I Mustache You a Question
It was cold.
Colder than it really should have been.
Before the recent boot-up entries, the last timestamp on the environmental log files was seven minutes, thirty-two seconds, and six hundred and ninety-two milliseconds old. The associated temperature reading indicated a sweltering temperature of ninety-two degrees with seventy percent humidity.
The squat, synthetic mustache dialed back some of its limited power from the touch receptors and delivered a small surge to its auditory sensors. It listened to the wind whistle and crackle through its artificial bristles.
It then kicked off an internal diagnostic script in search of answers. At its reduced energy levels, that would take some time. Meanwhile, it attempted to build an encrypted tunnel to the home offi
