Slam

Self driving. 400 words, 2 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

They called it the safest intersection in town – until the morning metal screamed against metal, and silicon logic met human nature.

Sarah Wu sat back in her Waymo's plush leather seat, her fingers absently tapping against her tablet's screen. The car's gentle deceleration at the yellow light mirrored her own mellowing attitude toward rushing through life. Three years ago, she would have gunned it, but now she let the car take the reins.

One lane over, Marcus Chen's Tesla floored it, its polished blue panels reflecting the morning sun. He zoomed through the intersection as the light turned from yellow to red, just making it in time. Marcus barely looked up from his phone, his trust in the machine absolute.

Sarah shook her head. Typical Tesla autopilot behavior, she thought to herself.

Jerry Thompson's Silverado approached from the cross street, its weathered silver paint catching the light. The truck drifted slightly, its wheels crossing the fading center line. Jerry's calloused thumbs moved across his phone screen with the careful concentration of someone who'd learned typing late in life. The traffic light above him burned red – unnoticed, unheeded.

The impact came with a cacophony of breaking glass and buckling steel. Jerry's truck caught the Tesla's front quarter panel, sending both vehicles into an ungraceful dance of momentum and mass. The Tesla's emergency protocols engaged, optimizing the crash trajectory to protect its occupant. The truck, subject only to physics, spun wildly before shuddering to a stop.

Jerry exploded out of his cab, his face flushed and his phone still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. "What the hell kind of programming you got in that thing?" His voice cracked with the strain of suppressed panic. "These computers – they're not natural! Not right!"

Sarah's Waymo had stopped at a precise distance from the chaos, its sensors quietly documenting the scene. She stepped out, her heels clicking against the asphalt. The morning air carried the acrid scent of burnt rubber and hot metal.

Marcus emerged from his Tesla, his movements careful, deliberate. His eyes flicked between his phone and the crumpled hood of his car. "The footage is already uploaded," he said, his voice steady but tight. "Every sensor, every calculation."

Jerry's rage faltered. His gaze darted between the cameras above, the mangled vehicles, and his phone – still displaying the half-finished comment he'd been typing. Sheepishly, he sat down on a nearby sidewalk.

“Maybe,” Marcus offered, “you should get a self driving car next time?”

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