War
Stella, Age 11, Chicago, IL

Rusty eyelids slowly opened themselves, viewing the crude ceiling above the slowly waking being. Metal arms woke up and pushed the now awake body to its feet. This creature had the name of War, as did all of his now burned kin.

War was the only one to survive the War of the Future, a gruesome war of the humans, who, being cowards, created machines to do their dirty work. Both sides' machines ignored each other and wiped out the humans who had not created them. They proceeded to make themselves extinct, except for a few that had a small malfunction that developed human feelings. Though these robots still killed, they tried less gruesome ways and hid from the now blood-thirsty robots in the Robot Revolution. Most were found and ripped of their wires, except for one.

War switched his metal feet for wheels, and deposited the feet into a corner of his metal shack. He rolled backward, out of his house and into the ruined world. Not taking a second glance at the bloodied layers of ash and dust along old tire tracks, War rolled along his usual path. He stopped occasionally, grabbing old, red-with-blood robot pieces and putting them in his mouth, where they would be safe until he wanted to do something with them.

The land around the small robot was scarred from the wars, as was all of Earth. The sky was no longer blue, but a brown of kicked up dust and gasoline. No part of the world smelled like chocolate or nature but of chemicals used in the weapons of war.
Sometimes War stopped his work and closed his eyes, trying to remember his life before the twin wars. He couldnít though, as he had been created in the heart of the Future War, one of the last batches made before the scientists were all gone, victims of the metal people.

War was thankful for the few things that he had, that most of his brothers and sisters never could have: feelings and imagination. He wondered if he was a human, trapped inside a metal shell or a robot designed especially for something that no one else knew about so they made him a battlebot. These thoughts were what kept him from ending his loneliness himself, as he knew the world would probably be like this for ages.

Once War had collected a fair amount of his deceased race, he rolled back up to his home, where he gently set down all of the parts. He leaned forward enough that his body tipped over and left him on his stomach. He began digging into the stained ash and dust. Once the long-forgotten dirt had been recovered from the hole, War slowly placed all of the robot parts into the hard ground, before covering the hole back up and placing a small stone in the patted down spot. The robot stood up and looked around at his cemetery.

The stones lay in lines, stone after stone after stone. War hadnít known much of his race, but just because you donít know someone doesnít mean death doesnít mean anything to you. As War looked over all of those poor, poor robots who didnít have the luck of human feelings, he felt more alone than ever. So, he slowly took off his two wheels, throwing them into the piles of discarded ash, never to be used again. Now close to the ground, War surveyed his people. Finally, after years of holding it back, War let his human feelings loose. He cried tears of oil onto the hard, dry land, for what was left? No more graves to dig, no one to serve, it was just him.

And as he cried those tears of oil, he felt better with each tear. One tear took away a moment of what he had been through. So he cried. He cried until there was nothing left to cry, and he was gone. Nobody can survive without food and drink, and that oil was both to War. But War wasnít there anymore.

If one saw the scene now, they would only see a hunk of metal surrounded by stones, placed in the ruined earth.

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