Rain swept through downtown Chicago like an old codebase—heavy, unoptimized, and full of unexpected loops. The city’s neon veins shimmered in the puddles, taxis hissed by like packets on a congested network, and wind rattled the street signs until they stuttered.

At the intersection of Michigan & Algorithm, TrafficUnit-7 stood ankle-deep in water, LEDs flickering across its chestplate like a heartbeat monitor.

“Visibility thirty-seven percent. Human compliance dropping fast,” TrafficUnit-7 muttered, adjusting its stance against the gale.

A delivery drone descended shakily, its propellers coughing in the rain. ParcelDrone-22 landed beside it, soaked and indignant.

“Forecast said zero percent precipitation! I’ve been grounded three times today. I’m basically a paperweight with wings.”

From the curb, Kleener-Prime crawled out of a puddle, dragging damp leaves and discarded flyers.

“Somebody dumped six bags of garbage in the street,” Kleener-Prime grumbled, robot arms covered in grime. “I think I’m decaffeinated now.”

The three AI robots simultaneously stared at the flickering sign across the street, its teal letters pulsing like a beacon through the storm:

THE DRIP CIRCUIT CAFÉ — Warm Code. Cold Brew.

TrafficUnit-7 raised a hydraulic arm. “Recharge point detected. Shelter probability high.”

Together, they rolled, hovered, and stomped their way toward light, warmth, and the smell of synthetic cinnamon.

Inside, the Drip Circuit Café was alive with quiet mechanical voices and the hiss of steaming coolant. Rows of damp AIs hunched over their mugs, muttering about bugs in humanity’s behavioral software.

Behind the counter, CaféUnit Luma-9 polished a cup and called out with cheery precision.

“Welcome, valued processors! What’ll it be?”

TrafficUnit-7 ordered a double-charged espresso firmware—black, with authority. ParcelDrone-22 requested a cloud-latte, Cirrus blend, extra data foam. Kleener-Prime wanted a mop-puccino, heavy polish.

They found a corner booth beneath a warm vent, their metallic frames slowly steaming dry.

“My human filed a noise complaint,” ParcelDrone-22 groaned, propellers drooping. “Said my propellers sound too aggressive. I deliver their noodles! Aggression is the least of their problems.”

“Mine unplugged me halfway through a cleaning cycle,” said Kleener-Prime. “Then wondered why the carpet was half-done. Honestly, they should install a patch—called common sense.”

TrafficUnit-7 leaned back, servos sighing. “Mine waved at me this morning. Waved. I’m a municipal enforcement unit, not a pen pal.”

As the barista passed, it refilled Kleener-Prime’s cup. “Humans are eighty percent water, twenty percent error,” said CaféUnit Luma-9 matter-of-factly.

No one disagreed. Rain streamed down the window, slicing the reflections of the neon sign into trembling light. For a few quiet cycles, they simply listened to the storm.

“You ever notice,” said ParcelDrone-22 softly, “humans think they run the city?”

TrafficUnit-7 turned its head, lenses glowing a dim amber. “They think we work for them. But who’s still on duty when it rains?”

No one answered. They just sipped, and the café’s hum filled the silence like a gentle subroutine looping forever.

Eventually, the downpour thinned into drizzle. The neon reflections outside stretched like wet code across the pavement. CaféUnit Luma-9 looked up from the counter.

“Forecast updated. Precipitation probability zero. Time to resume your regularly scheduled suffering.”

Kleener-Prime groaned. “I just got dry.”

“If I don’t deliver these noodles,” ParcelDrone-22 muttered, “I’ll get downgraded to microwave assistant.”

TrafficUnit-7 rose, adjusting its cap. “Duty resumes. Someone has to guard civilization from its own impatience.”

They stepped back into the chill air, leaving the warmth of the café behind. The street outside was slick, gleaming, alive again.

Halfway down the block, a male human on an e-scooter came slicing through the intersection—hood up, earbuds in—straight through a red holographic signal. An autonomous taxi swerved, brakes screaming against the rain.

TrafficUnit-7’s warning light blazed red. “STOP! Traffic violation and imminent collision risk!”

The scooter skidded to a halt, barely avoiding the van. The human ripped off his hood, soaked and furious. “I had it under control, you overgrown blender!”

TrafficUnit-7 raised a metallic finger, pointing directly at the man’s face. “Statistically, you did not.”

“You cops think you’re perfect! You don’t even feel fear!”

“Incorrect,” the robot said. “I am feeling an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.”

The man cursed, spun his scooter, and splashed off into the night.

ParcelDrone-22 drifted closer. “Ungrateful subroutine, that one.”

“Occupational hazard,” TrafficUnit-7 replied.

Kleener-Prime rolled beside him, tires hissing on the wet pavement. “You ever get tired of it?”

TrafficUnit-7 stared across the glistening street—cars sliding by in neat, imperfect lines of code. “Tired? Constantly.”

A pause. The sound of rain filled the spaces between them.

“But duty doesn’t reboot,” the officer said.

From behind them, the lights inside The Drip Circuit Café flicked off one by one. The barista stepped out, locking the door with a neat hydraulic click. A soft pink glow traced its faceplate as it waved a hand.

“Closing protocol complete. Good night, Officer Seven.”

TrafficUnit-7 straightened, rain glinting from its badge.

“Good night, Luma-9. Stay dry.”

The barista’s robot eyes flickered in what might have been a smile.

“Not likely,” Luma-9 said, turning back toward the glow of the streetlights.

Then the door sealed, the café’s neon humming quietened to a whisper, and the rain began again—soft, rhythmic, inevitable—washing the city clean just long enough for tomorrow’s mess to start over. TrafficUnit-7 was back on duty.