Passivity and Action

(Scene: Late afternoon. Wind is soft but smells like overheated wires. Nettle and Tarrow are perched on the rooftop of a sun-faded parking structure, surrounded by rusted lawn chairs and someone’s long-dead attempt at rooftop tomatoes. Below, a solar bot with a flickering eye stalks the streets—clearly broken, maybe homicidal, definitely not delivering mail. Nettle has just come back from the ground.)

Nettle (kicking a folding chair over as she walks):

Well. That was emotionally enriching. I just wasted twenty minutes trying to convince a crowd of strangers that standing perfectly still while a solar death roomba scans for movement is not the best way to keep their internal organs internal.

Tarrow (without turning):

And how’d that go?

Nettle (plopping down):

Oh, great. I was called “hysterical,” “not certified,” and—my favorite—“possibly trying to sell something.” One guy asked if I was part of a new wellness cult.

Tarrow:

Well, your shirt does say “Scream Therapy.”

Nettle:

I wrote that on with charcoal.

Tarrow:

Exactly.

Nettle tosses a pebble off the edge. They both watch it bounce harmlessly off the top of a stalled delivery truck. Below, the crowd hasn’t moved. The bot twitches and lets out a soft, ominous ping.

Tarrow:

Still standing there.

Nettle:

Yup.

Tarrow:

That one woman’s holding a yoga pose. Like she thinks death won’t strike during downward dog.

Nettle:

I told her it wasn’t a predator. It doesn’t care about eye contact. Or inner peace.

Tarrow (dry):

Maybe it’s a very judgmental machine.

Nettle:

It turned that guy named Brent into a meat puddle for smiling at it.

A bright flash. Another person vanishes in a half-second burst of vapor and regret. The crowd shifts slightly, then… settles again.

Tarrow (sips from her cup):

That was Kyle. He said he was “vibing with the bot’s energy” earlier.

Nettle:

Now he’s vibing with the pavement. Bold spiritual pivot.

Tarrow (after a pause):

Why do they just… stay?

Nettle (serious now, but still sardonic):

Because moving feels like a bigger betrayal than dying. If they stand there and it works out, they were right. If they run and something still goes wrong, they think they caused it.

Tarrow:

So… it’s emotional physics?

Nettle:

It’s moral physics. Passivity is safer because it lets you blame entropy. You die, but at least you didn’t make a scene.

Tarrow:

Wouldn’t be the first time self-preservation lost to manners.

A man below tries to climb onto a trash bin to reach a nearby balcony. The bin tips. He falls. Loud crunch. The crowd gasps. Then returns to stillness, like someone just dropped a fork at a dinner party.

Tarrow:

And there’s what happens when you do act—with the confidence of a wet sock.

Nettle:

Yeah, that’s another problem. The people who do take action usually launch straight into it like a bad improv scene. No plan, no grip strength, just vibes and velocity.

Tarrow:

And gravity.

Nettle (smirking):

The one force you can always count on to commit.

A kid bolts out from the group below, clearly panicking, and dives under a parked sedan. The bot pauses. Zaps the car. The kid lives. Screams. Runs again. Trips. The bot keeps moving, seemingly confused.

Tarrow:

Now that… was action. Stupid, loud, messy action. But alive.

Nettle:

See? The universe rewards motion—sometimes by skipping you out of pure confusion.

Tarrow:

So is that the answer? Be just chaotic enough to break the algorithm?

Nettle:

Honestly? Maybe. Think about it—systems, machines, even people—they don’t usually respond to passivity because it’s invisible. But chaos? That gets logged.

A woman below raises her phone like a shield. The bot reacts immediately. Zap. Phone, woman, and existential denial go up in smoke.

Tarrow:

Okay, maybe not all chaos.

Nettle:

Yeah, no, the bot’s definitely anti-selfie. Add that to the pamphlet.

Tarrow (quietly):

You know, we used to think thoughtfulness was enough. That if you understood something, that counted.

Nettle:

It doesn’t. It never has. Understanding without motion is just… contemplative extinction.

Tarrow (looking over at her):

You’re in a mood.

Nettle:

I spent fifteen minutes today yelling “Go up!” at a man wearing Crocs and a lanyard while he told me he was “processing.”

Tarrow:

And now he’s paste.

Nettle:

No. He’s a moral anecdote.

Tarrow (nods):

A crunchy one.

A rooftop across the street catches their attention. A man has just made it up. Shirtless. Panting. Eyes wide with victory.

Nettle (standing):

Hey! Hey hey hey! Look at that! A new champion enters the ring!

Tarrow (tilting her head):

Is he… flexing?

Nettle:

Oh yeah. Full gladiator pose. That’s either victory or dehydration.

The man waves. They both wave back. He beams, does a tiny celebratory hop—then his foot slips on the slanted edge. Time slows. His arms pinwheel. Then he vanishes.

Tarrow (blinking):

And exit stage left.

Nettle:

Truly… a performance arc. Opened strong. Died like a blooper reel.

Tarrow:

What do we even call that?

Nettle:

Premature satisfaction. It kills more than heart disease.

Tarrow:

He survived the chaos, but couldn’t handle the applause.

A pause. Wind picks up. Something distant collapses. Neither moves.

Tarrow (eventually):

So what’s the conclusion? Action or inaction?

Nettle (frowning, thinking):

I think… passivity preserves the illusion of control. Like, if you do nothing, at least you didn’t make it worse. But action—action makes you complicit in the outcome, good or bad.

Tarrow:

So action takes more courage.

Nettle:

And more ego. And maybe more delusion.

Tarrow:

And yet… more people down there are dead for doing nothing than for doing the wrong thing.

Nettle:

Right. The ones who tried and died—at least they spooked the bot or got a scream out. The ones who just stood there? They became statistics with neat posture.

Tarrow (quietly):

So maybe the trick… is moving like you mean it. Not just moving.

Nettle:

Move with intent. Or at least with better footwear.

Tarrow:

And a lower center of gravity.

Nettle:

I’m writing a book. “How Not to Die: A Rooftop Guide to Looking Slightly Smarter Than Everyone Who Didn’t Climb.”

Tarrow:

Subtitle: “Panic Early, Regret Later.”

Nettle:

I love it. Let’s get that on a tarp and throw it over the next rooftop.

Tarrow (stretching):

Think it’ll make a difference?

Nettle (watching the sloped rooftop where their accidental champion fell):

Nope. But at least we’ll die slightly better dressed than the guy who tried to out-swagger a roof.

A pause. Then: a hush. The bot below stops mid-hum. Its flickering lens blinks once… and fades out. A faint click of deactivation. Across the street, shadows stretch long and soft—clouds rolling thick over the sun like someone finally remembered the blinds.

Tarrow (squinting):

Is it… done?

Nettle:

Hang on.

A shape unfolds from behind a rusted-out van—a lone figure rising to full height with a chipped tin mug in hand, calm as a Sunday and twice as smug. He takes a slow sip, gives the lifeless bot a casual half-toast, and then strolls past it—easy gait, zero hurry—tossing it a jaunty two-finger salute on the way by.

Tarrow:

…Was he there the whole time?

Nettle:

Apparently. Just parked behind a van, sipping… what is that? Tea?

Tarrow:

Might be coffee.

Nettle:

Either way—bold beverage choice during mass deletion.

Tarrow (watching him in awe):

He didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Just waited.

Nettle:

Did nothing, watched the world microwave itself, and now he’s exiting stage right. Like an indie lead with too much acoustic guitar.

Tarrow:

I want to be annoyed, but the conviction is… tidy.

Nettle:

Genius, prophet, or a man who emotionally retired in 2039 and never came back.

Tarrow:

Or he just knew—eventually the light would fail. Wait long enough and survival arrives by default.

Nettle:

So passivity wins.

Tarrow:

…Maybe once. In a thousand deaths. If you’re hydrated.

The man keeps walking. He steps neatly over the not-so-lucky, pauses only to nudge an empty can out of his path with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never met consequences. The can skitters, rattles, and performs a tragic little drum solo against a curb… just as the clouds thin. A single spear of sunlight drops into the street like a tattletale spotlight. The bot chirps awake, plays a tinny three-note startup jingle, swivels toward the noise, and its lens dilates with cheerful malice.

Nettle (winces):

Oh, he’s about to get customer-serviced.

Ping—lock. Fwip—beam. For one bright instant he becomes a very confident plume; the tin mug drops quickly, lands upright, and continues steaming like it has survivor’s guilt. The bot spins in place, embarrassed to be the murder weapon.

Tarrow:

And… there he goes. (Sigh.)

Nettle:

Saluted himself straight into limited edition.

Tarrow:

So much for quiet confidence.

Nettle (snifs):

He almost pulled it off. He almost made waiting look like wisdom.

Tarrow:

He did nothing the entire time… until the final second, when he did just enough to die anyway.

Nettle:

That’s not passivity. That’s procrastination with flair.

Tarrow (soft laugh):

Poetic, really—the one man who dodged every wrong choice and still scheduled his exit between a sunbeam and a tin mug.

Nettle:

He didn’t panic. He didn’t scream. He just sipped… saluted… and turned into a footnote… with steam.

Tarrow:

I suppose the lesson is: you can outwait disaster—as long as you don’t celebrate it.

Nettle:

And don’t kick things.

Tarrow:

Or assume the universe likes your aesthetic.

Nettle (raising her cup):

To the fallen. May we choose better—and spill less on the way out.

Tarrow (raising her cup with a smirk):

Not a drop waisted.