When Chen Hao handed the lunchbox to Nana, she didn't take it. Her fingers had just lifted from the terminal when the metal joints made a slight clicking sound.
"Want another bite?" he asked again.
Susan laughed. "You really expect her to take a second sip?"
“She already noted down the taste data.” Chen Hao sat back in his chair, placing the lunchbox on the table. “That means it’s at least not bad.”
Carl stretched. "The robot can even rate soup. Is writing poetry next?"
Nana calmly said, "I can call up poetry templates in the database to generate works that conform to the rhyming rules."
"Listen to this," Chen Hao slammed his hand on the table, "Our base's first poet is actually a robot."
The room fell silent for a moment, then burst into laughter again. But this time the laughter subsided quickly, as if something had held it back.
The projection was still spinning, the title of the archived scientific achievements floating in mid-air, a gray-blue light shining on the wall. Chen Hao stared at the words for a few seconds, then suddenly said, "We've written down how to survive, so what's next?"
No one answered.
He picked up the old lunchbox, its edges scratched and a few dried food crumbs clinging to the bottom. "This thing has been with me for three years. Back then, it would splatter as soon as the pot got hot, leaving the rice half burnt and half raw. Now it's much better; the pot doesn't splatter anymore, the electricity keeps running, and the floor can be turned over neatly."
He paused, "But during meals, everyone just ate in silence. No one spoke. The machine kept track of how many watts of electricity were used for each meal, but nobody remembered who told a joke."
Susan frowned. "Are you trying to get into the arts?"
“I don’t want to sing and dance,” Chen Hao waved his hand. “I feel that just being alive isn’t enough. It has to make people feel that life is meaningful.”
Carl leaned back in his chair. "You want to throw a festival?"
“Yes.” Chen Hao nodded. “We’ve just streamlined the technology department, so could we do something else? Like… a cultural festival?”
The air suddenly felt a little lighter, then a little heavier.
Susan immediately shook her head, "With so few people around, what kind of cultural festival are we going to hold? We don't even have enough manpower to farm."
“It’s not something we do every day,” Chen Hao explained. “It’s only once a year, just for a few days. It’s a chance for everyone to relax, look at paintings, listen to music, and play games. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
"How are resources calculated?" Carl asked. "Land, materials, and manpower—all of them have to be drawn from production."
“No,” Chen Hao said. “We’ll use scraps for decorations and rehearse programs during our free time. The lighting will run on the backup line, so it won’t affect the main grid. I’ve calculated it; it will account for at most 0.3% of the total daily energy consumption.”
Susan didn't believe it. "You even calculated the energy consumption?"
"I didn't calculate it," Chen Hao said honestly, "but I had Nana calculate it."
All eyes turned to Nana.
She sat there, her eyes slightly bright, clearly having just retrieved the data. "Based on existing energy reserves and equipment load, a three-day cultural event can be held without disruption during off-peak hours. Lighting, sound, and projection systems can all be independently powered by the solar array."
Carl whistled. "You actually prepared something."
“I was just responding to a question,” Nana said, “and I discovered that more than 90% of festivals in human history were held with energy consumption below the daily average.”
Susan was stunned. "Wait, you even know this?"
“I know the festival patterns of 237 civilizations,” Nana said, “including agricultural festivals, mechanical carnivals, data awakening days, silent meditation weeks… as well as ‘Spring Festival’, ‘Christmas’, and ‘Water Splashing Festival’ that are common in Earth’s time.”
Chen Hao grinned, "Look, even the knowledge base supports me."
“I’m not against celebrations,” Susan said. “I’m just worried you’ll go too far and it’ll become a burden. It’s happened before. Last time, the buttercream machine broke down for three days for a birthday cake.”
“That was an accident,” Carl laughed. “Who would have thought the cream pump would get stuck?”
"So I suggest simplifying the process," Chen Hao said. "On the first day, we'll exhibit what we've made—the process of turning a broken pot into a new one, a roadmap for farmland automation, and records of communication network upgrades. On the second day, we'll have free time for ourselves—sing, draw, whatever we want. On the third day, we'll have a small competition to see who can repair tools the fastest and who can plant vegetables the most neatly. The winner will receive a towel."
"The prizes are pretty shabby," Carl complained.
"The towels are also newly made," Chen Hao said earnestly. "They absorb water well and don't pill."
Susan couldn't help but laugh. "You're just going to use a towel as a trophy?"
“The point isn’t the prizes,” Chen Hao said. “It’s about letting everyone know that we’re not just doing the work. We’re creating things. And those things deserve to be seen.”
The room was quiet for a while.
Nana suddenly spoke up: "Human beings' need for rituals belongs to the basic emotional motivation mechanism in psychological models. A long-term lack of positive feedback environment will lead to a 23% increase in the rate of motivation decay."
“Look,” Chen Hao pointed at her, “even the machine says we need some excitement.”
Susan sighed. "If it's just a small-scale trial, I won't stop you. But don't drag everyone in. If someone doesn't want to participate, they should be allowed to stay quietly."
“Of course.” Chen Hao nodded. “It’s voluntary to sign up, and you can withdraw at will. Nobody’s forcing you.”
Carl stroked his chin. "Should we include prizes for the games? Besides towels, we could add a pair of socks."
"You're really taking this seriously," Chen Hao said with a smile.
“I’m just curious,” Carl shrugged. “What if someone wins ten games? Will they get a blanket?”
Nana said, "We could establish a points system with a cap on rewards. For example, the top ten scorers could be awarded the title of 'Base Star' and given priority access to public facilities."
"The title sounds like a primary school student's evaluation board," Susan laughed.
“But it works,” Nana said. “Data shows that virtual honors sometimes have a greater effect on boosting group motivation than physical rewards.”
Chen Hao slapped his thigh. "Then it's settled. The cultural festival will be a three-day trial. How about calling it... 'Live Like a Human Day'?"
"That's too depressing," Susan immediately objected.
“It’s better than ‘Survival Day’,” Carl said.
“Let’s call it ‘Reboot Festival,’” Nana suggested. “It symbolizes the new cycle after the system resumes operation.”
Chen Hao thought for a moment, "Okay, let's call it the Restart Festival. The first one will last three days, and we can extend it later depending on the situation."
After he finished speaking, he looked at the three people and said, "Raise your hand if you agree."
Susan hesitated for a moment, then raised her hand. Carl followed suit. Nana's hand, which was already on the table, gently raised two fingers, as if simulating a vote.
"Everyone approves." Chen Hao smiled. "The first Restart Festival is officially approved."
He stood up, walked to the projector, and reached out to close the "Milestone Technology Summary" page. The screen flickered and replaced with a blank document.
"There's a lot to do next," he said. "We need to organize the exhibition content, plan the event schedule, and find people to be in charge of each project."
“I can help plan the timeline,” Nana said, “and draw on historical festival examples for reference.”
"Check it out now," Chen Hao said. "See how others start. Should we set off fireworks?"
“Early civilizations often used fire rituals to symbolize hope,” Nana said. “Modern alternatives include light shows, drone swarms, and holographic animations.”
“We don’t have any drones,” Chen Hao sighed, “but we can hang string lights. The workshop also has twenty meters of ribbon left over from packaging parts last time.”
Carl said, "I have a broken monitor that I can take apart and use as a makeshift stage backdrop."
"What about Susan?" Chen Hao turned his head. "Would you be willing to take charge of the exhibition area? To create a tour route showcasing the changes we've seen over the past few years?"
Susan hesitated, "I don't know how to design."
“It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Chen Hao said. “Just lay out the things and add a few words. For example, label this picture ‘the old pot,’ and that one ‘the current pot.’ Write a line underneath: ‘It didn’t explode because we didn’t give up.’”
Susan laughed, "Your copywriting is terrible."
“But it’s real,” Chen Hao said. “We don’t need fancy words. What we need is for people to stop and look around when they walk this route, and think: Oh, so this is where we are.”
The air went still for a moment.
Nana's finger twitched, the terminal lit up again, and a line of text popped up in the search box: "History of Human Festival Culture".
Susan said softly, "At least we could hold an art exhibition. Someone has been drawing in a notebook. I don't know who it is, but I've seen a few pieces, and they're quite nice."
Carl said, "The game segment needs to be divided into groups, otherwise if one person wins all the prizes, it won't be fun for anyone."
Just as Chen Hao was about to speak, he suddenly heard a soft sound from above.
It was the sound of the projector's cooling fan; it spun around a few times and then stopped.
He looked up, then looked down again. "It's alright, as long as the power supply is stable."
Nana has checked the equipment status: "Cooling system is normal, no abnormal load. It may be due to fan aging; I suggest replacing it next week."
"Add it to the maintenance list," Chen Hao said. "Ignore it for now."
He turned back, his face still flushed with excitement. "The stage will be set up in the open space outside the living area, the exhibition will be placed in the conference room, and half of the game area will be used as a training ground. We'll use that old loudspeaker from the repair shop for the sound system. I tested it yesterday, and it still works."
Susan looked at him. "Have you thought everything through?"
"Almost there," Chen Hao laughed. "There's just one thing missing."
"What's up?"
Who will speak at the opening ceremony?
Carl immediately shrank back, "Don't look at me."
"Nana?" Chen Hao asked.
Nana looked up and said, "I can recite the pre-recorded speech."
"Don't recite a memorized text." Chen Hao shook his head. "What I want is... a single sentence that will make everyone feel that tomorrow is worth living."
Susan said softly, "Perhaps it shouldn't be said by one person alone."
"Then what should we do?"
“Everyone says one sentence,” she said. “For example, you talk about technology, I talk about agriculture, Carl talks about tools, and Nana talks about data. In the end, all of that together is our reboot.”
Chen Hao was stunned, then slowly smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it that way.”
He reached out and picked up the lunchbox, gently placing it in the center of the table.
"Preparations for the first Restart Festival begin from this moment."
Nana scrolled down on her terminal page and a new category appeared: Festival Planning Drafts, Event Timelines, and Material List Templates.
Her finger hovered over the confirm button, but she didn't press it.
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