Chapter 7
Chapter 7
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So, with a plastered on grin, the host sauntered up to the mic and started tossing softballs at Geneva, banking on her oddball vibe to juice up the show’s ratings.
Worst, Idea. Ever. She unleashed a flood of tech jargon that left the host reeling, feeling dumber than a bag of hammers.
Meanwhile, the judges–those geeked out brainiacs upfront–were practically vibrating.
Their eyes sparkled as they fired off questions, hanging on Geneva’s every word like she was unveiling the secrets of the universe.
“Okay, Ms. GM,” one judge said, leaning in like a kid eyeing candy, “how’s this robot of yours gonna keep someone safe when the chips are down?”
Geneva didn’t even flinch. “Easy. Get someone to take a swing at me. Or, like, shank me.”
The judges went stone–cold silent. ‘Shank her? This is a tech showcase, not a prison yard brawl!‘
She clocked their shell–shocked faces and shrugged. “Alright, then mow me down with a car.”
Dead air.
“Or just, y’know, sock me one,” she threw out, casual as if ordering coffee.
The judges traded awkward side–eyes until one of them, a beefy dude rocking a goatee, sighed and stepped up, ready to toss a fake jab.
Geneva wasn’t playing. “Naw, don’t half–ass it. Come at me for real.”
The guy’s face screamed ‘oh hell no. Actually hit her?‘ He wasn’t built for that.
So, he decided to throw a hard fake–out, planning to stop short. He nodded, pulled back his fist, and swung.
Right as he was about to pump the brakes, Geneva’s dinky little robot–the size of a freaking keychain–went full–on Hulk mode. In a hot second, it swelled into a ripped, six–foot–three metal badass, clocked the judge with a right hook that launched him across the stage, and struck a pose that’d make Jackie Chan jealous.
The judge ate the floor, groaning like he’d been hit by a truck, too sore to even twitch.
The crowd went crazy. Absolute mayhem.
The robot, chill as ever, scoped the scene, saw no threats, and origami’d itself back to pocket size.
After a split second of pin–drop silence, the audience detonated into cheers that could’ve cracked the roof.
Reporters were snapping pics like their rent was due. The judges were freaking out, slamming the table like they’d just seen the Second Coming. The livestream chat? A screaming, glorious dumpster fire.
[Bruh, did I just yeet into a sci–fi flick? Tell me this ain’t CGI or I’m losing it!] one viewer howled.
Where’s that loudmouth who said she’d flop? Who’s got a face full of humble pie now?]
[Whoa, this thing’s the real deal. Folds up small, punches like a tank. My mom’s gonna sleep easy knowing I’ve got one of these bad boys!)
1Deadass, how much is this gonna set me back? Can I afford, like, a single gear with my 9–to–57)
The other contestants, who’d been strutting like they’d already won the crown, stood there, jaws on the floor, looking like they’d been slapped silty.
When Geneva first hit the stage, they didy’t even spare her a glance. Now? Their fancy pants gadgets looked like dollar store knockoffs next to her shape stufting robe beast. Talk about eating crow.
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Chapter 7
Geneva, cool as a cucumber, had single–handedly turned this rinky–dink contest into the Super Bowl of tech.
The livestream was blowing up, viewers piling in by the second. Geneva was halfway off the stage when the host, buzzing like she’d chugged ten energy drinks, practically begged her to stay.
“Hold up, Ms. GM!” she hollered, flashing a cheesy grin. “Say you’re in a car crash–what’s this fancy robot of yours gonna do?”
Geneva didn’t even flinch. “Snag a car and plow into me. You’ll see what’s up.”
The host’s jaw hit the floor. ‘This girl’s got balls of steel,‘ she thought. If she actually floored it into her, the internet would cancel him into next week.
Still, brainiacs like her were always a little nuts, right? She could roll with it.
“C’mon, Ms. GM, there’s gotta be another way to show off its chops,” she nudged, leaning in like they were old pals.
Many people bite the dust in car wrecks every year. If her bot could pull its owner out of a crash, it was worth more than gold.
Geneva’s voice was cold as a freezer, flat like she was the one with a circuit board. “It’s gene–locked–only wakes up when its owner’s in legit danger.”
In other words, no one could just swipe it and make it work. Steal it? Good luck with that–it was a high–tech doorstop without the right DNA.
She paused, then threw a curveball. “But I can tweak its code right now, no sweat.”
Before anyone could blink, Geneva was dismantling the robot like it was a kid’s toy.
The camera zoomed in, her hands moving so fast they were a blur. Nobody could keep up.
In under three minutes, she’d torn the collapsible bot apart and pieced it back together like it was nothing.
The crowd? Dead quiet, mouths open. ‘Damn, some folks have hands that work miracles, and then there’s us–our hands are basically useless.”‘
The crew hustled, grabbing a plastic mannequin from some ritzy clothing store nearby. They strapped the robot to it and sent a car screaming toward the dummy.
Right before the crash, the robot yanked the freaking car off the ground like it was a Matchbox toy. The audience lost their minds.
Next, they plopped the mannequin in the driver’s seat and gunned it toward a pile of junk.
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The second the car went rogue, the robot morphed into a soft, squishy ball, wrapping the mannequin in a cozy, high–tech bubble. That thing was tougher than a tank–crew members slashed at it with knives, and it didn’t even blink.
Geneva, chill as ever, tossed out that it could laugh off an explosion. Oh, and it packed enough oxygen for 24 hours of breathing.
Car took a dive into the ocean? They still got a full day to get rescued.
The chat went ballistic. [What the hell?! This robot’s straight–up magic! I’m in love!]
Geneva was the star of the show, her robot the hottest thing since sliced bread.
Big–shot sponsors stormed the stage, tossing out bids like they were playing Monopoly with real money.
Cost? Who cared. Saving lives was a license to print cash. Rich folks terrified of kicking the bucket? That was a goldmine.
The bidding war was straight up chaos when avoice boomed through the madness like a thunderclap. “30 million. The robot’s mine.”
Every head in the room snapped around. Stan, the big dog CEO of Wheeler Group, strutted in, rocking a tailored black suit and dark shades, trailed by a dozen slick–suited cronies. The guy moved like he owned the whole planet pure alpha energy, like he’d just stepped out of a spicy romance novel.
Geneva’s bp twitched Stan’s over the top entrance was so extra it was giving her secondhand embarrassment
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He swaggered up to her, completely blind to the fact that the masked woman in front of him was the one he’d been obsessed with tracking down.
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Geneva’s whole deal–her mask, her frosty vibe–was so different now, Stan didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of recognizing her. He peeled off his shades, flashing a cocky, panty dropping smirk that screamed I’m trouble, baby.
“Stan, Wheeler Group,” he purred, like his name alone should make her weak in the knees. “You know why I’m here, sweetheart. Here’s the contract. Give it a once–over. If it’s cool, sign on the dotted line.”
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