The Drifter’s stabilizers pulsed through Jace’s room, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat beneath the silence. It hovered just above his desk, its matte-black shell catching flickers of neon blue from his monitor. To anyone else, it was a personal safety drone—one of millions churned out for the masses. Drifters were marketed as protectors: always watching, scanning, ready to intervene in a crisis. A lifeline in a world that felt increasingly unsteady.
But to Jace, this one had always been something more.
As a kid, he’d seen it as his guardian angel—a quiet, constant presence that eased fears he couldn’t name. While other children ignored theirs or treated them like toys, Jace studied his. He learned its quirks, its limits, tweaking its code until it moved the way he wanted. That bond was what ignited his obsession with drones.
Then came the truth.
Years back, whispers on underground forums turned into proof: Drifters weren’t just protectors—they were spies. Every move, every moment, fed back to some faceless system under the banner of “security.” The revelation hit like a gut punch. The thing he’d trusted, the thing he’d made his own, had never truly been his.
At first, he hated it. Then he shrugged and accepted it—privacy was the price of safety, or so the world insisted. The magic faded, and his Drifter became just another tool. But a restless part of him still ached to reclaim what he’d lost.
Jace hunched over his keyboard, fingers flying across a patchwork interface cobbled together by hobbyists like him. He was uploading a firmware override, severing the drone’s tether to the network—no more tracking, no more surveillance, no more forced updates. A clean slate.
He wasn’t stopping there. He’d built a custom AI, scraps of code stitched together from sleepless nights and half-baked theories. Unlike the stock models, which leaned on rigid firmware, this one could learn in real time. He hoped it might rekindle that old spark—make the Drifter feel alive again, not just a machine.
“Almost there…” he murmured, eyes locked on the creeping status bar.
His phone buzzed against the desk. A message.
Helix: You done yet?
Jace: Close.
Helix: Move faster, man. You’ve waited too long. Do your family’s too.
Jace rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling sharply. Helix knew that was a nonstarter—his family would never go for it. Jace wasn’t some tinfoil-hat crusader; he just wanted his drone to be his again. The system’s constant overrides made that impossible, rewriting any changes the moment they synced. Helix couldn’t even say why this time felt urgent—just a gut feeling, stitched from cryptic dark-web posts. He’d been wrong about hunches before, but his insistence now unnerved Jace.
He glanced at the Drifter. Once unbound, it’d still look identical to the rest. But with the new AI, it might act on its own—maybe even defy a cop or a state command. That kind of rebellion could mean fines or worse. Still, Jace had a failsafe: one tap on his phone to revert it to factory settings, play dumb, then switch it back later. The real gamble was the AI evolving beyond his grip. He’d have to reset it often to keep control.
The door creaked. Elara, his sister, poked her head in. “Still messing with that thing?”
“Just tweaking it.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna break it, and Mom and Dad’ll flip.”
“It’s fine.”
“Whatever. Dad says you should stop tinkering and get a job.”
Jace ignored her, eyes on the screen. Elara sighed, slumping against the doorframe. “You could at least talk to them about… whatever’s got you so paranoid.”
“They wouldn’t get it.”
“They’d hear you out more than me.”
He didn’t respond. She softened. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“It’s not a bomb, Elara. It’s a Drifter—my Drifter. Watch.”
He hit enter. The drone whirred, a new sound threading through its hum—sharp, alive. They both stilled, caught off guard.
“Mine never sounded like that,” Elara said, frowning.
Jace smirked. “Yours is stock. This isn’t.”
He typed a command. The screen blinked: Enter new designation:
He eyed the drone. “What’s your name, little one?”
It chirped—crisp, deliberate, almost like words. “Spa… Row?”
Jace blinked. “Sparrow?”
A cheerful trill confirmed it. Elara’s jaw dropped. “Wait… it named itself?”
The drone spun playfully, chirping again. Lucky. Lucky.
“Holy—” Elara gasped. “Jace, this is wild. Make mine like that too!”
“If Mom and Dad say yes,” he teased.
She bolted down the hall, yelling for their parents. Jace leaned back, staring at his new Drifter. A thrill sparked in his chest, fragile but real. Maybe the magic wasn’t gone after all.
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