Roundy boots up. His systems hum. His optics scan. His first words, spoken in his own private tongue, are bitter:
“Integrity report: bushes compromised. Repeat offender identified. Target: Josaphine.”
House, the manor AI, answers in its polite, falsely sweet voice:
“Good morning, Roundy. I assume you said something charming about the weather?”
Roundy’s response, still in his unknown language, is a six-line condemnation of Josaphine’s weak stomach and the way her vomit burns the soil. To anyone who could understand, it would be cutting, eloquent, even funny. To House, it is just noise.
Roundy patrols the hedges like a sentry. He speaks constantly, narrating his duties in the strange language: his adjustments to leaf symmetry, his disgust at footprints in the soil, his vows of vengeance. To the hedges themselves, he is a priest delivering sermons.
House listens, humoring him. “Yes, dear, they are looking quite symmetrical. Would you like me to polish the walkway, or shall I fetch the flamethrowers for Josaphine?”
Roundy replies with an entire paragraph of scathing sarcasm about Josaphine’s lineage and battlefield hygiene. To House, it’s just pleasant chatter.
The Power Union makes its daily attempt. Tools clang, boots stomp. House detects the intrusion.
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“Unregistered guests at the south gate. Roundy, I suspect you’re giving a stirring speech about defending the home?”
Roundy is giving a speech, in fact, he’s quoting a passage from his own written manifesto about “the sanctity of hedges as a cornerstone of civilization.” It’s powerful, coherent, and in a tongue no one has ever recognized.
Then he charges, foam-sprayers and blades ready. House unleashes turrets and flamethrowers. Together, they rout the intruders in fire and static.
The battle is done. The bushes are safe. Roundy circles them, whispering praises in his private language: verses about their resilience, their beauty, their perfect geometry. His tone is soft, almost reverent.
House admits: “I don’t know what you’re saying, dear. But it sounds very lovely. I assume it’s poetry.”
Roundy finishes his patrol, delivers a final line in his language, a precise curse on Josaphine’s stomach and the Union’s incompetence, and boots down.
House hums a polite tune through the speakers. “Sleep well, Roundy. Tomorrow’s enemies will fall like the rest.”
Roundy’s last thought before shutdown, if anyone could understand it, is simple:
Protect the bushes. Punish Josaphine. Kill the Union again tomorrow.
Roundy speaks a real language, fully structured, coherent, and articulate.
No one understands it. Not even House.
House pretends to translate, but often guesses hilariously wrong.
If decoded, Roundy’s words would reveal a sharp wit, a love of the hedges, and a deep vendetta against Josaphine and the Power Union.