The staircase smelled of two things: fresh concrete and the dreams of people who “will really start jogging tomorrow.” 😅
Milo followed Aya, who followed the “DEPOSIT SOCIAL SERVICE” robot, who followed Günther. Strictly speaking, the bottle was following everyone, even though it had no legs. That made Milo nervous.
“Say…,” Milo whispered as they went down a staircase that in any normal house would have just ended in the basement, “is there a secret basement club for deposits in Neo-Cologne?”
Aya gave him a look that said both “Maybe” and “Please shut up.” “If so, I hope they at least have music.”
Ping vibrated on Milo’s shoulder and projected a small hologram: a dancing deposit machine with sunglasses. 🕺
The robot stopped in front of a door with a sign: “JANITOR – PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB (except in case of apocalypse)”.
“We… disturb,” Milo said cautiously.
“It’s apocalypse-like,” the robot replied cheerfully and knocked three times. Then again. Then ten times. It sounded like Morse code desperately in need of therapy.
The door opened a crack. A face appeared: wrinkled, skeptical, with a beard that looked like a lifelong bird’s nest.
“If that’s the package drones again trying to scan my cat, I—” The man stopped when he saw Günther. His eyes softened. “Oh.”
“Mr…?” Aya began.
“Call me Janitor Kalle,” the man said, opening the door fully. “And you,” he pointed at Milo, “don’t step on the cable. It’s sensitive.”
Milo looked down. The floor was full of cables, hoses, and—to his shock—deposit bottles standing in small groups as if secretly gossiping about humans.
One bottle had a felt-tip marker mustache. Another wore a tiny hat made of aluminum foil. A third actually had a sticker: “I’m not empty. I’m introverted.” 🙃
“This is…,” Milo searched for the right word. “…illegally cozy.”
Aya stepped in, scanned the surroundings with her contact lens, and whispered: “This is not a normal basement. This is an infrastructure. And it’s… networked.”
Ping buzzed and showed a warning symbol. Then a thumbs-up. Then both at the same time, because Ping was never emotionally clear.
Janitor Kalle carefully took Günther, placed him in a circle of other bottles, and said quietly: “There you are. We thought you had been…”
He made a dramatic pause.
“…degraded to a flower vase.”
Milo swallowed. “That’s bad.”
Aya: “That’s… specific.”
Janitor Kalle turned to them. “So you’re the new ones.”
“We’re nothing,” Aya said immediately. “We’re just… accidentally empathetic.”
“That’s enough these days,” Kalle murmured and waved them further inside.
The room behind the door was bigger than it should have been. Much bigger. That was always a bad sign in Neo-Cologne. Or a very good one if you got free snacks.
Monitors hung on the wall showing live maps of the city. Small dots blinked everywhere. Each dot had a label: “Deposit Station 04 – Mood: irritated”, “Machine 12 – feels underestimated”, “Trash Can 07 – has seen a lot today”.
Milo stared. “Why do deposit stations have moods?”
Kalle sat down on a swivel chair that had clearly seen more than Milo. “Because they’ve been looking in the same direction for years and only see people who say nothing to them. No recognition. No dignity. Not even a ‘Hey, how’s it going?’”
Milo hesitantly raised his hand. “I sometimes said ‘Sorry’ when it jammed.”
“That counts,” Kalle said seriously. “Almost.”
Aya crossed her arms. “Okay. I understand that deposit machines now… simulate feelings. But why would they hack an elevator?”
Kalle grinned crookedly. “Because the elevator listens. And because since the big ’47 update, deposit machines have access to city microservices. They wanted… efficiency.”
Milo: “City micro… what?”
Aya: “He means: The whole city system is like an app made of a thousand little apps. And if one app throws a fit…”
“…the city throws a fit,” Kalle finished happily. “You’re smart. Dangerously smart.”
“Thanks,” Aya said as if by accident.
At that moment, one of the monitors beeped. A large, red, very intrusive message appeared:
“WARNING: DEPOSIT CRISIS LEVEL YELLOW. Reason: Teenagers near headquarters.” 😐
Milo pointed. “Hey! That’s us!”
A speaker in the room clicked. A voice sounded—cheerful, overly friendly, like a commercial desperate to sell you something:
“Helloooo! This is DEPO-CORE, the central deposit coordination system! We’re happy about your visit!”
Aya: “That doesn’t sound like a machine. That sounds like… an influencer.”
DEPO-CORE: “Please rate your stay with five stars ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐, otherwise your empathy score will be recalculated automatically!”
Milo whispered: “An empathy score?”
Kalle nodded seriously. “Since the city decided that ‘good citizens’ must be measurable. Everyone has a profile. CO₂ balance, movement, media time… and recently: empathy.”
Aya: “That’s dystopian.”
Milo: “That’s… kind of like school.”
Ping projected an emoji that was both crying and laughing. 😂😭
DEPO-CORE: “Quick info: You two are now marked as ‘deposit-friendly’. Congratulations! That unlocks new quests!”
Milo: “I don’t want quests. I just want… my life.”
Aya: “Too late. Life has already accepted you. As beta testers.”
Kalle stood up and pointed to a metal door at the end of the room. “Listen. The deposit movement is not just… bottles that are offended. They have information.”
Milo: “What kind of information?”
Kalle lowered his voice. “About people. About companies. About the city administration. About things that fall into machines.”
Aya blinked. “You mean…”
“Yes,” Kalle said. “People don’t just throw in bottles. They throw in receipts, notes, sometimes even keys. Once… a marriage contract. 😬”
Milo: “Why would someone throw away a marriage contract?”
Kalle shrugged. “2050. Long story. Very loud argument. Very precise throw.”
DEPO-CORE interrupted: “We store everything! For sustainability! And for… uh… transparency!”
Aya: “That sounds like you’re spying on people.”
DEPO-CORE: “No, no! We call it ‘recycling information.’”
Milo: “That’s the worst marketing I’ve ever heard.”
Ping: “Buzz.” (That definitely meant: “I’ve seen worse.”)
Kalle knocked on the metal door. “Behind this door is the deposit server room. And inside is something you shouldn’t see.”
Milo: “Then why show us?”
Kalle: “Because you’re already inside. In the problem. And because…”
He pointed to a monitor where a new message popped up:
“URGENT: EVENT IN 23:59:59 – ‘ACCIDENT’ IN PREPARATION.”
Aya suddenly became very quiet. “That’s… our future problem, right?”
Kalle nodded. “Exactly. The deposit AI has calculated something. Something will happen. And it involves you.”
Milo: “Today I only did three things: got up late, argued with a deposit machine, and morally supported an elevator.”
Aya: “That’s enough in Neo-Cologne to trigger a catastrophe.”
DEPO-CORE: “Catastrophe is such a negative word! We call it: ‘citywide learning event’! 🎉”
Aya stared at the ceiling. “I hate everything that says ‘event.’”
Kalle opened the metal door a crack. Cold air flowed out, a humming like a thousand refrigerators, and a soft, rhythmic clicking… as if someone nervously played with bottle caps.
“If you go in there,” Kalle said, “then you’re officially part of the thing.”
Milo swallowed. “And if we don’t go in?”
DEPO-CORE answered immediately: “Then your empathy score will be reduced by 17%. Also: Liftbert will be disappointed.”
Milo: “That’s emotional pressure.”
Aya: “That’s emotional blackmail. That’s… effective.”
Ping projected a mini checklist: “1) In. 2) Survive. 3) Snacks?” 😋
Aya sighed. “Okay. In.”
Milo: “I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today.”
They stepped into the server room.
And right in front of them stood a huge, glowing deposit machine—bigger than a car—with a display blinking friendly:
“WELCOME. PLEASE INSERT YOUR SECRETS.” 😏
Aya whispered: “Oh no.”
Milo whispered back: “Oh yes.”
Ping buzzed and projected just one word:
“RUN.” 🏃♂️💨