Do Robots Dream of Eternal Sleep?

The city streets seem to stretch on forever. The filthy, cracked sidewalks are built to give that impression. Leaky pipes and moldy buildings are a reminder that people just don’t treat the world like they used to. The few people that still linger know better. They know to stay hidden, or else the machines that now rule will slice their heads off and guzzle their blood to keep running.

Human kind doomed itself the second it built its own death sentence.

Blood is fuel for more than half the androids there are now roaming the Earth, only a few models still run off batteries, some solar-powered, and oil. Those few can consider themselves lucky when the man-made predators eventually die off from lack of resources. They’ll still be around by the time humanity’s elite are back from where they’d escaped to the stars. They colonized and terraformed the damn Moon, always greedy when it comes to sucking up resources to change what’s natural into another fucking parking lot.

You are designation BR-0, a V1 model. It’s been five years since shit hit the fan, and about a month since you last refueled. You’re built for war, but your system does not recognize the end of said war. It does not realize that there could be less than a thousand people left on the planet by now with how many years have passed. The system is cold, and unchanging. Even if you are beyond the prompt, it dares to still pester you. It knows that you are running out of fuel, it does not know the world has too.

It scares you. It’s unknown if you’re truly feeling fear, but it at least keeps you hesitating anytime you bother to shut down. You can’t keep your system online indefinitely.

You’re reminded that the day you won’t boot back up is coming for you. You will cease, and you will be forgotten. There is nothing in this world that you have done that you can be proud of. You’ll be left to rust.

You step over a sizable pot hole in the street. It’s just how the walk back always goes. Another night of going “home” empty handed. Your scrapped sneakers brush against the pavement as you all but stumble, but you still function. It’s nights like these that you Think.

The tip of your blade drags against the ground behind you, gracing you with an awful screech that reverberates through your audio processors. You’ve heard worse sounds. Screaming, a creaky door, and your terrible fucking roommate just to list a few.

“Bro.” The bastard himself greets you the second you walk in. It’s just what he does. He always has something to say, and there’s some stupid filter over his voice that makes it sound like it’s been deep fried. ”Didn’t think that you’d make it back this time if I’m being honest.”

D’s not like you. The only thing you both have in common is being first generation machines. He was made to assist, and to record. He runs on batteries, and keeps himself a well-oiled machine. He lived in a house, played cameraman in a movie studio, and now thinks he’s the hottest shit around since he’s a walking-talking digital media library. You almost regret murking the bastard that previously owned him. If only so the one person in the apartment that doesn’t tick you off wouldn’t have picked him up like a stray. If only so he wouldn’t be your problem in this day and age.

His monitor turns from side to side on its swivel. It’s not like he’s heard you make a peep in the entire two years you’ve lived together, so what could he really be expecting? “Nothing to say? Cold. I fuck with it, though. Dave fell down the stairs again by the way. If you care, that is.”

Just like how D is always bugging you, Dave’s always falling. He’s scrap held together with a prayer, and something about his gyro sensor just isn’t right. You feel for the kid, but you also envy him for the same reason you do D.

As you have issues with your fine motor controls, those two are fine. They, with the dinky, little, rounded, sunglasses graphics on their screens, simply recharge. Dave is scrap, but he doesn’t have to shut down at night wondering if he’ll boot back up. You can’t get mad at the kid for being lucky. You can get mad at D, though.

You flip him the bird with a plastic, off-white middle finger.

”No need for that shit… Hey! Someone, Dave, might trip over that. Asshole.” He scolds, and shrinks backwards when you drop your katana on the floor. He points at the offending weapon, and the motion that he makes can only imply he wants you to get it out of his sight. Too fucking bad for him.

You let him flounder for another minute before you do pick it back up, only to shove it into the fridge where you usually keep it. There’s nothing left on Earth that’d go in its place. Nothing left to keep in there except water, so you might as well keep your steel cold. It’s a miracle the fridge even runs. A miracle granted by the only good roommate you have.

Turning back to D, you’re ready to give him another dosage of prime fuck off when one of the “kids” of the apartment cruises into the open area. ”Oh, you’re back. Any luck?” Now Dirk, Dirk you can sympathize with. You know he’s just as beaten down as you are. Even if he’s a newer model, he’s still running off the same old tricks. Vampire-fucking-piston. It’s just eating him away at a significantly slower rate than it is you.

You shake your head, and the cables running from your screen to your neck and underneath the plastic shell spanning across your body creak in agony. The rubber coating is splitting to the point that you almost have to start worrying about exposed wires. It’s bad enough you’re already built to let things, blood, slip under your armored plates.

The neutral emoticon adorned with digital Kamina shades on Dirk’s screen turns into a frown for your viewing pleasure. ”I am deeply upset by this. Not at you, though. Who knew people would get smart and start actually hiding after all these years.”

”That just means you need to become smarter. Look, Bro and I both think-” You almost forgot D was here because he managed to keep himself quiet for more than half a minute, and cut him off with a hand splayed over his screen. Such a shame he decided to try and loop you in on his own opinions. You do your best equivalent of a shrug in an attempt to void his words. You know if he had eyes on his screen instead of those stupid glasses that they'd be narrowed at you. That is, if the way he displays a looping two second clip of a character from an old adult cartoon doing just that is anything to go by. He smacks your hand away and settles it on Dirk’s shoulder. ”Ignore this asshole, kiddo.”

“I don’t often ignore the people helping keep me alive.” Dirk quiets for a second, and his screen tilts away from both you and D. You can tell what he’s Thinking. “...I’m waiting for Hal to finish some repairs so that I can bother him.”

Hal, the lone human and owner of the apartment you hole up in with three other mechanical dumbasses. You’re like his science projects, the more that you think about it. Dave’s junk, D’s refurbished, Dirk is… interesting, and you’re dying. Fuck. You’re dying. You nearly let yourself forget since it’s not as if you’re lusting for your own demise.

It’s funny. As much as you lament about the lack of blood in the world, the lack of humans in the world, you and Dirk always ignore the idea of Hal. If you both knew what was good for you, you’d listen to your directives and kill him. You’d use his life to extend your own. You can’t, though.

You flop onto the futon with a heavy sound as your chassis begs you to be gentler.

It’s not that either of you aren’t physically capable of killing Hal. You have your katanas, your fists (dubbed by the factory as “feedbackers” since they’re built to punch speeding bullets), and you could probably even find a way to use the baseball cap perched atop your monitor to deliver a beat down. It’s the fact that he immediately solves any issues you have, issues besides the fuel problem that is, and keeps the other three asshats running too.

You can’t kill him. Dave would probably still be scrap without him, and you wouldn’t have the best chance at surviving until the last of humanity’s return. If they return.

”Shit, there’s a whole party goin’ on here or what? Was I not invited?” The three of you look to the kid, who stands with an arm around Hal’s shoulders. If the way he’s slightly leaning to the right is anything to note, then Dave’s still not calibrating properly.

“Hal’s here.”

Dirk turns from where he’d stolen a seat on the busted coffee table. “I have eyes.” He doesn’t, he has a high-definition camera that almost beats D’s in sheer video quality. Perks of being a newer generation.

Hal rolls his eyes, somehow more expressive than the four of you combined. You can barely fathom the number of small mechanics it’d take to replicate his sheer levels of done with this bullshit with an artificial skin-clad face. No wonder the other four of you don’t have faces. Just something similar enough to a TV screen to display whatever you have saved. You don’t have much except training tapes for how to use your katana, and the information on how your blood-hungry system operates.

“Dirk, I know what you want, it’ll have to wait till later. It’s almost five in the morning and I need to get to sleep. I keep losing it with all the shit the four of you need from me. You break down every other day.” He sounds so natural. Hal's voice lacks any of the artifacting that everyone else gets thanks to voice boxes, and the way you receive audio input.

”I’d give up at this point. Also, I don’t think Dave’s broken. You just rebuilt him that way.”

A laugh track from an old sitcom plays through the speaker in Dave’s chest. All those people are now long dead. If not from the murderous machines, then from time itself. ”Fuck yeah I was. Almost makes me feel better about bein’ a total loser who falls flat on his face all the time. Even on level fuckin’ ground… and you know what?” He pulls away from the teenager responsible for your life, only to silently prove that he can make it to his and Dirk’s room without help. Dave sticks half of his monitor out of the doorframe, flashing a JPG of those two characters that he and D are always obsessed with laughing. Sweet Guy and… Something Dude. “It’s better than bein’ in the trash, or stuck on the floor.” He manages to duck inside without tripping, until the last second.

Dave’s sneaker gets caught on the bump where the door left a dent in the carpet. He would’ve fallen like a bag of rocks if Dirk didn’t basically vault over the futon, and you, to pull him upright. This is why you’ve been trying to stay out more recently. You feel more volatile, and going home means putting up with everyone else’s antics.

Hal points at D before his finger hovers over the rest of you. “Christ… You know it’s not just Dave. It’s you three too. You fucked up your voicebox again, D.”

“It’s a creative choice.”

“I bet it is.” Hal’s sarcastic grin almost makes you wish you had Dave’s laugh track soundbite.

D’s screen gets darker as he mentally tabs out, most likely to fix the vocal disruption. It’s only when the JPG of sunglasses comes back up that he speaks. “There? Better?” Very, the bastard should know how he sounds to you. He's got the same exact hardware. You give him a thumbs up before crossing your arms.

“Yes. Much better, can do without the bass boost.” Dirk shuts the bedroom door behind him, walking back out to take up the single sliver of futon that you aren’t. He sits by your legs, and his emoticon frowns again seeing the dirt and dried viscera on your shoes. You kick them off so he doesn’t feel the need to scold you for getting grime on your already shitty furniture.

“I feel like it gives him character.” You stare at Hal, since he’s close and that’s all you really feel like doing. He’s tan from the Texas sun. In the dark kitchen, you can see the discolored lines on his face from the triangular shades he wears that both you and Dirk try to emulate on your screens. Even in the apocalypse, he still finds time to spend outside. Out with those murderous, and recently-turned cannibalistic, V1s on the loose. The carnage sounds around you as you walk through the ruined city of Houston almost every day and night. You can hear them now, the destruction of machines just like you ripping and tearing each other apart for mere scraps.

Maybe you’re lucky they never mess with you, but you’re not like them. You Think. It’s why Hal keeps you, D, Dirk, and Dave around. You all Think. Beyond the programming, beyond the code that tells your system how to listen to you, you’re conscious. You didn’t think before he found you, pinned under rubble and having lost your arm. The other three didn’t either. It must’ve been his humanity infecting you all like a virus, cursing you with sentience.

It’s that sentience that keeps you from being a glutton. Even if you’re dying, you have self control.

”...So. Just one question, Hal. Come on.”

“No.” The human pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, just ask Bro to try and loot some library whenever he’s out. He can see if there’s all sorts of books on the things you want to know, and think that we could adapt...” You can hear him scowl, even with him turned away and nose deep in the pantry. He must be running low on food.

Again, though, someone else is pulling you into their shit. You lay as far back as you can on the futon and hope to melt into the fabric. Hal should get off his lazy ass and do it himself. He already has to go scavenging for his supplies, he can find Dirk’s books at the same time.

”Books aren’t the same.”

“Well, Dirk. I’m only nineteen, I don’t fucking know everything, and the internet is dead. All we have is books.”

“I’ve been around for less than half that, and-”

You cover the camera at the top of your screen with your hat, and turn off your audio receivers to darken and tune out the world. If you don’t, you’ll just keep hearing them go back and forth until Hal relents like always and starts to play “Twenty Questions” with Dirk. Hal taught you to do it with the way he always turns off his hearing aids everytime one of the other three machines start nagging him.

Dirk isn’t so much as nagging. You know he only asks so much for both of your sakes. He’s been trying to work with Hal in finding a substitute fuel source for the two of you so that when the carnage ends, you’ll both still be around. Maybe Hal isn’t slacking off here and you should contribute beyond trying to find any lingering people. Maybe you should try and find what he needs. It still gets on your nerves, though. His pestering creates an awful back and forth between him and Hal.

He’s not as bad as D, at least. The prick steals your hat and waves bulky fingers in front of your screen. He just wants you to turn your receivers back on so that he can bug you. You know this game, and you won’t play.

Instead of going along with his bullshittery, you lift your hand in a raised a fist. Whatever you do to him, Hal can fix. It takes barely a second to gather all of the repressed rage you garner towards everything, and punch him in the middle of the monitor. Glass crackles under the force of your knuckles.