Extended Warranty Protection

It was not the police at the door.

"This isn't a great time," Deb said to the repairman, whose name tag said 'Hank'.

He looked up from his clipboard. "I got a call you're havin' an issue."

"Yes, but not—"

"About yay high?" he said, hand over his head. "Broad shoulders, kinda stiff, built like a tank?"

Deb opened the screen door. "How did you—"

"Can I see him?" asked Hank, and she ushered him in.

"I don't know what to do," she stammered. "He asked me my name, and then just pushed inside without saying WHY, and, well..."

In the kitchen, a very muscular stranger — wearing a battered leather jacket and sunglasses — was flipping an omelette. His face was locked in a scowl, looking straight ahead as he added to his heaping plate of perfect food. He started mixing more eggs.

"Yup," said Hank, setting down his toolbox. "That's him."

"You know him?" Deb asked, voice hushed.

"Not him, exactly, but that model, sure. It's your standard bio-synthetic 800-series hunter-killer robot," he said. 

"Wait, he's a ROBOT?"

"Yes ma'am. Big ol' hunk of tin. Sent back in time to assassinate folks, and—" He looked down at the ground. "Aw shoot, I'm sorry. Forgot to take off m'boots. Excuse me one sec."

He shuffled to the front door, leaving Deb alone with the robot. He came back a minute later, checking the floor for tracks.

"Did you say ASSASSINATE?" she whispered.

"Oftentimes," he said. "But your guy here seems taken with eggs. The 800s, they don't have the best shielding, so the temporal field fritzes 'em up. He probably showed up here and had no idea why."

"Is it safe?" she asked, hiding around the corner. "I mean, will it try to kill me?"

"Well let's just have a see," said Hank, and took a long screwdriver from his toolbox. He patted the robot on the shoulder: "Gonna check your uplink, son."

The robot said nothing; it had omelettes to make. Hank stuck the screwdriver into the back of its skull and twisted until a cylindrical tube slid out. He plugged his phone's yellow cable into the tube, and waited.

"Nice area you're in," he said to Deb, looking out the kitchen window. "Real quiet."

"It's... it's nice," she said.

"Rent or own?" he asked.

"Own," she said. "We own."

He smiled, nodded, then unplugged the cable. He pushed the cylinder in, gave it a solid twist with the screwdriver, and shuffled back over to his toolbox.

"So?" Deb asked, as he jotted notes. "Will it try to kill me?"

"Nope," he said. "Mission data's wiped clean. He'll be lookin' for things to do, but given his interests so far, I think you'll be fine."

He started for the door, but Deb grabbed his arm. "Wait! You can't LEAVE him here! I can't have a robot assassin in my HOUSE!"

Hank smiled, pulling on his boots. "Don't you worry, ma'am. The 800 is a great model. You can teach 'em anything, and they never complain. Real ace product, once you get past the knife thing."

"The WHAT?"

His phone buzzed. "Whoops, running late. You have a great day, ma'am!" He paused in the door. "And you might want to get s'more eggs, before he runs out. Like a lot. And soon.”