Traffic gal | by AndroJuniarto

The engine hums steadily as the car approaches the intersection, the rhythmic sound of tires against pavement filling the cabin. Ahead, the traffic light system stands tall, but something is off the signal isn't a static metal pole. Instead, a tall, robotic figure stands at the center of the crossing, her metallic frame catching the sunlight as she maintains her post.

As the car rolls closer, the signal switches. The display on her face shifts to a bright, glowing green. The command is clear: proceed. However, instead of pressing down on the accelerator, the car creeps forward at an unnaturally slow pace, stopping just shy of the white line, repeatedly inching forward only to pause again. The goal is obvious: to keep the interaction alive, to force her to notice the stalled vehicle that refuses to obey the simple command of her glow.

After several deliberate attempts to provoke a reaction, the figure finally shifts her attention downward. Her digital eyes narrow slightly as she tracks the movement of the car. A faint mechanical whirring sound precedes her movement as she leans forward, her glowing screen flickering with a hint of irritation.

"Excuse me," her synthetic voice carries across the road, sounding direct and slightly impatient. "The signal is green. Why exactly have you not moved forward yet?"

The engine roars with a desperate, mechanical scream as the car tears through the asphalt, tires screeching against the pavement in a blur of motion. The speedometer needle climbs higher and higher, each passing streetlamp becoming nothing more than a streak of light. The road ahead narrows as a sharp, treacherous turn approaches, but there is no time to brake the momentum is too great, the grip too weak. The steering wheel jerks violently as the vehicle skids sideways, tires smoking as they lose all purchase on the road.

Then comes the impact. A bone jarring crunch of metal against something impossibly solid echoes through the air as the front end of the car slams directly into something massive and unyielding. The airbag deploys in a white cloud of dust, and the world spins before coming to a dead stop.

Silence follows, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the faint hiss of steam rising from the crumpled hood. When vision finally clears, the first thing noticed isn't the wreckage, but the figure looming directly in front of the windshield.

Traffic gal stands there, completely unfazed. Her yellow screen displays a neutral, unimpressive expression just two simple digital lines for eyes and a flat line for a mouth. Her red and green light housings glint under the streetlights, and she towers over the vehicle with her arms crossed over her metallic, grayish blue chest. She doesn't look hurt; she doesn't even look startled. She simply looks down at the driver with a grumpy, irritated stare.

Shaking off the shock, the door creaks open as someone stumbles out to inspect the damage. The front of the car is utterly destroyed, but not in a random way. The hood and grille have been forced inward with such precise, overwhelming pressure that the metal has molded itself into a perfect, rounded shape. The crumpled steel now forms the unmistakable, massive curve of a backside mimicking the exact shape of Traffic gal's enormous ass where the impact occurred.

Traffic gal's face flickers, the digital display shifting slightly as she adjusts her stance, her wide hips swaying as she looks down at the ruined vehicle. "You drive like an idiot," she says, her synthetic voice carrying a flat, annoyed tone.

The night air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber and exhaust. Traffic gal's digital face is currently a harsh, glowing red, casting an angry crimson light over the dashboard as she approaches the vehicle. Her metallic frame creaks slightly with each authoritative step she takes toward the driver's side window.

"License and registration. Now," she demands, her synthetic voice carrying a sharp, grating edge that brooks no argument. "You were weaving through traffic like you own the asphalt, and your speed was well beyond the posted limit. You're lucky I didn't just shut you down permanently."

She doesn't wait for a reply. Her mechanical fingers move with precise, irritated motions as she produces a citation pad. Her attention is fully absorbed by the task at hand, her glowing yellow screen displaying a series of frustrated digital lines narrowed eyes and a flat, unimpressed mouth as she scribbles down the violation details. The scratch of her stylus against the pad is the only sound in the tense standoff.

Seizing the moment while her back is turned, the attempt to escape begins. The engine roars to life, tires screeching as the car attempts to lurch forward in a desperate bid for freedom. But the vehicle doesn't budge. It's as if the car has been welded to the very foundation of the earth; the wheels spin uselessly against the pavement, emitting a high pitched whine, but no forward momentum follows.

A low, dangerous hum vibrates through the chassis.

Turning around to assess the failure, the view through the rear window reveals something impossible. Traffic gal has positioned herself at the rear of the car. Her powerful, robotic arms are braced against the bumper, her curvaceous but solid frame straining as she physically lifts the rear axle off the ground. Her face has shifted from mere annoyance to a full on crimson rage; her screen displays jagged red lines that mimic a furious scowl.

"Oh no you don't," she growls, her voice dropping to a threatening register as she holds the weight of the vehicle effortlessly. "You think you're fast enough to outrun a traffic signal? Sit your ass back down before I decide to impound this entire wreck."

The asphalt stretches endlessly under a void black sky, broken only by the lonely sweep of headlights cutting through the humid night air. The engine hums a steady rhythm, the only sound in a world that feels completely abandoned. The road is a desolate ribbon of concrete, devoid of other cars, streetlights, or signs of life.

Then, something catches the light.

Positioned awkwardly on the shoulder of the road is a metallic figure. At first glance, she looks like some discarded piece of industrial equipment, but as the vehicle slows closer, the distinctive shape becomes clear. It's a robot a tall, curvaceous humanoid with a metallic grayish blue finish. Her head is a large, round yellow screen that remains dark and lifeless, flanked by red and green light housings that sit motionless. She wears a yellow and white jacket draped over her shoulders, but she makes no move to adjust it. She is completely powered down, slumped in a state of deep mechanical hibernation.

Curiosity turns into a more opportunistic thought. The road is empty; there are no cameras, no witnesses, and no patrols. The sheer value of such advanced robotic technology is undeniable. A plan forms to take her.

Pulling the vehicle off to the side, the engine idles roughly. The process of moving her proves to be an unexpected nightmare. Despite her humanoid appearance, she possesses an immense, dense mass. Her metallic frame and heavy internal components make her feel less like a person and more like a solid block of reinforced steel.

Sweat beads on skin as the struggle begins. Grunting with exertion, the effort to lift her massive, wide hipped frame is agonizing. Each attempt to shift her weight sends vibrations through the ground. The curvaceous lines of her body the swell of her chest and the heavy width of her hips make her awkward to grip and carry. One hour passes in a grueling cycle of straining muscles, failed lifts, and repositioning. The silence of the night is broken only by heavy breathing and the occasional metallic clang as her body shifts against the pavement.

Finally, after sixty minutes of punishing labor, she is hauled upward. With one final, desperate heave, she is maneuvered into the back of the trunk. Her heavy body thuds against the metal floorboards with a bone jarring impact, settling into the darkness of the vehicle as the trunk lid is slammed shut.

The garage was quiet, filled only with the rhythmic dripping of oil and the distant hum of city traffic, until the heavy black sedan pulled up to the bay doors. Two men in sharp, dark suits stepped out, their faces devoid of emotion. They didn't say much, merely gesturing for the tow truck behind them to offload the cargo.

With a hydraulic hiss, the platform lowered, revealing the imposing figure of Traffic gal. She was completely powered down, her digital screen dark and lifeless. Her metallic, grayish blue frame caught the dim fluorescent light of the workshop, highlighting the curvaceous build of her robotic body. Her massive hips and chest remained motionless, the hazard stripe straps across her torso static against her frame. Her yellow thigh high stockings and dark boots looked pristine, untouched by the chaos of whatever malfunction had rendered her inert.

The men in black maneuvered her into the center of the workspace with practiced efficiency. One of them turned to face the mechanic, his voice cold and transactional.

"The city needs this unit operational by morning. She's a critical piece of infrastructure," he stated, adjusting his tie. "We'll be back to collect her once the repairs are complete."

He paused, studying the mechanic for a moment before adding a final, cryptic condition. "However, if you determine she's beyond repair if she's truly unfixable the city has authorized a special clause. As compensation for your time and effort, she becomes your property. Consider it a reward for attempting the impossible."

Without waiting for a reply, the men retreated to their vehicle. The sedan roared to life and peeled away from the garage, leaving behind nothing but the smell of burnt rubber and the silent, deactivated robot slumped in the middle of the workshop.

Traffic gal sat there, a towering monument of metal and circuitry. Her head, a round yellow housing, showed no sign of life, and her expressive screen was a void of black glass. The only sound left was the faint clicking of the garage's cooling systems as the mechanic stood alone with the prize or the problem.

The engine hums steadily as the vehicle cruises down the open highway, the road stretching out ahead with nothing but asphalt and horizon. The drive seems routine until the headlights catch something massive blocking the path.

A towering figure sits directly across the asphalt, sprawled out with an imposing presence that dwarfs the vehicle. Traffic gal has taken up residence in the middle of the road, her curvaceous, metallic body spread wide to ensure no passage is possible. Her thick thighs and enormous hips span nearly the entire width of the lane, creating an impassable barrier of grayish blue alloy.

Her face, a round yellow glowing screen, is pulsing with a furious red light. The digital display shows angry, sharp lined eyes and a scowl that radiates her current mood. She looks thoroughly grumpy, sitting there with her arms crossed, making it clear she has no intention of moving.

On one of her massive ass cheeks, a crude but legible warning sign is mounted, reading: ROAD CLOSED FOR TRAFFIC. The caution symbol decal on her lower body glints under the headlights. She stares straight ahead with her glowing red expression, waiting impatiently for whatever driver has dared to approach her barricade, her mechanical frame settled heavily across the road like a living roadblock.

.