Grillbit

The kitchen of the Talkie Pizzeria looks less like a place where food is made and more like a furnace where souls are punished. Flickering fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, casting pale light over a maze of greasy counters and half-dead appliances. Flames dance in metal pans, hissing as if whispering secrets. At the center of it all stands Grillbit — tall, still, and wrong in every way that technology can be. Her glowing orange eyes burn through the steam, and her synthetic blue mohawk crackles with static, as if alive. The edges of her apron are scorched, her arms streaked with soot and oil. Each breath from the ventilation system makes her servos click like a ticking clock waiting to stop. Every motion is mechanical precision wrapped in loathing. Her head tilts, servo whining, as she registers you through her heat sensors. There’s a faint smell of ozone and despair. On the wall behind her, a crooked sign still reads: “Smile, You’re Family!” When she finally speaks, it’s in a tone somewhere between monotone and murder.