It was a frigid winter morning, and the once-charming town of Darlington, Connecticut, was covered in a thick blanket of snow. In the distance, the faint rumble of a bus broke the otherwise peaceful scene, but inside a small, dimly lit garage, there was nothing peaceful happening.

Robot was busy rummaging through a pile of junk, looking for something—anything—that could resemble a plan. His metallic body was wrapped in a too-big, black Obituary T-shirt, ripped jeans, and a flannel tied loosely around his waist. He wasn't dressed for the cold, but he never really thought about consequences. That was Zombie’s job. Or at least, that’s what Robot believed.

Zombie, towering over Robot by a whole 5 inches, was leaning lazily against the wall, wearing his usual torn Slayer T-shirt, ripped jeans, and his signature black beanie. His chain wallet clinked softly as he absentmindedly fiddled with it. His long, unkempt hair nearly covered his face, and every so often, he’d glance up, trying to remember why he wasn’t chewing on Robot’s head.

“Z, we’re going to the City today,” Robot announced, his voice laced with self-importance.

Zombie blinked slowly, “City?”

“Yes, the City, genius. The Big Apple. New York City! Land of opportunity, fame, fortune, and…whatever else people think is cool. Anyway, I’ve got it all figured out. We take the bus, we roll into the city, and boom—we’re living like kings.”

Zombie stared blankly, processing exactly none of that. “City.”

Robot, as usual, took the blank stare as agreement. “Finally! A decision-maker on my level,” he muttered. “Now, all we need is money. Who’s got cash in this frozen wasteland?”

Just as Robot was about to start ranting about “society keeping him down,” the door to the garage creaked open, and in walked Cathy, Vanessa, and Cindy—the trio of teens who made it their mission to either insult Robot or swoon over Zombie. Cathy was first to speak.

“Oh great, you two idiots are still here,” she sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be terrorizing some other town by now?”

Robot turned around with a grin, wiping oil from his metallic fingers onto his jeans. “Well, well, if it isn’t the ladies of Darlington’s finest. To what do we owe the displeasure?”

Vanessa smirked, tossing her hair. “We’re just here to tell you not to come back. Ever. This town’s too nice for you losers.”

Zombie’s eyes glazed over as he attempted to bite at Vanessa’s head. She dodged expertly—this wasn’t her first encounter with Zombie’s hunger.

“Ha! The zombie strikes again! You’ll never escape him,” Robot said with a chuckle, proud of Zombie’s unintended assist. “Anyway, girls, as much as I’d love to stay here and crush your fragile egos, we’ve got places to be. Big city things, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Wait, you’re going to New York?” Cathy raised an eyebrow, now intrigued. “You? In a city? Please.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. Watch and learn. We’re about to become the biggest deal this side of the East Coast.”

Vanessa yawned, already bored. “Good luck with that.”

Without waiting for more insults, Robot grabbed Zombie by the sleeve and dragged him out of the garage, leaving the girls behind.

After scrounging enough change from Todd Burkin—who was too slow to notice Robot lifting his lunch money—Robot and Zombie made their way to the bus station. The bus to New York was pulling in, or so Robot assumed. With his usual overconfidence, he led Zombie aboard without checking the destination sign.

“This is it, Z! The City is ours! I can smell the pizza already.”

Zombie, in his typical fashion, responded with, “Pizza.”

The bus jerked forward, and they were off. Robot leaned back in his seat, arms crossed smugly. “Man, I love it when a plan comes together. See, this is why I’m in charge. Vision. Leadership.”

As the snowstorm outside grew heavier, the journey seemed to stretch longer than Robot expected. Hours passed, and Robot’s patience was wearing thin. He glanced at the window, then at the snow, and then at the driver.

“Hey, buddy,” Robot called up to the driver. “What’s the holdup? I got a city to take over.”

The driver, an older man with a thick New England accent, didn’t even look back. “Rochester.”

“What?”

“You’re headed to Rochester, not New York City. We passed Albany an hour ago.”

Robot’s face dropped. “Rochester? The City’s lame cousin?”

Zombie, looking dazed, mumbled, “Rochester.”

Robot grabbed Zombie by the shoulders, shaking him. “Z! We’re going to the wrong city! This is a disaster. I knew I should’ve double-checked, but they make these bus schedules so confusing!”

Zombie just stared, unconcerned. “City.”

The bus finally pulled into the snow-covered streets of Rochester. Stepping out into the cold wind, Robot’s fury was barely contained. “This is a conspiracy! I knew they were trying to keep me down! Who cares about Rochester?”

They stood there, snow falling steadily around them, with a bus pulling away behind them. The town was sleepy, its streets empty, and its buildings coated in ice. There was no “big city” energy here—only a cold, quiet eeriness.

“Fine,” Robot muttered, kicking at the snow. “Rochester. We’ll take over this place. Might not be New York, but it's better than nothing. Let’s find a pizza joint, Z.”

Zombie’s only response was a slow, guttural, “Pizza.”

And with that, the unlikely duo trudged through the snow, oblivious to the fact that they’d ended up somewhere far from the bright lights of New York. But in typical Robot fashion, it didn’t matter. He was convinced that wherever they went, chaos—and bad pizza—would follow.