Work Text:
Early morning in Pendleton wakes slowly, the way it always has. The first sunlight spills over the hills, warming the packed earth of the rodeo grounds and pulling the smell of dry dirt and old hay into the air. The wind carries faint sounds across the hills: snorts, hooves scraping wood, the restless shifting of prongers waiting for the day to begin, and the intermittent huffing of brahmin milling around.
At this hour, the grounds themselves are quiet. Not empty, but quiet in the way places get when only the people who truly belong there have arrived. A few cowhands move around the ring, setting rails, checking gates, brushing dust from the bleachers. Their movements are slow and practiced, the easy rhythm of people who have been doing this since they were kids themselves.
Andy stands just behind the gate, fingers curled around the latch.
Behind her, the machine waits.
It’s big. About the size a horse should be—or so she gathers from the pre-war evidence around town. The frame is solid and heavy, a skeleton of reinforced steel plates and interconnected wires. Pistons sit where muscle should be, cables braided tight where tendons would run, hydraulics where joints sit exposed. In places, the metal is still raw. Other sections are brushed unevenly with coats of chipped yellow and tainted white.
Nothing about it is meant to hide what it is, but there’s certainly no mistaking the intent. The shape is unmistakably equine, though obviously simplified to mimic the structure of a children’s toy: the eyes large and glassy, the rounded head, the sculpted tail sweeping down in a smooth, plastic curve. Everything about it carries a familiar, friendly quality.
Andy had thought about actually making it look real once. Giving it texture, details, refinement. Something closer to the actual animal in the pictures. She ultimately decided against it, though. Kids trust things they already recognize. Something familiar is easier to approach than something unknown. This was supposed to be a bridge between the two worlds: the safe, simple shape of a toy and the unpredictable reality of riding a living animal.
Someone nearby laughs, loud and easy, and it startles her out of her ruminating thoughts. She takes a deep breath steadying herself.
This is fine. This is good. They’ll see it. They’ll understand.
She pushes the gate open and steps into the ring.
The metal hooves press shallow impressions into the dirt as she guides it to the center of the ring. The joints whir quietly when it adjusts its balance. Not loud, just the faint, mechanical hum of servos recalibrating balance with every step.
Andy wipes her hands on her pants and glances towards the holding area.
Three of the regular cowhands have already started wandering over. The early ones. The ones that arrive before the sun is fully up, coffee in one hand, hat already settled on their head. Rodeo work. Ranch work. Prongers and brahmin and broken fences and long mornings. It’s simply the shape their lives have always taken. She knows them well.
One of them stops a few paces away and lifts his chin toward the machine.
“Hey, Andy. What’s that supposed to be?”
She doesn’t have a speech planned. Of course, she never really does. She steps forwards anyways.
“It’s– uh. It’s a practice horse!” Her hands twitch toward the machine as if pointing at it will somehow organize her thoughts.
“It’s for beginners. Kids, mostly,” she explains. “Something they can kinda… learn the ropes on before they try riding a pronger.”
She pauses, considering her words.
“Not that you guys don’t try to teach them already,” she adds. “You obviously do. It’s just that sometimes… well… it doesn’t really work.”
The two younger cowhands exchange a glance. Andy keeps going, unaware that anything she said might have landed strangely.
“A lot of kids end up getting thrown before they even understand what they did wrong,” she explains. “So I thought if they practiced on something more predictable first, they might actually have a bit more luck!”
Her hands move as she talks, sketching awkward shapes in the air.
“I’ve noticed most of them get scared before they even start. Which makes sense, because prongers are… well, they’re kind of dangerous if someone doesn’t know what they’re doing yet. When someone new climbs on, it usually ends with them getting thrown, or kicked, or dragged, or… well, hurt.”
She grimaces. Her own initial inexperience resulted in the scar slashing through her eyebrow.
“Nobody’s perfect, of course,” Andy continues. “People are going to get hurt regardless. I mean, I see even you guys struggle with them sometimes.”
The cowhands blink.
Andy smiles in what she clearly intends as reassurance.
“Prongers are great animals,” she says. “It just takes a lot of skill to get the hang of them. Most people don’t have that yet.”
She gives a small, awkward laugh and rests a hand against the machine’s shoulder for support, looking over the design as she talks.
“This just… helps the process along. People can learn the basic mechanics first—how to sit right, how to move with the motion, how to hold on, how to control the gait… Those kinds of things.”
Then she brightens slightly and returns her attention to the others.
“You guys are welcome to try it too, if you want,” she offers. “It might help refine your technique!”
She shifts her hand up to pat the machine’s neck. The black rubber is already warm from the intensity of the rising sun.
“But I figured the Giddyup Buttercup design makes it less intimidating for the kids,” she adds, a little sheepish. “They’re already familiar with it. Kids trust things they recognize.”
The silence that follows is just long enough to feel noticeable, but Andy doesn’t seem to realize.
Then, the older man lets out a short, surprised laugh. The other two look visibly more at ease with his reaction.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs. “That’s a clever bit of work.”
Andy stands a little bit taller.
He steps closer, hat tipped back, eyes narrowing—not at her, but at the machine. He circles it slowly, reaches out, and taps a knuckle against the metal flank. The sound rings sharp and hollow. The younger man follows, crouching to look at the joints.
“How’s it move?” the second asks.
Andy brightens instantly. “Oh! I haven’t programmed the riding patterns yet,” she admits, stepping away to let them inspect it. “Prongers are unique in that they’re a lot more agile than my data on horses, so the motion algorithms are still in major development.”
She gestures to the legs of the machine.
“The balance system works, though! It can already adjust weight distribution and stabilize a rider. It’ll be able to simulate different gaits once the code’s in place. Walk, trot, gallop…”
Her enthusiasm begins to pick up steam.
“I can definitely simulate bucking too for controlled practice if I tweak the center-of-mass algorithm and limit the torque so it doesn’t throw someone too hard and–”
“It’s impressive,” the second man cuts in, straightening and rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.
Andy nods quickly, smiling. “Thank you! I just thought if kids could practice on something like this first, they’d have more confidence than with just the advice you give them on the ground. Plus, the prongers wouldn’t have to deal with beginners pulling the reins wrong or digging their feet in too hard or steering them straight into–”
“Kid.”
The older man’s tone isn’t sharp, but it stops her immediately. Andy goes quiet mid-gesture, one hand still half-raised as if she forgot what it was doing there. Slowly, she lowers it. Her shoulders settle, and she looks at the older man again.
He shifts his weight, boots grinding softly in the dirt. His gaze moves over the machine again—up the metal legs, across the plated ribs, following the rounded plastic mane—before settling back on her.
“You put a lot of work into this,” he says. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. If anything, it’s thoughtful. Respectful. “No question about that.”
The other cowhands nod quietly beside him.
“But that ain’t really what the rodeo’s about.”
Andy blinks.
“Well it’s not for competition or practical use, of course,” she says quickly, assuming he’s misunderstood. “It’s just for learning.”
The woman scuffs the toe of her boot through the dirt, carving a shallow line across the packed arena floor.
“Thing is, Andy,” she says, crossing her arms, “learning’s a part of the process.
Andy turns toward her, hope flickering. She just gestures vaguely toward the stables.
“You don’t just learn how to sit in the saddle,” she says. “You learn how to work with the animal under you.” She shifts her hand as if holding imaginary reins. ”You learn how to read them. Learn what it means when their ears go back, or when they start shifting their weight. How to feel when they’re about to bolt before they even move. How to calm ’em down when they get nervous.”
“It’s about working with something alive,” her eyes dart between Andy and the machine. “Something that can spook, or fight you, or trust you if you earn it.”
She shrugs, almost apologetic.
“A machine can’t do that.”
The second man chimes in. “Feels like a shortcut, y’know?”
Andy’s mouth opens and closes. She doesn’t know what to say.
“I mean,” the woman continues, “part of the lesson is that they can throw you. You said it yourself: they throw experienced adults like us occasionally too. Kids just have to learn that respect early. Animals aren’t machines.”
The words land heavier than they’re meant to.
Andy stares at the horse’s head for a moment, following the familiar curve she’d shaped so carefully, the gentle slope of the molded mane, the oversized toy-like proportions she thought would make kids less afraid. She tucks her shaking hands behind her back, fingers digging into her palms.
“I wasn’t trying to replace them,” she says, quieter but still insisting. “I just… wanted to help. To make the first step easier. More accessible.”
The cowhands exchange another look.
It isn’t mocking. It isn’t even annoyed.
Just understanding in a way that makes Andy feel like the odd piece in a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit anywhere.
“That’s kind of the problem, Andy,” the eldest says gently.
Andy looks at him.
“Rodeo isn’t supposed to be easy,” he explains. “You start making shortcuts, pretty soon folks forget what the hard part’s for.”
“It really is a clever machine,” the woman echos. “But it’s just not the real thing.”
The ring goes quiet.
Somewhere out in the pens a pronger snorts and kicks at a fence rail, the hollow thunk carrying faintly across the dusty arena. The morning sun has climbed a little higher now, throwing long shadows across the ground.
The older cowhand sighs and rubs the back of his neck like he wishes the conversation had taken a different turn.
“Look. It is impressive. Real impressive. You did good work.”
Andy clings to that. Did good work.
“But…” he continues gently, “this just isn’t what we’re here for.”
The others murmur their agreement, heads nodding. No one looks at her like she’s stupid. No one mocks her.
They just… decide.
Andy nods slowly, like she understands.
“Right,” she says.
Her voice sounds steady enough, normal to her own ears.
“Yeah. That makes sense.” She laughs, a small, thin sound that doesn’t belong to her. “I didn’t finish it anyway. I just… just thought I’d ask!”
She reaches for the machine’s lead and begins guiding it back toward the gate. The metal hooves follow her out, their thuds suddenly too loud, echoing in a ring that has already moved on. Conversations start up again behind her, the rodeo’s rhythm resuming as if nothing unusual happened at all.
Nobody stops her. Nobody asks her to wait. Nobody calls for a second look.
Andy pushes open the gate and guides the machine through. The hinges creak softly as it swings closed behind them.
For a moment she stands there in the dusty path outside the ring, one hand still resting on the machine’s side. Completely still. Then, without a sound, she resumes the path to her house. The machine walks beside her, joints humming quietly with every step.
She doesn’t look back.
She doesn’t finish the horse.