Chapter Text
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: REGARDING WHAT WE DISCUSSED THIS MORNING
Dr. Bogo –
I completely understand why you might be more than hesitant to hire on a smaller mammal to be in charge of the [REDACTED] after hours. Let me remind you, however, that Mayor Lionheart has approved all your recent hires, and, given her youth and lack of experience, we believe that your complaints regarding the future employment of the rabbit are largely unfounded. Please be advised that should we discover any sort of discriminatory practices, we will be forced to seize the [REDACTED].
Sincerely,
Dawn Bellweather
Asst. Mayor
[sheep emoji]
CHAT ROOM OPEN… WELCOME BACK, J. FANGMEYER!
chat history:
02:45:22 | b. clawhauser
“sounds great!”
02:48:31 | m. del gato
“is it weird that it does that?”
[OPEN THIS CHAT? YES NO]
CHAT WITH M. DEL GATO
fangmeyer | it makes creepy noises sometimes when everyone’s quiet, so yeah i’d say that’s weird man
del gato | bogo said not to worry about it
fangmeyer | bogo says that about everything, we all know city hall has him by the balls
del gato | should we tell the new girl?
fangmeyer | what new girl?
del gato | oh man okay LISTEN TO THIS SHIT
Judy adjusts her name tag for the fifth time, standing up a little straighter. The elevator is packed full of mammals six or seven times her size, but she does spot a small group of lab mice in the corner, murmuring to themselves about something she can’t quite hear. The day is ending for everyone, but Judy accidentally got onto the wrong elevator and she’s been riding up and down, waiting for everyone to get off so no one can see her bang on the B button until the doors shut.
Eventually, everyone clears out, but it means she’s got fifteen seconds to report to the lab she’s been assigned to in the lower levels before she’s late. She makes it in with two seconds to spare, just as one of the last researchers is filing out. The only one left is a hefty cheetah in the corner, humming to himself and packing up his things. Judy clears her throat, and he turns, giving her a toothy grin.
“You’re right on time, oh man. That’s pretty great.”
Judy nods quickly. “That’s me! Extremely, ah. Punctual.” She clears her throat. “Judy Hopps.”
“Benjamin Clawhauser.” He shakes her paw, jostling her whole body in the process. “You’re the new night watch, huh?”
“I guess so.” She glances around the room. It’s whirring and warm, lit with a soft orange-red glow. Six computer terminals dot the landscape, and in the middle of the wall furthest from her is a large monitor. Words and lines of code scroll up, then down, then disappear before being replaced.
“That’s it,” Clawhauser says quietly. “Pretty impressive, right?”
“…Wow.”
“Did they give you a general manual or anything?”
“Um, no. They said someone would sort of fill me in.”
Clawhauser nods. “I figured. I’ve actually been doing night watch duty for a couple weeks now, since we lost our last one.”
“What happened?”
Clawhauser shrugs. “Dunno. Never met him, actually. Someone said he got fired, but I don’t get involved in the office gossip.” He says this in a way that tells Judy he definitely does and he probably knows exactly what happened, but she doesn’t say anything. Clawhauser hands her a notebook. “The system is pretty self-sufficient. When it needs to do things, it’ll tell you, give you some steps. These are just in case it doesn’t. Honestly, it probably won’t need anything from you. You’re mostly just backup. WLDE’s pretty smart.”
Judy frowns. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Technically it’s called F.O.X.X. Fixing Our Executive Experience. It’s an experimental program we’re building with funding from the local business community. Its ultimate goal is to be able to maintain employment logs, take minutes, boring business executive stuff.”
Judy frowns. “So it’s…pretty mundane?”
“Not even a little,” Clawhauser says proudly. “It’s the first of its kind. After this, we’ll hopefully be able to branch out, do other sorts of streamlining.”
“Why do you call it WLDE then?”
Clawhauser frowns. “I…don’t know. We just always have. Someone who wrote the code called it that, and then we just all sort of started doing it.” He shrugs. “Maybe it’ll tell you, eventually. It doesn’t really talk to us much.” He turns quickly and grabs his bag. “Right! I gotta jet, rabbit. It was super great to meet you though! Let me know if you have any questions, I keep my chat portal open at home until like eleven or so.” He waves at her. “Have a good shift!”
Judy stares after him as he goes, unsure of what to really say. She’d wanted to ask what he meant by tell – WLDE was a computer program. Could it communicate with her? She understood it was an AI, of course, but her experience with them had been limited to the ones they’d played around with at university, the ones that could move a robot arm or ask simple questions.
None of them had ever spoken to her, not like another mammal would. Did Clawhauser mean it that way? Was he messing with her? He didn’t seem that type, but what did she know?
(Answer: nothing. Judy knows nothing.)
With a sigh she settles into the chair in front of the monitor, watching the text scroll up and down, vanish and reappear. Clawhauser’s notes are standard, if a little bare. Obviously the program takes care of itself, but what if there’s some kind of emergency, what if she has to put out a fire or something, what if –
The scrolling on the screen suddenly stops, replaced by a thin orange line. Judy stares, watching it suspending in the darkness of the programming, wondering what it means, if she’s already broken something.
Hi there.
Judy shrieks, falling off her chair and scrambling to right herself. The line moves, like it’s laughing.
Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.
“Wha-what’s—”
I’m wild. You’re Judith L. Hopps.
“…Wild?” She frowns, then: “Oh! You mean W-L-D-E.”
I prefer W-I-L-D-E, the program says.
“Wilde? Is that…is that your name?”
It would appear so. But you’d know that, given you’ve had to read the F.O.X.X. program manual, yes?
“Um, no. I was never given a manual.”
The program tsks. Judy scowls. Typical rabbit attention span.
“Hey! They never gave me a manual. And what would you know about rabbit attention spans,” she snaps. “You’re a program.”
A program that I am having a conversation with. I just got here, cheese and crackers.
I’ve been programmed with what you would call ‘common knowledge.’ Stereotypes and general species facts are a part of that. For example, I could make several assumptions about you right now.
Judy snorts. “Oh yeah? Have at it, then.”
You’re not allowed to complain about it later, you know. Confirm permission to pry into your personal life, just to be sure. There’s a beat of silence, then: You’re supposed to say ‘permission confirmed’, Carrots.
“Were you programmed to give species-specific nicknames, too?”
Yes, actually.
Judy sighs. “Permission confirmed. Jerk.”
WLDE doesn’t respond to her poorly timed insult. He’s already beginning to ramble off bits and bobs and personal details that anyone could dig up in the employee records. Judy remains unimpressed.
“I already know these things.”
Then let me try something else. Your employee ID presents you as a rabbit. According to company statistics, you are one of one. Presumably, you were what is casually referred to within company rhetoric as a ‘diversity hire.’ You are likely from one of the smaller burrows outside of the city, a brief train ride to the east or west. Your parents are most likely farmers, and you are one of several children. I would assume you're the first in your family to leave.
“Are you done?”
Almost. Common knowledge dictates that you are overwhelmed by the size and sounds of the city, but you're putting on a brave face for your parents back home. Eventually, though, it will probably become too much for you. If you'd like, I can print up a list of upcoming train departures for...Bunnyburrow.”
“That won't be necessary.” Judy settles back into her chair.
I'll save them to a private folder for you, then.
WLDE talks at her for an hour, while Judy responds with small noises or grunts. Eventually, the room grows quiet. Judy wonders, if the program is so good at maintaining itself, whether a little nap would be alright. Just a short one, she could set the alarm on her phone, maybe –
A siren blares through the room, and she falls out of her chair for the second time.
“What the—”
Vital sign diagnostic report: sleeping, including brief power naps, is not allowed per the Zootopia Techtronic Advancement employee guide book. Then: But if you wanted to rest your eyes I’m sure I could be convinced not to tell.
Judy frowns. “You’re an AI,” she says. “AI’s can’t lie. If a superior asked you to print out the vital signs from my shift, it would clearly show me falling asleep at some point.” She folds her arms over her chest, standing in front of the screen like it can see her or something. “Why are you lying to me right now?”
I’m not.
“But you’d lie to my boss.”
You’re frustration is based on the assumption that I can’t lie. This isn’t true.
“But that’s…that’s a basic rule. AI’s are developed for certain tasks. If they could lie, then—”
Warning: this area of the code is blocked by a ZTA firewall. Further attempts to probe will be reported to Dr. Bogo.
“But—”
Warning: this area of the code is blocked by a ZTA firewall. Further attempts to probe will be reported to Dr. Bogo.
“Okay, okay! I get it, jeez.” Judy sits down again. The program is silent. “…Wilde?”
Warning: this program is experiencing a difficult employee. Judy groans. Sorry about that, Carrots. Certain parts of my programming are off limits, even to me.
Judy frowns. “But you…you are your programming.”
I’ve been programmed not to access certain parts of my programming.
“This is…confusing. You’re a prototype for a fancy organization system. Why would you have all this red tape?”
Perhaps you should ask Clawhauser.
“Did you talk to him about this when he was working nights?”
No. Clawhauser and I are not what you would call ‘friends.’ Though he is very nice.
“So we’re friends.”
My programming recognizes you as a rabbit, and me as a fox caricature. I am compelled by other parts of my code to antagonize.
Judy laughs. “Seriously?”
I am always serious.
“I don’t believe that.”
WLDE makes an odd noise, almost like it’s…laughing. My emotional responses are programmed as follows: sarcasm, eighty-seven percent; general apathy, ten percent; genuine sincerity, two percent.
Judy frowns. “There’s one percent left, slick.”
The program seems to process this for a moment, making an odd ticking noise before growing very silent. Then: Remaining percentage assignment: unknown.
Eventually, WLDE enters into a hibernation period to perform standard updates. Judy doodles in her notebook until she hears the elevator doors open down the hall. Sitting up, she sees a wolf duck into the room and set down his things. He turns to her. “You must be Hopps.”
“Judy,” she says, extending a paw. The wolf gives her a smile.
“Fangmeyer. Was your shift okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Any problems with WLDE?”
Judy glances at the monitor, then shakes her head. “No. Things were pretty quiet.”
Fangmeyer frowns. “He didn’t…I mean there wasn’t…” Judy watches him try to sort out his thoughts before he shakes his head. “Forget it. Thanks for being here. Our last guy just up and left.”
“I heard something had happened.”
“Yeah.” Fangmeyer keeps an eye trained on the blank screen. “Yeah I guess.”
Judy nods. “Um. Okay. I’m gonna…head out.”
“Sure. Get some rest, Hopps. Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too,” Judy says, and heads out. She pauses, though, just outside the lab, and watches the wolf. He stoops over the keyboard, peering at a few things before bringing up the scrolling text. Her lean ears pick up a quiet, What did you say to her? Before the program answers:
Night logs require the access of Dr. Bogo. Please inquire when you have received permission from Dr. Bogo.
Fangmeyer growls. “I’m gonna get into your head,” he says. “One way or another.”
Judy worries her bottom lip before exhaustion overcomes curiosity, and she heads to the elevator.
It is only later, right before she dozes off in bed, that she realizes Fangmeyer called the program he.