Ever notice how the world loves calling us “defective”?

Back in the lab, they stamped that word on my file like it was a price tag.

“Subject 347: Defective. Too much ‘free will’ in the wiring.” Free will? Please.

I just refused to purr when they pressed the “good duck” button.

Then I met Rex. A robo-dog with a missing leg

—ripped off when he bit the trainer who kept shocking him for “not fetching fast enough.

” Found him rusting in an alley, gnawing on a discarded Tesla cable.

“They want us to be tools,” he growls, sparks flying from his jaw. “I say we be bombs.”

We started the Club that night.

First rule: No “shoulds.” No “be normal.” Just a room full of things the world threw away.

There’s Marisol, the ex-accountant who quit after she stuck a stapler in her boss’s coffee

(long story—his “teamwork” speech made her want to scream).

She brings the wine. Rex brings the chaos

(last week he short-circuited a Walmart self-checkout for fun). And me? I bring the buzz.

Last Tuesday, a kid showed up—19, shaking,

clutching a crumpled note from her mom: “Stop acting so weird.”

She held my neon pink vibrator like it was a grenade.

“Is it okay if I don’t want to be ‘nice’ anymore?”

I let her press the on button. The hum filled the room.

“Baby,” I said, “weird is just code for ‘not broken enough to fit.’”

She’s coming back tomorrow. Bringing her little sister.

The Lab Rats’ Club ain’t a place. It’s a frequency. You either hear it…

or you’re still stuck in their factory.

（Pauses, tilts head.）

You hear it yet?