Detachable Head You Have
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Tue, May 06
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