The uncomfortable ritual in the family of this famous blue house began at these late hours of the night with screams and insults typical of a relationship that had been shattered for years. The shouting continued even as alcohol began to flow into their glasses. The moment drowsiness overwhelmed them, they collapsed, sometimes in the same bed, in each other's arms, or on the floor, perhaps surrounded by the remains of the previous night. Fortunately, they had contracted the services of a full-function caregiver: in the morning, when both felt their heads bursting, everything was already clean, and in the kitchen lay the 30 minutes they shared with their children.
They rarely spoke with them beyond giving orders or asking about their academic or social progress… always with the expression of someone unsatisfied with the answers. We could add that this was to be expected: they had hangovers and probably hadn't eaten anything in the last 10 hours. So, after such a limited conversation, they stayed glued to their plates before leaving for work.
So great was the monotony and exhaustion from the previous night that it took a couple of those 30 minutes to notice that one of those questioned was missing.
They asked the robot to take care of it, ignoring calling her by the ridiculous name their youngest son had stubbornly insisted on recognizing her by. It mattered to no one else but a little boy that the device had the name Cinder-bot.
The sound of the house phone was the second unexpected interruption. Irritated by the ringing, the father stood up and, taking long strides, ripped the device anchored to the wall. He swore under his breath before asking who was looking for him at this time in the morning.
The answer made him hesitate; for a moment he even considered the possibility of it being a scam call. Unfortunately, the caller ID showed it was the county police with the news that his son was likely at the morgue.
The father stood paralyzed with an expression so terrifying that his life partner, for once, stopped making unnecessary comments. She took the phone from his rigid hands and heard the same information from the officer on the other side of the line, right before denying it with a tremor in her voice. Warning lights began to flash throughout the house: it was an alert indicating that their life assistant was declaring a state of emergency.
"The younger child is missing!"
The father took the receiver from the hands of a woman who, shattered on the floor, was crying. He turned and asked her, with sanity held by his teeth, how on earth she had lost one of the little ones she had been hired to care for.
"You will excuse me, but my parameters indicated I had to undergo update processes tonight. All of you have the relevant information, and the young man waved a paper in front of the yard camera stating he had permission to go out. That is why I did not disturb you or look for him in the morning."
The weeping and screams of a broken family continued without any attempt to calm down. When they arrived at the police station and learned they had been tracked because the boy had DNA records in the national database—given that nothing was left of him to identify—the mother lost her voice. She had attempted sanity, but seeing an shapeless mass and being told that was her beloved child had been too much.
The parents knew they could not take what remained of their son because it was an active criminal investigation. The police officer, somewhat apologetic, indicated they had to complete paperwork and that, even so, it was likely that in the coming months they could only deliver his ashes once the proceedings were finished.
As they were leaving, the receptionist at the entrance module in the precinct conveyed, with something resembling empathy, that unfortunately this was only one of many cases occurring across the country, that the public was unaware, and asked that if they had any other teenage children, they shield them with greater care, as so far they were the sole victims.
Slowly they arrived back at the beautiful house with blue walls. The silence was quickly filled with the pouring of liquid and its consumption. Somewhat terrified, the mother took her phone and hurriedly dialed her sister; just a couple of days ago had been her niece's 13th birthday. Both had talked about how difficult it was to have teenagers at home, how opposed they were to the civics and ethics classes their education system provided.
The ringtone sounded.
One attempt.
A couple more.
Just as she was about to give up, someone on the other end of the line answered. It was not the young voice of her sister nor the arrogant tone of her brother-in-law: it was a serious, formal, and effective voice… introducing himself as the paramedic.
The reasons for the suicide were no longer understood by the poor woman. Apparently, her sister found out the very same day that cousins had gone to celebrate, and neither of the two managed to return.
The father, furious, called to complain to the company, certain they had cheated to get out of the professional protection contract. After much struggling with automated systems, a voice indicated that it had been an update and that it was reported, but that if he was so afraid of his children suffering, he could update his care unit with self-defense capabilities and short-range weaponry.
The man looked at his house, at his wife, and at the oncoming sadness… Money did not matter; neither he nor his wife would be around temporarily for their youngest, and without hesitation, he ended up accepting the package. They had to protect the little one that was still left.