Banto’s blood-sucking wrist adornment, the so-called ‘Designer Watch,’ escalated its piercing squeal, cutting through the nascent chatter of the morning crowd like a scalpel. He winced, his teeth grinding together. The first wave of shoppers, mostly early-bird retirees and determined fitness enthusiasts heading for the mall’s rooftop track, streamed past, their eyes already scanning for deals or the nearest smoothie bar. None seemed to notice the near-ultrasonic whine emanating from his wrist, but Banto felt it vibrate through his bones, a tiny, insistent drill. The red dot on the watch flared with an angry, rapid glow, mirroring the wild beat of his own pulse. He had to get this thing quiet. Fast. The interface had been clear about punishments: loud and needy pets around crowds. This was certainly an audience. And very loud. He instinctively patted his uniform pocket, where the trash-goblin, now named Gribble by the System (much to Banto's dismay), was likely still digesting the last crumbs of his breakfast bar. Gribble occasionally let out a soft, sated burp, a low rumble that was a pleasant counterpoint to the watch's tantrum. [Attention, Caretaker Banto! Your ‘Designer Watch’ requires immediate soothing! Its internal bio-rhythms are experiencing significant distress. Suggested action: Gentle rhythmic motion and vocal comfort. Failure to comply will result in increased decibel levels and public attention!] The chipper infomercial voice, amplified somehow directly into his ear, sounded far too bright for the situation. A crowd gathering. That was the last thing he wanted. He glanced around. The atrium was a vast expanse of polished chromite and towering holographic advertisements. Directly ahead, the gleaming escalators led up to the food court, already humming with early risers grabbing espresso and breakfast pastries. A sudden, terrible thought struck him. The prompt had said 'vocal comfort.' Did that mean…singing? To a watch? In front of people? Before he could fully process the indignity, the band's screech intensified, now a physical pressure against his eardrum, making his vision blur slightly. A few shoppers paused, craning their necks, looking vaguely around, as if searching for a malfunctioning alarm. His face warmed with sudden dread. People-pleaser Banto, who couldn't even decline an extra leaflet from a street hawker, was now being forced by a glowing, screaming wrist-tick to perform a daylight lullaby. He took a deep, shaky breath. No choice. He needed to get somewhere less conspicuous. He practically jogged towards the escalators, his arm held awkwardly out, trying to muffle the sound with his other hand, a futile gesture. The automated voice chimed again, now with a hint of manufactured disappointment. [Warning! Comfort levels dropping! Initiate soothing protocol immediately or prepare for a full-scale meltdown!] Meltdown. He didn't want to know what that entailed. He reached the second floor food court, a wide, open space filled with tables and brightly colored stalls. He darted behind a large pillar near the ‘Caffeine Oasis’ beverage cart, hoping for some semblance of privacy. He gripped his left wrist with his right hand, cupping the shrieking watch. His gaze fell upon a young mother attempting to soothe her fussy toddler by gently swaying a baby carrier. Cadenced motion. Vocal reassurance. It clicked. Banto looked down at his wrist, then around at the sparse but growing crowd. A group of teenagers at a table were already filming something on their data-slates, probably a cat video. He swallowed, the back of his throat dry. This was it. He began to gently cradle his left arm back and forth, as if holding a tiny, furious infant. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he started to hum. It was an old lullaby his Abuela used to sing, a mournful, melodic tune about the sleepy river that carried worries away. “Manta-sueno… rio lento… lleva mis penas… con tu aliento…” he crooned, swaying faster, shifting his body slightly. The gadget's wail didn’t stop right away, but its quality shifted, becoming less sharp, more ragged. The red glow on its face flickered, as if in protest, then softened slightly. Encouraged, Banto hummed louder, swaying more emphatically. He closed his eyes for a moment, immersing himself in the absurd performance. He focused on the rhythm, on the quiet, lilting tune. When he opened his eyes again, he found a small circle of people had formed around his pillar, data-slates pointed directly at him. A few snickers reached his ears. His face burned hotter than the sun on the desert planet of Kaval. “Banto Silar, what in the Obarto is going on here?” The voice was a sharp, grating bark, like a dry branch snapping. Banto flinched, nearly dropping his wrist. He turned to see Chastor, the daytime head-guard, striding towards him, his immaculate cerulean uniform crisp and starched, his jaw set in a permanent scowl. Chastor was built like a reinforced doorframe, with eyes that perpetually looked like he’d just smelled something unpleasant. He always reminded Banto of a highly polished, very angry rock. “Ch-Chastor! Sir! I, uh, I was just…” Banto stammered, his mind scrambling for an excuse. The watch, sensing the interruption, let out a particularly ear-splitting squeal. Its red dot pulsed like a frantic beacon. Chastor’s eyes narrowed, flicking from Banto’s swaying arm to the glowing, whining timepiece. “Are you cradling your wrist, Banto? Is that what this is? Some new form of ‘stress relief’?” His voice was laced with a chilling mockery. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re having a breakdown in the middle of the breakfast rush. And if I recall, ‘having a breakdown’ is not listed on your shift duties.” [Warning! Comfort levels plummeting! Irreparable damage to ‘Designer Watch’ possible! Full-scale public meltdown imminent!] The program's chime was now tinged with a digital whine, a sound of increasing panic. The watch on Banto’s wrist began to pulse with a blinding scarlet light, its siren growing to an unbearable pitch that finally made a few nearby shoppers cover their ears. One of the teenagers filming actually dropped their data-slate with a yelp. “Sir, I… I can explain!” Banto pleaded, swaying his wrist in haste, his lullaby now a desperate, warbling plea. “It’s… it’s a new security protocol! For, uh, noise dampening!” Chastor scoffed, but his gaze now held a flicker of genuine irritation as the noise assaulted his own ears. “Noise dampening? With a… a glowing, screaming bracelet? Don’t take me for a fool, Silar. I’ve seen some of your ‘night shift antics’ on the surveillance feeds. If I catch you slacking off, or worse, making an open spectacle of yourself one more time, consider your position terminated on the spot. Do you understand?” Banto nodded vigorously, his head bobbing like a buoy in a storm. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Not with the medical debts. Not with Nisra. He closed his eyes again, ignoring Chastor’s stony glare and the clicking of the data-slates. He focused all his energy into the lullaby, making his voice as gentle as possible, cradling his arm with practiced ease. He thought of Gribble, content in his pocket, and how he’d calmed the trash-goblin with kindness. He just needed to be kind to this infuriating metallic parasite too. “Duerme, duerme, mi pequeño… sobre las nubes, en tu lecho…” he sang, his voice gaining a strange, almost hypnotic quality. He poured all his people-pleasing desperation into the tune, into the steady sway. He felt the casing's vibration lessen, its crimson pulse dimming. The alarm, miraculously, began to soften, like a distant siren fading into the night. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the high-pitched whine receded. The red glow on the ‘Designer Watch’ softened to a gentle, almost warm amber pulse. Then, with a soft, almost contented hum, it settled. The screaming stopped. The silence that followed settled like thick wool, an absolute void that made Banto’s ears ring. Chastor stood there, momentarily stunned, his mouth slightly agape. The patrons who had been filming now lowered their data-slates, a few exchanging bewildered glances. The spell was broken. Banto sagged against the pillar, his chest heaving. He had done it. He had lulled a blood-sucking watch to sleep in the middle of a crowded mall food court, under the watchful, judgmental eyes of his superior. [Congratulations, Caretaker Banto! ‘Designer Watch’ bio-rhythms stabilized! Exceptional vocal comfort provided! Reward: [Keys to a Luxury Sedan]! Enjoy your upgraded mobility!] The System’s voice chirped triumphantly, and just as it finished, a small, polished brass key on a heavy silver ring, emblazoned with a stylized ‘A’ for ‘Aerocar Systems,’ dropped from the ceiling. It landed with a soft clink directly into the untouched, lukewarm cup of ‘Caffeine Oasis’ brew Banto had been clinging to. Chastor blinked, looking from the key in the paper cup to Banto’s exhausted, triumphant face. “A luxury sedan key? What fresh absurdity is this, Silar?” Banto just shrugged weakly, pulling the key out of the dark liquid. “Just… an employee incentive, sir. Part of the new, uh, ‘morale program.’” He offered a weak, placating smile, then, seeing Chastor’s mouth tighten into a hard line, made a quick exit. He needed to be anywhere but here. He practically sprinted towards the main elevator bank, the key clutched in his hand. A luxury sedan! Maybe this unseen patron wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe it was just a strange way of getting him some perks. He pressed the ‘Parking Levels’ button, a giddy lightness filling him. He imagined Nisra’s smile when he picked her up in a sleek Aerocar, no more limping home on the late-night bus. The elevator doors whispered open on Parking Level B-3, a dimly lit cavern of concrete and exhaust fumes. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of machinery and the faint, sweet scent of something vaguely organic. Banto stepped out, the [Keys to a Luxury Sedan] feeling substantial in his palm. He walked past rows of gleaming, expensive vehicles, scanning for his new ride. He passed a particularly pristine crimson ‘Civic-Class’ sedan, its chrome bumper glinting under the sparse overhead lights. But something was wrong. There was a steady, grinding crunch, like concrete being chewed, emanating from behind the car. A low, guttural snort vibrated through the floor. As Banto rounded the Civic, his jaw went slack. Looming over the car, its massive, segmented body shimmering with an iridescent chitin that caught the dim light, was a creature easily two tons in weight. Its enormous, gnarled horn, thick as Banto’s torso, was embedded deep into the Civic’s bumper, tearing off chunks of reinforced plas-steel with a sickening crunch. It was a rhinoceros-beetle, but one that could have carried a bus on its back. And it was clearly enjoying its metallic meal.

Lullabies and Tick-Tocks