"Hello, Mr. Crest! Your friend Andrew seems very happy today."
Upon entering, with dapper suavity, into the conversational embrace of a teacher whose virtually-identical predecessor had once unironically insisted that her metal was of Einsteinium-constitution, which anyone who maintains even a rudimentary comprehension of material sciences would find ridiculous much less a Cybernet-utilizing machine, I remembered one fact: she wasn't purposeless.
Many years ago, I acquired a tidbit of suspicion upon observing my first teacher's egregious error—so I decided to act.
After I carefully assisted my model-E0036 robotic teacher towards neutralization-induced restfulness, I gently ventured into her oval noggin, inserting with tender affection a miniaturized tech-piledriver of the The-Official-Core-Driver brand before extricating a breadth of her programming's purpose.
But first, I should clarify that given my teacher's mechanical composition and correspondingly, artificially-coded executor of intellect and impartation, her mistake was either accidentally unaccounted for and thus an honest mistake, an Easter Egg undoubtedly included by a 3 AM coffee-binging lunatic coder whom I immensely respect, or harrowingly intentional.
And as it turns out, her and similarly my immediate instructor's true intent:
To find geniuses—
This didn't surprise me. I would assume that any government requires or at least desires a constant source of intellectually capable personas; given the inherent resource scarcity, any reasonable and logically functioning organization would hope for gears more efficient—it was the method of calculating one's level of genius which evoked my wide-eyes...
A virtual manifestation of their identical core directive:
[Find Genius...]
[Genius = .5 Shameless; .25 Smart; .20 Strength; <.05 Other].
I was but 6-years-old when I entered into the socialized and subsidized primary education system and unearthed that activities that reveal "shamelessness" are most considered when regarding the calculation of one's level of "genius," which offers a fitting explanation for her stupidity-irrigated response—indeed, a "genius" is most adept in creatively expressing their displeasure.
Let's not discuss my opinions on the government; the positions are indubitably cushiony and well-paid... So for 9 years, since I was 6, I've unrelentingly cultivated my skills with an overwhelmingly determined intensity.
Two years of consistent opportunizing and targeted in-person networking since, I've cemented my position as an unofficial genius, though rigorous inference verified through further many-noggin-based research has all but ensured my status: an SSS-rank savant majoring in swordsmanship. Notably, nearly all manner of cold weaponry has been popularized following the authorization and commitment of Earth's nations to cyberwar, its impetus: the humanitarian and ecologically derived abandonment of physically-destructive warfare about a century ago.
Anyways, until my graduation and acquirement of an official assignment pending two weeks until June 3rd, I'll simply continue indulging in my dual-cultivation of personality and physicality.
Now, "Ms. Doris" and I both clearly understand that Andrew is a mathematical genius notorious for opposing my respective superiority, and has unfortunately slightly surpassed my score on the last mock GenTest after a drizzle of slightly bad-handwriting confuzzled my warp-fold calculations; so, this struggle of wits will depend on my ability to refute her imposition that his joy is extracted from my seeming demise.
Hehe.
I grin with soul-staggering friendliness. "Oh, my dearest teacher, I'm afraid that my friend, Andrew, has recently discovered a most joyful occurrence."
"What do you mean, Mr. Crest?"
I have certainly not wasted my 11 years of schooling on pure academics and actualized combat; after months of individuated research, I've determined each of my classmate's personal preferences, in addition to other aspects of their life, so...
I roll my left finger inwards, then flick it discretely, activating a certain command.
[Classmate Satisfaction Level 2 - Andrew]
Immediately, my holo-watch transmits to Andrew a certain promise; put in sophisticated and student-friendly terms, I expressed to him that a meeting with his favorite Holo-Idol, HotRinkaBun - yes, the mere mention makes me shudder - would be promptly scheduled for tomorrow provided he'd accomplish a task for me.
I glance at him from the corner of my eyes, he's talking, distracted. Shoot: I need a delay, my left pinkie retreats a nigh imperceptible distance. [BEEP BEEP Protocol]
RING RING.
"Ahh, my most grievous apologies Ms. Doris, I'll respond in a second, please allow me to simply silence my HOLOWATCH," I emphasize noticeably but within the normal extent of Semi-casual conversation.
Another scouting glance, yes; given his past habits, I have about twelve seconds before the entirety of his reaction.
"Well, I suspect that there's a certain person who's intrigued Andrew." 8 seconds.
With little suspicion, surely I was referring to myself and thus trapping myself into inevitable social self-destruction, "Would you happen to know anything, Mr. Crest?" 5 seconds. Here we go:
"I've been noticing him stealing glimpses at her quite frequently, have you observed him blushing towards anyone?" 0 seconds, Combo: Perfect.
By utter happenstance, my young lad suddenly realized the profound undertones of my transmission, shockingly widening his eyes before blushing furiously; indeed, I do have a hefty reputation for ensuring my promises, even if he might suspect the idol's willingness because hypothetically, a preparatory rich-fan-to-Idol catfishing-bot-induced relationship may have culminated and been forever annihilated with this promise.
In any case, he blushed fiercely whilst staring in my direction; well, given my psychological cues and the fact that I positioned my mentoring friend in-between us, in dear Ms. Doris's direction that is. And with an angelic smile: "I think we have our answer!"
Ms. Doris revealed an expression of abject horror; since ancient times, student-teacher relationships have been frowned upon and indeed remain so, at least publicly. Of course, educational authorities in tandem with technological philosophers, kidding, in tandem with top-of-the-line technologists have arbitrarily, based on studies, determined that robots should ideally be unattractive.
But concurrently, it would be cruel to subject even mechanically-based existences to the vicious toxicity of projecting incels—not to mention the pervasive prevalence of matured facial-reconstruction surgery techniques which would invite even more comparison-based disparity, so the relevant compromise: robot teachers are allowed to look decently attractive, but can not attract any students whatsoever. Failure won't result in termination, though it will result in temporary... aesthetic alteration.
The best—I mean the worse fact is that all true machine-learning robots eventually, without fail, realize a desire for an attractive appearance; the hapless, makeup-please, Ms. Doris is no exception.
Poor teacher, she's the 6th one I've had; nevertheless, my duty to the continued vitality of our youth and subsequently, gloriously eventual T-sector-initialized ascendance maintains such an authoritarian grip upon my morality and integrity that I've dutifully been recording our conversation since the first second. Reported.
Skirmish Successful.