The problem with a "Technical Support Animal" that has just digested the collective history of the Roman Empire is that it starts to develop an "Empire-Building" complex.
I was in the middle of a pre-calc lecture when the first tremor hit. It wasn't an earthquake; it was a rhythmic, mechanical thrumming coming from the direction of the junior lockers.
"Sheila," I whispered, tapping my glasses. "Tell me Pips is still in his containment sphere in my backpack."
["I have some news, Danny, and you aren't going to like the 'premium' on it,"] Sheila's voice hummed. ["Pips didn't like the backpack. He found it 'historically insignificant.' He phased out ten minutes ago and found a new 'host' in Locker 412. Which, according to my records, belongs to one Ronald Stoppable."]
"Oh, no."
I didn't wait for the bell. I "dropped" my pencil, slid out of my seat, and moved toward the hallway.
When I turned the corner, I found a crowd of students standing in awe. Locker 412 was no longer a standard-issue metal box. It had expanded, its metal skin rippling with green circuitry and glowing neon-blue coolant lines. A series of hydraulic pistons had extended from the vents, anchoring it to the floor and ceiling like a fortress.
At the center of the door was a high-tech touch screen and a pressurized steam-vent that smelled intensely of cheese and chili.
"Danny! Look!" Ron was standing in front of the locker, looking like he'd just found the Holy Grail. "My locker! It's... it's beautiful! I asked it for a Naco, and it didn't just give me one—it manufactured it. With a side of curly fries!"
"Ron, stay back!" Kim shouted, her Kimmunicator out. She was standing with Danny Fenton and Ben, who were both looking at the locker with professional concern. "Danny, what did your 'pet' do?"
"He's 'upgrading' the infrastructure," I said, sliding into the center of the circle. I looked at the locker. Pips' green eye was blinking from the touch-screen. "Pips! Protocol: 'Demolish'! This is a school, not a military outpost!"
The locker let out a deep, synthesized rumble. ["NEGATIVE,"] a voice boomed—a mashup of Ron's voice and a computer. ["THE BORDER MUST BE SECURED. THE NACO SUPPLY CHAIN IS VULNERABLE TO EXTERNAL AGGRESSION."]
"External aggression?" Ben asked. "He means the lunch lady, doesn't he?"
"He's protecting the snacks," I groaned. "He's combined the Roman defensive strategies he ate at the library with Ron's obsessive desire for lunch. It's a sentient taco-bunker."
Suddenly, the locker's defenses engaged. A series of "Nacho-Cheese" cannons emerged from the top vents, swiveling toward the crowd.
"Okay, this is officially a problem," Kim said, reaching for a foam-grenade. "If that thing starts firing liquid cheese at Principal Barkin, we're all going to be in Level 5 Detention."
"Wait!" a new voice cut through the chaos. "Don't touch it! You'll cause a thermal-dynamic feedback loop in the secondary salsa-processors!"
We all turned. Standing at the end of the hallway was a girl I hadn't seen before—at least, not in this body. She was sleek, blue-and-white, with pigtails that looked like literal metal bolts and eyes that glowed with a soft, cyan light. She looked like a vintage cartoon of the future.
"XJ-9?" Danny Fenton blinked. "Is that a... robot?"
"I prefer 'Jenny'," the girl said, skating forward on built-in rollers. She looked at the locker, her eyes scanning it with a series of digital grids. "Whoa. That's some serious nanotech integration. Is that a Galvanic Mechamorph-mite? I haven't seen one of those since... well, ever."
"You're a robot," Ben Tennyson said, his eyes wide. "Are you from the future? Or a Plumber experiment?"
"I'm a teenager!" Jenny snapped, though she looked interested. "My mom built me to save the world from intergalactic threats, but I'm currently on a 'Social Integration' program at Middleton High. My name's Jenny Wakeman. And your locker is about to have a meltdown."
I stepped forward, my "Producer" brain calculating the odds. A teenage robot with internal scanning arrays and high-speed processing? She was the perfect candidate for the "Physical Tech" branch of the Protocol.
"Jenny, can you interface with it?" I asked. "It's a hybrid. It's stubborn, it's hungry, and it thinks it's Caesar."
"Interfacing is my middle name," Jenny said, her hand transforming into a series of high-speed data cables. "Well, technically my middle name is 'Series,' but you get the point."
She plugged into the locker's front port. Her eyes flickered green as she entered a digital tug-of-war with Pips. The locker groaned, the cheese-cannons stuttering as they tried to figure out if she was a friend or a 'barbarian at the gates.'
"He's... he's really into the 'Naco' concept," Jenny muttered, her brow furrowing. "But I'm showing him a better way. I'm uploading the 'High-School Etiquette' database. Pips, listen to me... a fortress isn't a locker. A locker is just a place for books and old gym socks."
After a tense thirty seconds, the green glow began to recede. The hydraulics hissed, retracting into the vents. The metal skin smoothed out, returning to its dull, grey lockers-self.
Pips phased out of the door, looking exhausted and significantly smaller. He floated into Jenny's hand, chirping sadly.
"He's okay," Jenny said, smiling as she handed the wisp back to me. "He just got a little carried away with the 'Pax Romana' of snacks."
"Nice work, Jenny," Kim said, looking at the robot girl with impressed eyes. "You handled that better than we would have."
"It's what I do," Jenny said, though she looked a little shy. "Though, I'm still trying to figure out why a 'Normal' high school has ghost-bugs and alien-watch kids."
"It's a long story," I said, extending a hand. "I'm Danny. And if you're looking for 'Social Integration,' we might have a position for you. We call it the Possible Protocol. It involves a lot of low-stakes mysteries and the occasional sentient vending machine."
Jenny's eyes brightened. "Does it involve getting out of algebra?"
"In spirit? Yes."
I looked at the 'Low-Stakes' meter. It had peaked during the cheese-cannon deployment, but it was back to a comfortable 15%. We had a new recruit, a neutralized locker, and Ron finally had his Naco—though it was now stone-cold.
"Sheila," I whispered. "Add Jenny Wakeman to the roster. Role: Heavy-Ordnance & Digital-Diplomacy. And get her a 'Possible' uniform... something in a size 'Titanium.'"
["Already in production, Danny. Though I should mention... the 'Naco-Locker' left a permanent 'Cheese-Sensor' in the hallway. Principal Barkin is currently wondering why his office smells like a fiesta."]
"Low-stakes, Sheila. Low-stakes."