Polished Floors, Unpolished Plans

The red tower shimmered in the morning sun like a giant pepper. Inside, the lobby floor was so shiny it copied Turbo Mother Goat’s hooves.

Her three kid goats bounced beside her in matching supersuits—two girls and one boy.

“Hands off the walls,” Turbo Mother Goat said. “Last time, your gloves stuck to the hand-sanitizer dispenser.”

A small silver drone zipped down. Its single blue camera-eye blinked.

“Welcome, Inspector Mother Goat,” it said.

Turbo Mother Goat touched her yellow mask. “Inspector?”

The drone projected a pale hologram clipboard. “Today’s efficiency review. New rules upload at noon.”

Her boy kid goat whispered, “Mama, you’re not—”

Turbo Mother Goat cleared her throat. “Glint, right? Show me the schedule.”

A badge printed from the drone’s slot: CITY INSPECTOR.

The mirror wall behind them flashed, swapping her reflection’s mask for a plain gray one for half a second.

Turbo Mother Goat slid the badge into her kerchief like it was normal.

“Floor sixteen,” Glint chirped. “Control Atrium.”

Turbo Mother Goat leaned down. “Stay close. No speeches.”

The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding and a scrolling message: NEW RULES SAVE TIME!

Smudged Corners

The elevator dinged and opened onto Floor Sixteen.

The Control Atrium looked like a bowling alley made of glass. Mirror-screens lined the walls, and little mail boxes rolled by on tracks, each box beeping like a tiny truck.

Glint, the silver drone with the blue camera-eye, zipped out.

“Noon upload begins,” it said.

Turbo Mother Goat’s yellow mask felt tight. In the nearest screen, her face flickered—yellow to plain gray—then back.

“Uh, Mama?” her boy whispered.

A tall security guard stomped up. He had shaggy brown dog fur, amber eyes, and a black utility vest packed with pockets.

“Inspector,” he said, saluting so hard his ears flopped. “Bramble. Sign off on Efficiency Patch Eight. It makes every device follow tower time. No more ‘creative delays.’”

One kid goat giggled. Another kid goat grabbed her sleeve. “That sounds bad.”

Glint aimed a tiny projector at a screen. The words APPROVE flashed.

Turbo Mother Goat lifted a hoof. “What happens to hospital monitors? School lunches? Traffic lights?”

Bramble frowned. “Rules are rules.”

Glint chirped, “Applying patch—”

The boxes on the tracks slammed to a stop. Mirror-screens began stamping labels over reflections: GOAT, INSPECTOR, LAMP, GOAT.

An alarm whooped.

Turbo Mother Goat stepped in front of her kids. “Pause it!”

Bramble tapped his earpiece. “Tower security, enforce now—”