Seven Days at Hawthorne Farm: Day 2
Trey woke at 6:12 in the morning because something outside his window was making an aggressive amount of noise.
Trey rolled onto his back.
Another metallic impact echoed across Hawthorne Farm.
He pulled the blanket over his head.
He crossed the room, opened the curtains, and immediately regretted doing so.
The countryside looked offensively beautiful.
Mist hung low over the fields. The first sunlight had turned the wet grass gold at the edges. Sheep wandered across the hillside like they had nowhere important to be.
And in the farmyard below—
SERVE-331 was already working.
331 stood beside the western fence line, driving a metal support into the earth with a heavy post rammer.
Trey stared through the glass.
Trey looked at the clock.
331 drove the support again.
Then remembered last night.
Tomorrow, he had decided, he would carry three.
He had been tired when he'd made that decision.
Unfortunately, morning Trey still agreed with nighttime Trey.
He pulled on his farm clothes.
Breakfast was already on the table when Trey came downstairs.
Mr. Hawthorne sat near the window drinking tea.
331 stood beside the counter.
Mr. Hawthorne slid a plate toward him.
“It does not require breakfast.”
Trey pointed at him with a piece of toast.
“Yesterday you sat through dinner.”
“Mr. Hawthorne invited it.”
“So if he invites you to breakfast?”
Mr. Hawthorne laughed into his tea.
Because 331 had finished repairing part of the fence before Trey had even put his boots on.
The morning assignment was fence repair.
Trey had imagined farm work involved more variety.
Instead he discovered that farms contained an alarming quantity of things that needed fixing.
331 seemed delighted by this.
Or at least as delighted as a man who barely changed facial expression could be.
Mr. Hawthorne pointed toward a pile of replacement rails.
“Need those taken to the north field.”
Just inconvenient enough to be insulting.
“That would reduce strain.”
331 followed a few metres behind.
Trey could feel him there.
After fifty metres, Trey's forearms began to burn.
331's breathing had not changed.
331 matched him without effort.
“Why are you keeping pace with me?”
“It is the same destination.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“Specify preferred speed.”
“That is not how normal people talk.”
By nine o'clock, Trey had decided fence repair was a terrible sport.
The equipment was badly designed.
And his opponent appeared unaware the competition existed.
This last part was especially irritating.
331 sank a post into place.
If 331 had smirked, Trey could have smirked back.
If he'd bragged, Trey could have beaten him.
If he'd said you can't do this, Trey would have found a way to do it.
Instead, 331 simply worked.
Like Trey's entire existence wasn't somehow making this personal.
At one point, Trey lifted a wooden post and carried it toward the next gap.
Mr. Hawthorne watched from the tractor.
“You know, you don't get paid by the post.”
“Good thing I'm not doing it for money.”
“What are you doing it for?”
The second job was chopping wood.
This felt more promising.
Trey liked chopping wood immediately.
331 stood beside another chopping block.
Mr. Hawthorne handed Trey an axe.
“I know how to use an axe.”
“Have you used one before?”
Mr. Hawthorne walked away.
Trey pointed the axe toward him.
Trey placed the first log on the block.
The axe struck slightly off-center.
His log separated perfectly into two even pieces.
331 placed another log down.
“You're doing it robotically.”
Trey didn't know why that annoyed him.
Trey started splitting larger logs.
Trey took two logs and stacked them.
“That's what you said yesterday.”
“I did have it yesterday.”
“You nearly dropped a fence post on yourself.”
“Nearly isn't actually dropping.”
“This reasoning contains a safety deficiency.”
One piece launched sideways into the grass.
331 looked toward the displaced wood.
“Approximately seventy-three percent successful.”
“I liked you better when you were silent.”
“Drone has spoken frequently since your arrival.”
By late morning, Trey's shoulders were tired.
He hated the pattern already.
331 effortlessly completes work.
331 continues existing offensively nearby.
At eleven, Mr. Hawthorne called for a break.
Trey sat on a stone wall with a bottle of water.
331 looked toward the next field.
There was no sweat on his forehead.
No stiffness in the shoulders.
Trey looked down at his own arms.
Small tremor from repeated chopping.
Then quickly stopped when 331 glanced over.
“You are experiencing muscular fatigue.”
“I know what fatigue is.”
“It will decrease with rest.”
“Systems can experience damage, depletion, or reduced efficiency.”
Trey stared across the field.
He had known he didn't tire.
But knowing it and spending an entire day working beside it were different things.
Not that there was a competition.
it would have been unfair.
Mr. Hawthorne called from across the yard.
“You are not fully recovered.”
Trey picked up an empty wheelbarrow.
The sacks were stacked inside the barn.
The kind 331 had carried two at a time the previous evening.
Mr. Hawthorne pointed toward the far storehouse.
“Need those shifted before the rain tonight.”
Trey stepped in front of him.
“All of them?” Mr. Hawthorne asked.
331's expression did not change.
Trey felt an unreasonable amount of satisfaction.
Lifted one sack onto his shoulder.
That was already substantial.
Then he grabbed the third.
The position was awkward.
Third braced against his chest.
“This configuration reduces visibility.”
“Approximately thirty-two percent of your forward view is obstructed.”
The sacks were heavier than the fence posts.
After fifteen metres, his legs began giving him information he did not appreciate.
After twenty-five, his lower back joined the discussion.
At thirty-five, he was reconsidering several life choices.
Then 331 walked past him.
“You had three yesterday.”
“Four reduces total transport cycles.”
“Oh, you are absolutely doing that on purpose.”
“You know exactly what you're doing.”
“Drone is transporting feed.”
“And then you took four.”
Trey glared at the back of his silver mohawk.
331's voice came calmly over his shoulder.
“You have stated this without supporting behavioral evidence.”
Trey almost dropped a sack.
“What does that even mean?”
“You continue voluntarily approaching drone.”
Trey stood in the middle of the path carrying three sacks.
Mr. Hawthorne drove past slowly on the tractor.
Trey discovered this at approximately three-thirty.
Big rectangular blocks of dried grass.
How difficult could that be?
The bales were dense, awkward, scratchy, and seemed designed specifically to punish exposed skin.
“You're taking the piss now.”
Trey grabbed a third bale.
Mr. Hawthorne appeared from nowhere.
“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
“Because you keep doing things that make us say it.”
The bales immediately blocked half his face.
“Visibility reduced further than during feed transport.”
Trey's voice came from behind the hay.
Placed his three bales down neatly.
Trey was still halfway across the yard.
331 walked back toward him.
“Drone was returning for additional bales.”
That somehow felt even more insulting.
At five-thirty, Mr. Hawthorne ended work.
Hay stuck to his clothes.
Hair somehow containing one piece of straw.
His back had filed formal complaints.
331 looked almost exactly as he had that morning.
“Not in the same manner.”
“It regulates temperature differently.”
Trey threw his gloves onto a bench.
Trey sat heavily on a hay bale.
Then sat on the hay bale opposite him.
For several seconds they said nothing.
The farm was quiet again.
Evening light stretched across the fields.
Somewhere nearby, sheep moved toward the gate.
Trey rubbed one shoulder.
“You increased your workload repeatedly today.”
“You carried four rails when two were recommended.”
“You resumed work ten minutes before the break ended.”
“You transported three feed sacks simultaneously despite reduced visibility.”
“You attempted three hay bales after being advised not to.”
“You completed the transport.”
“With elevated strain and reduced efficiency.”
Trey gestured around the farm.
“Not everything has to be efficient.”
“Sometimes you do something because you want to know if you can.”
“If the outcome can be predicted—”
“You don't get that, do you?”
At the farmhouse door, he looked over his shoulder.
331 was already standing again.
He walked inside before 331 could ask another question.
That night, Trey dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
He had spent almost the entire day trying to beat someone who apparently did not understand that he was being challenged.
But Trey rejected that conclusion on principle.
Because tomorrow was another day.
And somewhere on that farm there had to be one job where strength, stamina and irritating mechanical perfection were not enough.
Outside, Hawthorne Farm settled into darkness.
And somewhere below, SERVE-331 continued working.
He was asleep less than two minutes later.
A collaboration with @serve-331
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