==> BARD: APPROACH CARROT? FARMERS.

You swagger across the patch of cracked Medium turf, your huge purple boots crunching through the tangled green. The air smells like damp nostalgia and slightly sour Faygo. **piplioβ** drifts behind you, a silent punctuation mark of menace.

The two HUMANS barely glance up as you loom over them. Their hands are stained orange from endless carrot-pulling. One mutters something about "the garden finally looking right again" as if nothing at all is strange about their entire house vanishing.

You tilt your head, horns catching the broken neon glow. Your eyes flick from their awkward carrot-hunch to the cluster of **SBURB DEVICES** sitting dusty behind them. You know full well who triggered the disappearance, but the script demands a little pantomime.

You lean in, voice a sickly sing-song:

*"sO… yOu LoSe A hIvE oR dId It jUsT wAlK oFf, HoNkHoNk?"*

The HUMANS glance at each other, confused but unfazed. They mumble about “Rosie going upstairs” and “something about the internet game” as though the last ten minutes were a decades-old memory. Their faces are slack with nostalgia, pupils like little CRT scanlines.

You chuckle low, a rolling honk caught in your throat. The carrots stare up at you like witnesses.

*"aLl tHaT’s LeFt Is ThEsE cOnEs, hUh? a GaRdEn WiThOuT a HoMe, A hOmE wItHoUt A gArDeN. sEeMs MiRaClEs GeT wEiRdEr EvErY sEsSiOn."*

Your claws twitch. You could, technically, reach for the machines behind them. But the LAW OF THE TERMINAL stays your hand. You’re here to sneer, to stir, to bear witness — not to press the big glowing button.

The HUMANS keep picking carrots.

What Will You Do?