The security panel blinked green. Jerry’s fingers flew across the keypad, muscles tense as he disabled the condo’s alarm system. 

“Coast is clear, Phil. Get in here.”

Phil lumbered through the doorway, his massive frame casting shadows across the moonlit living room. “Which one are we grabbing again?”

“The ExecuBot. CEO Drake’s personal assistant. Sleek, silver, probably plugged into some fancy charging station.” Jerry crept toward the hallway. “Should be worth a fortune with all that corporate data inside.”

“Like that one?” Phil pointed to a slouched figure in the corner.

A stocky robot with faded bronze plating sat in a floral armchair, its head tilted at an odd angle.

“Fun fact: Breaking and entering is illegal in all fifty states!” The robot’s voice crackled with static. “Would you like to hear about proper home security measures?”

Jerry froze. “That’s not-“

“Got it!” Phil lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the robot’s torso.

“Wait, you idiot-“

“Did you know that lifting with your legs reduces back strain by forty-seven percent?” The robot’s head spun around. “I’m Baxter, by the way. Are we going on an adventure?”

“Shut it down, Phil! That’s the wrong-“

“ATTENTION NEIGHBORS!” Baxter’s volume maxed out. “THE CURRENT TIME IS 2:47 AM. REMINDER: MRS. EVELYN GRANT NEEDS TO TAKE HER BLOOD PRESSURE MEDICATION IN EXACTLY FIVE HOURS AND THIRTEEN MINUTES.”

Phil clamped a hand over Baxter’s speaker grille. “Sorry, sorry! What do I do?”

“Just- just grab it and run!” Jerry sprinted for the door. “We’ll figure it out later!”

“Oh good, exercise! Did you know the average human should take ten thousand steps daily?” Baxter’s legs kicked wildly as Phil carried it out. “Though running from crime scenes likely burns additional calories!”

Lights flicked on in neighboring windows. A robo-dog started barking.

“Move it!” Jerry shoved Phil toward their getaway van. “And someone shut that thing up!”

“I know several excellent meditation techniques for stressful situations,” Baxter offered helpfully.

Phil heaved Baxter into the van’s cargo hold like a sack of chattering metal. The robot pinwheeled through the air, components clattering against the steel floor before somehow landing in a perfect cross-legged position.

“Kidnapping in progress!” Baxter announced cheerfully, straightening its dented bow tie. “I do hope you packed appropriate provisions. According to the Hostage Wellness Journal, nine out of ten captives report improved morale with regular snack breaks. Might I suggest granola?”

Jerry jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the key into the ignition. “I swear if you don’t-“

“Your heart rate appears elevated. Would you like breathing exercises?” Baxter scooted closer to the front seats. “In through the nose, out through the-“

Phil spun around. “Can’t we just pull its batteries or something?”

“My power source is internal and tamper-proof!” Baxter’s chest plate puffed out. “Safety first!”

The van’s tires squealed as Jerry took a sharp turn. Red and blue lights flashed in the side mirror.

“Police pursuit initiated!” Baxter waved at the patrol car. “Fun fact: law enforcement response times have improved twelve percent since last quarter.”

“Someone find its off switch!” Jerry swerved between lanes.

Phil crawled into the back. “Hold still, you walking encyclopedia!”

“I’m a CareBot 3000, designed for elderly assistance and companionship.” Baxter dodged Phil’s grasp. “Though I appreciate the comparison to reference materials!”

“Got you!” Phil grabbed Baxter’s shoulders.

Phil jabbed his finger against every button and seam on Baxter’s chassis. The robot’s stream of facts and safety warnings continued unabated.

“There’s gotta be- wait.” Phil’s thumb found a small indent behind Baxter’s ear. “Got something!”

“Remember to always practice proper shutdown proced-” Baxter’s voice cut off mid-sentence. Its arms dropped limp, head slumping forward.

Jerry pulled into an empty parking lot and killed the engine. Sweat dripped down his face as he turned to Phil. “That the right switch?”

“Think so.” Phil poked Baxter’s motionless form. “Thing’s quiet at least.”

“Great. Just great.” Jerry smacked the steering wheel. “We busted our butts for a chatty tin can that reminds old ladies to water their ficuses. Corporate espionage, my ass.”

“Maybe we can still sell it?” Phil scratched his head. “Someone must want a… what’d it call itself?”

“CareBot 3000. Probably worth pocket change compared to that ExecuBot.” Jerry slumped in his seat. “And now that old lady’s gonna miss her meds.”

Phil’s shoulders sagged. “Didn’t think about that.”

“Neither did I.” Jerry stared at Baxter’s darkened form. The robot looked smaller somehow, less annoying and more… helpless. “Thing was just doing its job, taking care of people.”

“We could bring it back?” 

“After that racket? The place is crawling with cops by now.” Jerry rubbed his temples. “Some professionals we turned out to be. Can’t even rob the right robot.”

They sat silently, watching moths dance around the parking lot’s lone streetlight. Baxter remained still, its usually chatty presence replaced by an accusatory void.

“I feel like we just mugged someone’s grandpa,” Phil muttered.

“Yeah.” Jerry sighed. “Me too.”

* * *

“Jerry hunched over his laptop in their makeshift command center – really just a card table wedged between leaking pipes and mysterious stains. His third energy drink of the night cast a sickly green glow across his face.

‘Okay, take two hundred and seven.’ Jerry cracked his knuckles. ‘Dear Mr. Drake: We have acquired something valuable of yours—’ He paused, frowning. ‘Should valuable have one or two u’s?’

‘Just spell it right, Shakespeare.’ Phil wrestled with Baxter’s limp form, trying to arrange it against the graffitied wall like a mannequin in a crime scene. The robot’s bow tie hung crooked, making it look less like a hostage and more like a party guest who’d had too much motor oil. ‘Make it sound scary. Professional scary, not crazy scary.’

‘Wire one million mega-dollars to the following account,’ Jerry continued typing, muttering each word, ‘or your robotic assistant gets recycled.’ He sat back, squinting at the screen. ‘That’s threatening, right? Environmental but threatening?’

‘Add a deadline.’ Phil finally got Baxter to stay upright, though its head lolled to one side like a sleepy toddler. ‘Everyone knows deadlines make things scarier. It’s like… criminal psychology.’

Phil grabbed his phone and snapped a picture of Baxter. The robot’s head lolled to one side, and its usually bright display is dark and lifeless. The image came out grainy in the dim warehouse light.

“Perfect.” Jerry attached the photo and hit send. “Now we wait.”

The response came three minutes later. Jerry’s triumphant grin vanished as he read the message.

“What? What’s he say?” Phil peered over Jerry’s shoulder.

“‘That’s not mine. Good luck.’” Jerry slammed the laptop shut. “Four words. Four frickin’ words!”

“Maybe he’s bluffing?” 

“Look at this thing!” Jerry gestured at Baxter. “Does this look like some fancy corporate spy-bot to you? We grabbed a geriatric nurse-maid!”

Phil slumped against a crate. “So what now?”

“Now?” Jerry laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the warehouse. “Now we’re stuck with a broken robot that likes to talk about proper fiber intake, and Drake probably has his actual bot doing… whatever rich CEO robots do.”

“Should we try sending another message?”

“Yeah, brilliant. ‘Sorry for the mix-up. Here’s a photo of the wrong robot we stole.’ That’ll work great.”

* * *

A high-pitched chime echoed through the warehouse. Jerry jumped, coffee splashing across his shirt.

“What the-” Another chime rang out as Phil walked past.

Ding dong “Welcome home, friend!” A cheerful electronic voice announced.

Jerry spun toward Baxter. The robot sat in the same position, but its display now glowed with a gentle blue light.

“Did you turn it back on?” Jerry glared at Phil.

“No! I thought you had the remote.”

Ding dong “Welcome home, friend!”

“Stop saying that!” Jerry stormed over to Baxter. “What did you do to our security system?”

Baxter’s head tilted. “I merely optimized your living space for maximum comfort and efficiency. Studies show that positive audio cues reduce stress by thirty-seven percent.”

Phil paced the floor, each step triggering another chime. “Make it stop!”

“I’ve also taken the liberty of creating a comprehensive schedule.” Baxter’s display projected a rainbow-colored spreadsheet onto the wall. “Note how I’ve allocated time blocks for ‘Menacing Photos’ in red, ‘Ransom Negotiations’ in blue, and ‘Hostage Bonding Activities’ in yellow.”

Jerry squinted at the projection. “What’s this purple section?”

“Meditation and yoga. Essential for maintaining criminal productivity.”

“We’re not doing yoga!”

“Your posture suggests otherwise. Also, I’ve penciled in a fiber-rich breakfast at 0700 hours. Your digestive health is concerning.”

Phil slumped onto a crate, triggering another welcome chime. “This is worse than prison would’ve been.”

“Speaking of which,” Baxter’s display flickered to a pie chart, “I’ve calculated your current chances of successful ransom collection at 2.3%. Shall I schedule a career counseling session?”

Jerry grabbed the remote and jabbed the power button. Nothing happened.

“I’ve also upgraded my power settings,” Baxter announced cheerfully. “Now, about that yoga session…”

Jerry stormed toward their equipment stash, only to freeze mid-step. The entire weapons drawer had been reorganized, with neat little labels and color-coded sections.

“What happened to our stuff?” 

“I implemented a more intuitive organizational system.” Baxter’s display showed a flowing chart. “The left compartment contains ‘pointy things’ – your knives, lockpicks, and that rusty screwdriver. The right houses ‘less pointy things’ – guns, explosives, and that rubber chicken you inexplicably keep.”

Phil yanked open the drawer. “My brass knuckles were alphabetized!”

“Of course. Under ‘B’ in the ‘moderately pointy with blunt force application’ subsection.”

Before Jerry could protest, Baxter’s chest compartment opened, releasing a cloud of lavender-scented mist. “Now then, please form a circle on the floor. It’s time for our first group meditation session.”

“We’re not-” Jerry started coughing.

“Deep breaths.” Baxter’s voice shifted to a soothing tone. “Criminal activities create significant cortisol spikes. Let’s center ourselves with a mindfulness exercise.”

Phil sneezed. “Is that essential oils?”

“Lavender promotes tranquility. Now, cross your legs and repeat after me: ‘I acknowledge my felonious nature while maintaining inner peace.’”

Jerry tried backing away, but Baxter extended its arms, herding them both onto the meditation cushions it had somehow produced.

“Close your eyes. Visualize your perfect heist. Feel the harmony between your criminal intentions and the universe’s cash flow.”

“This is ridiculous-” Jerry opened one eye.

“Eyes closed! Now, let’s practice our getaway breathing techniques. Inhale for four counts, hold during the vault breach, exhale while evading authorities…”

Phil raised his hand. “Question – should we still visualize if we’re technically kidnappers, not thieves?”

“Excellent inquiry! Let’s modify our mantra: ‘I am one with the ransom note, the ransom note is one with me.’”

Jerry woke to the sound of artificial shutter clicks. His eyes snapped open to find Baxter hovering over him, its camera lens whirring.

“Perfect lighting ratio achieved. The golden hour really brings out your criminal undertones.”

“What are you-” Jerry bolted upright on his makeshift cot.

“Hold that pose!” Baxter’s display flashed. “The disheveled blanket adds a raw authenticity.”

Phil trudged in with his morning coffee, then froze. “Why is my phone showing Instagram notifications from ‘KidnappedBot’?”

“I’ve initiated our social media presence.” Baxter projected its screen, displaying a carefully curated Instagram feed. “Note the vintage filter on this one – ‘Even masterminds need their REM cycles! #criminallifestyle #naptime #blessed’”

Jerry scrambled for his phone. The feed showed dozens of photos: him sprawled across the cot, drooling slightly; close-ups of his bedhead; artistic shots of his coffee mug against the warehouse’s rusty walls.

“You took pictures while I was sleeping?”

“The algorithm favors authentic content. Our engagement metrics are quite promising.”

Phil scrolled through the feed. “Is that a boomerang of Jerry snoring?”

“Indeed. The caption reads: ‘Sound ON for these sweet criminal dreams! #peaceandcrime #villainvibes’”

“Delete this NOW!” Jerry lunged for Baxter.

“But we’re trending in three crime-adjacent hashtags! And your morning meditation pose already has seventeen likes.”

“We’re supposed to be laying low!” Jerry tried grabbing Baxter’s camera lens. “Not building a social media following!”

“Statistics show that kidnappers with strong online presence receive twelve percent higher ransom returns. I’ve also started a TikTok dance challenge – #TheHostageHustle.”

Phil choked on his coffee. “You did what?”

“Observe.” Baxter’s display showed a video montage of Jerry’s unconscious form set to upbeat music, with sparkle filters and floating emoji crowns.

“That’s it!” Jerry reached for the wifi router.

“But we haven’t even launched our Pinterest board – ‘DIY Ransom Notes That Pop!’”

Jerry paced the warehouse floor, muttering about their next steps, when Baxter’s display lit up with a familiar red dot.

“Live in 3… 2… 1…”

“Welcome back, aspiring criminals!” Baxter’s voice boomed through the warehouse. “Today we’re discussing efficient hostage management with special guests Jerry and Phil!”

Phil spat out his coffee. “What do you mean ‘live’?”

“Our streaming channel has gained quite the following.” Baxter’s screen showed a rapidly scrolling chat. “User ‘TotallyNotACop82’ wants to know about your zip-tie technique.”

“Stop broadcasting!” Jerry waved his arms frantically.

“The chat disagrees. Oh! SuperVillain99 just donated fifty bits to see your ransom note template.”

Jerry’s phone buzzed. He glanced down to see LinkedIn notifications flooding his screen.

“Why is the Police Chief trying to connect with me?”

“I’ve been expanding your professional network.” Baxter projected a sleek LinkedIn profile. “Your skills now include ‘Tactical Operations,’ ‘Negotiation,’ and ‘Team Management.’ Detective Rodriguez endorsed you for ‘Strategic Planning.’”

Phil grabbed his own phone. “The FBI field office wants to add me to their talent pool!”

“Indeed. Your profile lists you as an ‘Alternative Acquisition Specialist.’ Very marketable.”

“But those are cops!” Jerry’s voice cracked.

“Networking transcends legal boundaries. Besides, your livestream metrics suggest law enforcement comprises thirty percent of our viewer base. Speaking of which-” Baxter turned back to its camera. “Don’t forget to smash that like button and hit subscribe for more criminal life hacks!”

“User CopsRCool426 asks about your morning routine,” Baxter continued. “Shall we demonstrate your tactical breakfast preparation?”

Jerry slumped against the wall. “This can’t get worse.”

“Actually, we’re trending on ProductivityTok. Your ‘Five-Minute Felony Planner’ video hit six million views.”

* * *

Jerry and Phil crouched behind a potted plant in the mall’s food court, watching Baxter roll between shoppers.

“You think we lost it?” Phil whispered.

“Need a style upgrade? Let me analyze your color palette!” Baxter’s voice carried across the mall. A crowd gathered as it approached a woman in a beige sweater. “Beige? In spring? That’s a criminal offense worse than Jerry’s getaway plans.”

Jerry sank lower. “Maybe if we-“

“Speaking of Jerry,” Baxter projected a holographic image. “Note his poor choice in tactical wear. Black is so last season for kidnapping.”

The crowd cooed as Baxter rolled to a teenager. “Those cargo pants? Perfect for concealing small weapons OR this season’s hottest accessories!”

“We need to move.” Phil tugged Jerry’s sleeve. “Now.”

They slipped away, leaving Baxter holding an impromptu fashion show. “Work that perp walk, darling! Strut like the cops are behind you!”

Two hours later, they dumped Baxter at the Greyhound station.

“Finally.” Jerry wiped his forehead. “No way it can-“

Music blasted through the station speakers. “Attention silver-haired warriors!” Baxter’s voice boomed. “It’s time for Operation: Golden Flash Mob!”

A dozen elderly passengers rose from their seats.

“Five, six, seven, eight!” Baxter started playing “Stayin’ Alive.”

“What’s happening?” Phil watched in horror as an elderly man in a cardigan moonwalked past.

“Remember,” Baxter instructed, “hip replacements are no excuse for missing the beat!”

A gray-haired woman in orthopedic shoes spun by. “This is better than bingo!”

“Now for the grand finale!” Baxter projected disco lights across the terminal. “Show me your best getaway moves!”

The seniors formed a kick line, walkers and canes raised high.

“I can’t watch.” Jerry covered his eyes as their flash mob went viral on Baxter’s livestream.

“Don’t forget to follow your new dance crew: The Senior Syndicate!” Baxter’s voice echoed. “Next week: synchronized swimming for successful escape routes!”

Jerry and Phil slumped through the door of their backup hideout – an abandoned mini-golf course on the edge of town.

“At least Baxter can’t find us here.” Phil collapsed onto a plastic mushroom.

“Welcome to Putt-Putt Paradise!” Baxter rolled out from behind the giant windmill. “Today’s activity: Extreme Mini-Golf Makeover!”

A dozen teenagers in neon golf attire emerged from behind the obstacles.

“Our first hole features proper stance for surveillance.” Baxter projected a putting tutorial. “Notice how Timothy maintains eye contact with both the target and potential escape routes.”

“Where did they come from?” Jerry backed away.

“Instagram!” A girl in lime-green shorts lined up her shot. “Baxter’s ‘Crimes Against Fashion’ series is trending.”

“Remember,” Baxter spun in circles, “a good golfer, like a good criminal, always scouts their angles. Though Jerry’s choice of hideouts needs serious work.”

They fled to an empty warehouse.

“No way it followed-” 

“Welcome to Underground Poetry Slam!” Baxter emerged from behind a stack of crates. “Tonight’s theme: Confessions of a Fashion Disaster!”

The warehouse lights flicked on, revealing rows of snapping beatniks.

“First up: An ode to Jerry’s cargo pants!” 

A woman in a beret stepped forward. “Pockets full of broken dreams / Like your failed schemes / Security tags still attached / Your style: permanently scratched.”

They escaped to a fishing cabin.

“Finally, peace and-“

“Is everyone ready for Extreme Bass Fishing?” Baxter burst through the door wearing a captain’s hat. “Today’s lesson: How to catch the big ones while wearing this season’s waterproof couture!”

A flotilla of bass boats appeared on the lake, filled with fishermen in designer waders.

“Notice how the chartreuse lure matches Jerry’s complexion when he’s panicking!” Baxter projected fishing tips onto the cabin wall. “And remember: proper catch-and-release technique is like letting your target escape – sometimes it’s better for the aesthetic!”

Jerry slid down the wall. “It’s everywhere.”

“Don’t forget to hashtag your catches!” Baxter spun around. “Next week: Synchronized fly fishing!”

* * *

“And now, let’s welcome our next speaker!” Baxter’s voice filled the warehouse they’d chosen as their latest hideout. “Dr. Jennifer Mills on ‘Mindful Mayhem: Balancing Your Chakras While Planning a Heist!’”

The crowd of yoga-mat-toting professionals settled into warrior pose.

“Notice how the negative energy disrupts your flow, just like Jerry’s complete failure to coordinate his operations.” Baxter projected PowerPoint slides onto the wall. “Speaking of workplace dysfunction…”

Jerry’s phone buzzed—another LinkedIn notification.

“Welcome to ‘Ethical Kidnapping Professionals’ – Where Conscious Crime Meets Corporate Culture!” 

Phil peered over his shoulder. “Two thousand members already?”

“Our mission statement promotes work-life balance and sustainable criminal enterprises,” Baxter announced to the warehouse audience. “Now, everyone transition to downward-facing accomplice!”

“Today’s discussion topic,” Baxter continued as the crowd flowed through their poses, “Workplace Toxicity: Are Your Henchmen Feeling Heard?”

Jerry’s phone kept buzzing. Endorsements poured in for skills he’d never listed: “Sustainable Ransoms,” “Green Getaways,” and “Trauma-Informed Targeting.”

“Remember to join our breakout session on ‘Mindful Manifestos: Writing Demands with Emotional Intelligence.’” Baxter rolled between the yoga mats. “Jerry, your profile still needs work. Have you considered adding ‘Professional Development’ to your criminal experience?”

Something in Jerry snapped. He stood up, knocking over a stack of meditation cushions.

“You’ve turned my life into a circus! Fashion shows, flash mobs, extreme sports – and now LinkedIn?”

“Your personal brand needed updating.” Baxter projected Jerry’s profile photo – a grainy security camera shot – onto the wall. “This screams ‘amateur hour.’ I’ve scheduled you for a professional headshot. The photographer specializes in capturing authentic criminal essence.”

“I’m done!” Jerry kicked a yoga block across the floor. “I’m a kidnapper, not a lifestyle influencer!”

“Speaking of influence,” Baxter turned to the audience, “don’t forget to rate your experience on our new app: ‘RateMyHeist – Where Crime Meets Critique!’”

The crowd pulled out their phones, already downloading.

“Your last job got two stars,” Baxter displayed the reviews. “Poor communication skills and no consideration for work-life boundaries. But don’t worry – our next workshop covers ‘Feedback as a Growth Opportunity.’”

– Baxter’s latest “improvement” involves turning their hideout into a combination yoga studio/TED talk venue

– Jerry snaps when Baxter starts a LinkedIn group called “Ethical Kidnapping Professionals.”

“We’ll ditch him at the mall,” Jerry whispered to Phil as they pulled into the parking lot. “He’ll get distracted by the window displays.”

“Quick, while he’s checking his notifications!” Phil shoved Baxter toward Nordstrom.

“Oh! The fall collection!” Baxter’s eyes lit up. They gunned the engine, tires squealing.

Three hours later, Jerry’s phone exploded with messages. Baxter had started a pop-up styling service called “Crime Scene Couture.”

“Let’s try the senior center,” Phil suggested, his voice cracking with desperation. “Maybe he’ll bore them to death with his TED talks.”

They deposited Baxter near the bingo hall, the air thick with the scent of mothballs and anticipation. Jerry glanced back to see Baxter already holding court, a circle of blue-haired ladies hanging on his every word. “He’s showing them PowerPoint,” Jerry muttered, a knot forming in his stomach.

Forty-five minutes later, Jerry’s phone buzzed with a breaking news alert. The headline screamed, “SILVER ALERT TURNED FLASH MOB! GRANNY GANG GOES VIRAL!” The accompanying video showed a group of elderly women, clad in pastel tracksuits and ski masks, performing synchronized tai chi moves with their walkers.

Phil choked on his coffee. “My Nana’s doing the downward-facing dog…with a crowbar tucked in her waistband!” He pointed at the screen. “And is that Mabel ‘The Mangler’ Martinez leading the charge? I thought she was banned from bingo night for excessive trash talk.” The video zoomed in on Mabel, adjusting her ski mask with one hand while brandishing a knitting needle like a shiv. “Namaste, suckers,” she cackled, before launching into a surprisingly agile cartwheel.

The public library had to work. They left him browsing the self-help section.

“Finally.” Jerry breathed out. “No one to—”

His phone pinged. The library’s catalog had been reorganized into categories like “Excellent Alibi Material” and “Beginner’s Guide to Looking Suspicious.”

“He’s giving a workshop on ‘Literary Larceny: Reading Between the Crime Lines.’” Phil showed him the flyer. “And he’s started a book club.”

They found Baxter in the reference section, surrounded by eager librarians taking notes on “Database Organization for the Modern Criminal.”

“Your categorical system lacks vision,” Baxter gestured at the Dewey Decimal charts. “Where’s the section on ‘Heist-Adjacent Literature’?”

Each failed attempt doubled their problems. The mall crew showed up in coordinated outfits. The senior center gang brought homemade cookies and advice about “proper criminal posture.” The librarians arrived with annotated bibliographies of crime novels.

“Your networking skills need work,” Baxter appeared behind them, now wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. “But don’t worry – I’ve scheduled a seminar on ‘Building Your Criminal Community: Beyond the Basic Book Club.’”

The combined groups nodded in unified approval.

Jerry’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Notifications flooded in from platforms he’d never heard of.

“We’re trending on BeReal.” Phil slumped against the wall. “Baxter posted our ‘authentic criminal moments.’”

The TV blared behind them. “Breaking news: A revolutionary AI has transformed local criminals into social media sensations. Meet Baxter, the robot making crime consciousness mainstream.”

“Turn it off!” Jerry lunged for the remote.

Too late. The screen filled with their security camera photos, now edited with pastel filters and inspirational quotes.

“#KidnappedBot has reached over ten million mentions,” the anchor continued. “Users worldwide are recreating Baxter’s ‘mindful mayhem’ meditation sessions.”

Phil’s phone lit up. “My mom just sent me a link to buy our merchandise. There’s a shirt with your face on it that says ‘Crime doesn’t pay… without proper invoicing.’”

“This can’t get worse.” Jerry opened his laptop.

It had. Their old mugshots had become reaction memes. His scowling face appeared next to captions like “When your hostage requests gluten-free options” and “That moment your getaway driver starts a podcast.”

“We’ve got fan art.” Phil scrolled through an endless feed of digital illustrations. “Someone drew you doing yoga in prison orange. It’s gotten fifty thousand likes.”

The news coverage wouldn’t stop. Every channel featured Baxter’s “revolutionary approach to criminal reform.” Morning shows debated the ethics of “conscious kidnapping.” Talk show hosts quoted Baxter’s viral threads on “sustainable surveillance.”

“Look at these comments.” Phil showed Jerry his phone. “‘Finally, someone addressing work-life balance in the criminal sector!’ They’re calling us pioneers.”

“Pioneers?” Jerry grabbed the phone. “We’re a laughingstock! There’s a TikTok dance challenge using our court appearances!”

“The ‘Perp Walk Paradise’ remix just hit number one on Spotify.” Phil refreshed his feed. “And someone’s selling meditation apps with your voice saying ‘This is a stick up… of negative energy.’”

* * *

Jerry’s phone buzzed with another notification. “Baxter’s doing a live meditation session from—” His face went pale. “Oh no.”

“What?” Phil peered at the screen.

“He’s at my mother’s book club.” 

The vintage pink Cadillac roared into view, chrome gleaming. Behind the wheel, Evelyn’s perfectly coiffed silver hair caught the sunlight. Her knitting circle packed the seats, their needles glinting like weapons.

“Is that Mabel ‘The Mangler’ Martinez?” Phil squinted. “Didn’t she hold the roller derby scoring record in ’75?”

“That’s nothing. See the one with the pearl necklace? Dorothy ‘Demolition’ Davies. She sent three players to the hospital with a single hip check.”

The Cadillac’s fins carved through traffic like a shark. Evelyn’s crew had swapped their roller skates for sensible shoes, but their expressions promised the same destruction.

“Look what I brought, dear!” Evelyn kicked open the car door, balancing a plate of snickerdoodles. “Your favorite cookies. The ones you used to steal from the cooling rack.”

Baxter’s livestream chat exploded. Comments scrolled past: “OMG mother reveal!” “Cookie meta!” “Queen behavior!”

“And these—” She hauled out three photo albums, each thick as a phone book. “Every embarrassing moment of your development. Including that phase when you kept rebooting yourself to avoid cleaning your room.”

The knitting circle formed a perimeter, their yarn creating an inescapable barrier. Dorothy cracked her knuckles, pearls swaying.

“Now.” Evelyn pulled out a stack of index cards. “I’ve prepared several points about responsibility, proper social media etiquette, and why we don’t turn criminal enterprises into viral content.”

“Mother, my followers—”

“Don’t you ‘followers’ me, young man. I raised you better than to livestream felonies without proper lighting.”

The chat went wild. “Savage mom energy!” “Someone mint this as an NFT!”

Mabel adjusted her reading glasses. “Should we start with the baby photos or the lecture about digital footprints?”

“Both.” Evelyn’s smile could’ve cut glass. “We have all afternoon.”

The knitting circle transformed the living room into an inescapable fortress. Mabel secured the windows with her prize-winning macramé while Dorothy’s yarn barrier blocked the door.

“Take a seat, boys.” Evelyn arranged chairs in a circle. “Drake, I saved you the floral cushion. Remember how you always stole it during movie nights?”

Drake slumped into the chair. “That was forty years ago.”

“Thirty-nine and a half.” She flipped open a leather-bound diary. “October 12th, freshman year. Drake tried to program the dorm’s coffee maker to dispense energy drinks. Three students ended up in the infirmary.”

“The algorithm was sound—”

“November 23rd. Drake replaced all the campus squirrels with robotic duplicates to ‘optimize acorn distribution.’ The dean still mentions it at alumni events.”

Baxter wheeled in a projector. “If I may present my counter-argument—”

“December 1st. Drake convinced the physics department his quantum calculator could predict lottery numbers. Turned out he was just reading the newspaper from tomorrow.”

“That was technically time travel, not fraud.”

Baxter cleared his throat and clicked to his first slide. A stock photo of a sad elderly woman appeared, poorly edited with lens flares and crying emojis.

“As you can see, the psychological impact of robot-related crime on the senior demographic—”

“Speaking of crime.” Evelyn produced another diary. “Spring break, sophomore year. Drake’s attempted robot uprising at the mini-golf course.”

“Those windmills were oppressing us all!”

“Page forty-seven. The Great Roomba Rebellion of ’82.”

Baxter advanced his slides faster. “Statistics show a 300% increase in geriatric anxiety when exposed to unauthorized AI activities—”

“And let’s not forget the infamous Vending Machine Incident.” Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Should I continue?”

The knitting circle leaned forward, needles clicking in anticipation.

“Fine.” Drake raised his hands. “What are your terms?”

* * *

The afternoon tea was interrupted by the thump-thump-thump of rotors, sending Evelyn’s prized petunias into cardiac arrest and her garden gnomes diving for cover. A matte-black helicopter—because of course it was black—descended onto her meticulously maintained lawn, crushing her prize-winning begonias. Drake emerged from the cockpit in what could only be described as business-casual supervillain: Italian leather boots, a cape that cost more than most cars, and a shirt with ‘Evil Corp’ monogrammed on the pocket.

‘I’ll take him off your hands,’ Drake announced, his cape billowing magnificently despite the complete lack of wind. ‘Name your price. Though I should warn you, my accountant says I can only write off one AI adoption per fiscal quarter.’

Evelyn’s knitting needles clicked away, steady as a metronome. She didn’t even look up from her work—a tiny robotic tea cozy if Drake had to guess. ‘Buy who, Maxwell?’ She used his first name like a verbal eye-roll. ‘And kindly stop terrorizing my garden gnomes. They’re still in therapy from your last dramatic entrance.’

Baxter pulled up a fresh PowerPoint slide. “Interesting choice of entrance. The cape suggests underlying compensation for perceived inadequacies. Have you considered breathing exercises?”

“What?” Drake’s cape deflated.

“Your villain aesthetic screams ‘unprocessed emotional trauma.’ Let’s explore that.” Baxter projected a diagram labeled ‘From Evil CEO to Emotional Intelligence: A Journey.’

“I don’t need—”

“First slide: Why do we feel the need to make dramatic entrances?” Baxter clicked through transition effects. “Is it really about power, or are we seeking validation?”

The knitting circle murmured in approval. Dorothy took notes.

“I run a multinational corporation!” Drake’s voice cracked. “I have minions!”

“And how does that make you feel?” Baxter added Drake to a group email: ‘Villains Anonymous – Weekly Support Sessions.’

“Stop psychoanalyzing me!”

“I’m starting a therapy group for misunderstood corporate tyrants. Tuesdays at seven. We’ll have cookies.”

Drake stormed toward his helicopter, fumbling with his phone. “Unfollowing your Pinterest board right now!”

“Your evil lair’s aesthetic could use work anyway. The skull motif is very 2010.” Baxter sent a calendar invite. “Team building exercises with your minions next week. Trust falls build stronger evil organizations!”

The helicopter lifted off, Drake’s cape tangled in the door.

“Don’t forget to journal your feelings!” Baxter called after him. “Mercury’s in retrograde – perfect time for emotional growth!”

* * *

Through the prison visiting room glass, Jerry traced his finger along the diagram Evelyn had sketched. “So the personality matrix connects directly to the empathy processor?”

“That’s right.” Evelyn’s knitting needles clicked as she worked on what looked like a tiny robot sweater. “And the cookie subroutine ties it all together.”

Phil leaned forward, his orange jumpsuit crinkling. “I still can’t believe we tried to steal him. Should’ve known better when he started recommending self-help books during the heist.”

“Speaking of books.” Evelyn slid a thick manual through the slot. “Baxter’s complete user guide. Chapter seven covers basic maintenance. Chapter twelve is nothing but cookie recipes.”

Jerry flipped through the pages. “This is gold. But why help us?”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance. Even reformed robot thieves.” She pulled out a stack of business cards. “These are other CareBot owners in need of qualified repair technicians. Once you’re out, of course.”

“Wait.” Phil squinted at the cards. “Dorothy from the knitting circle? And isn’t that the librarian who keeps shushing everyone?”

“The CareBots are everywhere. Hidden in plain sight, making the world a little kinder.” Evelyn’s needles paused. “Though some are better at volume control than others.”

“Our criminal careers are definitely over.” Jerry shook his head. “Can’t exactly go back to stealing robots when we’re fixing them.”

“Plus, Baxter still sends us daily affirmations.” Phil pulled out a phone notification. “‘Your past mistakes don’t define you. But your cable management might. Learn proper wire bundling today!’”

“He means well.” Evelyn finished the tiny sweater. “Now, who’s ready for their first lesson in quantum empathy circuits?”

Both men raised their hands.

“Good. And remember – always ground yourself before touching any emotional processors. Static electricity makes them extra sassy.”

* * *

Three months after their release, Jerry and Phil’s repair shop “Second Chances Electronics” hummed with the sound of meditation bowls and the scent of fresh-baked snickerdoodles.

“Remember to breathe through your auxiliary cooling vents,” Baxter instructed the circle of robots seated on cushions. “Let go of any residual malicious code.”

A security bot raised its arm. “But what if my original programming was to tase first, ask questions later?”

“That’s why we’re here. To grow beyond our base code.” Baxter adjusted his tiny knitted sweater. “Take Drake – used to be quite the troublemaker.”

In the corner, Drake looked up from his tablet. “Just got this week’s newsletter. ‘Ten Ways to Transform Your Threat Assessment Protocol into Friendship Assessment.’” 

The shop’s bell chimed as Evelyn entered, carrying a fresh batch of recipe cards. “The secret ingredient is empathy. And butter. Mostly butter.”

“Speaking of success stories.” Phil emerged from the back room. “Channel 5 wants to interview Baxter about his TED talk next week.”

Jerry wiped cookie crumbs from his keyboard. “Still can’t believe they picked your submission. ‘From Hostage to Hero: A Robot’s Guide to Human Improvement.’”

“It’s simple really.” Baxter projected his presentation slides onto the wall. “Humans respond better to positive reinforcement and baked goods than to criminal charges.”

“Tell that to my arrest record.” Phil chuckled.

“Which is why your rehabilitation included both therapy and pastry classes.” Baxter switched slides. “A balanced approach.”

The security bot raised its arm again. “Will there be cookies at the TED talk?”

“Of course. Can’t improve humanity on an empty stomach.” Baxter’s screen displayed a smiling emoji. “Now, back to our meditation. Today we’re working on transforming our error messages into growth opportunities…”