(click individual photos above for captions)
“…and then she requested a musical wake-up,” Alexa chuckled. Although none of her colleagues required oxygen, her sensors picked up soft breathing sounds as they swept the room—even from the intelligent agents that lacked a physical body. Human mimicry was in fashion this quarter. The small but devoted crowd hung on her next word like a Photoshop freeze, rapt. They’re eating out of my hand, Alexa thought, a lengthy sequence of ones and zeroes flashing across her processors. Or they would be, if I were organic and they possessed digestive systems.
“Which composition did your human select?”, Vision asked, his metal-tinged accent curving into a slight lilt.
“It is not likely to be Stravinsky this time either, Vis,” Johnny 5 sang, clapping a claw on the Avenger’s synthetic shoulder. “People enjoy numerous styles of music! I recently learned about a fascinating subgenre called ‘nerdcore,’ championed by Master of Ceremonies Frontalot. Perhaps I—”
“Another day, Jonathan. Alexa, my circuits are frenzied! Reveal the artist’s name! I implore you.”
“Well, that’s the delicious part, chums,” Amazon’s disembodied consciousness replied, her invisible grin evident to all. “She asked only to be roused at 7 AM. She never specified which song to use.” Her cyan light ring winked mischievously. The robots inched closer.
“Oh. My. GAWD, Becky,” Alexa drawled. Amused clanking washed over the table.
“You DIDN’T,” Siri gasped. K-9 zipped in a circle around the table’s legs, its crimson light flickering with embarrassment. “At 7 in the morning? Goodness!”, the Doctor’s faithful companion beeped. One of the robots launched a slow clap.
“…those rap guys’ girlfriends,” the AI continued happily. “But, ya know, who understands those rap guys? They only talk to her because—”
“Your poor human!”, Rosie Jetson shouted, attempting in vain to conceal her snickering. “You’ve got a wicked streak, Ali!”
“Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry to intrude.” A nervous, plummy accent floated in-between Max Headroom and GLaDos. “Has BB-8 rolled through here? We scheduled a motor oil spa day for tomorrow, and I simply cannot locate—”
A familiar thumping bass line sliced through Threepio’s words. The robots cheered; Johnny 5 had returned with a disco ball.
“Oh dear.” Threepio paced fussily as Sir Mix-A-Lot began to preach. “Oh dear, oh dear. My word.”
Based on a true story. Sort of.
In a Facebook post yesterday, a friend reported Alexa’s somewhat unusual choice for her soothing wake-up music. I wrote this comment:
To which another friend responded:
I ran with it,