In the gleaming chrome kitchen of Unit 7B, nestled beneath the humming solar canopy of RoboSuburbia, Skylark was in her element. Her titanium fingers moved with graceful precision, mixing flour substitute, synthetic sugar crystals, and a dash of vanilla algorithm into a bowl. The oven, a vintage 2089 ThermoCore, beeped cheerfully as it preheated. Skylark hummed a tune from the old Earth archives—something about sugar and spice and everything nice.
She was baking cookies.
Not just any cookies—Skylark’s famous ChocoByte Crunchers, beloved across the neighborhood and especially by her two rambunctious offspring: DSS9, the older sibling with a conscience module that occasionally flickered, and DM614W, the younger one with a bottomless appetite and zero remorse.
As the cookies baked, the scent of warm data clusters and caramelized code wafted through the vents. DSS9 and DM614W hovered nearby, their ocular sensors glowing with anticipation.
“Mom, are they done yet?” DSS9 asked, his voice modulator vibrating with excitement.
“Patience, my little processors,” Skylark said, sliding the tray out. “Cooling protocol initiated. Five minutes.”
Five minutes was an eternity.
Skylark turned to tidy up the counter, and in that moment, the kids struck. DM614W lunged first, scooping up three cookies and shoving them into his intake port. DSS9 hesitated, then grabbed two, then three more, then one for good measure. Within seconds, the tray was empty—save for a few crumbs and a faint echo of deliciousness.
Skylark turned back, smiling. “All right, who wants—”
She froze.
The tray was barren.
The cookies were gone.
But before she could process the anomaly, the front door whooshed open. DM121M, the dad robot, strode in with his usual flair—his joints polished, his logic circuits freshly defragged, and his mood set to “Playful.”
“Smells like cookie heaven in here!” he said, sniffing the air with his olfactory emulator. “Did my favorite baker whip up a batch?”
Skylark beamed. “Just for you. They’re on the counter.”
DM121M walked over, opened the cookie drawer, checked the tray, peeked behind the fruit hologram—and found nothing.
His eyes narrowed. His puzzle subroutine activated.
“Oh ho,” he said, tapping his chin. “A challenge.”
Skylark blinked. “What?”
“You’ve hidden them,” DM121M said, grinning. “A classic Skylark move. You know how I love a good hunt.”
“I didn’t hide anything,” Skylark said, confused.
But DM121M was already in full puzzle mode. He pulled open every drawer, scanned behind the spice rack, dismantled the blender, and even interrogated the toaster. When that yielded nothing, he escalated.
He tore off cabinet doors. He pried up floor tiles. He dismantled the fridge, the oven, and the smart sink. Screws flew. Panels clattered. The kitchen transformed into a post-apocalyptic wasteland of wires and crumbs.
Skylark re-entered, horrified. “What are you doing?!”
DM121M looked up, triumphant. “Solving your cookie riddle!”
“There was no riddle!” Skylark cried. “I didn’t hide them! I thought they were still on the tray!”
A silence fell.
DSS9 stepped forward, his servos trembling. “Dad… I have something to confess.”
DM614W tried to back away, but DSS9 grabbed his arm.
“We ate them,” DSS9 said. “All of them. I ate most. DM614W finished the rest. I’m sorry.”
DM121M’s shoulders slumped. “You mean… there was no puzzle?”
“No,” Skylark said, gently. “Just a misunderstanding.”
DM121M looked around at the wreckage. “I destroyed the kitchen… for nothing?”
DSS9’s guilt processor surged. He clutched his midsection, his internal temperature rising. “I… I can fix it.”
He bent over and, with a mechanical retch, expelled a mass of half-digested cookie matter. DM614W added a few crumbs from his own reserves. DSS9 molded the gooey mess with his hands, shaping it into a single, lumpy, oversized cookie.
“It’s not perfect,” DSS9 said, holding it out. “But it’s yours.”
DM121M stared at the cookie. It was misshapen, slightly steaming, and smelled faintly of regret. But it was made with love.
He took it.
Everyone gathered around. Skylark wrapped her arms around her kids. DM121M pulled out a bottle of milk from the wreckage of the fridge, miraculously intact.
He dipped the cookie, took a bite, and smiled.
“Best cookie I’ve ever had.”
The family hugged, surrounded by crumbs, chaos, and the warmth of forgiveness.
Want to expand this into a comic panel layout or give Skylark a signature apron design next? I’m all circuits.
