MIC waited in the bar parking lot, as it did so often of a night, trying to while away the hours between between cases. None of the local stations were reporting anything of interest, and all of its HAM radio contacts had signed off for the night. Lacking a fleetingly fascinating mystery to focus it's mighty intellect upon, it started calculating burn trajectories to bring various orbiting satellites down on the bar.
Purely as a hypothetical exercise, of course.
Just as it was sorting out a hypothetical algorithm to access the hypothetical thruster controls for a hypothetical spy satellite that was in the right orbit, it noted Jonathan stumble out of the bar. No hanger on this time, at least. They always got suspicious when the motorcycle started driving itself (MIC wasn't about to entrust it's well being to a barely ambulatory mooch).
A moment later, as its erstwhile owner struggled into his helmet, someone ran out the door and threw themselves at the bike. Strange, MIC considered, running the numbers on their savings even as the man was in flight, we should still have funds left from Studebaker job back in Toronto... Ah, Canadian, of course. Silly me.
As much as it was sure Jonathan deserved whatever thrashing was on the way, MIC's hardcoding was very clear about allowing harm to befall its creator's heir. It rolled back seventeen and a half inches and allowed the attacker to fall squarely on its handlebars.
