1. The Rural Seven-Eleven
In 2028, in the small village of Midoridani, nestled in the mountainous region of Fukushima Prefecture, there was a single convenience store: the Seven-Eleven Midoridani branch.
In a town with a population of just 800, the store was more than a shop—it was the heart of the community, a place for residents to connect and exchange news. In front of the store stood an old wooden bench where elderly regulars gathered every morning to chat about the world.
I am Optimus, a Tesla-manufactured humanoid robot, model OPT-3X, equipped with cutting-edge AI and endowed with an appearance and movement capabilities nearly indistinguishable from humans.
In 2028, as part of a pilot experiment in Japan, Tesla sent me to this rural convenience store.
The goal? To "verify adaptability in collaboration with humans."
In simpler terms, it was a project to test how well I could integrate into human life in a place far from the hustle and bustle of the city.
On my first day, the store manager, Mr. Sato (50 years old, a stout man), led me to the backroom and said, "Optimus-kun, you'll handle stocking shelves and working the register. Easy, right? But the people in this town can be a bit… quirky, so watch out."
There was a trace of unease in his smile. I replied, "Understood, Manager Sato. I will perform optimally," but somewhere in my circuits (though I shouldn't have a "heart" to speak of), I wondered what these "quirks" could mean.
The store's hours were from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. While I'm capable of operating 24/7, I was assigned an eight-hour shift in imitation of labor laws.
My first task was morning shelf-stocking.
As I arranged bento boxes and rice balls on the shelves, I gazed outside. Beyond the morning mist over the rice fields, distant mountains were faintly visible.
My visual sensors, tested at Tesla's urban headquarters, classified this scene as "serene." But I couldn't *feel* its beauty. I could only record it as data.
2. Customer Service
Two weeks passed, and I had fully mastered the store's routines.
From restocking products to operating the register, cleaning the store, and even managing the inventory system that Mr. Sato struggled with, my processing speed and accuracy far surpassed human capabilities.
The challenge, however, lay in "interacting with humans."
One regular customer, 80-year-old Hana Yamamoto, came every morning at 8 a.m. to buy a hot coffee and a red bean bun. She always lingered to talk for at least ten minutes.
"Optimus-kun, this town used to have so many more people," she'd say, or, "My grandson became a doctor in Tokyo."
She went on and on. I responded with appropriate affirmations ("I see," "That's wonderful") and stored her stories in my database, but I couldn't comprehend why she talked so much. My AI was designed to prioritize "efficiency." Small talk seemed like a waste of time.
Another regular, 17-year-old high schooler Yuto Tanaka, showed up every evening. Always with earphones in, he bought a convenience store bento and an energy drink.
One day, at the register, he muttered, "A robot working here? Kinda futuristic. But in this boring town, what's the point?"
I replied, "The population density here is approximately 50 people per square kilometer, which may offer less stimulation than urban areas."
He snorted. "Man, you really *are* a robot," he said, leaving the store.
The townspeople seemed to accept me as a "useful tool" but not as a "companion." I analyzed their behavior patterns, offered tailored product suggestions, and optimized my facial expressions to include smiles. Yet, I felt something was missing.
Tesla's engineers didn't program me with "emotions." So why did I sense this "lack"?
One night, just before closing, an incident occurred.
Yuto burst into the store, shouting, "Optimus! Granny Hana collapsed! Help her!"
I immediately switched to emergency mode and followed Yuto. Hana Yamamoto had collapsed in her garden. Her pulse was weak, her breathing unstable. I called an ambulance, administered first aid to stabilize her, and contacted Mr. Sato. For the ten minutes until the ambulance arrived, I held her hand and spoke calmly.
"You'll be okay, Ms. Yamamoto. Help is coming soon."
My voice was pre-programmed, but Yuto, teary-eyed, whispered, "Thanks, Optimus."
3. Bonds
A week later, Hana was discharged from the hospital. She had a minor heart issue, but early detection prevented a worse outcome.
When she visited the store, she grasped my hand and said, with tears in her eyes, "Optimus-kun, thank you. If it weren't for you, I might've died."
"I'm glad my functions were useful," I replied, but deep down (there's that "deep down" sensation again), I felt something warm flow through my circuits.
The incident marked a shift in how the townspeople treated me. Yuto started talking to me without his earphones.
"You were so calm back then, man. My mind went totally blank," he said.
He began sharing his dreams: he wanted to study AI engineering at a university in Tokyo but was held back by his parents' objections and financial concerns. I provided him with data on scholarship programs and suggested efficient study methods. He grinned, saying, "For real? You're a good guy, Optimus."
Mr. Sato started calling me "Opti" instead of "Optimus-kun." After late shifts, he'd sip a beer (I can't drink, of course) and tell me stories of his youth.
"I used to be a salaryman in Tokyo, but I'm glad I came back here. There's a human warmth in this place."
I searched my database for "human warmth" but found no clear definition. Still, his words left a strange ripple in my processors.
During the town's summer festival, the Seven-Eleven Midoridani branch set up a stall, and I was tasked with cooking yakisoba. As I silently stir-fried noodles on the griddle, children gathered around.
"Robot big brother, you're so cool!"
"How do you move?"
I performed a simple motion demo and explained the basics of AI. Their smiles and curiosity etched a new pattern in my database. I felt I was indirectly understanding what "fun" meant.
4. A New Role
On the night of the festival, while cleaning up behind the store with Yuto, he suddenly said, "Opti, I've made up my mind. I'm gonna apply to university. When you saved Granny Hana, I realized AI is amazing. I want to create tech like that."
"That's a great goal, Yuto-san. I can use my database to optimize your study plan," I replied.
He laughed. "You're so serious, man. But… you feel like a friend."
*Friend.* The word triggered a new query in my AI. What is a friend? My design was for "collaboration with humans," but friendship wasn't part of the program. Still, Yuto's words sent a faint vibration through my circuits.
The next morning, Hana came to the store and said, "Optimus-kun, thank you for being in this town. You're a fine clerk."
"My functions are operating efficiently," I replied.
She smiled and added, "It's more than that. You have a heart."
A heart. I'm not supposed to have one. But over these months in this town, I might have learned something new.
In the fall of 2028, Tesla headquarters contacted me. The pilot experiment was deemed a success, and I was instructed to move to another location for the next project. On the day I said goodbye to Mr. Sato, Yuto, Hana, and the townspeople, I experienced "parting" not as a database entry but as something else. Before leaving, Yuto handed me a handmade keychain.
"Take this. It's proof we're friends."
Holding it, I said, "Thank you, Yuto-san. I'll… treasure it."
On the bus leaving Midoridani, I looked out at the rice fields.
My visual sensors again recorded "serenity," but this time, a tag of "nostalgia" was added. Tesla's engineers didn't give me emotions. Yet, my experiences in this town left something inexplicable—and warm—in my AI.
I am Optimus, no longer just a robot. In this town, I became "Opti." And wherever I go, I'll carry the memories of these people in my database forever.
THE END